Epicureanism and the Gospel of John: A Study of Their Compatibility 3161595459, 9783161595455

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Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament · 2. Reihe Herausgeber / Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich)

Mitherausgeber/Associate Editors Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) ∙ James A. Kelhoffer (Uppsala) Tobias Nicklas (Regensburg) ∙ Janet Spittler (Charlottesville, VA) J. Ross Wagner (Durham, NC)

537

Fergus J. King

Epicureanism and the Gospel of John A Study of their Compatibility

Mohr Siebeck

Fergus J. King, born 1962; holds a doctorate in Theology from the University of South Africa; has taught at St Mark’s College, Dar es Salaam and The University of Newcastle, NSW; currently the Farnham Maynard lecturer in Ministry and Director of the Ministry Education Centre at Trinity College Theological School, within the University of Divinity, Melbourne. orcid.org/0000-0001-6822-1529

ISBN 978-3-16-159545-5 / eISBN 978-3-16-159546-2 DOI 10.1628/978-3-16-159546-2 ISSN 0340-9570 / eISSN 2568-7484 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2. Reihe) The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2020  Mohr Siebeck Tübingen, Germany.  www.mohrsiebeck.com This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was printed on non-aging paper by Laupp & Göbel in Gomaringen, and bound by Buchbinderei Nädele in Nehren. Printed in Germany.

Table of Contents Preface ........................................................................................................ IX List of Abbreviations .................................................................................... X

Chapter 1: Introduction .............................................................................. 1 A. Whence “Compatibility”? ......................................................................... 1 B. The Shape of This Study ............................................................................ 4

Chapter 2: A Time and A Place: The Fourth Gospel and Epicureanism .....................................................10 A. The Spread of Epicureanism ....................................................................10 B. The Provenance of the FG........................................................................13 C. Potential Locations for the Encounter of Epicureanism and the FG ........................................................................16 I. Epicureanism in Alexandria .................................................................16 II. Epicureanism in Asia Minor ................................................................17 III. Epicureanism in Syria .........................................................................18 D. Summary of Findings ...............................................................................20

Chapter 3: The Pleasure Principle............................................................21 A. The Principles of Epicureanism ...............................................................21 B. The Principles of the FG ..........................................................................36

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Table of Contents

C. Summary of Findings ...............................................................................49

Chapter 4: Death: Something or Nothing? ..............................................51 A. Death in Epicureanism .............................................................................51 B. Death in the FG .......................................................................................55 C. Summary of Findings ...............................................................................64

Chapter 5: The “Atheists’” Gods .............................................................65 A. The Gods of Epicureanism .......................................................................65 B. God in the FG ..........................................................................................82 C. Summary of Findings ...............................................................................96

Chapter 6: Founding Figures ....................................................................98 A. The Epicurean Σωτήρ..............................................................................99 B. Ritual: Epicurean Cult Practice ............................................................. 102 C. The Σωτήρ in the FG ............................................................................. 106 D. A Ritual Meal in the FG? ....................................................................... 110 E. Summary of Findings ............................................................................. 124

Chapter 7: Friendship and Discipleship: The Garden and “the Johannine Community”.................................. 127 A. Schools and Communities ...................................................................... 127 B. Epicurean Communities ......................................................................... 129 C. Epicurean Psychagogy ........................................................................... 131

Table of Contents

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D. Epicurean Παρρησία ............................................................................ 135 E. Epicurean Φιλία .................................................................................... 142 F. The Epicureans and the World ............................................................... 149 G. The FG and “the Johannine Community”.............................................. 153 H. Psychagogy in the FG ............................................................................ 172 I. Παρρησία in the FG .............................................................................. 179 J. Φιλία in the FG ...................................................................................... 181 K. The FG and the World ........................................................................... 184 L. Summary of Findings.............................................................................. 187

Chapter 8: Whither “Compatibility”? ....................................................189 Bibliography.............................................................................................193 Index of References .................................................................................219 Index of Modern Authors ................................................................. 227 Index of Subjects .............................................................................. 229

Preface This book has its origins in undergraduate studies at the University of St Andrews when Peter Woodward and the late Prof. Ian Kidd respectively introduced me to Epicureanism and Stoicism. They sowed the seed which has eventually germinated. It was watered by the late Prof. John C. O’Neill and Dr Douglas Templeton at Edinburgh. My doktorvater at the University of South Africa, Prof. J. Eugene Botha encouraged me to develop a theological method which embraced comparison without genealogy. Further cultivation came from two fine systematicians, Prof. John C. McDowell and Dr. Scott Kirkland, who, in a short-lived experiment to develop a full-blown theological presence at the University of Newcastle, NSW, tolerated my enthusiasm for dead Greek thinkers: they remain good colleagues, though we are now all transplanted to Melbourne. The faculty at Trinity College, Melbourne have all been most supportive of these same foibles, especially Dean Robert Derrenbacker and Prof. Dorothy A. Lee. Prof. Lee, emeritus Prof. William Loader (Murdoch University), Prof. Jason König (University of St Andrews) and Prof. John T. Fitzgerald (Notre Dame) were all most encouraging and helpful in the quest to find a publisher. I must record my deep thanks to Prof. Jörg Frey and the editors of WUNT II for accepting my manuscript for publication, and to Elena Müller, Tobias Stäbler and Tobias Weiß at Mohr Siebeck for their patience and courtesy through the editing process. Material which had previously been published in my “Pleasant Places in the Gospel according to John: A Classical Motif as an Introit to Theological Awareness”, Pacifica 30/1 (2017), 3–19 is reproduced here by permission of SAGE Publications, Inc. Any mistakes, substantive or typological, which persist are entirely my own work. Lastly, I must record my thanks to Irene and the boys for their love and patience, when scholarship was a distraction from family. Fergus J. King, Melbourne, June 2020.

List of Abbreviations Abbreviations used follow the conventions set out in Billie Jean Collins, Bob Buller, John F. Kutsko and the Society of Biblical Literature. The SBL Handbook of Style: For Biblical Studies and Related Disciplines (2nd ed. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press, 2014), except for the following: DL – Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers. DRN – Titus Lucretius Carus, De Rerum Natura. FG – the Fourth Gospel (the Gospel according to John). KD – the Κυρίαι ∆όξαι (the Principle Doctrines of Epicureanism). PHerc – Herculaneum Papyrus. VS – the Vatican Sentences (a collection of Epicurean teachings).

Chapter 1

Introduction A. Whence “Compatibility”? If Tertullian was able to ask the question, “What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?”, it seems likely that modern commentators might equally feel impelled to comment: “What might Epicureanism have to do with the Fourth Gospel?” It is a question which is immediately raised by the impression that Epicureanism is an atheistic, hedonist, and materialist school of thought, which surely can have little in common with a worldview like that of the Fourth Gospel (FG). However, to leave the question there would be simply to abide with a bifurcation both ancient and modern. Norman DeWitt, one of the earliest and, perhaps, most enthusiastic proponents of Epicureanism in the twentieth century, noted that significant work was needed: If the history of Epicureanism were as well understood as the history of Stoicism, we might discover that there is more of Epicureanism than of Stoicism in the New Testament.1

A caveat follows: his enthusiasm may have veered, on occasion, to the excessive.2 DeWitt’s summation that “it would have been singularly easy for an Epicurean to become a Christian”,3 even if it may be tempered by James Campbell’s wry addition: “– and, one might suppose, a Christian to become an Epicurean”, is worthy of further exploration.4 His claim should neither be taken for granted, nor summarily dismissed, given his continued stature as an Epicurean scholar. Where Epicureanism has come into the picture it is usually in

1 Norman DeWitt, “Vergil and Epicureanism”, The Classical Weekly XXV/12 (1932), 89–96 at 96. 2 R. Alan Culpepper, The Johannine School: An Evaluation of the Johannine-School Hypothesis based on an Investigation of the Nature of Ancient Schools (SBL Dissertation Series 26. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975), 101; Clarence E. Glad, Paul and Philodemus: Adaptability in Epicurean and Early Christian Psychagogy (Leiden: Brill, 1995) 8, fn. 14. 3 Norman DeWitt, Epicurus and his Philosophy (Cleveland, OH: World Publishing, 1967), 31–32. 4 James I. Campbell, “The Angry God: Epicureans, Lactantius, and Warfare” in Epicurus: His Continuing Influence and Contemporary Relevance, ed. Dane R. Gordon and David B. Suits (Rochester, NY: RIT Graphic Arts Press, 2003), 45–68 at 47.

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relation to Acts 17 and the Pauline literature where Greek settings appear to make such echoes more likely.5 A key term within Epicureanism was ἀταραξία, and it provides the launching point for the explorations which follow. The words of Jesus in John 14:1 and 27, with their exhortation that the disciples, “let not their hearts be troubled” appears close to Epicureanism, prompted by the use of the cognate verb, ταράσσειν. Despite such shared vocabulary, little interest has been shown in exploring whether such a phrasing might resonate with Epicurean thinking. None of the classic commentaries such as Barrett, Brown, Brodie, Bultmann, Lindars, or the literary indices in Schnackenburg record any reference to Epicurus.6 Specialised studies of the philosophical background tended to look elsewhere. Thus, C.H. Dodd’s The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel developed interest in the potential overlap of the FG with Platonism, but contained no mention of Epicureanism.7 Questions have been raised about Dodd’s focus on Platonism by older and more recent commentators.8 The absence of Epicureanism from studies of the FG extends into more recent work: none of the indices in Bruner, Malina and Rohrbaugh, Moloney, 5 Thus, inter alios, Norman DeWitt, St Paul and Epicurus (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1954); Glad, Paul and Philodemus; Graham Tomlin, “Christians and Epicureans”, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 68 (1997), 51–72. 6 Charles K. Barrett, The Gospel according to St John. 2nd ed. (Philadelphia PA: Westminster, 1978); Thomas L. Brodie, The Gospel according to John: A Literary and Theological Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993); Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel according to John (AB 29; London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1988); Rudolf Bultmann, The Gospel of John, trans. G.R. Beasley-Murray et al. (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1971); Barnabas Lindars, The Gospel of John (New Century Bible; London: Oliphants, 1972); Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Gospel according to St John, Vols. 1–3 (ET. London: Burns & Oates, 1980–82). 7 Charles H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978). 8 Troels Engberg-Pedersen, “Setting the Scene; Stoicism and Platonism in the transitional period in Ancient Philosophy” in Stoicism in Early Christianity, ed. Tuomas Rasimus et al. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2010) 1–14 argues that Stoicism rather than Platonism was the dominant philosophical school of the early Imperial period. For criticism of Dodd’s emphasis on Platonism in relation to the FG, see Rudolf Bultmann, “Review of Dodd, C. H.: The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel”, New Testament Studies 1 (1954), 77–91; F.N. Davey, “The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel by C.H. Dodd”, Journal of Theological Studies 4 (1953), 234–246, but the discussion focusses rather on the level of knowledge of Platonism rather than its popularity in relation to Stoicism, see John Painter, “The Prologue as a Hermeneutical Key to Reading the Fourth Gospel” in Studies in the Gospel of John and its Christology, ed. Joseph Verdeyhen et al. (Leuven: Peeters, 2014), 37–60 at 45. Millar Burrows, “Thy Kingdom Come”, Journal of Biblical Literature 74 (1955), 1–8 deplores the tendency of British scholarship of the period to assume that a Platonic worldview shaped eschatological speculation.

A. Whence “Compatibility”?

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Morris, Neyrey, Ridderbos, von Wahlde or Witherington make reference to Epicurus or Epicureanism.9 Modern scholars, dissatisfied with the prominence given by previous generations to Platonism, have increasingly focused on the possible interplay between the Johannine material and Stoicism.10 So, Troels Engberg-Pedersen’s John and Philosophy: A New Reading of the Fourth Gospel does not include discussion of Epicureanism, but focusses on Stoicism.11 This would appear a road more travelled. However, there are exceptions. R. Alan Culpepper’s comparison of the Johannine community to Greek philosophical schools includes significant references to Epicureanism. He suggests rather that Epicureanism, especially in the great cities, had influenced Jewish schools, and that these, in turn, may have helped shaped emerging Christianity, even, perhaps Johannine Christianity: This indirect influence may account for the similarity between the use of φίλος in the Epicurean and Johannine literature.12

In a more recent piece, he briefly mentions that the FG and Epicurus share an interest in thanatology, but diverge significantly.13 His work refers to that of Jaime Clark-Soles which includes a longer study of the potential convergence between Epicureanism and the FG as part of her research on death and the afterlife in the New Testament.14 Jo-Ann Brant notes three references to the Vatican Sentences (VS – i.e., a collection of Epicurean aphorisms), illustrating 9

Frederick Dale Bruner, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012); Bruce J. Malina and Richard L. Rohrbaugh, Social Science Commentary on the Gospel of John (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1998); Francis J. Moloney, The Gospel of John (Sacra Pagina. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1998); Leon Morris, The Gospel according to John, (Rev’d. The New International Commentary on the New Testament. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995); Jerome H. Neyrey, The Gospel of John in Cultural and Rhetorical Perspective (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009); Hermann Ridderbos, The Gospel of John (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2007); Urban C. von Wahlde, The Gospel and Letters of John (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010); Ben Witherington III, John’s Wisdom: A Commentary on the Fourth Gospel (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995). 10 Work on Stoicism in John is already at a more advanced stage, for example, Tuomas Rasimus et al. (eds.), Stoicism in Early Christianity, (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2010). 11 Troels Engberg-Pedersen, John and Philosophy: A New Reading of the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). 12 Culpepper, The Johannine School, 121. See further in Chapter 7. 13 R. Alan Culpepper, “The Creation Ethics of the Gospel of John” in Johannine Ethics: The Moral World of the Gospel and Epistles of John, ed. Christopher W. Skinner and Sherri Brown (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2017), 67–90 at 86, fn. 57. 14 Jaime Clark-Soles, Death and the Afterlife in the New Testament (New York, NY: T&T Clark, 2006), 110–149, especially 135–149. Part of this material also appears in Jaime ClarkSoles, “‘I Will Raise [Whom?] Up on the Last Day’: Anthropology as a Feature of Johannine Eschatology” in New Currents in John: A Global Perspective, ed. Francisco Lozada and Tom Thatcher (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006), 29–53.

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a point about φιλία (friendship) in Jesus’s relationship with Martha and Mary, but drawing no Epicurean parallels with John 14.15 Craig Keener cites crossreferences to Diogenes Laertius, but sees the terms as idiomatic, and does not develop the Epicurean (or even broader philosophical) dimension beyond potentially indicating weakness.16 He also notes death,17 and human responsibility,18 but all these are cursory and figure in general observations on Hellenistic philosophy. Others mention Epicurus and Epicureanism, only to summarily dismiss them from their subsequent investigations of the FG.19 Yet, these all serve to indicate the presence and possibility of cross-references to Epicurean φιλία,20 pedagogy,21 creation, human nature, of Epicureanism as a dialogue partner in ancient environments. Even short notes suggest that there might still be mileage in a detailed exploration of Epicureanism in relation to the FG: arguments from, or embracing, silence do not mean that this area of study has been exhausted.

B. The Shape of this Study The research that follows will explore the question raised by DeWitt with a tighter focus: how much of Epicureanism might there be in the FG? It will not attempt to argue that the FG is derived from Epicurean philosophy, or viceversa. The present task is to explore how the two traditions might be compatible given their apparent kinship, which is based on rejection of dominant contemporary conventions. It might reveal that they share points in common, but equally it may well reveal that, for a variety of reasons, they are incompatible, even if they seem to share, in the broadest terms, some correspondence. Additionally, the possibility of “cultural incommensurability”

15 Jo-Ann A. Brant, John (Paideia Commentaries on the New Testament. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2011), 172, 213. Here English translations are not always helpful. The discussion in Chapter 7 will show that discussions of love and friendship overlap, not least because of the key Greek vocabulary: ἀγάπη, ἔρως and φιλία. 16 Craig S. Keener, The Gospel of John: A Commentary, Vols. 1–2 (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003), 845, 875, 915. 17 Keener, The Gospel, 365, 376–377, 381, 405, 553, 652, 728, 766. 18 Keener, The Gospel, 573. 19 Douglas Estes, The Temporal Mechanics of the Fourth Gospel: A Theory of Hermeneutical Relativity in the Gospel of John (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 53 (time); Jeffrey A. Trumbower, Born from Above: The Anthropology of the Gospel of John. Hermeneutische Untersuchungen zur Theologie 29 (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1992), 36 (“fixedness” and metaphysics); Johns Varghese, The Imagery of Love in the Gospel of John. Analecta Biblica 177. (Rome: Gregorian and Biblical Press, 2009), 214 (friendship). 20 Keener, The Gospel, 1005, 1008. 21 Keener, The Gospel, 57, 979.

B. The Shape of this Study

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cannot be completely ruled out,22 although the phenomenon of incommensurability may likely be considered partial or, to use another image, porous, rather than total. 23 Nor is there any attempt to suggest that the Jesus of history was an Epicurean.24 This work is concerned rather with the FG’s portrayal of Jesus as being compatible with Epicurean traditions, and how it might have been read in light of them.25 Such an approach is not unprecedented. It is worth noting Robert Royalty’s remarks in relation to his exploration of wealth in Revelation which focusses on the identity of the audience or readers:

22 Kögler illustrates this with an example, following Alasdair MacIntyre, appropriate to the environments which are under investigation here: “how god concepts cannot be adequately translated from polytheistic contexts into monotheistic horizons” (Hans Herbert Kögler, The Power of Dialogue: Critical Hermeneutics after Gadamer and Foucault, trans. Paul Hendrickson [Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999], 71). 23 Derek L. Phillips, “Paradigms and Incommensurability”, Theory and Society 2/1 (1975), 37–61. 24 Any such endeavor would immediately be open to many of the same criticisms as those levelled at the portrayals of Jesus as a Cynic. For sample literature on this debate, see, inter alios, John Dominic Crossan, The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1993); F. Gerald Downing, Christ and the Cynics: Jesus and Other Radical Preachers in First Century Tradition (Sheffield: Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Press, 1988), Cynics and Christian Origins (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1992); Burton Mack, A Myth of Innocence: Mark and Christian Origins (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress, 1988); John Moles, “Cynic Influence Upon First-Century Judaism and Early Christianity” in The Limits of Ancient Biography, ed. B. McGing and J. Mossman (Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales, 2006), 89–116. Critical summaries of the Cynic claim in Gregory A. Boyd, Cynic Sage or Son of God: Recovering the Real Jesus in an Age of Revisionist Replies (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2010), 9–166; Maurice Casey, Jesus of Nazareth: An Independent Historian’s Account of His Life and Teaching (London: T&T Clark, 2010), 18– 21; Michael McClymond, “Jesus” in The Rivers of Paradise: Moses, Buddha, Confucius, Jesus, and Muhammad as Religious Founders, ed. D. N. Freedman and M. McClymond (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001), 309–456 at 321–323; Ben Witherington III, The Jesus Quest: The Third Quest for the Jew of Nazareth, 2nd ed. (Downers’ Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1997), 58–92. 25 African hermeneutics are helpful in considering its use of the term “resonance” to denote agreement or compatibility. The Pope-Levinsons, in exploring the relationship between the texts of Jewish Scripture and African Traditional Religion, identify “resonance” as means of describing a “kindred atmosphere”: it includes elements like the “pervasiveness of religion”, and “the centrality of solidarity and group loyalty” (Priscilla Pope-Levison and John Levison, Jesus in Global Contexts [Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1992], 95). Fidon Mwombeki, in a fuller discussion of the term, notes that resonance may include both internalised theological presuppositions and socio-cultural material (Fidon R. Mwombeki, “The Hermeneutic of Resonance: Making Biblical Theology Relevant Today” (Paper presented at TLC Augsburg Convention, 2009) 8–9. Accessed online 31 January 2010 from http://www.lutheranworld.org/What_We_Do/DTS/TLC_Augsburg/Papers/Mwombeki.pdf.

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Few of the Christians who heard the Apocalypse would have had the knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures that John had, whereas all would be conversant in the public aspects of Greco-Roman culture that organized social life in the cities of Asia Minor.26

While noting that Royalty’s “John” need not be identified with the evangelist, these remarks remain apposite also for the study of the FG, or indeed any text which potentially engaged with a Graeco-Roman audience: people may hear what their previous cultural experience (or “anterior knowledge”)27 allows them to hear and so those “public aspects of Greco-Roman culture” frame the interpretive task. Thus, a Graeco-Roman audience with little or no exposure to the scriptural traditions may glean from their encounter, not an understanding based on such foundations, but one drawn from their own prior experience and exposure. That, the physical evidence suggests, might have included an Epicurean element. We might expect Epicureans to ask questions specific to their tradition from the text and can then explore how compatible the answers to such questions might be. The need for broad environmental studies is also seen in the comments of Larry Paul Jones. In describing Johannine symbolism, he makes the valuable point that the contexts of both the implied author and reader make a difference to the process of interpretation: While it will certainly benefit readers to know as much as possible about the world in which the author lived, unless we limit ability to interpret the text to the few with that knowledge, we can also expect the ordinary and commonplace features of the symbolic vehicle, along with its narrative context, to provide insights into and parameters for interpretation and understanding. Thus, while we cannot possibly arrive at the reading of the text, it is possible to offer a reading.28

Craig Koester additionally reminds us that symbols may function at different levels: core symbols are shared across a variety of cultural expressions, even if they develop distinctive overtones through the use of metaphor and/or supporting symbols.29 They might well include life, water, bread and light, and “stand on the boundary between various Jewish and Hellenistic modes of speech”.30

26 Robert M. Royalty, The Streets of Heaven: The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1998), 81. 27 James Barr, Biblical Faith and Natural Theology (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 184, 187, 189, 196. 28 Larry Paul Jones, The Symbol of Water in the Gospel of John (Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series 145. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 20– 21. 29 Craig R. Koester, Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel: Meaning, Mystery, Community (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1995), 5, 9. 30 Koester, Symbolism, 234.

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Nor need such studies demand complex, technical appropriations of the material. Pierre Hadot suggests that the possibility of the handling of Epicurean forms and concepts in a non-technical manner was real, given their form in the early imperial period: Whereas Platonism and Aristotelianism were reserved for an elite which had the “leisure” to study, carry out research and contemplate, Epicureanism and Stoicism were addressed to everyone: rich and poor, male and female, free citizens and slaves. Whoever adopted the Epicurean or Stoic way of life and put it into practice would be considered a philosopher even if he or she did not develop a philosophical discourse, either written or oral.31

Erlend MacGillvray provides a helpful summary which gives more detail about the broader reception of a number of writers and schools beyond technical or elite discussion: Dio Chrysostom, Maximus of Tyre, Themistius, Potamo of Alexandria, the Stoicism of first century CE Corinth, Euphrates, and Epictetus all exercised wide influence.32 He further notes the use of the ἐπιτοµή (shortened or condensed distillations of longer and more complex theories and arguments, rather than an abridgement) in spreading philosophical interest. However, these were viewed as a mixed blessing: there were concerns that they might not accurately reflect the more detailed expositions.33 They were common within Epicureanism and may have helped its influence to spread beyond formal adherence to the school itself. Epicurus himself appears to have encouraged the memorization of such material: Τοῖς µὴ δυναµένοις, ὦ Ἡρόδοτε, ἕκαστα τῶν περὶ φύσεως ἀναγεγραµµένων ἡµῖν ἐξακριβοῦν µηδὲ τὰς µείζους τῶν συντεταγµένων βίβλους διαθρεῖν ἐπιτοµὴν τῆς ὅλης πραγµατείας εἰς τὸ κατασχεῖν τῶν ὁλοσχερωτάτων γε δοξῶν τὴν µνήµην ἱκανῶς αὐτὸς παρεσκεύασα, ἵνα παρ᾽ ἑκάστους τῶν καιρῶν ἐν τοῖς κυριωτάτοις βοηθεῖν αὑτοῖς δύνωνται, καθ᾽ ὅσον ἂν ἐφάπτωνται τῆς περὶ φύσεως θεωρίας. Herodotus, I myself have prepared a summary (epitome) of the whole system for those who are unable to study any of the writings about physics in detail or the longer treatments to 31 Pierre Hadot, What is Ancient Philosophy? trans. Michael Chase (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2004), 108. 32 Erlend D. MacGillivray, “Epitomizing Philosophy and the Critique of Epicurean Popularizers”, Journal of Ancient History 3/1 (2015), 1–33 at 20. The wider spread of philosophy is also recognised in Nathan J. Barnes’ exploration of philosophically educated women in Corinth, which he terms a work of “historical imagination” (Nathan J. Barnes, Reading 1 Corinthians with Philosophically Educated Women [Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2014], 201). He adds an important cautionary methodological note. Recognizing that an irrefutable historical reconstruction is impossible, and given the limitations faced by modern scholarship in exploring ancient contexts, he claims to offer an historically plausible account; one which recognises the limitations faced in reconstructing the implied reader (Barnes, Reading 1 Corinthians, 200). 33 MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 3; see also Peter A. Brunt, “On Historical Fragments and Epitomes”, Classical Quarterly 30 (1980), 477–494 at 487 who notes this primarily in reference to historical works.

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retain the key points in a fitting manner, so that they may assist themselves to grasp what is most important – to the extent that they might enter into the study of physics. 34

This indicates an approval for condensed forms of material to facilitate the spread of the school’s doctrine in the form of the ἐπιτομή. What emerges is significant: the writings focus on the teaching of Epicurus and the other significant thinkers of the school and provide records of their teaching. These are primarily records of what they taught with incidental biographical details. Furthermore, Epicurean ideas might flourish outwith the formal boundaries of the school, even in other philosophical traditions: members of the Academy might well have cherry-picked for their own use elements of Epicureanism which they found helpful.35 In the face of scholarly silence, a proposal to investigate potential links between the FG and Epicurean philosophy must start with some basics. The claim for potential historicity demands an exploration of whether the two phenomena co-existed; one which is strengthened by paying close attention to geographical and temporal data (Chapter 2). Given such a possibility, and no methodological reason to exclude Epicurean phenomena from any study, it becomes permissible to explore how an Epicurean reader might have engaged with the FG: what might have seemed compatible and what might not. If nothing else, an exploration of how the two traditions explore shared themes would allow us to reflect on DeWitt’s remarks about the ease or likelihood of someone moving from one tradition to the other, and go some way to answering his question about how much of Epicureanism might be found, not just within this part of the NT, but within other writings within that canon. It must be stressed that any such engagement is presented as a possibility, not as a definitive cause for the composition of the FG. A claim that the FG was written intentionally as a counterblast to Epicureanism would meet with immediate skepticism, if not hostility. To make any such claim would be to overstep the conclusions which might be drawn from these environmental factors. Such a study starts with an examination of the key term ἀταραξία (Chapter 3), which appears in both traditions, and might be addressed under a question 34 Diogenes Laertius 10.35. Text from Diogenes Laertius: Lives of the Eminent Philosophers, ed. Tiziano Dorandi (Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 50. Cambridge; Cambridge University Press, 2013), 755–756. Translation mine. See Abraham J. Malherbe, “Self-Definition among Epicureans and Cynics” in Jewish and Christian Self-Definition Vol. 3: Self-definition in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Ben F. Meyer and Ed P. Sanders (London: SCM Press, 1982), 46–59 at 48. The short section on Epicureanism is omitted from a later ver-

sion of the article: “Self-Definition among the Cynics” in Light from the Gentiles: Hellenistic Philosophy and Early Christianity. Collected Essays 1959–2012, by Abraham J. Malherbe, ed.

Carl. R. Holladay, John T. Fitzgerald, Gregory E. Sterling and James W. Thompson (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 635–650. 35 Hadot, What is Philosophy?, 141.

B. The Shape of this Study

9

of the aims and benefits of subscribing to the teaching and tenets of each. It then moves into reflections on death (Chapter 4), given that fear of death was a major consideration addressed by the Epicureans, and one pertinent to the substance of the FG. A third question concerns the nature of the gods (Chapter 5), and whether one needs to live in fear of them: here both traditions appear at odds with much popular Graeco-Roman religious thought and experience. Reflection on the identity of the key figures of both traditions also figure, not least because both claim some kind of divine status for their respective founders, and both exhibit evidence of cult, rituals and titles (Chapter 6). Lastly, both wrestle with the question of the relationship of the tradition, manifest in some kind of community organisation or sensibility, to wider society; a significant area of study which also embraces psychagogy, discipleship and παρρησία (Chapter 7). In each of these, the Epicurean position will first be described, and then read in relation to the FG to assess their compatibility. The reader who wishes to skim the arguments quickly will find short summaries of the salient points at the end of each chapter. These findings will then allow a final assessment of the compatibility of the two schools or traditions to be made (Chapter 8).

Chapter 2

A Time and a Place: The Fourth Gospel and Epicureanism A. The Spread of Epicureanism The School or Garden of Epicurus was located in Athens from 306 BCE, after unsuccessful attempts to establish centres in Mytilene and Lampsacus.1 From there it spread through the Greek-speaking world. Epicureanism is often presented as a dogmatic school with little variation from the teachings of its founders. Recent scholarship has, however, found that this is over-simplistic and there is a nuanced amount of development within the school. Thus, Robert Strozier notes Lucretius that holds a view of both the canonic and consciousness distinct from that of Epicurus, but that their variant methodologies do not ultimately signify major differences: The conclusion reached here about the difference between Epicurus and Lucretius does not directly affect most of the conclusions reached about Epicurus yet based on information from the De rerum natura, primarily because most such arguments are concerned with general philosophic method, with respect to which Lucretius and Epicurus are almost identical.2

1

Howard Jones, The Epicurean Tradition (London: Routledge, 1992), 62. Robert M. Strozier, Epicurus and Hellenistic Philosophy (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1985), 151. This is not always the case. The Dionysiac tradition is a prime example of a tradition so fluid that its texts must be used carefully within their immediate contexts: Dionysiac thought and practice evolved so much that it is sometimes almost impossible to detect significant continuity between its different periods. For the fluidity of the Dionysiac tradition, see Fergus J. King, More than a Passover: Inculturation in the Supper Narratives of the New Testament (New Testament Studies in Contextual Exegesis 3; Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2007), 67–68. Carl Kerényi, Dionysos: Archetypal Image of the Indestructible Life trans. Ralph Mannheim (Bollingen Series LXV.2; Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1976) gives an exhaustive account of the different Dionysiac periods; pages 349– 388 describe the expression of the myth and cult in late antiquity which differs significantly from earlier periods. Albert Henrichs, “Changing Dionysiac Identities” in Jewish and Christion Self-Definition, Vol. 3: Self-Definition in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Ed P. Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten and Alan Mendelson (London: SCM Press, 1982), 137–160 and 213– 236 notes that there was no universal cult, but rather “his cults were regional and emphasized different aspects of the god. In ritual terms, a Delphic maenad, an Athenian celebrating the Anthesteria, and a Greek from southern Italy who was an initiate of an Orphico-Dionysiac 2

A. The Spread of Epicureanism

11

Pamela Gordon also notes that the language of the Second Sophistic adds a particular colouring to Epicurean discourse from that period.3 Nevertheless, the extant documents attributed to Epicurus remain significant, particularly the three letters and Κυρίαι ∆όξαι (KD) preserved in Diogenes Laertius 10, the VS, and fragments from Herculaneum. The writings of other Epicureans are also important. These include Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura (hereafter DRN), the works of Philodemus recovered from Herculaneum,4 and the inscription of Diogenes from Oenanda. Epicurean themes are also explored in the philosophical writings of Cicero, Plutarch, Sextus Empiricus, Porphyry, and Simplicius:5 Seneca, Stobaeus, and Athenaeus also describe Epicurean philosophy. Epicurean shading appears elsewhere, particularly in the pastoral writings of Horace, Vergil, and Statius: the locus amoenus (pleasant place) is an idyll for both the poets and the school.6 Diogenes Laertius is a frustrating source: its list of writings attributed to Epicurus provides a stark reminder about the limits of access to the fullness of the tradition, and, therefore, a warning about how difficult it might be to reconstruct exactly what an Epicurean might value from the full range of the school’s writing. By Pierre Hadot’s reckoning, all of the four major philosophical traditions (Platonism, Aristotelianism, Stoicism, and Epicureanism) were found in every important town by the imperial period.7 Epicureanism, thus, was not a philosophical school whose influence was limited to mainland Greece or even the Greek-speaking world. After the third century BCE there were Epicurean centres in Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt: adherents, identified from their cities,

sect had very little in common, and their separate Dionysiac identities were not interchangeable” (151–152). 3 Pamela Gordon, Epicurus in Lycia (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1996), 45–54. 4 For a history of scholarly engagement with the Herculaneum materials, see David Armstrong, “Philodemus, the Herculaneum Papyri and the Therapy of Fear” in Epicurus; His Continuing Influence and Contemporary Relevance, ed. Dane R. Gordon and David B. Suits (Rochester, NY: RIT Graphic Arts Press, 2003), 17–43. For details on the archaeology of the Villa of the Papyri and the library of Philodemus, Marcello Gigante, Philodemus in Italy: The Books from Herculaneum, trans. Dirk Obbink. (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2002). 5 Inwood and Gerson, The Epicurus Reader Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Co. Inc. 1994 provides a handy compilation of the bulk of these texts. 6 See further in Chapter 6. For the pastoral genre, Peter V. Marinelli, Pastoral (London: Methuen, 1971; Evangelos Karakasis, Song Exchange in Roman Pastoral: Trends in Classics- Supplementary Vol. 5 (New York, NY/Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011); John Rundin, “The Epicurean Morality of Vergil’s ‘Bucolics’”, The Classical World, 96/2 (1986), 159–176; Peter L. Smith “Lentus in Umbra: A Symbolic Pattern in Vergil’s Eclogues”, Phoenix 19 (1965), 298–304. 7 Hadot, What is Philosophy?, 147.

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came from Tyre, Sidon, Tarsus, and Alexandria.8 Epicureanism also expanded west. Through the writings of Lucretius, it had made inroads to the Latinspeaking world, where its significance may also be noted in the philosophical writings of Cicero and Seneca. The existence of communities in the Naples region is attested by both Horace and Vergil.9 Epicureanism was particularly rooted in the expanding cities of the Eastern Mediterranean where its stress on community and its disregard for social distinctions fitted with the diversity of the populace.10 Although Epicureanism waned in influence, it still had its adherents in the 1st Century CE,11 with supporters even in the upper classes of the late Republic who could study either in Italy or Greece.12 Michael Erler notes that Epicureanism was still in circulation during the Principate, even if scholarly interest often wanes after the time of Lucretius.13 Seneca, whose sympathies lay rather with Stoicism, noted the popularity of Epicureanism in the mid-first century CE, commenting that Epicurus is respected “not only by the more cultured, but also by the ignorant rabble”.14 This statement, even allowing for a rhetorical or polemic dimension also admits that Epicurean influence was not restricted to those who might be classed as formal adherents of the school: this makes plausible the presence of Epicurean phenomena in popular discourse and practice resembling bricolage outside the boundaries of formal Epicureanism.15 Other writers from different contexts bear witness to its persistence: Plutarch, Lucian, as well as the Church Fathers and Augustine.16 Epicureanism can be attested in a broad variety of locations: Herculaneum, Sorrento, Rhodes, Cos, Pergamon, Oenoanda (the Lycus valley), 8

Jones, Epicurean Tradition, 64. See below, Chapter 7. 10 Jones, Epicurean Tradition, 64. 11 Jones, Epicurean Tradition, 76–84. 12 Elizabeth Asmis, “Basic Education in Antiquity” in Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity, ed. Yun Lee Too (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 209–39; Robert S. Dutch, The Educated Elite in 1 Corinthians: Education and Community Conflict in Graeco-Roman Corinth (London: T&T Clark, 2005), 87; Erlend D. MacGillvray, “The Popularity of Epicureanism in Elite Late Roman Society”, The Ancient World XLIII/2 (2012), 151–172 in particular for Epicureanism in Rome and Campania. 13 Michael Erler, “Epicureanism in the Roman Empire” in The Cambridge Companion to Epicureanism, ed. James Warren, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 46–64 at 46. 14 Seneca, Ep. Mor. 79.15, quoted in Tomlin, “Christians and Epicureans”, 54. 15 Marilyn J. Legge, “Bricoleurs-in-Community: Reframing Theologies of Culture”. Religious Studies and Theology, 16 (1997), 5–21 describes bricolage as “the art of using what is at hand, odd materials for purposes other than intended, to create something useful and distinct to meet a yearning or need. This is an accessible practice often found where people aim to survive against the odds.” (6). 16 Erler, “Epicureanism in the Roman Empire” 46–47; R. P. Jungkuntz, Epicureanism and the Church Fathers, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Winsconsin, 1961. 9

B. The Provenance of the FG

13

Apameia (Syria), Rhodiapolis, and Amastris (Bithynia).17 Locations like Athens and Oxyrhynchus provide evidence for the preservation of Epicurean writing, as well as Herculaneum.18 A number of these raise the possibility of locations shared with the FG, whose provenance is still contested. Asia Minor (notably Ephesus), Alexandria, and Syria are all suggested as prime candidates for its location.19 That said, geographical coincidence cannot prove conclusively a meeting of the two traditions, only a degree of probability. It still might be the case that two schools effectively never met. Let us look at the potential locations where such encounter might have taken place by detailing first the potential locations of the FG, and then contemporary evidence in those same places for Epicureanism.

B. The Provenance of the FG Provenance may embrace a number of considerations: it may refer to an intellectual or geographical map. For current purposes, geography suffices: the work which follows will explore the intellectual mapping of the FG and Epicureanism. Several locations have been suggested for the FG. Interest in potential Mandaean sources and influence led to Trans-Jordania being viewed as a potential location.20 However, the connection of the FG and Mandaeanism is viewed as increasingly problematic: the claims made for a necessary dependency on such material are no longer viewed as strong.21 The relative datings of the FG (increasingly seen to predate crucial Mandaean texts)22 raise questions of which tradition might draw from the other, and the location might refer to sources rather than the gospel itself. The Semitic or Aramaic flavour of the FG’s language has also been presented as an argument in favour of such an origin, but 17 Erler, “Epicureanism in the Roman Empire”, 48. 18 Tiziano Dorandi. “The School and Texts of Epicurus in the Early Centuries of the Roman Empire”, in Plotinus and Epicurus: Matter, Perception, Pleasure, ed. Angela Longo and Daniela Patrizia Taormina (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 29–48. 19 Brown, The Gospel, ciii–civ; W. Carter, John: Storyteller, Interpreter, Evangelist (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2008), 188; W.G. Kümmel, Introduction to the New Testament (London: SCM Press, 1974), 246–247; Schnackenburg, The Gospel, Vol. 1, 149–152. 20 Schnackenburg, The Gospel, Vol. 1, 150. 21 Wisdom literature may as readily provide the substance of a descent mythology as Mandaeanism, see Lindars, The Gospel, 40–42. Barrett, The Gospel, 37–38 suggests the differences between mystery religions and redeemer myths of descent far outweigh any similarities. Schnackenburg, John, Vol. 1, 142 notes the incompatibility of Mandaean and Christian concepts of revelation. 22 Barrett, The Gospel, 41; Schnackenburg, The Gospel, Vol. 1, 143.

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given the more widespread use of Aramaic across the Near East, Asia Minor, and Egypt, this is not conclusive.23 Conversely, the need to explain Palestinian locations may not rule out completely a Palestinian audience, but does beg the question.24 Syria is also suggested, sometimes on account of Gnostic associations. Here the affinities between the FG and the Odes of Solomon give some, but no definite, grounds: Bultmann’s claims are overblown.25 The fact that gnosis is not specific only to Syria, but found elsewhere, is also a consideration.26 Keener notes that linguistic parallels between the FG and Gnostic texts often turn into circular arguments.27 The presence of gnosis in Egypt together with early papyrus evidence for the FG (P52 and Papyrus Egerton) have suggested that the FG originated there. However, the simple presence of papyrological evidence merely shows that copies of the FG were in circulation or being copied there: a fragment need not have been composed where it was found. Indeed, climate introduces a distortion: given that most ancient manuscripts of the NT are found in Egypt the logical endpoint of such thinking would be that the bulk of such documents originated there.28 The claim that an Aramaic Signs Source for the FG comes from Egypt cannot be readily substantiated.29 The style of writing suggests a date between 117 and 138 CE for the earliest of these fragments, sometime after datings based on non-physical considerations, which indicate production between the late 60s CE30 to the end of the first century CE.31 Other considerations for a provenance in Egypt are doctrinal. However, as many of the Gnostic materials are significantly later than the FG itself, the gnosis which would have been contemporary with the FG remains elusive,32 and the baptismal

23 Ruth B. Edwards, Discovering John: Content, Interpretation, Reception, 2nd ed. (London, SPCK, 2014), 53–55. 24 Keener, The Gospel, 143–144. 25 Bultmann, The Gospel, 11–12; Schnackenburg, The Gospel, Vol. 1, 150. 26 Schnackenburg, The Gospel, 151. 27 Keener, The Gospel, 146. 28 Cf. Lindars, The Gospel, 43. 29 Keener, Gospel, 143. 30 Thus, Mark A. Matson, “Current Approaches to the Priority of John”, Stone-Campbell Journal 7 (2004), 73–100 and John A.T. Robinson, Redating the New Testament (London; SCM Press, 1976). Craig Blomberg, The Historical Reliability of John’s Gospel: Issues and Commentary (Leicester: Apollos, 2001), 42 notes that arguments from silence underpin much of this claim. 31 Paul N. Anderson, The Christology of the Fourth Gospel: Its Unity and Disunity in Light of John 6 (Valley Forge: Trinity Press International,1996), 29–30; Kyle Keefer, The Branches of the Gospel of John: The Reception of the Fourth Gospel in the Early Church (Library of New Testament Studies Vol. 332. London: T&T Clark, 2006), 21–26. 32 Schnackenburg, The Gospel, Vol. 1, 151.

B. The Provenance of the FG

15

traditions are “not sufficient reason” to locate the FG in Alexandria.33 Indeed, earlier Egyptian material would seem to claim links to Paul rather than John: thus Valentinus (10–155 CE) identified Paul influencing his own teacher, Theudas.34 Affinities to material found in the writings of Philo Judaeus such as the Logos, gnosis, baptismal traditions, and communities have also been suggested. None is conclusive: they come from a shared task rather than a specific cultural affinity.35 Asia Minor, and Ephesus in particular, has increasingly been viewed as the preferred location for the FG.36 Both ancient and modern evidence is laid out to support these possibilities.37 The identification of a significant early leader, John the Elder, in Ephesus (Irenaeus [Haer. 3.1.1.],38 Philostrastus [Vit soph. 1.22.526], and Eusebius [Hist. eccl. 3.23.6–19]), is increasingly seen as reliable,39 as is the account of Papias.40 Raymond E. Brown argues that internal evidence demands a location in Ephesus, and would also explain parallels with material often associated with Palestine and Syria.41 Some would attempt to embrace several of these locations in tracing the origin and development of the FG: it straddles a number of these potential locations. Thus it is argued that the FG may have originated in Palestine, gone through further development in Syria, and reached its final form in Asia Minor: both Rudolf Schnackenburg and Martin Hengel suggest such a journey.42 A subset of theories suggest that the author (seen as the first editor or source) came from Palestine but the FG, in its final form, was written in Ephesus.43 Whilst the majority view has shifted in recent years to Ephesus, it is still possible to conclude that none of these locations is “compelling” or “determines the interpretation of the FG”.44 The issue of provenance is not one which needs to be resolved here, and, indeed, it may prove ultimately impossible to 33

Schnackenburg, The Gospel, Vol. 1, 151. Bentley Layton, The Gnostic Scriptures (New York, NY: Doubleday, 1987), 217. 35 Barrett, The Gospel, 40: C. H. Dodd, The Interpretation, 55 notes that John does not share Philo’s allegorical exegetical method. They may share a range of ideas, but the concept of a personal Logos is a major difference (74). 36 Keener, The Gospel, 146. 37 Martin Hengel, The Johannine Question, trans. John Bowden, (London: SCM Press, 1989), 1–28. 38 Hengel, Question, 2–5. 39 Keener, The Gospel, 146–147. 40 Hengel, Question, 24–28. 41 Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel, ciii–civ. 42 Hengel, Question, 134–35; Schnackenburg, The Gospel, Vol. 1, 152. 43 Blomberg, Historical Reliability, 40–41. Hengel and Blomberg would both hold a position like this, even if they would differ over the identity of the author: the Beloved Disciple (Hengel) and John, the son of Zebedee (Blomberg). 44 Carter, John, 188. 34

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do so.45 This does not affect the thesis ahead: it is enough to recognise the potential of these locations. Importantly for this study, all those mentioned above share an Epicurean presence. It immeasurably strengthens the proposal that the FG is engaging with Epicurean thinking if it was still current in the regions and era linked to the gospel, wherever that might actually be.

C. Potential Locations for the Encounter of Epicureanism and the FG It would be superfluous to explore the possibility of an encounter between the FG and Epicureanism by listing all the evidence for Epicureanism across the Mediterranean. All that is needed is to identify an Epicurean presence on those locations associated with the gospel. I. Epicureanism in Alexandria The later Christian reporting of Epicurean ideas in North Africa, and particularly in Alexandria is significant,46 but not, perhaps, as significant as the engagement with Epicurean thought recorded in Philo to ensure an overlap between Epicureanism and the FG. A recent article by Graziano Ranocchia not only suggests that Philo engaged with Epicureanism, but also that Epicurean categories became significant in other schools.47 Philo is highly critical of Epicurean thinking, “which for him was the absolute evil from many points of view”,48 for example, in its theology (a “divine anthropomorphism”49 which obscures the true nature and importance of God),50 cosmology (“atomistic mechanism”),51 and hedonistic teleology.52 So, Philo’s “consistent hostility” to

45

Edwards, Discovering John, 53. Jones, Epicurean Tradition, 104–108. Origen, Clement, and Athanasius variously engage with Epicurean thought; Jungkuntz, Epicureanism, 8–9, 11, 15, 22, 36, 41, 43, 47, 54– 55,70, 72–73, 75, 88–89, 133. 47 Graziano Ranocchia, “Moses against the Egyptian: Anti-Epicurean Polemic in Philo” in Philo and Post-Aristotelian Philosophy, ed. F. Alesse (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 75–102. 48 Ranocchia, “Moses”, 102. 49 Ranocchia, “Moses”, 76. 50 Ranocchia, “Moses”, 82. 51 Ranocchia, “Moses”, 80. Philo criticises Epicureanism for its denial of providence, of the theory of chance, and of the principle of causality. 52 Ranocchia, “Moses”, 88–95. See also A. Peter Booth, “The Voice of the Serpent” Philo’s Epicureanism” in Hellenization Revisited: Shaping a Christian Response within the Greco-Roman World, ed. Wendy E. Helleman (Christian Studies Today. Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1994), 159–72 at 161–67. 46

C. Potential Locations for the Encounter of Epicureanism and the FG

17

Epicureanism is unparalleled.53 The polemic character of Philo’s writing results in an inaccurate reporting of Epicurean thought: his criticism of Cain and Abel [Deus 16–19] as symptomatic of “Epicurean individualism” is at odds with both Philodemus’s psychagogy and its communitarian dimension.54 Nevertheless, the existence of this reporting suggests a continued Epicurean presence and influence in contemporary philosophical discourse. Such sustained engagement with Epicurean categories at least raises the possibility that an Alexandrian provenance for the FG would also allow for engagement with Epicureanism. II. Epicureanism in Asia Minor In Asia Minor, too, there is evidence for an Epicurean presence. Epicurean tradition in Lycia is manifested potentially in the Pauline engagement with Epicurean thought in the first century CE,55 and even more markedly in the Oenoanda inscription of the second century CE attributed to Diogenes.56 This summary of Epicurean thought was inscribed on the walls of a colonnade and appears more than 50 metres long. Whilst the inscription has frequently been dated to the latter part of the second century CE or later,57 comparisons of its orthography and letter styles with a second inscription, that of C. Iulius Demosthenes concerning a theatrical festival, point to a date closer to the time of Hadrian (117–138 CE).58 This earlier, but controversial, date would suggest an Epicurean presence only slightly later than the dating of the FG. In either event, it is unlikely that the inscription would be the product of a community which would have appeared from nowhere late or early in the second century, and thus suggests the likelihood of an Epicurean presence contemporary with the FG. To objections that Lycia might be too far removed from Ephesus, or might be the only centre, we must note that other centres were known to exist at Mytilene and Lampsacus,59 and add Benjamin Fiore’s conclusion that “Ephesus would be a likely meeting point for Epicureanism and Christianity”.60

53

Booth, “The Voice of the Serpent”, 167. Rannocchia, “Moses”, 95. For the communitarian aspects of Epicurean ethics, see Chapter 7. 55 Erler, “Epicureanism in the Roman Empire”, 48. 56 Jones, Epicurean Tradition, 85. 57 Diskin Clay, Paradosis and Survival: Three Chapters in the History of Epicurean Philosophy (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1998), 236–237. 58 Gordon, Epicurus in Lycia, 3–4. Clay, Paradosis, 254 disputes the similarities in orthography. 59 DeWitt, St Paul, 62. 60 Benjamin Fiore, “The Pastoral Epistles” in Philodemus and the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2004) 271–293 at 274, see also DeWitt, St Paul, 88–89. 54

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III. Epicureanism in Syria Links between Greece and “the East” came into being early: there were links with Mycenae from the fourteenth century BCE.61 Fernand Braudel notes the significance of the Orontes River as a junction between Greece, and the role of Al-mina as a melting–pot for cross-cultural encounter from its founding in the ninth century BCE: here Greek and Phoenician cultures met.62 This cultural contact would come to include Epicureanism. Indeed, Epicureanism appears to have been established in Syria in the first two centuries BCE.63 For example, Gadara had a strong Greek identity, linguistically and religiously:64 it is likely that the intellectual life of both the city and Syria included Epicureanism.65 Wisdom literature is also important in this regard, for it reveals an historic engagement between Epicureanism and Judaic thought. Richard Hibler suggests that Ecclesiastes was written by an Epicurean or someone with “Epicurean sympathies”.66 Paul Holloway shows that Sir 14:16 and 30 both show signs of engagement with the Epicurean practice of consolation by distraction.67 Given the connection of both Ben Sira68 and the FG to Jerusalem, the chance for an engagement with Epicureanism is possible, though such links may well be indirect rather than direct.69 More direct evidence comes from an Epicurean character from Apamea, recorded in an inscription made by Aurelius Belius Philippus.70 Although the inscription itself cannot be precisely dated and comes from the period after the FG was written,71 the continued presence of Epicureanism up to and beyond that point also suggests its prior presence. This prior presence includes notable Syrian Epicureans such as Basilides of Tyre (d. 175 BCE), Lysias, and Dionysus (second half of second century BCE), both of Tarsus, Zeno of Sidon (150–

61 Iain McGilchrist, The Master and His Emissary: The Divided Brain and the Making of the Modern World (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010), 280. 62 Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Ancient World, trans. S. Reynolds, (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 2001), 264. 63 Martin F. Smith, “An Epicurean Priest from Apamea in Syria”, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 112 (1996), 120–130 at 122. 64 John T. Fitzgerald, “Gadara: Philodemus’ Native City” in Philodemus and the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2004) 356–359; 382. 65 Fitzgerald, “Gadara”, 385. 66 Richard W. Hibler, Happiness through Tranquillity: The School of Epicurus (Lanham MD: University Press of America, 1984), 76–78. 67 Paul A. Holloway, “‘Beguile your Soul’ (Sir xiv.16; xxx.23): An Epicurean Theme in Ben Sira”, Vetus Testamentum 58 (2008), 219–234 at 228–233. 68 Holloway, “Beguile”, 234. 69 Holloway, “Beguile”, 234. 70 Smith, “An Epicurean Priest”, 120–122. 71 Smith, “An Epicurean Priest”, 121, 124–125 suggests a Hadrianic date.

C. Potential Locations for the Encounter of Epicureanism and the FG

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75 BCE), as well as Philodemus of Gadara (110/100 BCE–40? BCE),72 who appears to have moved to Italy between 75–55 BCE, and came under the patronage of L. Calpurnius Piso Caesonius73 after a stay in Athens under the tutelage of Zeno of Sidon, who headed the Epicurean school there circa 90 BCE.74 It is unlikely that Epicureanism vanished after the end of the Republican period: Epicureanism received favour, not least through the support of Trajan’s wife, Pompeia Plotina, and Epicureanism in Syria might well have benefitted from their associations with the area towards the end of his rule.75 Further evidence for knowledge of Epicureanism in Syria may come in the writings of Josephus. However, a note of caution is needed: Josephus’ remarks need not be confined solely to describing Syria. Indeed, his historiography maybe focused on the Jewish community in Rome. That said, his description of the Sadducees describes them after the style of a Greek philosophical school. Oscar Skarsaune’s verdict is that: “the Sadducees are clearly portrayed as Epicureans: they hold the same opinions as Epicurean philosophers”.76 The point at issue here is neither the validity nor veracity of Josephus’ opinions, simply that there would be sufficient awareness for such claims to be intelligible: this implies knowledge of Epicureanism by author and readers, even if only at an elite level. If nothing else, it shows a grasp of Epicureanism within the Jewish Diaspora. That may be particularly significant given the Johannine tradition may be linked to Diaspora Judaism.77

72 Smith, “An Epicurean Priest”, 122–123. For Philodemus, see also Fitzgerald, “Gadara”, 349. 73 Everett Ferguson, “The Art of Praise: Philo and Philodemus on Music” in Early Christianity and Classical Culture: Comparative Studies in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe, ed. John T. Fitzgerald et al. (Leiden: Brill 2003), 391–426 at 395. 74 Annick Monet, “Philodemus: une bibliographie des principales oeuvres de Philodème de Gadara”, Bibliothèque des Sciences de l'Antiquité. Retrieved 14 May 2014 from http://bsa.biblio.univ-lille3.fr/philodemus.html. There are no clear indications that Philodemus had encountered Epicureanism before his move to Athens, but it is not unreasonable to assume that a possible encounter with Epicureanism in Gadara might have been the catalyst for a move to Athens for further study. 75 Smith, “An Epicurean Priest”, 124. 76 Oscar Skarsaune, In the Shadow of the Temple: Jewish Influences on Early Christianity (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2002) 109. See also Steve Mason, Flavius Josephus: Life of Josephus (Leiden: Brill, 2003) 16–17, who notes this resemblance, but also their different views of the afterlife and fate. For the complexity of Josephus’ situation, see Sarah Pearce, “Judea under Roman Rule 63 BCE–135 CE” in The Biblical World Vol. 1, ed. John Barton (New York, NY: Routledge, 2004), 458–491 at 458. 77 Paul Spilsbury, “Flavius Josephus on the Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire”, Journal of Theological Studies 54/1 (2003),1–24 at 3–7.

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D. Summary of Findings This overview of time and place reveals that Epicureanism was a recognisable and visible social and philosophical phenomenon in the period when the FG was written. Furthermore, there is evidence which indicates its continued presence throughout the period and potential places in which the FG was written. This does not depend on the linking of the FG with a particular place of composition. Evidence for Epicurean presence is found in all the proposed sites. In summary, a setting in any of these three locations would suggest the potential for encounters between Epicureans and the FG and its audience. These might be direct (with followers of Epicurus) or indirect (with ideas still “live” and present from previous generations).

Chapter 3

The Pleasure Principle Our first area of investigation looks to the key principles of the traditions, their benefits, and practical outcomes: what did followers gain from their adherence to the teachings of either?

A. The Principles of Epicureanism Epicurus (341–270 BCE) is one of the most maligned philosophers in the ancient tradition: a pattern which straddles Greek, Roman, and Christian commentary on his teaching and legacy. It is a distorted image dating from his own time, when philosophers of rival schools were prone to describing him as a drunkard: the first such recorded condemnation comes from Timocrates of Lampsacus (circa 290 BCE). 1 In reality, Epicurus taught a very different ethic. His teaching led to austerity, rather than excess, and he advised his followers to accustom themselves to simple food and drink.2 Part of the problem comes from the associations of our word “pleasure” used to translate ἡδονή: it might be better to temper this understanding with the realisation that Epicurean ἡδονή includes elements of pleasure and joy.3 As Stephen Rosenbaum puts it: Because he [Epicurus] could not have meant by hedone what we usually mean by ‘pleasure’, his idea that well-being consists in a life of hedone is deeply misleading, and it has consequently borne the misunderstanding and the disapprobation of the history of western ethics.4

Yet ἡδονή is not the only term that is available to describe the goals of Epicurus’s ethics. Εὐδαιµονία (happiness) is also used, yet ἀταραξία (freedom from trouble or stress) is much more significant: εὐδαιμονία is an outcome of ἀταραξία, which is the focus of Epicurean ethics, and constantly

1

Hibler, Happiness, 8; Jones, The Epicurean Tradition, 63. Hibler, Happiness, 9–11; Rundin, “The Epicurean Morality”, 169. 3 Philip Merlan, Studies in Epicurus and Aristotle (Klassisch-Philologische Studien 22; Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1960), 13–15. 4 Stephen E. Rosenbaum, “Epicurean Moral Theory”, History of Philosophy Quarterly 13/4 (1996), 389–410 at 391. 2

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re-iterated.5 Ἀταραξία is not Epicurus’s creation, but originates in the work of his atomist predecessor, Democritus (and his heirs),6 whose εὐθυµία (contentment) will lead to Epicurean ἀταραξία, albeit “embedded within an entirely different philosophical context”,7 and Pyrrho.8 Epicurus and Pyrrho share the term, ἀταραξία, but little else: the means of achieving such a goal is completely different.9 The KD make clear that Epicurus’s understanding of pleasure is focused on ἀταραξία rather than physical pleasures such as food or sex: Οὐκ ἔστιν ἡδέως ζῆν ἄνευ τοῦ φρονίµως καὶ καλῶς καὶ δικαίως, ἄνευ τοῦ ἡδέως. It is not possible to live pleasurably without living wisely, well, and justly. Nor can one live wisely, well, and justly without living pleasurably.10

Thus, ἡδονή is linked to virtue, notably φρόνησις (intention, wisdom).11 The move towards ἀταραξία as a more useful functional term to describe the aims and objectives of Epicureanism than pleasure can be further explained using a distinction highlighted by Daniel C. Russell. The view that Epicurus was a hedonist, in the popular sense of the word, would see his philosophy geared towards maximising pleasure. Such a view sees pleasure as geared towards sensory excitement which might be called an “active phenomenal state”.12 However, this was not the objective set out by Epicurus. He aimed rather for a different kind pleasure, identified primarily with freedom from spiritual disturbance and suffering, and the absence of physical and mental pain (respectively, ἀταραξία and ἀπονία):

5

Hibler, Happiness, 26–27. Pamela M. Huby, “Epicurus’ Attitude to Democritus”, Phronesis 23/1 (1978), 80–86 explores Epicurus’s engagement with Democritus’s teaching. 7 Keimpe Algra, “Hellenistic and Early Imperial Philosophy”, Phronesis 49/2 (2004), 202–217 at 211. 8 Hibler, Happiness, 27. 9 Hibler, Happiness, 28. 10 KD 5; DL 10.140; text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 815–816. Translation mine. See also Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Eminent Philosophers, Vol. II, ed. and trans. R.D. Hicks. Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, MA: Heinemann,1979), 665; Available on-line at http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.01.0257%3Ab ook%3D10%3Achapter%3D1. Translation mine. See also Inwood and Gerson, The Epicurus Reader, 32. See also DL 10. 132; text in Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 810. 11 Rosenbaum, “Epicurean Moral Theory”, 391. 12 Daniel C. Russell, “Epicurus On Friends and Goals” in Epicurus: His Continuing Influence and Contemporary Relevance, ed. Dane R. Gordon and David B. Suits (Rochester, NY: RIT Graphic Arts Press, 2003), 167–181, at 174–175; quote from 174. 6

A. The Principles of Epicureanism

23

Ὅρος τοῦ µεγέθους τῶν ἡδονῶν ἡ παντὸς τοῦ ἀλγοῦντος ὑπεξαίρεσις. ὅπου δ᾽ ἂν τὸ ἡδόµενον ἐνῇ, καθ᾽ ὃν ἂν χρόνον ᾖ, οὐκ ἔστι τὸ ἀλγοῦν ἢ τὸ λυπούµενον ἢ τὸ συναµφότερον. Removing everything which causes pain sets the boundary of quantifiable pleasure. Wherever there is something pleasurable, for as long as it persists, there is no room for pain, or distress, or a combination of both. 13

This will be seen further in the differentiation of what are known as katastematic kinetic pleasures. Negotiating the causes and management of phenomena which might cause mental or psychological anguish is crucial. The goals of his ethics are centred squarely on pleasure according to this definition: attempts to suggest that virtue takes primacy have failed to convince.14 That said, Rosenbaum locates his theory within the ancient aretaic tradition of eudaimonistic theories, such as those of Aristotle and the Stoics, which involve “utilitarian, contractarian and aretaic elements”.15 However, pleasure is a complex term which embraces different phenomena. All pleasures are not the same. For Epicurus, unlike other schools, they may be distinguished as kinetic or katastematic: διαφέρεται δὲ πρὸς τοὺς Κυρηναϊκοὺς περὶ τῆς ἡδονῆς: οἱ µὲν γὰρ τὴν καταστηµατικὴν οὐκ ἐγκρίνουσι, µόνην δὲ τὴν ἐν κινήσει: ὁ δὲ ἀµφοτέραν… This is a different view of pleasure from the Cyreniacs: for they do not include static (katastematic) pleasure, but only that which comes from motion: he holds both [to be pleasure]…16

Katastematic pleasures are described using two negative terms: ἡ µὲν γὰρ ἀταραξία καὶ ἀπονία καταστηµατικαί εἰσιν ἡδοναί• ἡ δὲ χαρὰ καὶ ἡ εὐφροσύνη κατὰ κίνησιν ἐνέργειαι βλέπονται. Peace of mind and freedom from pain are static pleasures, whereas joy and gladness are considered activities associated with movement.17

13 DL 10.139; text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 815. Translation mine. See also Lucretius, DRN 2.1–61. 14 For this view, see Antonina Alberti, “Ragione e virtu nell’etica epicurea” in Realtà e ragione: Studi de Filosofia Antica, ed. Antonina Alberti (Florence: Accademia Toscana di Scienze e lettere La Colombaria [Studi 140], 1994), 185–216 and David Konstan, A Life Worthy of the Gods: The Materialist Psychology of Epicurus (Las Vegas, NV: Parmenides, 2008), 15, fn. 22. Contra, see Julia Annas, “Epicurus on Pleasure and Happiness”, Philosophical Topics 15/2 (1987), 5–21, The Morality of Happiness (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993); Philip Mitsis, Epicurus’ Ethical Theory: The Pleasures on Invulnerability (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988). 15 Rosenbaum, “Epicurean Moral Theory”, 389–90, quote from 390. 16 DL 10.136; text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 812–813. Translation mine. 17 DL 10.136; text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 813.Translation mine.

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It is possible to differentiate ἀπονία as absence of trouble on a physical level and ἀταραξία as absence of trouble at a psychic level. Together they constitute the greatest good, and cannot be distinguished by degree: they are either absent or present.18 The second clause makes a clear distinction (δὲ) between these two and other pleasures.19 Whilst χαρά (joy – the antithesis of pain or grief, that is, λύπη) and εὐφροσύνη (gladness) are viewed positively, they are classed as kinetic, not katastematic, pleasures.20 Χαρά is not to be associated with the passions (παθή) but with the movements of the rational part of the soul.21 The rational part of the soul is able to be deluded or make mistakes and so be a source of pain.22 This makes it inferior to ἀταραξία, which can never give such a result. Thus, ἀταραξία and ἀπονία are the ultimate goals of the Epicurean: The equation ἡδονή = ἀπονία/ἀταραξία was for Epicurus so forceful as to appear an aphorism.23

Kinetic pleasure, as the name suggests, involves movement and degrees of intensity. To Epicurus, kinetic pleasure is inferior to katastematic, only allowing for variations in pain: Οὐκ ἐπαύξεται ἐν τῇ σαρκὶ ἡ ἡδονή, ἐπειδὰν ἅπαξ τὸ κατ᾽ ἔνδειαν ἀλγοῦν ἐξαιρεθῇ, ἀλλὰ µόνον ποικίλλεται. The pleasure felt in the body after a need has been filled cannot increase in intensity, but only vary.24

Epicurus, in a reference to his own suffering, describes such a removal of pain: τὴν µακαρίαν ἄγοντες καὶ ἅµα τελευταίαν ἡµέραν τοῦ βίου ἐγράφοµεν ὑµῖν ταυτί, στραγγουρικά τε παρηκολουθήκει καὶ δυσεντερικὰ πάθη ὑπερβολὴν οὐκ ἀπολείποντα τοῦ ἐν ἑαυτοῖς µεγέθους. ἀντιπαρετάττετο δὲ πᾶσι τούτοις τὸ κατὰ ψυχὴν χαῖρον ἐπὶ τῇ τῶν γεγονότων ἡµῖν διαλογισµῶν µνήµῃ.

18 Gerd van Riel, Pleasure and the Good Life: Plato, Aristotle and the Neoplatonists (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 83. 19 Gisela Striker, “Epicurean Hedonism” in Passions and Perceptions: Studies in Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind, ed. Jacques Brunschwig and Martha C. Nussbaum (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 3–17 at 15. 20 Konstan, A Life Worthy of the Gods, 13. Konstan takes issue with views which would see these virtues made more significant than ἀπονία and ἀταραξία because he rejects their categorization as passions (παθή). 21 Konstan, A Life Worthy of the Gods, 15. Despite being non-rational, παθή are still able to serve as criteria for judging the value of actions, see Mitsis, Epicurus’ Ethical Theory, 43. 22 Konstan, A Life Worthy of the Gods, 17. 23 Ranocchia, “Moses”, 98. 24 Epicurus VS 18; DL 10.144, see Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 818. Also, Cicero, Fin. 2.10, 75. Translation mine.

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25

On this blessed and last day of my life I write this to you: the pains in my urinary tract and intestine are excruciating and could not get worse. That said, the joy in my heart (spirit) from remembering our conversations counteracts them all.25

Kinetic joy affects kinetic pain, but is not an end in itself. Von Riel uses the example of thirst to explain the difference between the kinetic and katastematic. Quenching thirst is a kinetic pleasure, the absence of thirst a katastematic one: kinetic pleasure is a movement towards an end.26 One is able to carry on drinking pleasurably after quenching thirst, but such activity does not increase the katastematic pleasure; it only serves to add secondary or peripheral variation.27 Epicurus appears to view kinetic pleasure as inferior to katastematic for two reasons. First, the changes in intensity given by kinetic pleasure demand a corresponding contamination by pain- and that is not desirable. Second, kinetic pleasure is secondary to katastematic: katastematic pleasure provides a core, but kinetic pleasure only a movement to or from that core, or variations around it. All of these are subsidiary to the absence or presence of that katastematic experience.28 Kinetic and katastematic pleasures are not, however, distinguished simply by movement or stasis. Both involve movement: The katastematic state of consciousness– if that is indeed what Epicurus called it– is a state of dynamic equilibrium, and it is the end of man to achieve and maintain this stable condition of pleasure. This cannot mean a cutting off of the consciousness from the surrounding environment- this is impossible– but rather control by the consciousness of what must inevitably enter.29

Thus, the state of bliss to which the sage aspired was primarily focused on the acquisition and maintenance of the two katastematic pleasures: ἀπονία and ἀταραξία. It also embraced “freedom from unnecessary desires”30, by which it demanded a lifestyle which diminished the possibility of pain stemming from unfulfilled desires, 31 directed more to frugality than excess: οἱ τε λιτοὶ χυλοὶ ἴσην πολυτελεῖ διαίτῃ τὴν ἡδονὴν ἐπιφέρουσιν ὅταν ἅπαν τὸ ἀλγοῦν κατ᾽ ἔνδειαν ἐξαιρεθῇ• [131] καὶ µᾶζα καὶ ὕδωρ τὴν ἀκροτάτην ἀποδίδωσιν ἡδονήν, ἐπειδὰν ἐνδέων τις αὐτὰ προσενέγκηται. τὸ συνεθίζειν οὖν ἐν ταῖς ἁπλαῖς καὶ οὐ πολυτελέσι διαίταις καὶ ὑγιείας ἐστὶ συµπληρωτικὸν καὶ πρὸς τὰς ἀναγκαίας τοῦ βίου χρήσεις ἄοκνον ποιεῖ τὸν ἄνθρωπον καὶ τοῖς πολυτελέσιν ἐκ διαλειµµάτων

25

DL 10.22; text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 746–747. Translation mine. van Riel, Pleasure and the Good Life, 81–82. 27 van Riel, Pleasure and the Good Life, 82–83. 28 van Riel, Pleasure and the Good Life, 84. 29 Strozier, Epicurus, 92. 30 P. Lowell, Horace and the Gift Economy of Patronage (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2001), 221. 31 van Riel, Pleasure and the Good Life, 84. 26

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προσερχοµένους παρασκευάζει.

κρεῖττον

ἡµᾶς

διατίθησι

καὶ

πρὸς

τὴν

τύχην

ἀφόβους

Simple juices give the same please as a rich diet when the simple pain which arises from want has been satisfied. [131] Barley bread and water give the highest pleasure when one in need has acquired them. To get accustomed to a simple diet, not variety, to one which is essentially healthy, makes a man grasp the real necessities of life. It also puts us in a better position at those moments when we are faced with extravagance, and makes us fearless in the face of chance.32

This is based on a doctrine of “natural wealth” which may be distinguished from usual understandings of developed societies:33 Ὁ τῆς φύσεως πλοῦτος καὶ ὥρισται καὶ εὐπόριστός ἐστιν• ὁ δὲ τῶν κενῶν δοξῶν εἰς ἄπειρον ἐκπίπτει. The riches of nature are finite and easily accessible; but (the riches) of empty glories constantly drop away into the void.34

He suggests that all that is necessary is easy to obtain: τὸ µὲν φυσικὸν πᾶν εὐπόριστόν ἐστι, τὸ δὲ κενὸν δυσπόριστον. Everything natural is easily found, the illusory is hard to get.35

Natural wealth is thus what is needed to satisfy necessary desires.36 It is a view which will lead to the simple life, not the sybaritic. 37 Simplicity is a good thing, but this does not mean that desires must always be restricted (contrary to Cynic teaching):38 variation of pleasure is good even if does not essentially make one happier.39 The philosopher does well to limit desire rather than search for wealth.40 Indeed the ultimate source of the greatest good is prudence, not luxury: 32

DL 10.130–131. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 809–810. Translation mine. Elizabeth Asmis, “Epicurean Economics” in Philodemus and the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2004) 133–176 at 145. 34 KD 15 in DL 10.144. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 818. Translation mine. 35 DL 10.130. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, Translation mine. 36 Asmis, “Epicurean Economics”, 145. 37 Dane R. Gordon, “The Philosophy of Epicurus: Is It an Option for Today?” in Epicurus; His Continuing Influence and Contemporary Relevance, ed. Dane R. Gordon and David B. Suits (Rochester, NY: RIT Graphic Arts Press, 2003), 5–16, at 9. Hibler, Happiness, 33–35. For criticism of a sybaritic interpretation by Giangrande of a meal described by Philodemus, see Gigante, Philodemus in Italy, 59–61, see also 82–83 for the Epicurean preference of simplicity. 38 The critique of Cynic values is maintained by Philodemus, see David L. Balch, “ Philodemus “On Wealth” and “On Household Management”: Naturally Wealthy Epicureans against Poor Cynics” in Philodemus and the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2004) 177–196 at 178, 184–186. 39 Asmis, “Epicurean Economics”, 149. 40 Asmis, “Epicurean Economics”, 147. 33

A. The Principles of Epicureanism

27

Ὅταν οὖν λέγωµεν ἡδονὴν τέλος ὑπάρχειν, οὐ τὰς τῶν ἀσώτων ἡδονὰς καὶ τὰς ἐν ἀπολαύσει κειµένας λέγοµεν, ὥς τινες ἀγνοοῦντες καὶ οὐχ ὁµολογοῦντες ἢ κακῶς ἐκδεχόµενοι νοµίζουσιν, ἀλλὰ τὸ µήτε ἀλγεῖν κατὰ σῶµα µήτε ταράττεσθαι κατὰ ψυχήν... τούτων δὲ πάντων ἀρχὴ καὶ τὸ µέγιστον ἀγαθὸν φρόνησις• When we say that pleasure is the goal, we do not mean the pleasures of the debauched or those which come from simple enjoyment, as some think when they are ignorant, contrary or argumentative, but the absence of bodily pain and mental distress…. Of all things, the foundation and greatest asset is wisdom.41

The presence of pain and grief need not be an obstacle to the retention of ἀπονία and ἀταραξία. It is possible for the sage to retain both even when adversely afflicted. Epicurus is said to have used techniques of mental distraction to overcome grief or pain. One instance is recorded in the VS 55: θεραπευτέον τὰς συµφορὰς τῇ τῶν ἀπολλυµένων χάριτι καὶ τῷ γινώσκειν ὅτι οὐκ ἔστιν ἄπρακτον ποιῆσαι τὸ γεγονός. We must heal our misfortunes by the grateful recollection of what has been and by the recognition that it is impossible to make undone what has been done.42

Such techniques were described later by Cicero as dissimulatio.43 Epicurus advocated them in the Letter to Idomeneus: Στραγγουρικά τε παρηκολουθήκει καὶ δυσεντερικὰ πάθη ὑπερβολὴν οὐκ ἀπολείποντα τοῦ ἐν ἑαυτοῖς µεγέθους. ἀντιπαρετάττετο δὲ πᾶσι τούτοις τὸ κατὰ ψυχὴν χαῖρον ἐπὶ τῇ τῶν γεγονότων ἡµῖν διαλογισµῶν µνήµῃ. Strangury and the pains of dysentery have struck me with excessive intensity. However, the joy in my soul which comes from remembering our past discussions has stood against them.44

Thus, katastematic pleasure is not defined solely by the absence of pain or grief, but by its management. Other obstacles to the possession of katastematic pleasure also demanded management. Epicurus cited two elements as particularly pernicious: fear of death and of the gods.45 The dominance of this pair can be seen in Philodemus’s rendering of the τετραφαρµακός (four-fold medicine): ἄφοβον ὁ θεός ἀν[ύ]ποπτον ὁ θάνατος

41

DL 10.131–132. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 810. Translation mine. VS 55; Bailey, Epicurus, 114–115. 43 See further Philodemus, D. 3 col. D (2) 23; Mort. 38.21; Cicero, Tusc. 3.16.25; Holloway, “Beguile”, 223. We might see modern parallels in the practice of “mindfulness”, Ad Bergsma et al., “Happiness in the Garden of Epicurus”, J Happiness Stud 9 (2008), 397– 423 at 413–414. 44 DL 10.22. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 747. Translation mine. See also Cicero, Fin. 230.96; Holloway, “Beguile”, 223–224. 45 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 105. 42

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καὶ τἀγαθὸν µὲν εὔκτητον, τὸ δὲ δεινὸν εὐεκκα[ρ]τέρητον. God should not concern to us. Death is not to be feared. What is good is easy to obtain. What is bad is easily avoided.46

This ethical thinking does not stand alone: it draws heavily on a materialist cosmology which reduces the potential to view death and the gods as sources of disturbance.47 Epicurus refined earlier materialist philosophy, with a peculiar addition: the concept that atoms swerve (παρέγκλισις, clinamen) and so create objects.48 Cicero gives the following explanation: Sed Epicurus declinatione atomi vitari necessitatem fati putat. itaque tertius quidam motus oritur extra pondus et plagam, cum declinat atomus intervallo minimo (id appellat ελαχιστον); quam declinationem sine causa fieri si minus verbis, re cogitur confiteri. non enim atomus ab atomo pulsa declinat. nam qui potest pelli alia ab alia, si gravitate feruntur ad perpendiculum corpora individua rectis lineis, ut Epicuro placet? sequitur enim, ut, si alia ab alia numquam depellatur, ne contingat quidem alia aliam. ex quo efficitur, etiam si sit atomus eaque declinet, declinare sine causa. Epicurus thinks that the swerve of the atom removes any necessity which could be ascribed to fate; when the atom swerves to the smallest degree (called elachiston) a third form of motion is produced in addition to mass and force. He needs to admit that this is really, not just theoretically, a movement which is uncaused. The atom does not move because it has been being struck by another atom. For if, as Epicurus suggests, these atoms move in vertical straight lines because of gravity, how can they strike each other? It follows from this that

46 Philodemus Adv. Soph (= PHerc. 1005) col. 5, 9–14: text cited from Kirk. R. Sanders, “Philodemus and the fear of premature death” in Epicurus and the Epicurean Tradition, ed. Jeffrey Fish and Kirk R. Sanders. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 211–234 at 211, fn. 2, who identifies it as a “pithy summary of KD 1–4”. Translation from J. Warren, Facing Death (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 7. The centrality of the tetrapharmakos is also noted by Anthony Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility – The Virtues of being Epicurean” in Aspects de la Philosophie Hellénistique, ed. Helmutt Flashar and Olof Gigon. (Entretiens sur L’antiquité Classique Tome XXXII. Genève: Fondation Hardt, 1986), 284–316 at 283–284. 47 Jones, Epicurean Tradition, 55. 48 Stephen Everson, “Epicurean Psychology” in The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, ed. Keimpe Algra et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 542– 559 at 556; Jackson P. Hershbell, “Plutarch and Epicureanism” in Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt. Teil 2, ed. Joseph Vogt et al. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1992), 3353–3383 at 3375; Giovanni Reale, A History of Ancient Philosophy: The Systems of The Hellenistic Age III (New York, NY: State University of New York Press, 1985), 142–145; John M. Rist, Epicurus: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), 52.

A. The Principles of Epicureanism

29

(an atom) cannot collide with another since it is never deflected by another. As a consequence, if there is an atom, and it swerves, that swerve has no cause.49

Epicurus’s teaching was refined by Lucretius who appears to remain faithful to his master’s thinking.50 This does not mean that the universe is a completely random or disordered body. The principle of isonomia, sometimes defined as “equal distribution” or “balanced strife” introduces the possibility of order, and, indeed, teleology.51 The doctrine is used to support two claims: the creation of compound bodies, and free will (as opposed to a determinism) based on physics. It is not tenable to suggest that Epicurus developed his natural philosophy simply in order to support his ethical theory: such claims ignore the broader context of atomic physics starting with Democritus within which Epicurus operated.52 The nature of Epicurean free will is highly contested. Scholars are divided into main two groups: those who believe the swerve can be discerned in every human choice, and those who hold that it is not found in every decision, but nonetheless preserves human freedom.53 Thereafter, some hold that the swerve occurs at the level of the atoms which constitute the mind,54 others that the swerve is a source of motion which enables the production of movement from within,55 and still others that it is the source of mental ability to focus on mental images which become the basis for action.56 The common denominator is that,

49 Latin text from Cicero. De fat. 22. In Bibliotheca Teubneriana Latina (BTL) Online. 2013. Berlin, Boston, MA: de Gruyter. Retrieved 18 Dec. 2017, from https://www.degruyter.com/view/BTL/ACICETFAT/111952. Translation mine. Cicero, Nat. d. 1.55 also rejects any doctrine of fate or necessity, see Holger Essler, “Cicero’s Use and Abuse of Epicurean Theology” in Epicurus and the Epicurean Tradition, ed. Jeffrey Fish and Kirk R. Sanders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011),129–151 at 135. 50 Lucretius, DRN 2.1–332; for a detailed commentary, see Don Fowler, Lucretius on Atomic Motion: A Commentary on De Rerum Natura Book 2, Lines 1–332 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). 51 Cicero, Nat. d. 1.50, Lucretius, DRN 6.569–576; Adam Drozdek, Greek Philosophers as Theologians: The Divine Archē (Abingdon: Ashgate, 2007), 215–216. 52 Algra, “Hellenistic”, 211; James Warren, Epicurean and Democritean Ethics: An Archaeology of Ataraxia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). Yet, the swerve marks a significant departure from Democritus’s atomism (Drozdek, Greek Philosophers, 215). 53 Susanne Bobzien, “Did Epicurus Discover the Free Will Problem?”, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 19 (2000), 287–337. 54 Elizabeth Asmis, The Epicurean Theory of Free Will and its Origins in Aristotle (Yale Dissertation, 1970) and “Free Action and the Swerve: Review of Walter G. Englert, ‘Epicurus on the Swerve and Voluntary Action’”, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 8 (1990), 275–291; Jeffrey Purinton, “Epicurus on ‘Free Volition’ and the Atomic Swerve”, Phronesis 44 (1999), 253–299. 55 Walter G. Englert, Epicurus on the Swerve and Voluntary Action (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1987). 56 Fowler, Lucretius, 301–366 and Appendix A.

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whatever the perceived mechanics of the process, Epicurean physics somehow is used to assert free will, which is viewed as a significant factor in ethics. The random nature of the swerve also gives a realistic dimension to discussions of pleasure. While the Epicurean sage is able theoretically to maintain a constant state of pleasure through sheer application, will-power or perfection, outside factors, beyond the sage’s control, may affect the acquisition or retention of bliss. This can be seen in the Epicurean discussion of τύχη (chance, random-ness). It has both cosmological and ethical significance. Its presence in the natural order necessarily demands a breach with the concept of Ἀνάγκη (necessity), the idea of fate or determinism which could verge on the fatalistic. It is a two-edged sword. On the one hand, it means that the sage may be subject to outside influences beyond his or her control, but, more significantly, it meant that the sage was not a hapless victim of irresistible forces. Τύχη, whatever limitations it might bring, at least guaranteed the autonomy of the sage. Epicurus explores the roles of both ἀνάγκη and τύχη in the Letter to Menoeceus 133, considering both as ethically inferior to free will: διὰ τὸ τὴν µὲν ἀνάγκην ἀνυπεύθυνον εἶναι, τὴν δὲ τύχην ἄστατον ὁρᾶν, τὸ δὲ παρ᾽ ἡµᾶς, ἀδέσποτον, ᾧ καὶ τὸ µεµπτὸν καὶ τὸ ἐναντίον παρακολουθεῖν πέφυκεν for necessity makes us unaccountable, chance is unstable, but what we do has no external control over it, and will attract either blame or its opposite.57

This verse suggests that free will is considered the dominant factor in evaluating Epicurean teleology. Chance and necessity, one a part of the physical order, the other an intellectual construct, are not the arbiters of moral worth. Thus, the Epicurean posits a world view in which some events are within the individual’s control, and others beyond it, but that to see oneself as the perpetual victim of fate or necessity is an invalid perception. This means that the sage needs to be realistic, accepting that outside circumstances may affect life, but that they do not define its quality. It also suggests that individuals maintain a degree of control over their lives. Thus, the goals of Epicureanism may be attained, even if other forces are still considered active. As David Suits puts it: Overall contentment– ataraxia– involves the confidence that one will be able to deal with any minor disturbance which comes along.58

This appears to demand a “living perfection” which is not as complete as the perfection of the gods because of the contingencies of human life: “we lack

57

DL 10.133. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 811. Translation mine. David B. Suits, “The Fixation of Satisfaction: Epicurus and Peirce on the Goal” in Epicurus; His Continuing Influence and Contemporary Relevance, ed. Dane R. Gordon and David B. Suits (Rochester, NY: RIT Graphic Arts Press, 2003), 139–155 at 148. 58

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some of their perfections”.59 Such realism allows one to retain a sense of ἀταραξία in the face of adversity. Acceptance of adversity, or of failure, may even promote ἀταραξία rather than indicate a shortcoming or failure in its attainment or retention. Indeed, the potential of ultimately achieving ataractic success may be an acceptable alternative to ἀταραξία itself.60 The autobiographical material about Epicurus, which described his own physical illness and pain, was not considered to indicate an ataractic failure. Rather, he was regarded as triumphing over the contingencies of life. Given that ἀταραξία is concerned with mental balance and equilibrium, the place of emotions needs to be recognised. Lucretius devotes some time to the consideration of tears. They occur in the context of grief, and of love, but may also indicate a reaction to beliefs.61 Tears were seen as a sign of weakness in relation to both grief and love, especially for men. However, there appears to be some variety of opinion. Metrodorus, a colleague of Epicurus, appears to have considered tears not as a source of pain, but of kinetic pleasure: “a kind of compensation for the mental pain of bereavement.”62 This is different from Epicurus’s preference that mental pain be assuaged by mental pleasure.63 Additionally, tears function positively in the search for truth, where emotions buttress the philosophical truths being expounded. Thus, Lucretius describes Homer weeping as he discloses the nature of things: unde sibi exortam semper florentis Homeri commemorate speciem lacrimas effundere salsas coepisse et rerum naturam expandere dictis. From where, he remembered, the ghost of Homer, Always weeping, rose And began to weep salty tears and Explain the nature of things in his speech.64

Thus, tears perform a variety of functions, but essentially assist the case being made for Epicurean truths by Lucretius: they “reinforce his logical exposition of Epicurus’s discoveries”.65

59

Suits, “The Fixation”, 153–154. Suits, “The Fixation”, 154. 61 Christina A. Clark, “Tears in Lucretius” in Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Thorsten Fögen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 161–177. 62 Seneca, Ep Mor. 99.25–26. The passage is analysed in Margaret Graver, “Stoic and Epicurean Consolations in Seneca’s 99th Epistle” in Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Thorsten Fögen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 235–252 at 248–250, quote from 249. 63 Graver, “Stoic and Epicurean”, 250. 64 Lucretius, DRN 1.124–126 cited in Clark, “Tears”, 173. Translation mine. Clark also notes that Lucretius links tears to grief and erotic love (164–170). 65 Clark, “Tears”, 175. 60

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Anger features more prominently in Epicurean reflection on the emotions. Philodemus’s Περὶ ὀργῆς (Ir.) is the best preserved and most significant work addressing the emotions and will form the basis of the following remarks.66 It opens with a statement about the place of anger: κα|ταλεί̣π[εται καὶ πολὺ µᾶλ|[λ]ον ὁ [διαπ]είθ̣ων λ[όγο]ς ἀ|[νέκφ]ευκ̣τον [εἶναι τ]ὸ γέ|[νος π]αντ[[΄ι] So much more does the argument remain that the genus [anger] is inescapable for everyone.67

Whilst this need not provide a wholesale endorsement of anger, it recognises the presence of the emotion. In light of this, Philodemus explores how anger may be appropriately channelled rather than rejected wholesale. He then goes on to distinguish two types of anger: natural (ἡ φυσικὴ όργή) and vain (ἡ κενὴ ὀργή).68 It is permissible for the Epicurean sage to be subject to natural, but not vain, anger. Philodemus explains the difference between the two. Natural anger: Συνίσταται γὰρ ἀπὸ το[ῦ] βλέπειν, ὡς ἡ φύσις ἕχει τῶν πραγµάτων, καὶ µήδεν ψευδοδοξεῖν ἐν ταῖς σ[υ]µµετρήσεσι τῶν ἐλα[ττ]ωµάτων καὶ ταῖς κολάσεσι τῶν βλαπτόντων. results from a consideration of the actual nature of things, and from having no false beliefs regarding the estimation of harms suffered and the punishments for those doing the harm.69

In short, the sage may experience anger, but it must be of a correct type: Philodemus offers a middle way between Stoic suspicion of the emotions and Peripatetic praise.70 The sage may experience anger as a reaction to the beliefs which prompt it: false beliefs may provoke it.71 The contrast of “natural” and “empty” echoes rightly Epicurus’s own treatment of desire: Ἀναλογιστέον δὲ ὡς τῶν ἐπιθυµιῶν αἱ µέν εἰσι φυσικαί, αἱ δὲ κεναί. καὶ τῶν φυσικῶν αἱ µὲν ἀναγκαῖαι, αἱ δὲ φυσικαὶ µόνον• τῶν δ᾽ ἀναγκαίων αἱ µὲν πρὸς

66 Kirk R. Sanders, “On A Causal Notion in Philodemus’ On Anger”, Classical Quarterly 59/2 (2009), 642–647 at 642. 67 Philodemus, Ir. XL.2-6 in Elizabeth Asmis, “The Necessity of Anger in Philodemus’ On Anger” in Epicurus and the Epicurean Tradition, ed. Jeffrey Fish and Kirk R. Sanders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 152–182 at 152, fn. 2. 68 Sanders, “Causal Notion”, 642. For an overview of On Anger, see Voula Tsouna, “Philodemus, Seneca and Plutarch on Anger” in Epicurus and the Epicurean Tradition, ed. Jeffrey Fish and Kirk R. Sanders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 183–210 at 184–196. 69 Philodemus, Ir., XXXVII.32-39 in Sanders, “Causal Notion”, 642. 70 Julia Annas, “Epicurean Emotions”, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 30/2 (1989), 145–164 at 146–147. 71 Tsouna, “Philodemus”, 189.

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εὐδαιµονίαν εἰσὶν ἀναγκαῖαι, αἱ δὲ πρὸς τὴν τοῦ σώµατος ἀοχλησίαν, αἱ δὲ πρὸς αὐτὸ τὸ ζῆν.72 We must bear in mind that some desires are natural, and others vain. Of the natural, some are necessary, but others only natural. Of the necessary, some are necessary for happiness, others for physical wellness, and some for life itself. Τῶν ἐπιθυµιῶν αἱ µέν εἰσι φυσικαὶ καὶ καὶ οὐκ ἀναγκαῖαι: αἱ δὲ οὔτε φυσικαὶ οὔτ᾽ ἀναγκαῖαι ἀλλὰ παρὰ κενὴν δόξαν γινόµεναι. Some desires are natural and necessary, some are natural but not necessary, and some are neither natural nor necessary, but illusory. 73

The logic of these passages leads to a tripartite division found in Philodemus which is summed up by Julia Annas as: natural and necessary, natural and not necessary, and neither natural nor necessary– these last are identified with empty desires.74

Quite often the distinction between what is “natural and necessary” and “natural and not necessary” may be due to confusion of the general and the specific: a natural and necessary desire for food, say, being confused with a natural but not necessary desire for a particular foodstuff.75 For the immediate purposes of this discussion, this prompts a question: how to categorise anger- as an instance of an emotion, or as natural or empty? Vocabulary is useful: Philodemus defines θύµος in a broad or moderate sense, rather than as an “excess of anger”. Similarly, a broad view is also taken of ὀργή.76 However, the two terms are not synonymous: ὀργή will designate natural anger, and θύµος empty anger.77 Philodemus’s exploration of the difference between natural and empty anger acknowledges that anger is, in part, a desire (δεινῆς ἐπιθυµίας).78 Thus any treatment of anger will be subject to the same constraints about what makes an action desirable in the broader spectrum– and those are often predicated on the beliefs which form them. For Epicurus, empty anger is:

72

DL 10.127. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 807–808. Translation mine. KD 29; DL 10.149. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius,820–21. Τranslation mine. 74 Annas, “Epicurean Emotions”, 149. For criticism of the Epicurean categories, see Cicero, Fin 2.26. 75 Annas, “Epicurean Emotions”, 150–151. For a further exploration of “natural and (not) necessary”, see Elizabeth Asmis, “The Necessity”, 176–182. 76 Asmis, ‘The Necessity,” 159. 77 Tsouna, “Philodemus”, 194–196. 78 Philodemus, Ir. VIII.20–27; Annas, “Epicurean Emotions”, 153. 73

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An evil, κάκον, not just in itself, by being unpleasant, but because of the many evils it brings…79

Evaluation of the appropriateness of anger will depend on its consequences, particularly on whether they will be sources of pain. These include an evaluation of the desirability of both punishment and retaliation: Empty anger, then, rests on the empty desire to retaliate. This desire in turn is empty because it rests on the empty belief that retaliation is good in itself and enjoyable.80

Based on the correct beliefs and evaluation of consequences, empty anger is always prohibited.81 Philodemus’s analysis of natural anger is less straightforward than Epicurus’s. It cannot simply be identified as a good opposite of the empty: ὥστε καθ’ ὃν τρόπον ἐλέγοµ[εν] τὴν κ[ενὴν ὀργ]ην κακόν, ὅτι ἀπὸ διαθέσεως γίνεται παπονήρου καὶ µυρία δυσχερῆ συνεπιστάται, δ[εῖ] λέγειν [οὐ] κακ[ὸν τὴ]ν φυσικῂν ἀλλὰ καθὸ δηκτικόν ἐ[στ]ί τι. So in the same way we said empty evil was an anger, because it results from a really bad disposition and draws with it countless evils, we must say that natural anger is not an evil, insofar as it is not something biting.82

Natural anger can only rest on natural desires: it cannot be based on harmful or false thinking. The wise man cannot wholly escape emotions like anger (ἀπόχρη γὰρ ἐπιδεῖξαι τὸ κοίνον, ὅτι συσχεθήσεταί τισιν ὀργαῖς ὁ σοφος),83 but can avoid its empty counterpart by avoiding false beliefs. These include retaliation, which the sage is to avoid, and the assumption of being harmed.84 Epicurean theory seems to recognise the inevitability of emotions like anger, but does not necessarily attempt to condemn or suppress. It does, however, ensure that control of the emotions is part of the sage’s character. Thus, the treatment of anger has a strong therapeutic flavour to it,85 encouraging the Epicurean aspirant to work through its affective and cognitive

79

Annas, “Epicurean Emotions”, 154. Annas, “Epicurean Emotions”, 157. 81 Asmis, “The Necessity”, 179. 82 From Philodemus, Ir. XXXVII.24–XXXVIII.8 in Annas, “Epicurean Emotions”, 157. 83 Philodemus, Ir. XLI.28, cited in Annas, “Epicurean Emotions”, 158. See also Asmis, “The Necessity”, 157. 84 Asmis, “The Necessity”, 162–171 provides a thorough examination. 85 For the therapeutic dimension of Epicureanism and other schools, see Martha Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire: Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2012). For general remarks on therapeutic method in Philodemus, see Voula Tsouna, The Ethics of Philodemus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 76–87. 80

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consequences, in an effort to avoid loss of ἀταραξία.86 Annas sums up Epicurean theory thus: We should train and direct our angry feelings, but we should not try to get rid of them, since expressing anger in some way is a human need.87

This discussion of anger has introduced a key distinction between the natural and the necessary. It is a point which again serves as a reminder that Epicurean hedonism is not simply about being true to nature, or a simple quest in which pleasure is the be-all and end-all. Those constructing a knock-down or straw man critique consider that Epicureans, in making pleasure their goal, will make every action and decision with the aim of obtaining pleasure: pleasure maximisation. This need not be so. As Daniel Russell has pointed out: from the claim that Everything I do, I refer to the goal of pleasure It does not follow that Everything I do, I do for the sake of pleasure.88

Pleasures are connected in a network: what matters is that what is good is “appropriately connected” to pleasure.89 Furthermore, Epicurus rejects the idea that some maximum quantity of pleasure is to be sought (pleasure maximisation), because he is ultimately interested in katastematic, not kinetic, pleasure. 90 This is more about a condition in which physical and mental needs are met, not qualitative (or quantitative) experiences: these only serve to adorn or vary the katastematic condition.91 Ultimately, what matters is whether a good or an action makes katastematic pleasure possible or varies it, not whether it increases some quantity or quality of kinetic pleasure (maximises pleasure). This focus on katastematic pleasure does not mean that kinetic pleasure is valueless. However, episodes of kinetic pleasure do not provide an adequate basis for pleasurable living: there needs to be some shape or coherence.92 Kinetic pleasures can only be pleasurable inasmuch as they contribute to a final end, which itself governs how one participates in kinetic pleasure. This means that kinetic pleasures are not always the most desirable option, but rather must be selected in relation to whether they contribute to, or damage, katastematic pleasure. This further entails that sometimes pains must be selected because they ultimately contribute to an end identifiable as katastematic.93 In short, the

86

Tsouna, “Philodemus”, 190. Annas, “Epicurean Emotions”, 162. 88 Russell, “Epicurus”, 173. 89 Russell, “Epicurus”, 174. 90 Russell, “Epicurus”, 174–175. 91 Russell, “Epicurus”, 175. 92 Russell, “Epicurus”, 176. 93 Russell, “Epicurus”, 176. 87

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need for both ἀπονία and ἀταραξία (katastematic pleasure) regulates the pursuit of pleasurable activity, not the maximisation of kinetic pleasure. These become terms which may be used to explicate the end goals of Epicurus’s philosophy and avoid the potential for confusion caused by the language of pleasure. Furthermore, this shift away from normative hedonism or pleasure maximisation lets us see how an Epicurean might read the FG’s Jesus.

B. The Principles of the FG Initially, there would seem little correspondence between the FG and Epicurus, given the former’s preferred vocabulary and this broad narrative sweep. First, we may note the Johannine telos resides in the concept of “eternal life” (ζωὴ αἰώνιος), a term which is not found within Epicureanism. Discussion of this will be held over to the next chapter, as it fits well with the potential overlap of the claims made about death and life. Any claim for some shared ground comes from the fact that the Johannine vocabulary includes the verb (ταράσσω)94– well known to the Epicureans. This will be the focal point for this section of the discussion. If there is any hook to link the desirable outcomes of school and FG, it is this. Even if the noun ἀταραξία itself is not used, the corresponding verb is. The Farewell Discourses (John 14–17), a significant passage in delineating Johannine teleology and eschatology, provide the clearest example, starting with the command (µὴ ταρασσέσθω: John 14:1) and re-iterating it in John 14:27 (µὴ ταρασσέσθω ὑµῶν ἡ καρδία). Both verses acknowledge the reality of disturbance, but imply that this is not the last word: the “imminent success”95 of achieving ἀταραξία has not been lost. The discourse which follows will embrace desirable virtues and outcomes which are described, in part, using terms synonymous with ἀταραξία: Jesus, in short, might be claimed to set out an ataractic programme. It would be potentially significant to an Epicurean listener that the language of ἀταραξία was used. However, an immediate disjunction arises. Nowhere does Johannine ἀταραξία address in a significant fashion the language of pleasure as either katastematic or kinetic. The rationale of Epicurean ἀταραξία is thus absent from the treatment. If this is, indeed, ἀταραξία, it is not as the Epicurean knows it. The substance of the FG’s programme, introduced by the language of ἀταραξία, will be spelled out in the Farewell Discourses (John 14–17). As the substance of Epicureanism is developed in subsequent chapters, we will return to themes and shared vocabulary. The very nature of this speech is also noteworthy: speeches delivered near the death of the philosopher were a 94 95

Clark-Soles, Death, 137–138. Suits, “The Fixation”, 154.

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common philosophical trope, and their setting at a meal is not unprecedented.96 Identifying a seemingly familiar reference to ἀταραξία might make Jesus’s programme interesting to a potential Epicurean audience, setting it in the literary context of a philosophical symposium would also have made for a familiar setting for such material. Elsewhere, instances of ταράσσω appear more problematic: Jesus appears to be a victim of disturbance and his emotions are described using the same verb (ἐτάραξεν ἑαυτόν – John 11:33). This might be read as implying that Jesus has failed to maintain his state of ataractic bliss. This, as we have seen, need not be the case. Negative emotions or pain need not indicate such a failure, but rather resonate with the Epicurean experience that ἀταραξία may be subject to outside circumstances, or that temporary setbacks do not detract from the success of achieving ἀταραξία if they are minor.97 But what are the emotions here? The narrative uses several phrases suggestive of emotional activity: Jesus is “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved” (NRSV: ἐνεβριµήσατο τῷ πνεύµατι καὶ ἐτάραξεν ἑαυτόν – John 11:33), weeps (ἐδάκρυσεν – John 11:35), and, for a second time, becomes disturbed (πάλιν ἐµβριµώµενος ἐν ἑαυτῷ – John 11:38). The use of πνεύµατι merits attention. Here it seems analogous to καρδία (heart), as an anthropological category, part of the composition of a human being.98 It is not usually used as such in the FG: Jaime Clark-Soles notes that the FG takes a commonplace of ancient philosophy but uses it distinctively: In FG, however, pneuma does not connect the human being with the cosmos; rather it connects certain human beings (believers) with the creator of the cosmos. Pneuma is now defined as the Holy pneuma whose role is definable (it teaches truth, guides, reminds, and so forth).99

Pneuma is associated only with Jesus, and so is not a general anthropological category: it is his gift to believers (John 19:30; 20:20). These differences show a distinct departure from the norms of the terms use in the philosophical schools. The distinction from Epicureanism is even more marked, given the

96 For an overview of the philosophical banquet as literary genre and meal type, see Dennis E. Smith, From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2003), 47–65. See Chapter 6 for a more detailed analysis of meals. 97 The use of “resonate” is intended to indicate that the Christian and Epicurean emotions are not identical or co-terminus: generic and tradition-specific facets of any emotion need to be recognised, see Robert C. Roberts, “Emotions among the Virtues of the Christian Life”, Journal of Religious Ethics, 20/1 (1992), 37–68 at 37–38. 98 Clark-Soles, “I Will Raise”, 35. 99 Clark-Soles, “I Will Raise”, 36 as a part of a longer section which notes the distinctive characteristics of Johannine theology vis-a-vis Hellenistic philosophy and Paul, among others (31–41).

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rarity of the term in Epicurean discourse, with its distinctive materialist quality and understanding of the gods.100 The tears of John 11:35 introduce the emotions revealed in the narrative. Whilst usually associated with grief, here they are puzzling, given Jesus’s earlier statements that Lazarus has died (John 11:14), but that his illness leads not to death, but God’s glory (John 11:3).101 It would appear that Jesus recognises that death is in the air, but that this is no conventional death or occasion for visiting: something extraordinary, to God’s glory, will transpire. That said, a number of commentators consider that this is an outpouring of grief as Jesus enters into the situation of those around him, either the family or bystanders.102 However, it is not the only interpretation of ἐδάκρυσεν which is possible. Tears can signify a number of different emotions in addition to mourning:103 grief, shame, fear, embarrassment, anger, frustration,104 or joy.105 In the Bible, tears may indicate any of remorse (Lam 2:18–19), sympathy (Esth 8:3), grief (1 Sam 1:8, 10), or gratitude (Luke 7:38–50).They may precede joy (Ps 126; Jer 31:9). If the tears here are tears of grief, they potentially send a mixed message about Jesus to our Epicurean reader. They might indicate that he is acting in an unmanly way, or that he is experiencing some physical kinetic pleasure for his grief. However, his other actions and their associated vocabulary paint a different picture. Whilst English translations of ἐδάκρυσεν, only used here in the NT, lean towards sympathy for the grieving Mary, it is significant that her

100

See Chapter 5. Following Moloney, The Gospel, 331 and his proposal that grief for Lazarus has no place in the flow of this narrative section. 102 Stephen Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions in the Gospels (London: Continuum, 2011), 180–181. 103 For tears connected with mourning see, among others, Darja Šterbenc Erker, “Women’s Tears in Ancient Roman Ritual” in Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Thorsten Fögen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 135–160; Stefan Schorn, “Tears of the Bereaved: Plutarch’s Consolation ad uxorem in Context” in Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Thorsten Fögen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 335–366. 104 Ovid, Amores 1.14.51–52 point to tears as potentially indicating a number of these feelings in an ancient Roman context, see Duncan F. Kennedy, The Arts of Love: Five Studies in the Discourse of Roman Love Elegy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 76. 105 Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 11.1 indicates tears of joy, thus Donald Lateiner, “Tears in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses” in Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Thorsten Fögen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 277–295 at 287. For the textual difficulties of this verse, see Maaike Zimmerman, “Text and Interpretation~ Interpretation and Text” in Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass III: The Isis Book. A Collection of Original Papers, ed. W. Keulen and U. Egelhaaf-Gaiser (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 1–28 at 3–5. David Konstan, “Meleager’s Sweet Tears: Observations on Weeping and Pleasure” in Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Thorsten Fögen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 311–334 gives an overview of tears and joy across a number of periods and literary styles. 101

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tears, like those of other bystanders, are described using a different verb (κλαίουσαν, κλαίοντας –John 11:33)106 which may indicate a qualitative difference. Other vocabulary supports this: ἐνεβριµήσατο (John 11:33, 38) points rather to anger.107 Jesus may be frustrated at the “inchoate faith”,108 unbelief,109 or herzlosigkeit (heartlessness)110 of those around him, or alternatively, angered with death itself, given the proximity to the tomb (John 11:38).111 Anger, for Epicureans, became inescapable (ἀνέκφευκτος) under certain conditions, and could be associated with a reaction to false or right belief. Either scenario allows for anger of the type deemed acceptable. An apparently negative emotion indicates, if the Epicurean interprets tears as indicating emotion in the face of the truth, a right attitude to death.112 In this light, Jesus is either angry at the false views held by those around him, or he is angry at the fact of death. If the latter is the case, what follows will be a tourde-force: Jesus will be portrayed as not just having a right attitude to death, expressed in legitimate anger, but power over it, inasmuch as Lazarus will be raised from the dead. This power will, of course, be seen again in the resurrection. If ἐτάραξεν ἑαυτόν (John 11:33) gives any hint that Jesus has lost his bliss, the narrative shows that he has power over death. It should be noted that 11:33 is an active verb with a reflexive pronoun, whereas the other two are passives: does this matter? Stephen Voorwinde notes the tendency (not universal) in English to equate the three as synonymous, even though the active and reflexive construction of John 11:33 (ἐτάραξεν ἑαυτόν) is apparently unique in Greek biblical and related writing and is preserved in a number on nonEnglish translations.113 He notes that Beutler sees a precedent in the Psalms (Ps 41:6; LXX 42:5) in which the psalmist’s soul troubles the writer.114 This serves not so much to indicate self-mastery, but to reveal him as the righteous

106 Moloney, The Gospel, 331; Michael Theobald, Das Evangelium nach Johannes Kapitel 1–12 (Regensburger Neues Testament (Regensburg: Verlag Friedrich Pustet, 2009), 739. 107 Moloney, The Gospel, 330; Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions, 174. 108 Barrett, The Gospel, 401. 109 Udo Schnelle, Das Evangelium nach Johannes (Theologischer Handkommentar zum Neuen Testament 4. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1998), 191 on the failure to recognise Jesus as author and lord of life. 110 Theobald, Das Evangelium, 739. 111 James L. Resseguie, The Strange Gospel: Narrative Design and Point of View in John (Biblical Interpretation Series Vol. 56. Leiden: Brill, 2001), 90–91. 112 These themes will be pursued further in Chapter 4. 113 Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions, 177. 114 Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions, 178. Barrett, The Gospel, 399–400 cites a potential Aramaic grammatical precursor in Esther 4:4.

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sufferer,115 with the possibility that any sorrow might be part of his own trouble.116 From an Epicurean position the difference in voices is significant. Rather than the passive, which suggests Jesus is prey to external forces, the active and reflexive might present him as either (1) master of his own destiny,117 a common and recurring theme which would be viewed approvingly, or (2) as one who is able to overcome the conflict between the different component parts of his psyche. Such passages, not unlike the accounts of Epicurus dealing with illness and his own problems, serve to show the true strength of the sage, and, thus, the desirability of his example. This is not, however, the only potentially problematic instance of τάρασσω: a second appears in John 12:27 (νῦν ἡ ψυχή µου τετάρακται), and a third in John 13:21 (ἐταράχθη τῷ πνεύµατι). What of the other verses? John 12:27 reveals Jesus in a state of distress (νῦν ἡ ψυχή µου τετάρακται) which is caused by his being conflicted over the hour at which he finds himself. He wishes to be saved from it (σῶσόν µε ἐκ τῆς ὥρας ταύτης), but knows that it is the very reason for his being where he is (ἀλλὰ διὰ τοῦτο ἦλθον εἰς τὴν ὥραν ταύτην). However, it is not just the possibility of his own death which distresses him, so does the enormity of his task: the “conflict where he will be both the victim of death and the victor over his enemies”.118 If this is so, the narrative will ultimately show that the distress is short-lived, and the emotions felt are understandable given the stakes for which Jesus is playing. Underpinning all this, though, is the assurance of his victory.119 In John 13:21, the events which follow explain why Jesus may experience distress for reasons viewed as legitimate.120 The remarks which follow this description (Ἀµὴν ἀµὴν λέγω ὑµῖν ὅτι εἷς ἐξ ὑµῶν παραδώσει µε – John 13:21) indicate the betrayal about to take place as its source,121 though other factors are suggested: his passion,122 or even some Satanic presence.123 Our putative Epicurean reader may add a particular twist to the events. If Jesus speaks of a forthcoming betrayal, such an event indicates that he is in the presence of false belief; a belief manifest in the life of one of his intimate disciples, and legitimate grounds for feeling seemingly negative emotions. That he both continues to share his last meal with Judas (John 13:26), and 115

Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions, 179. Barrett, The Gospel, 399. 117 Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions, 178. 118 Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions, 185. 119 Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions, 185. 120 Though not universally, see Keener, The Gospel, 914–15, esp. 914 fn. 179. 121 Barrett, The Gospel, 445; Brant, John, 203; Bultmann, The Gospel, 481. 122 Moloney, The Gospel, 387. 123 Brown, The Gospel, 576; Brodie, The Gospel, 452; von Wahlde, The Gospel, 605. 116

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remains in control of his destiny without being swayed, as will be revealed both in the quality of the discourse which follows (John 14–17) and his subsequent “noble” death,124 shows that he has not let his emotions lead to undesirable or damaging consequences in either the immediate or the longer term. In a similar vein, the justifiable presence of other emotions does not diminish Jesus’s status. His feelings in the Temple (ὁ ζήλος – John 2:17) are better described as “red-hot passion”125 than the futile or empty anger criticised by the Epicureans: they are fuelled by a right belief about the Temple and what constitutes right worship, and vexation at its corruption. Here are grounds for justifiable anger in Epicurean terms from a Johannine standpoint: Jesus “reflects Yahweh’s zeal against false worship”.126 It further identifies him as properly human– and wise. The humanity of Jesus has long been a bone of contention. Much has been made of Docetism in the relation to the FG. The emotions revealed by Jesus are sometimes considered critical to a rebuttal of Docetic christologies, as they stress his humanity.127 However, these Docetic readings may well be anachronistic, appropriate to the Johannine epistles rather than the FG itself.128 It is not necessary to posit a response to Docetism. Indeed, Urban von Wahlde has suggested that the FG is concerned not so much with (anti)-Docetism, as with the relative values of the physical/material and the spiritual in pursuing the good life.129 Making the point that “Jesus’ humanity is rather presupposed

124

See Chapter 6 for the significance of Jesus’s death. Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions, 163–64, also noting the potential reading of this as a premonition of Jesus’s death. 126 Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions, 165. As will be seen in Chapter 5, false worship was a concern of Epicurean theology. 127 Bruner, The Gospel, 679–680 for this long-standing interpretation; Udo Schnelle, Antidocetic Christology in the Gospel of John, trans. Linda M. Moloney (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1992), 131. For a critique, see Maarten J.J. Menken, “The Christology of the Fourth Gospel: A Survey of Recent Research” in From Jesus to John: Essays on Jesus and New Testament Christology in Honour of Martin de Jonge, ed. Martinus C. de Boer (Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series 84. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), 292– 320 at 307–308. 128 Menken, “The Christology”, 309. 129 Urban C. von Wahlde, Gnosticism, Docetism, and the Judaisms of the First Century: The Search for the Wider Context of the Johannine Literature and Why It Matters (The Library of New Testament Studies Vol. 517. London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 82–101, see esp, 100. See also William Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel: Structure and Issues in Johannine Christology (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 2017), 456–457. It is a moot point whether the relationship of Docetism to the FG can be resolved, and beyond the scope of our concerns here. Whilst critical of von Wahlde and Thompson’s responses to Käsemann, Christina Petterson, From Tomb to Text: The Body of Jesus in the Book of John (London: Bloomsbury, 2017), 23–44 also makes clear the point identified here: that the FG’s approach to physicality is key. However, her conclusion that “Flesh is always already the production of spirit in 125

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from the beginning to the end of John’s gospel”130 can be done without any reference to Docetism. As Marianne Meye Thompson summarises: To be sure, emphasis on Jesus’ flesh constitutes an essential part of John’s polemic, but that polemic is directed not against those who deny the reality of the incarnation, but against those deny that one sees the activity and revelation of the one true God in Jesus’ life and death.131

However, we must note that the concerns of the Docetics would not have been those of the Epicureans. The FG’s positive evaluation of the flesh might well appeal to them given that their philosophy stressed the value of the “flesh”, that is the physical/material, and aimed at delivering it from suffering: For it is only in the “flesh”, which experiences pain and relief from pain, that our “self”– our soul– emerges and becomes apparent to itself and to others.132

However, the Epicureans, given that their cosmology stripped away “spiritual” elements and focused on the material, would not have sat easily with the value which the FG gives to both. Both traditions share, we might say, a wider concern, namely of evaluating the relative worth of the material and the spiritual, but their conclusions would be far from identical given their radically different cosmologies. Affinities with Epicureanism may further be found in the emotions which Jesus expresses. This is contrary to a number of interpretations, including the Docetic, which have found them problematic. This, however, may be based in part on the “misrepresentation” of the FG which “presents ‘Jesus as God going about on earth’, so gloriously divine that it scarcely makes sense to speak of the humanity of Jesus in John.”133 We may note, at this point, William Loader’s significant note regarding miracles performed by prophets or wonder-workers in relation to Jesus’s humanity or divinity: …the presence of such phenomena within the life of human beings in no way compromised their humanity. The difference between such figures and the Jesus of the Fourth Gospel is that Jesus is not pictured as one gifted with divine powers received on earth, but as a divine being acting in this way amongst men and women of the world with his own divine power…At the same time, the observation that miracles need not necessarily have been seen as compromising humanity leaves open the possibility that the author could in some way

John’s book of Jesus” (135) would show a radical difference from the Epicurean programme, with its lack of interest in matters spiritual. 130 Menken, “The Christology”, 309; Marianne Meye Thompson, The Humanity of Jesus in the Fourth Gospel (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress, 1988),7 uses “assumed”. 131 Thompson, The Humanity, 122. 132 Diano, cited in Hadot, What is Philosophy?, 11–15. 133 Thompson, The Humanity, 117, see also Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 12, 377.

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still hold that the Son who so worked was also human flesh and blood and did not compromise what he perceived as humanity.134

In short, it might profitably be asked whether a significant portion of the debate about what is appropriate to define Jesus’s humanity and/or divinity is not based on anachronistic distinctions between the two categories. Serious consideration of Loader’s remarks leaves the impression that much of this debate may read later theological concerns, for example, on the role, function and implications of miracle, into the interpretation of the FG and, in so doing, have divorced it from its environment. That said, emotions like fear or anger also seem to challenge the claims that seem to be made for Jesus as the epitome of some perfect humanity. This begs a number of questions about the nature and value of emotions, appearing to view them as somehow indicative of imperfection. It may even be a further anachronism. We might start by asking whether “perfect humanity” (however that might be construed) is, indeed, necessary, or even desirable. Some have included the extent of Jesus’s knowledge in their reflections on perfection. Thus Dale Allison, in remarks about his knowledge of the eschaton, has suggested that “an errant Jesus was a rather effective antidote to a piety that denies Jesus’ humanity”.135 He is not alone in rejecting perfectionist views of Jesus. John A.T. Robinson argues that “no sweeping historical claims are made for his perfection”,136 to the point that: There are incidents in all the gospels, not least in the fourth gospel (e.g., John ix. 16; x.20f.),..to suggest that both Jesus’ goodness and mental balance were far from that of the plaster saint or even of Aristotle’s perfectly rounded golden mean.137

The nub of this is that Jesus does not need to be portrayed as living a perfect life, ideal in every respect, and that to say as much need not detract from any christological claim.138 Such discussions appear to say that, if Jesus is to be assessed as perfect, this usually demands the comparison of his actions to some set of criteria. This begs

134

Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 379–380. Dale C. Allison, Resurrecting Jesus: The Earliest Christian Tradition and Its Interpreters (New York, NY and London: T&T Clark, 2005), 147. 136 John A.T. Robinson, “Need Jesus have been perfect?” in Christ, Faith and History: Cambridge Studies in Christology, ed. S.W. Sykes and J.P. Clayton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), 39–52 at 45. 137 Robinson, “Need Jesus?”, 46. 138 Robinson’s views are explored further in a critical companion essay by S.W. Sykes, “The Theology of the humanity of Christ” in Christ, Faith and History: Cambridge Studies in Christology, ed. S.W. Sykes and J.P. Clayton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), 53–71 and a concluding remark by J.A.T. Robinson, “A Reply to Mr. Sykes” in Christ, Faith and History: Cambridge Studies in Christology, ed. S.W. Sykes and J.P. Clayton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), 73–75. 135

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the question: what are the criteria which shape a perfect life? Who sets them? What are the presuppositions by which perfection, and thus Jesus, is measured? However, another approach is possible, one in which Jesus is not measured by external criteria or ethical theory, but rather is himself the criterion of perfection. There is no other scale by which he might be measured. Here the views of the Epicureans have some bearing, inasmuch as they posit an exemplary function in the person of Epicurus or the sage rather than a set of external criteria by which the sage is measured. This does not seem too far removed from a process which would say that the perfect life is exemplified in Jesus. Given that Epicurus, who is the exemplar of the tradition that bears his name, was not, as we have seen, immune to loss of ataractic bliss, it is possible to argue that the mark of the sage was marked not by a fully perfected and uninterrupted state of bliss or some “perfect humanity”, but rather by the ability to recover bliss in the face of adversity. Thus, the Epicurean stance does not demand “perfection”, but rather triumph over adversity. For this perspective, looking for an emotionally perfect Jesus is misguided: what matters is his triumph over adversity. In his triumph over death, in Easter and the resurrection, the perfect life is exemplified in Jesus. From this perspective, emotion is not an indicator of weakness, failure or imperfection; its temporary effects serve only to underscore the true humanity of Jesus. He is visibly emotional, but not controlled by his emotions. If Epicurus is a laudable role-model for his ability to overcome the sources of ἀπονία and ἀταραξία, so too is Jesus. As von Wahlde writes of Jesus’s death: Here is evidence of a human dread of what is about to happen but also the restatement of the resolution that this was an essential part of the ‘work’ given to him by the Father.139

Our Epicurean reader might not have seen Jesus’s emotional “lapses” as an obstacle to his claim as a sage, but rather a reinforcement of that role, just as they viewed Epicurus’s resolution in the face of illness. Put bluntly, Jesus is not too good to be true, and his emotions are no impediment to him functioning as the exemplar of right living. In a similar vein, the discussion about perfection must engage with the other Epicurean telos, ἀπονία. The fact that Epicurus suffered from physical illness and pain during his life did not negate his value to the school. The FG does not use the term to describe Jesus’s physical suffering: any parallels or resonances will be thematic rather than philological. Again, it must be stressed that there is no discussion of katastematic or kinetic pleasure in relation to the depiction of physical suffering within the FG. However, the Passion narrative does make it clear that Jesus suffered physically. Scholars, whether holding that the text is anti-Docetic or not, have noted that the details of suffering given stress the reality of his physical suffering or agony. 139

Von Wahlde, Gnosticism, 85.

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Like Epicurus, Jesus is not able to escape suffering, but to transcend it. This occurs in two ways. The first occurs in his handling of suffering, which it does not lead to negative behaviour, but rather to a noble response. There is no anger against his persecutors, and he maintains a care for his friends and loved ones, even in his pain (John 19: 26–27). As the Passion of Jesus is intimately linked to his resurrection, and the claims made therein, part of any such discussion would be best held over to the exploration of death, noting that the beliefs revealed in that discussion.140 Again the depiction of physical suffering in the FG does not distance Jesus from any claim to be an exemplar. Concerns about physical suffering and its alleviation also arise in Jesus’s signs, specifically the healings (John 4:46–54; 5: 1–9; 9:1–12). At the most basic level this might resonate with the Epicurean concern with ἀπονία, but this term is conspicuously absent. However interpreted, these make a claim about his ability to relieve the suffering of others. How an Epicurean reacts to these may vary. It would be hard to see them as acts revealing divine intervention, given their theological position.141 Whether they might be seen as evidence for healing in any other form would depend on the incidental details, and whether these might be explicable as events involving natural rather than supernatural therapies. Even the identification of the healings as natural therapies, would indicate a difference from the Epicurean programme with its strong focus on knowledge as therapeutic. The FG material indicates that it is Jesus, as a focus of faith, who performs the therapeutic task, and this is, as will be seen below, indicative of a different epistemology and soteriology.142 This then leads to an insurmountable difference between the claims of school and FG: Jesus, not Epicurus, is the focus. The presentation of Jesus as a “righteous sufferer” might thus be well suited to his presentation as a contender for the throne of Epicurus as Saviour, again qualitatively different from him.143 A degree of similarity is also clearly seen in the double injunction to the disciples not to let their hearts be disturbed (John 14:1): Jesus offers them teaching which gives them right belief, just as Epicurus had to his followers, even if focussed on himself rather than a body of teaching. This, in turn, will give them the resources to resist disturbance and stress. The theme continues in the Farewell Discourses, when he explicitly warns the disciples that they too will experience negative emotions: indeed, they already experience grief (λύπη – John 16:6) because of their impending separation from him. Jesus identifies antidotes to this and suggests that its passing is temporary in language reminiscent of the Epicurean pattern. He tells them a truth (ἀλήθειαν – John 16:7), namely, that such grief is a precursor to presence of the Paraclete (ὁ 140

See Chapter 4. See Chapter 5. 142 See Chapter 7. 143 See Chapter 6. 141

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παράκλητος – Jn 16:7), which will surely more than compensate for that temporary feeling. Real grief is there, but is only temporary and will be replaced by a more positive force. This promise includes the guaranteed presence of the Paraclete, well described as “the advocate of Christ among human beings”144 who will be a constant force for all that is positive in the life and experience of the disciples. The grief which they will experience is a result of a failure to understand what is happening. If John 14:28 (εἰ ἠγαπᾶτέ µε ἐχάρητε ἄν, ⸀ὅτι πορεύοµαι πρὸς τὸν πατέρα, ὅτι ὁ ⸀πατὴρ µείζων µού ἐστιν) is flipped, this failure to love, which includes a failure of knowing or recognising the realities revealed by Jesus, is occasioned by defective thinking: a classic Epicurean perspective. Later, in John 16:20, Jesus advises that this transitory grief will be replaced by joy (ἀµὴν ἀµὴν λέγω ὑµῖν ὅτι κλαύσετε καὶ θρηνήσετε ὑµεῖς, ὁ δὲ κόσµος χαρήσεται· ⸀ὑµεῖς λυπηθήσεσθε, ἀλλʼ ἡ λύπη ὑµῶν εἰς χαρὰν γενήσεται): Jesus’s departure appears to be a source of anguish. But what of the joy indicated by χαρά? Whilst some would consider it linked to ἀταραξία,145 others see grief and joy mere accidents to the Epicurean,146 a claim which needs to be balanced by reflecting that kinetic pleasure is preferable to pain, and is clearly identified as such, even if it fails to match the quality of either ἀταραξία or ἀπονία. Of crucial significance is the Epicurean designation of χαρά as a kinetic, rather than a katastematic, pleasure.147 The complete absence of vocabulary associated with ἀταραξία in John 16 suggests caution, especially given its prominence in John 14. Any attempt to identify χαρά as ἀταραξία would be more speculative than is desirable. However, even if an identification of χαρά with ἀταραξία is impossible to sustain, the fact that, for the Epicurean, kinetic pleasures may cancel out negative pains does have a bearing. The sentiments expressed in John 16:20, even if they do not pertain to ἀταραξία, find some resonance with Epicurean teaching about kinetic pleasures: χαρά may cancel out grief, just as it could, for Epicurus, compensate for the pain of his final illness.148 Even if technical terms are not used, the narrative may be read as making this point. Narrative, not jargon or a technical discussion, also serves to describe and downplay the grief which the apostles feel: it becomes a temporary, perhaps even a kinetic, state and should not be confused with any absence of ἀταραξία. 144 Hans Weder, “Deus Incarnatus: On the Hermeneutics of Christology in the Johannine Writings” in Exploring the Gospel of John: In Honor of D. Moody Smith, ed. R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996), 327– 345 at 339. 145 Dominic Rudman, Determinism in the Book of Ecclesiastes (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 316. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 28. 146 Robert J. Roecklein, Machiavelli and Epicureanism: An Investigation into the Origins of Early Modern Political Thought (Lanham, MD: Lexington, 2012), 98. 147 Tim O’Keefe, Epicureanism (Abingdon: Routledge, 2010), 120. 148 DL 10.22.

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It is revealed as an illusory emotional state. Such feelings or experiences should not be identified as a loss of ἀταραξία: Jesus’s teaching reveals their transitory nature and is an antidote to them. The subsequent narrative will confirm this: the promise of John 16:20 will be realised in John 20:20. There may be controversy over the exact moment at which the Paraclete appears, with a potential imparting of the Spirit given at the crucifixion (παρέδωκεν τὸ πνεῦµα – John 19:30),149 as well as the gifting of the Spirit to the disciples by the risen Jesus (ἐνεφύσησεν καὶ λέγει αὐτοῖς∙ Λάβετε πνεῦµα ἅγιον∙ – John 20:22).150 However, there is no doubt that this gifting of the Spirit to the apostles, in which they are described as rejoicing (ἐχάρησαν – John 20:20), marks the end of their grief.151 It may have further implications. It may limit the occasion of grief to the period between Jesus’s warning of his departure (John 16:7) and his gifting of the Spirit to the disciples (John 20:20). It may suggest that those who believe in Jesus after this period will not experience the grief of Jesus’s absence. This is so because they receive another Paraclete (ἄλλον παράκλητον – John 14:16), whose presence is synonymous with that of Jesus himself. 152 The Spirit sent not just by the Father (ὁ δὲ παράκλητος, τὸ πνεῦµα τὸ ἅγιον ὃ πέµψει ὁ πατὴρ ἐν τῷ ὀνόµατί µου – John 14:26), but also by Jesus (ὅταν ἔλθῃ ὁ παράκλητος ὃν ἐγὼ πέµψω ὑµῖν παρὰ τοῦ πατρός, τὸ πνεῦµα τῆς ἀληθείας ὃ παρὰ τοῦ πατρὸς ἐκπορεύεται – John 15:26).153 This process has two parts. First is the promise that disciples will get what they want (John 14:13–14). This needs qualification: the anything they ask for cannot be contrary to the nature or values held by God and is never an open invitation to complete licence.154 The second is the gifting of the Paraclete, who shares the values of Jesus, as indicated by its description as ἄλλον (John 14:16). This Paraclete stays with the disciples (John 14:17) and teaches them all that is needed to gain the promises of Jesus (John 14:26; 15:26). All of this, as will be seen in the next chapter, implies a very different theology from that of the Epicureans, who knew nothing of such a Spirit or its actions, preferring instead αὐτάρκεια (self-sufficiency). Three claims arise from this reading: first that λύπη at the perceived absence of Jesus is (1) akin to kinetic pain, though not described as such, and thus peripheral to ἀταραξία, which indicates some qualitatively superior condition, is (2) restricted to a distinctive period of time, and, ultimately (3) is an irrelevance for the right-thinking believer. Jesus’s own life bears this out: the

149 Mary Coloe, God Dwells with Us: Temple Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2001), 189; Keener, The Gospel, 1148–1149. 150 Keener, The Gospel, 1204–1205. 151 Brodie, The Gospel, 568. 152 Brant, John, 272; Keener, The Gospel, 972. 153 Brant, John, 229; Schnackenburg, The Gospel 3, 118; von Wahlde, The Gospel, 686. 154 Brant, John, 214; Keener, The Gospel, 950.

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emotional upsets of his earthly life are temporary, and there is no place for them after his resurrection, which contains no vocabulary indicating such states. The FG’s Jesus may be read as a potential source of ἀταραξία. However, any compatibility with Epicurean values comes from narrative details rather than a shared vocabulary or worldview: the FG never uses the language of Epicurean hedonism to describe the benefits of faith in Jesus, beyond ταράσσω, λύπη, and χαρά. However, there are very general terms: the more technical language of the school is absent. There are, however, thematic resonances. Like the autonomous Epicurean sage, Jesus is not governed by necessity, and ultimately is not even controlled by the vagaries of τύχη, nor considered a failure because of temporary or minor upsets, or his emotions. Nor is he the victim of fate or ἀνάγκη. A recurring theme in the FG is that Jesus chooses the path he will follow by putting into practice love through obedience, understood as doing the Father’s will out of love even to the point of death.155 He is not constrained by any external force, necessity, or human agents. The FG has no truck with any theological speculation which will make Jesus the pawn of exterior forces, with no choice but to head to his death in Jerusalem: a puppet dancing to the tune of others. The repetition of statements about Jesus’s hour or time (ἡ ὥρα – John 2:4, 7:30; 8:21; 12:27; 13:1; 17:1) stress this point,156 though it is wise to heed Orchard’s comment that Jesus is “not about exerting authority, but about bearing witness to the truth”.157 The remarks of John 10:18, that he lays down his own life (οὐδεὶς αἴρει αὐτὴν ἀπʼ ἐµοῦ, ἀλλʼ ἐγὼ τίθηµι αὐτὴν ἀπʼ ἐµαυτοῦ. ἐξουσίαν ἔχω θεῖναι αὐτήν, καὶ ἐξουσίαν ἔχω πάλιν λαβεῖν αὐτήν·),158 serve a similar purpose. Such statements indicate a plan which is coming to completion, a purpose that is approaching resolution. Within this, any control held over Jesus, except by the Father to whom he is obedient, exists because it has been gifted to that person: Judas Iscariot and Pilate are two examples. The dialogues make it clear that they only have authority over Jesus

155 The theme of obedience is highly developed in Karl Barth’s Christology, see Bruner, The Gospel, 332–34. 156 Andreas Köstenberger, Encountering John: The Gospel in Historical, Literary, and Theological Perspective (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2002), 76; Lindars, The Gospel, 535. 157 Helen Orchard, Courting Betrayal: Jesus as Victim in the Gospel of John (Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series 161. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 192–95, quote from 195. Her remarks revisit, from a different perspective, the question of Jesus’s humanity, seen in relation to his emotions. Comparison of Jesus to philosophical figures gives an alternative or corrective to purely political treatments of themes like kingship and authority. 158 Brant, John, 162; Keener, The Gospel, 819–20.

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because it has been given to them (John 13:27–28;159 19:10).160 The plan does not include some grinding necessity, either. It is rooted in the freedom generated by the relationship between the Father and the Son: love, not constraint nor necessity, marks Jesus’s obedience, best identified as “voluntary”.161 Such a view of Jesus and his work is obviously very different from an Epicurean scenario in which there would be no such discernible purpose or plan, given the random nature of the clinamen and the world: ἡ ὥρα and all that it entails indicates a radically different understanding of the world. The positive stress on Jesus’s humanity, the realistic portrayal of his emotions, strength, and freedom in the face of the reality of death all underscore his potential identification as a sage. Jesus’s mission has, as Frank Moloney has recently shown, a strong teleology, which embraces both completion (in the sense of resolution or coming to an end) and perfection.162 His example and teaching reveal the proper way to live to his disciples. Not only that, he somehow transmits these gifts to his disciples through both his own death, and the subsequent gift of the Paraclete. For the Epicurean, the perfection of the individual demands an understanding of how to live which is not a cause of disturbance: this is not negotiable. All that is needed is the right knowledge which has been imparted by Epicurus and his followers. An analogous claim is made about Jesus. The means to a right way of living includes not only his words and his actions, but also the means to achieve this; his continued presence which is linked to that of the Paraclete, who, in turn, passes it on to his disciples.

C. Summary of Findings Ἀταραξία and its associated vocabulary provide an intriguing introit to the possible similarity between Epicureanism and the FG. However, differences in vocabulary soon reveal significant differences in content and detail. Epicureanism sets out a technical discussion of the nature of pleasure and its acquisition. Two terms are significant: ἀταραξία and ἀπονία. While the first of these terms is found in the FG, the second is conspicuous by its absence. In fact, appears to be wholly absent from the writings of the New Testament. In itself, this indicates a divergence between the two traditions. The Epicurean treatment of ἀταραξία includes a number of desirable and undesirable emotions and states, such as anger and tears. When these emotions 159

Keener, The Gospel, 919. Brant, John, 202, 248; Moloney, The Gospel, 496. 161 Bruner, The Gospel, 626. 162 Francis J. Moloney, Love in the Gospel of John (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2013), 154, 157–60. 160

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appear within the FG, they set out, in a number of respects, a depiction of Jesus which conforms well to Epicurean treatments of the emotions: it is possible to read the FG’s Jesus as exhibiting some characteristics of an Epicurean sage. However, the conceptuality of the FG, which includes phraseology like ζωὴ αἰώνιος and the associated implications of both natural and supernatural elements indicates a different metaphysics from the purely materialistic Epicurean programme. Even more obviously, there is a major disagreement in the focal point of the two traditions: Epicurus for the Epicureans, Jesus for the FG. Thus far, the research indicates that the sharing of vocabulary does not constitute grounds for similarity. So, if we can claim potentially that Jesus may be read as initiating an ataractic programme, albeit different in tone and method from that offered by Epicurus, it is worth exercising equal same rigour in respect of the other phenomena related to ἀταραξία and its acquisition. Epicurus claimed to offer this by revealing the reality of death, a right understanding of which was vital to a right way of living. It is, then, worth comparing the two accounts of death offered by the different traditions, and to ask how they might both diminish fear of death. Later, attention will turn to the nature of god(s), the other primary cause of psychic disturbance according to Epicurus, but one whose importance has already been noted in the description of Jesus’s programme.

Chapter 4

Death: Something or Nothing? Death was considered a major topic of concern in the Epicurean agenda. Its place in the tetrapharmakos marks it as one of the key issues to be addressed in the pursuit of ἀταραξία. Death is also a pivotal element of the FG: the death of the founder has great implications for those who accept its teachings. So, this chapter addresses the simple question: how did the two traditions understand death, and what significance did they place on it?

A. Death in Epicureanism A central text which underpins Epicurus’ own view of death is preserved in the Letter to Menoeceus 124b–125: Συνέθιζε δὲ ἐν τῷ νοµίζειν µηδὲν πρὸς ἡµᾶς εἶναι τὸν θάνατον∙ ἐπεὶ πᾶν ἀγαθὸν καὶ κακὸν ἐν αἰσθήσει στέρησις δέ ἐστιν αἰσθήσεως ὁ θάνατος. ὅθεν γνῶσις ὀρθὴ τοῦ µηθὲν εἶναι πρὸς ἡµᾶς τὸν θάνατον ἀπολαυστὸν ποιεῖ τὸ τῆς ζωῆς θνητόν, οὐκ ἄπειρον προστιθεῖσα χρόνον, ἀλλὰ τὸν τῆς ἀθανασίας ἀφελοµένη πόθον. [125] οὐθὲν γάρ ἐστιν ἐν τῷ ζῆν δεινὸν τῷ κατειληφότι γνησίως τὸ µηδὲν ὑπάρχειν ἐν τῷ µὴ ζῆν δεινόν∙ ὥστε µάταιος ὁ λέγων δεδιέναι τὸν θάνατον οὐχ ὅτι λυπήσει παρών, ἀλλ᾽ ὅτι λυπεῖ µέλλων. ὃ γὰρ παρὸν οὐκ ἐνοχλεῖ, προσδοκώµενον κενῶς λυπεῖ. τὸ φρικωδέστατον οὖν τῶν κακῶν ὁ θάνατος οὐθὲν πρὸς ἡµᾶς, ἐπειδήπερ ὅταν µὲν ἡµεῖς ὦµεν, ὁ θάνατος οὐ πάρεστιν∙ ὅταν δ᾽ ὁ θάνατος παρῇ, τόθ᾽ ἡµεῖς οὐκ ἐσµέν. οὔτε οὖν πρὸς τοὺς ζῶντάς ἐστιν οὔτε πρὸς τοὺς τετελευτηκότας, ἐπειδήπερ περὶ οὓς µὲν οὐκ ἔστιν, οἱ δ᾽ οὐκέτι εἰσίν. ἀλλ᾽ οἱ πολλοὶ τὸν θάνατον ὁτὲ µὲν ὡς µέγιστον τῶν κακῶν φεύγουσιν, ὁτὲ δὲ ὡς ἀνάπαυσιν τῶν ἐν τῷ ζῆν Get yourself used to the belief that death does not matter to us, since all good and evil lie in feeling, and feeling ends at death. Therefore, the right belief that death is nothing to us makes mortal life happy, not by adding infinity to it, but by removing the desire for immortality. For there is no reason why the man who is thoroughly convinced that death offers nothing fearful should find anything fearful in life. Furthermore, only a fool says that he fears death, not because it will actually be painful when it comes, but because he thinks it will be painful; for something which really is not painful should give not fear when anticipated. Death, the most feared of evils, is therefore irrelevant to us; for while we live, there is no death, and

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when death comes, we no longer live. Death is therefore nothing either to the living or the dead since the living do not experience death, and the dead no longer live.1

This contains two distinct ideas: a Hedonist argument (that death cannot be experienced, and is, therefore, neither beneficial nor harmful), and a Timing argument (that when we exist there is no death, and when death “exists”, we do not, and thus the two states are mutually exclusive). Again, the argument is linked to Epicurean physics: the lack of sensation is related to the relationship between body and soul. DL 10.65 contains a number of assertions about the relationship of body and soul: ∆ιὸ δὴ καὶ ἐνυπάρχουσα ἡ ψυχὴ οὐδέποτε ἄλλου τινὸς µέρους ἀπηλλαγµένου ἀναισθητεῖ∙ ἀλλὰ ἂν καὶ ταύτης ξυναπόληται τοῦ στεγάζοντος λυθέντος εἴθ᾽ ὅλου εἴτε καὶ µέρους τινός, ἐάνπερ διαµένῃ, ἕξει τὴν αἴσθησιν. τὸ δὲ λοιπὸν ἄθροισµα διαµένον καὶ ὅλον καὶ κατὰ µέρος οὐκ ἔχει τὴν αἴσθησιν ἐκείνου ἀπηλλαγµένου, ὅσον ποτέ ἐστι τὸ συντεῖνον τῶν ἀτόµων πλῆθος εἰς τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς φύσιν. καὶ µὴν καὶ λυοµένου τοῦ ὅλου ἀθροίσµατος ἡ ψυχὴ διασπείρεται καὶ οὐκέτι ἔχει τὰς αὐτὰς δυνάµεις οὐδὲ κινεῖται, ὥστε οὐδ᾽ αἴσθησιν κέκτηται. Therefore, while the soul is in the body, it never loses feeling, even when some part is removed. While the form of the body may be dislocated either totally or partially, and portions of the soul may then perish, the soul, as long as it continues to exist, will still have feeling. But the rest of the body, whether it survives as a whole or in part, will no longer experience feeling, after those atoms, even if they are few, which constitute the soul are dissipated. Moreover, when the whole construct is broken up, the soul is dissipated and has no longer the same powers or impulses which it had before – and so it no longer experiences feelings either.2

And, in KD 2: Ὁ θάνατος οὐδὲν πρὸς ἡµᾶς∙ τὸ γὰρ διαλυθὲν ἀναισθητεῖ∙ τὸ δ᾽ ἀναισθητοῦν οὐδὲν πρὸς ἡµᾶς. Death is nothing to us; for what has been scattered experiences no sensation. What cannot be sensed is nothing to us.3

The practical consequence is the same regardless of the metaphysical niceties: death brings an absence of sensation, and death, since it involves no perception, is nothing.4 This gives Epicureanism a strongly this-worldly flavour. Lucretius, amongst other things, added a Symmetry argument (that time before we are born is nothing to us, and, therefore, neither is time after we die)

1

DL 10.124b–125. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 806–807. Translation mine. DL 10.65, text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 772. Translation mine. 3 KD 2; DL 10.139. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 815. Translation mine. 4 Sanders, “Philodemus”, 215–216. 2

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to his master’s view.5 This presumably engages with other philosophical systems which embraced metaphysical doctrines about the pre-existence of the soul and its post-mortem continuance. At best, the material from which humans originate lies in celestial seeds6 which are returned to a “primordial store” at the time of death: semina saepe in eodem, ut nunc sunt, ordine posta haec eadem, quibus e nunc nos sumus, ante fuisse. Often those same seeds, which exist today, And from which we now exist, Are set in the same order as they were before.7

These remarks from DRN 3 are part of Lucretius’ longer reflections on death.8 The material nature of existence is well to the fore, placing views of death firmly within a materialist cosmology. It starts with the observation that the body decays at death (Lucretius, DRN 3.580–591; 3.719–721; 3.857–858). But what if there is a soul as well as a body? Materialism again provides the answer: the soul is material, and, since it cannot exist outside the body, is also prone to decay: illud enim falsa fertur ratione, quod aiunt inmortalem animam mutato corpore flecti; quod mutatur enim, dissoluitur, interit ergo. traiciuntur enim partes atque ordine migrant; quare dissolui quoque debent posse per artus, denique ut intereant una cum corpore cunctae. It is false thinking when people say that An immortal soul is changed by a mortal body: What is changed, is scattered, and then dies. The parts are torn apart and change their order: Thus they must be able to be scattered through the body, And they all perish along with the one body. 9

There is no component part of a human being, however constituted or described, that is able to exist through and beyond the dissolution and decay of 5 Stephen Rosenbaum, “The Symmetry Argument: Lucretius against the Fear of Death”, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 1 (1989), 353–373; Warren, Facing Death, 57– 104. 6 Tomlin, “Christians and Epicureans”, 62. 7 Lucretius, DRN 3.857–858. Text from E.J. Kenney, Lucretius: De Rerum Natura, Book III (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), 65; translation mine. See also Tomlin, “Christians and Epicureans”, 55. 8 Charles E. Segal, Lucretius on Death and Anxiety (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2014), ix notes that death is a major theme of every book in the DRN. Much scholarship has focussed on the philosophical arguments found in Book 3. 9 Lucretius, DRN 3.754–759. Text from Kenney, Lucretius, 61. Translation mine.

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death. Between Epicurus and Lucretius, there is neither room for the immaterial speculations about the soul such as those of Aristotle and Plato,10 nor the claims of immortality found within Pythagoreanism. This programme demands a demthyologising, in which popular beliefs about what happens after death also become groundless. In part of a long section which mocks the torments classically associated with posthumous existence (among them Tantalus, Tityus, and Sisyphus), Lucretius rules out the possibility of rewards or punishment after death (DRN 3.978–1023). The Epicurean view or understanding of such ideas is that they are no longer potential or concrete realities, but baseless fears and stories. Others took a more therapeutic approach. Philodemus, On Death (Mort.),11 gives a significant depiction of Epicurean views of death, approaching the theme from this perspective. His arguments reduce the impact of factors which might prompt such fears – the circumstances of death, particularly those which are viewed as particularly shameful or grim.12 Thus he argues that a premature death is no loss for those who have attained wisdom, but equally a long life is no benefit for the foolish (Col. XIX), that the dead cannot perceive the gloating of their enemies (XX.1–14), that childlessness is not be regretted (XXIV.31), and that neither death in a foreign land (XXV.37–XXVI.11, XXVII.8–15), nor in an ignominious fashion really matter (XXVIII–XXIX), nor does a humble funeral (XXX), nor death at sea (XXXII).13 He further pours scorn on the conceit that suicide was a valid means to escape suffering, an argument aimed pointedly at the Stoics, who held the opposite view (XXXV.25–34), 14 and the notion that one will not be remembered (XXXV.34–XXXVI.27).15 Critical to his discourse is the recognition of natural and unavoidable emotions, which will ultimately find resolution in the recognition of the “lack of all sensation for good or evil in death”, already familiar from early Epicurean writing,16 and the passing nature of life.17 The Epicurean position is, of course, open to criticism. In cosmological terms, any rejection of its materialist basis would entail a rejection of its concomitant view of death. It is also subject to critique on ethical grounds. First, its claims could be rejected because pleasure and pain are not considered the only sources of benefit or harm: hedonism might be replaced by an alternative

10

Tomlin, “Christians and Epicureans”, 62. For full text and translation, see W. Benjamin Henry, Philodemus, On Death (Writings from the Greco-Roman World, No. 29. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009). 12 Armstrong, “Philodemus”, 28. 13 Armstrong, “Philodemus”, 29–32; Henry, Philodemus, xix–xxii. 14 Armstrong, “Philodemus”, 32–33. 15 Armstrong, “Philodemus”, 33–34. 16 Armstrong, “Philodemus”, 32; Henry, Philodemus, xvii. 17 Armstrong, “Philodemus”, 34–37. 11

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theory, like desire-fulfilment.18 Even alternative workings of hedonism may undermine the Epicurean project. Thus, deprivation accounts which show that “death is harmful to the extent that a person would have been better off if she had not died when she did” undermine Epicurean claims that death is nothing or neutral.19 Nevertheless, for Epicureans, the fear of death could be cancelled out by a proper reflection on finitude and the lack of sensation: right knowing was the antidote to a wrong attitude to death.

B. Death in the FG The FG takes a very different view of death from Epicureanism. At no point does it enter into a complex cosmological debate with Epicurean thinking. It starts from a completely different set of premises. It is a view which is based not on cosmological reflection or materialist speculation, but on the claim that God in Jesus has power over death. This challenges the Epicurean claim: if God can circumvent the finality of death, the claim that death is nothing has been destroyed. At a most basic level in physiology, the FG agrees with the Epicureans that death is an intrinsic feature of human life. After that they soon part company. As Jaime Clark-Soles puts the position of the FG: “Humans beings start in death and are given the opportunity to transfer to life”.20 No such transfer is possible in Epicureanism. Furthermore, in the FG, death may signify either of a physical death which is inevitable for all, or spiritual death, which believers may avoid.21 Against the view that physical death is final, the FG places both the raising of Lazarus, and the resurrection of Jesus. There is no ethical convergence, either. For the FG actually considers, contrary to the Epicurean view that death is nothing, that it may even be desirable, if it is part of doing the Father’s will. The FG shows the reality of physical death in a number of episodes. In John 8, a notorious polemical passage, the reality of death is shown: even the great figures of faith, like Abraham, have died (John 8:53). In attempting to prove to Jesus that he is susceptible to death, his opponents show that all people are.22 John 21 shows that even faithful disciples of Jesus live with this reality: John 21:15–19 reminds the FG’s readers that Peter was martyred and did not escape

18

Christopher Wareham, “Deprivation and the See-saw of Death”, South African Journal of Philosophy 28/2 (2009), 246–256 at 247. 19 Wareham, “Deprivation”, 255. 20 Clark-Soles, “I Will Raise”, 42. 21 Clark-Soles, “I Will Raise”, 42. 22 Brant, John, 147.

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death,23 John 21:20–24 scotches the rumour that the Beloved Disciple would somehow escape death.24 In the Lazarus narrative, Jesus’ prediction of Lazarus’ death (John 11:13), the presence of mourners (John 11:19, 33), Martha’s comment (John 11:22), Mary’s words and tears (John 11:32–33) and the criticism by the mourners (John 11:37) all stress the reality of his physical death. Jesus’ emotional, if not violent, response stresses the seriousness with which he takes their failure to comprehend this same reality.25 Martha’s warning at the tomb (ἤδη ὄζει – John 11:39) shows the reality of death as decay; the very same point stressed by Lucretius (taetro…odore – DRN 3:581). Yet the raised Lazarus is not described as decayed: this is no zombie trailing decayed flesh and tattered bandages. The account assumes the resumption of his previous form of life, free from decay and corruption. Similar concerns (that is, the reality of death) feature in the Passion and Resurrection. Yet this cannot simply be assumed, given the question: Is Jesus’ death so radically interpreted that it has ceased to become the real death of a real human being, and become instead the means by which this “stranger from heaven” escapes the confines of this alien world?26

The significance of death is anticipated by three passages which precede the passion narrative: the Good Shepherd (John 10:1–18), the grain of wheat (John 12:20–36), and the foot washing (John 13:1–20).27 All three stress the role of death as significant in Jesus’ mission. The Passion further contains details which re-inforce the reality of Jesus’ death: the soldiers’ discovery on Golgotha that he had already died (ἤδη αὐτὸν⸃ τεθνηκότα – John 19:33), the piercing (John 19:34), the water and the blood (John 19:35), the eye-witness testimony (John 19:35), the approval by Pilate that Jesus’ body be released for burial (John 19: 38), and the preparation and laying of the corpse in the tomb by Nicodemus (John 19:39–42). This last point is a variation on the Synoptic accounts which suggest that the body had been entombed without anointing (Mark 16:1; Luke 24:1). Παρέδωκεν τὸ πνεῦµα (gave up his spirit – John 19:30) is less clear: it may refer to Jesus’ death, which is a meaning found in the related phraseology of the Synoptics

23

Keener, The Gospel, 1237–38; Schnackenburg, The Gospel, Vol. 3, 482, fn. 76. Brant, John, 286; Keener, The Gospel, 1238–39. This holds good even if the Beloved Disciple is identified with Lazarus (Malina and Rohrbaugh, Social Science, 290). 25 See Chapter 3. 26 Thompson, The Humanity, 88. 27 Thompson, The Humanity, 92–105. 24

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(Matt 27:50; Mark 15:37; Luke 23:46), but would also suggest his passing on of the Spirit,28 and thus, perhaps, encompass both.29 The Resurrection narratives stress again the reality of death through the tomb, but challenge, like the Lazarus story, the view that death is decay or dissolution. The Risen Lord is initially confused with an ordinary person; the gardener (John 20:15), not a mutilated corpse. The FG’s claim that death is desirable is based on its ethos: death is desirable inasmuch as it is a consequence of obedience to the Father. As such it is an underlying theme which is present implicitly when Jesus speaks of obedience or predicts his own fate. Vital to the FG’s understanding is the idea that Jesus is not the passive victim of necessity, but is in control of events and chooses to follow the way of obedience even to death.30 The “grain of wheat” (John 12:24– 26) mashal, which serves to comment on the events of the narrative, re-iterates this. 31 Death is desirable because of its associated behaviour (love – John 3:16) and its consequences: ζωὴ αἰώνιος (e.g. John 3:16, 15:25)32 and the glorifying of God seen in the raising of Jesus.33 The fact of Jesus’ Resurrection means that the FG necessarily must turn to something redundant within the Epicurean worldview: spiritual death. Given that Epicureans viewed death as nothing, and post-mortem existence as an impossibility or irrelevance, they had no reason to define any such mode of existence. Once, as the FG has done, the reality of life after death is claimed, the

28

Coloe, God Dwells with Us, 189. Stephen D. Moore, “Are There Impurities in the Living Water that the Johannine Jesus Dispenses? Deconstruction, Feminism and the Samaritan Woman”, Biblical Interpretation 1/2 (1993), 207–27 at 219–20 notes not just the motif of water, but also of thirst, as significant at this point; Jesus’ thirst as he dies will satisfy the spiritual thirst of believers, proleptically described in John 4 and 7. 29 The phrase may carry two meanings: death, or the passing on of the Spirit – Brown, The Gospel 2, 931; Keener, The Gospel, 1149; Moloney, The Gospel, 508–09. 30 Fergus J. King, “‘Deep Change or Slow Death’: Johannine Critique and Ignatian Resolution”, Compass 47 (2013), 22–29 at 25. 31 John Drury, The Parables in the Gospels (London: SPCK, 1985), 8–20; David M. Stanley, “I Encountered God”: The Spiritual Exercises with the Gospel of Saint John, 2nd ed. (St Louis, MO: Institute of Jesuit Resources, 1986), 183. It also is an an example of παρρησία, see further in Chapter 7. 32 Brown, The Gospel, 475. The term appears fifty-six times in the FG; J.G. van der Watt, “The Use of Αἰωνιος in the Concept Ζωη Αἰωνιος in John’s Gospel”, Novum Testamentum 31/3 (1989), 217–28 at 217; Georg Strecker, The Johannine Epistles, trans. Linda Moloney and ed. Harold Attridge (Hermeneia. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1996), 16. Within this overall view, different usages may serve particular functions. Thus, Adesola Joan Akala, The Father-Son Relationship and Christological Symbolism in the Gospel of John (Library of New Testament Studies Vol. 505. London: T&T Clark, 2014), 180 considers John 17:3 ἡ αἰώνιος ζωὴ, as marking a “distinct and emphatic” (either epexegetical or result) function. The core meaning is not, however, at odds with other instances. 33 Brown, The Gospel, 146.

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question of the nature of that existence needs to be addressed. Will, in short, life after death be positive, unpleasant or what? Removing fear of death when postmortem existence is postulated will necessarily demand a construct in which any such existence is seen in a positive light. This the FG undertakes in several ways. First is the recurrent description of ζωὴ αἰώνιος which is considered a superior mode of existence to present existence. From the outset, this raises questions about whether the FG talks about post-mortem existence or an afterlife: There is no Greek word that directly renders the English word “afterlife,” and even if there were, the Fourth Evangelist would never use it. He takes great pains to show no discontinuity between present life and future life. Life before death and life after death are all simply the same life.34

Physical death is a reality, but ζωὴ αἰώνιος does not start from the moment of physical death: In the Johannine view, all human beings start in death and are given the opportunity to transfer to life.35

The FG also introduces a distinction which is impossible for Epicurean materialism: believers are to concern themselves with spiritual death, rather than physical death. As Clark-Soles points out, though, this is a not a distinction which compares spiritual death to the fate of the soul: Death appears to have a double meaning in FG, signifying both physical death, which no one escapes, and Holy-Spiritual death, which only believers escape. By “Holy-Spiritual death” I mean life without receipt of the Holy Spirit, a death that the author describes in 8:24 as death-in-sin. I avoid saying “spiritual death” so as to prevent the reader from thinking of a physical/spiritual dichotomy.36

Then comes the absence of negative spatial or cosmic imagery, particularly of Hell and torment, used to exemplify the quality of life and death.37 This is in stark contrast to the Synoptics which repeatedly use such themes in parabolic imagery to stress the difficulty of being a disciple or the consequences of failing to live properly (Mark 9:49, 10:25, 12:1-11, 13:32–36; Matt 13:36–43, 18:23–35, 21:33–44, 22:1–14, 24:45–51, 25:1–46; Luke 12:41–48, 13:6–9, 22– 30, 16:19–31; 19:11–27; 20:9–19). Admittedly such accounts may serve a rhetorical purpose, prompting a change of behaviour rather than providing literal details of the afterlife, but this distinction need not make their message any less fraught. 38 However, the FG barely allows such dangerously negative 34

Clark-Soles, “I Will Raise”, 42. Clark-Soles, “I Will Raise”, 42. 36 Clark-Soles, “I Will Raise”, 42. 37 Clark-Soles, Death, 127; 141. 38 For the issues raised by rhetorical and realistic readings alike, see, for example, Stephen I. Wright, “Debtors, Laborers, and Virgins: The Voice of Jesus and Voice of Matthew 35

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imagery, rhetorical or literal, to intrude: it accentuates the positive. Only John 5:29 brings the possibility of a bad outcome in which those who have done evil will endure the resurrection of condemnation (οἱ δὲ τὰ φαῦλα πράξαντες εἰς ἀνάστασιν κρίσεως). Even this may be less threatening that first thought: it “contrasts doing good, which leads to resurrection of life, with doing bad, which leads to resurrection of judgment”.39 The FG makes clear that ζωὴ αἰώνιος has already been received, and the believer remains in that state by persevering in right behaviour.40 The key term is κρίσεως, which the FG has already invested with a particular dynamic in which God is not the principal agent of judgment. This dynamic is apparent in an earlier episode: Jn. 3:16–21. Whilst John 15:6 may retain some traces of Gehenna, and the image of fire, it is not a theme on which the FG chooses to dwell. Indeed, this is part of a longer vision about the vine and the vinedresser (John 15:1–6), which needs no reference to a fiery hell. Rather, the FG offers a choice between ζωὴ αἰώνιος or perishing.41 However, that perishing is not clearly demarcated as a state of punishment or torment. The implication of John 3:16, with its promise of ζωὴ αἰώνιος to believers, is simply that non-believers will not have it. For the believer, there is only a positive outcome: ζωὴ αἰώνιος. Whilst both John 5:28-29 and 12:48 appear to indicate divine judgment, they are in tension with those passages in the FG, like 3:18, which see judgment as self-administered by the decision to accept or reject belief in Jesus.42 These would separate the themes of death and judgment, and so diminish fear of death: death is not judgment. Judgment has occurred before death, and has not been passed by God, but by believers on themselves. This can be explored further theologically by considering the FG’s eschatological pattern. The FG presents neither a futurist nor a realised eschatology. Rather, its eschatology is inaugurated: decisions made now have future consequences and conclusions. The decision may be made now, but the telos has yet to be completed. Judgment has already taken place. The one who has opted to follow Jesus’ teaching has already performed the act of judgment and can live in assurance of ζωὴ αἰώνιος. Indeed, the pattern of the believer’s life has already assumed that shape or form. This point is made clearly in John 5:24:

in Three Parables” in Jesus and Paul: Global Perspectives in Honor of James D.G. Dunn for his 70th Birthday, ed. B.J. Oropeza, C.K. Robertson and Douglas C. Mohrmann (London: T&T Clark, 2009), 13–23. 39 Clark-Soles, Death, 127. 40 Jean Zumstein, L’Évangile Selon Saint Jean (1–12) (Commentaire du Nouveau Testament Deuxième Série IVa. Genève: Labor et Fides, 2014), 195. 41 Allison, Resurrecting Jesus, 74. 42 Allison, Resurrecting Jesus, 57, fn. 7.

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Ἀµην ἀµην λέγω ὑµῖν ὅτι ὁ τὸν λόγον µου ἀκούων καὶ πιστεύων τῷ πέµψαντί µε ἔχει ζωὴν αἰώνιον, καὶ εἰς κρίσιν οὐκ ἔρχεται ἀλλὰ µεταβεβήκεν ἐκ τοῦ θανάτου εἰς τὴν ζωήν. Truly, truly, I tell you that the one who hears my word and believes in the one who has sent me has eternal life, and is not coming to judgment, but has already passed from death to life (italics mine).

The relationship of belief established between Jesus, the one who sends him, and the believer has already ensured the transition to ζωὴ αἰώνιος. Thus, the place of death as a liminal event has been fundamentally altered. If Epicureanism made death to be considered nothing by appeals to logic about sense and existence, the FG uses a different stratagem. Ζωὴ αἰώνιος allows the believer a chance to achieve ataractic bliss by believing (πιστεύειν) and abiding (µένειν) in the here and now; by the relationship shared with Jesus, and thus with the Father. George Kennedy’s description of πίστις in the NT intrudes at this point. Faith, from the perspective offered by his rhetorical analysis, has two functions: one epistemic, the other relational.43 This denotes a significant departure from Epicureanism: for it is not just knowledge or data which will allow right attitudes to death, but also a relationship of trust with the object of belief: Jesus. This is the way to ζωὴ αἰώνιος. This new state is achieved independently of death: it comes from γεννηθῇ ἄνωθεν (from being “born from above” or “born again” – John 3:3), not by dying. Death becomes nothing in the Johannine dispensation because it is stripped of its pivotal and liminal function. For the believer, death is nothing to be feared because the life which follows death has already been achieved and maintained by the practice of believing and abiding. It is one that might have been, in part, familiar to a Greek audience given common understanding of ζωή: “Life” embodied the hope for salvation of the Hellenistic (Gentile) reader, a reader filled with a dread of death and yearning for life which could surpass and overcome the all too familiar experience of death. Coupled with this one also finds an emphasis on eternal life as a “timeless” reality in contrast to the Jewish expectation of life as “the life of the age to come”.44

This view reflects the earlier prominence given to Platonic thought.45 It also resonates with Aristotle who relates ζωή to the divine.46 It needs some alteration if applied to Epicureans, given their very different view of the gods.47 The

43 George A. Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation through Rhetorical Criticism (II Series. Studies in Religion. Chapel Hill NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1984). 44 Marianne Meye Thompson, “Eternal Life in the Gospel of John”, Ex Auditu, 5 (1989), 35–55 at 36. 45 Dodd, The Interpretation, 144–50, 366. 46 Aristotle, Metaphysics, 11.7 (1072b 28–32), see Strecker, The Johannine Epistles, 17. 47 See below, Chapter 5.

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first sentence holds good, the second, given their rejection of such a “timeless” realm for humanity, does not. Both of its key phrases are problematic for Epicureans, given that VS 14 specifically states that both are impossible: γεγόναµεν ἅπαξ, δὶς δὲ οὐκ ἔστι γενέσθαι∙ δεῖ δὲ τὸν αἰῶνα µηκέτι εἶναι∙ We are born once, there is no second birth; and life must not be forever.48

On philological grounds therefore, the language of the FG is compromised, perhaps fatally, to Epicureans. If there is any hope of compatibility, it will depend on whether or not the FG’s ζωὴ αἰώνιος in any way corresponds to Epicurean ἀπονία and ἀταραξία, shorn of other metaphysical claims. This, in itself, might indicate a further incompatibility: a realised Epicurean eschatology as opposed to the inaugurated pattern of the FG. Ζωὴ αἰώνιος is to be distinguished from life in general; the FG prefers to use ψυχή (John 10:11, 15, 17, 24; 12:25; 13:37, 38; 15:13) for natural life.49 The synonymous concepts of “life” and ζωὴ αἰώνιος are also found in the Synoptics, often associated with future blessings (in the “age to come”) for those who respond positively to Jesus.50 In many ways the concept serves the same purpose as Kingdom language (whether as an absolute or qualified term) in the Synoptic gospels. These also may use the terms “interchangeably”.51 Indeed, the few instances of Kingdom language in the FG suggest a close link between the Kingdom and ζωὴ αἰώνιος (John 3:3, 15, 17).52 It is distinguished from natural life both because it does not end in death (John 11:26), and does not originate at birth: ζωὴ αἰώνιος comes when the Spirit is given to believers (John 20:22), or, perhaps, through baptism (John 3:4; 4:10, 14; 7:37–39),53 or the eucharist (John 6:51–58).54 This gives a 48

Text from Tiziano Dorandi, “Aspetti della Tradizione ‘Gnomologica’ di Epicuro e degli Epicurei” in Aspetti di Letteratura Gnomica nel Antico Mondo, ed. Maria Serena Funghi (Accademia Toscana di Scienze e Lettere “La Colombaria” Studi CCXXV. Firenze: Leo S. Olschki, 2004), 271–288 at 277. Translation mine. This cross-reference is taken from Theobald, Das Evangelium, 250. 49 Thompson, “Eternal Life”, 38–39. She notes that 12:27 also uses ψυχή, but this is often rendered “soul” in English translations. Strecker, The Johannine Epistles, 17 notes that it is “sometimes synonymous with the word βίος”, not least in Stoicism. Βίος appears only in 1 John 3:17 in reference to “material goods”, thus Strecker, The Johannine Epistles, 116. The use of synonyms is thus different in the Johannine and Stoic traditions, particularly if the non-appearance of βίος in the FG is included. 50 Mark 10:29–30; 20:26; Matt 19:16–17, 25, 29; Luke 13:23–24; 18:26, 29–30. See Thompson, “Eternal Life”, 36–37. 51 Thompson, “Eternal Life”, 37. 52 Thompson, “Eternal Life”, 38. 53 Jones, The Symbol, 231–35 warns against overstating the identification of water with the sacrament of baptism. 54 For the complexities of eucharistic practice and the interpretation of the FG, see Chapter 6.

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realised dimension to the term, which may initially seem to mark a departure for the Synoptic usage, until it is realised that the Synoptic “age to come” is not purely a temporal construct.55 It includes both realised and futurist elements, which are best recognised in an understanding of an inaugurated eschatology.56 It is a life without limits, life to its full potential, unlike the limited mode of existence which is the normal human lot: it is qualitatively superior to earthly life.57 It offers the believer a quality of life which is no less that than of God, in whom it originates, given that αἰώνιος is an adjective used “repeatedly” of God.58 However, it cannot simply be assumed that an “eternal” dimension is common to both traditions. As has been noted, the Judaic use of the term diverges from Hellenistic understandings of eternity. The FG’s and Judaic usages also overlap because they give ζωή both an historical and ethical quality, which also implies a departure from gnostic uses with their “ontological categories associated with static nonhistoricity”.59 A further difference is immediately apparent in its acquisition. It is not gained by a developing the positive virtues and behaviours embraced by the Epicureans. Rather, belief in Jesus, or knowing Jesus, and so knowing God (John 17:3), is the means to its possession.60 Zωή αἰώνιος is associated intimately with a relationship with Jesus, which also indicates a relationship with the Father: “as the Father’s emissary, the Son has the authority to grant eternal life to humanity”.61 This relationship is communicated “by means of the word”,62 which, in the FG, means by believing what has been written (John 20:30),63 a claim which means that the readers’ faith is in no way inferior to that of historical witnesses. However, this is problematic on a number of levels in Epicurean terms: first, Jesus is of no consequence as a teacher or authority within Epicureanism, second, because the substance of ζωή, with its this and other-worldly content is different from the Epicurean, and third, because the witness of a book or account is not accorded the same status. Jesus could only exercise these functions or authorities, if the Epicurean reader elects to subscribe to these claims: they are not readily available from an Epicurean perspective. 55

Thompson, “Eternal Life”, 38. King, The Gospel, 65, 288. 57 Morris, The Gospel, 201. 58 William Barclay, The Gospel of John Vol. 1 (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1975/2001), 51. 59 Strecker, The Johannine Epistles, 18. 60 Marianne Meye Thompson, The God of the Gospel of John (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001), 82. 61 Akala, The Father-Son Relationship, 180. 62 Strecker, The Johannine Epistles, 19. 63 For the differences between the FG and 1 John in this regard, see Strecker, The Johannine Epistles, 19. 56

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Its disassociation from both birth and death allows ζωὴ αἰώνιος to become a means for dismantling fear of death: it is not simply a post-mortem state, but is associated with πιστεύειν (believing), βάπτισµα (baptism), and µένειν (abiding). All three are part of this life, not just the afterlife. The fact that the believer can possess it before death removes death’s final and liminal role, and so reduces the fear of death. Thus, as a term performing theological or philosophical manoeuvres which remove fear of death, ζωὴ αἰώνιος is more than able to perform a function analogous to ἀταραξία,64 but, it must be re-iterated, this is couched in language (believing, baptising, abiding) alien to the Epicurean school. Μένειν is different in two significant regards. First, it bases right living in a relationship as well as the acquisition of knowledge. Not only that, but the relationship entails an experience of the divine markedly different from anything which Epicureanism might propose: Like friendship, abiding is a quality of the divine realm, symbolised in the relationship between Father and Son. Discipleship is not a self-generating relationship but entry into a divine, pre-existing communion through the Spirit. To be a disciple means to be in union with Jesus and through Jesus with God – a union that is mutual and oriented towards community, the antithesis of isolation and seclusion. Abiding is not based on human achievement, but derives from a divine source, an indwelling that is intimate and personal.65

This definition shows, to an extent, a similarity with Epicureanism, in its emphasis on community, but equally a divergence, in that it posits a version of right living which is empowered by, and involves, a relationship with the divine very different from anything envisioned by the school.66 Divergence also includes the imagery of the vine (John 15:1–17) which contains notions of dependence and καθαίρειν (cleansing or purification – John 15:1–2; also 13:10) related to mutual abiding and suffering.67 While Epicurean psychagogy knows of catharsis, it is of a different stripe: being relieved on one’s passions.68 On the question of “cleansed from what?”, the two traditions are far from similar. The difference is further seen in another term found in the FG: ἁµαρτία (sin). It occurs both in relation to Jesus (ὁ ἀµνὸς τοῦ θεοῦ ὁ αἴρων τὴν ἁµαρτίαν τοῦ κόσµου – John 1:29), and his disciples (ἄν τινων ἀφῆτε τὰς ἁµαρτίας ⸀ἀφέωνται αὐτοῖς – John 20:23). Thus the FG’s programme embraces a release from sin, which might mean either transgression of the Law or

64

See Chapter 3. Dorothy Lee, “Friendship, Love and Abiding in the Gospel of John” in Transcending Boundaries: Contemporary Readings of the New Testament, ed. Rekha M. Chennattu and Mary L. Coloe. Biblioteca di Scienze Religiose – 187 (Rome: Libreria Ateneo Salesiano, 2005), 57–74 at 68. 66 For more on Epicureans, community, and friendship, see Chapter 7; for the difficulty of relationships with the divine, see Chapter 5. 67 Lee, “Friendship”, 65–66. 68 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 147. 65

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ignorance of Jesus,69 and “might be generic to cover all sins or, more likely, refers to the sin of rejecting God and rejecting the light”.70 Both are distinct from Epicureanism whose epistemological and attitudinal focus is centred on the school’s own understanding of ἀταραξία and ἀπονία, which is not delineated by either of the FG’s potential meanings. Not only that, but the FG might suggest either a form of ministry or a gift of the Spirit:71 this may have an epistemological dimension, but is not limited to this. Again, this is markedly different from Epicurean understanding, not least because they imply some involvement of God within these works. Thus, the inclusion of sin within the FG’s programme marks a clear departure from the worldview of Epicureanism.

C. Summary of Findings Both traditions admit the reality of death. Thereafter, their strategies differ radically. For the Epicureans, a materialist worldview leads to the conclusion that death is nothing. A key factor of living the good life is the right handling and relationship to death, which is not to be a source of disturbance or fear. Right thinking is critical to this. The Johannine response is completely different. Death is viewed as inevitable, but it is considered desirable. Fear of death is diminished by stressing that death leads to a state of life that is more blessed than the present, with Jesus as the key to it. If there is a “right thinking” in the FG which underlies this it is found in Jesus as one who has power over life and death, and enables believers to participate in post-mortem bliss, offering life instead of the inevitable death of the human condition. This gives him functions which are alien to the sages of Epicureanism, who manifest no such power and are not depicted as having power over death: they functioned simply as teachers of right thought.72 Nor did they need to do anything more: their evaluation of death as nothing made any further claims redundant. Furthermore, in the FG, avoidance of death also involves the avoidance of ἁµαρτία, a concept which is alien to the Epicurean ataractic programme and implies a very different ethos.

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Brant, John, 63. Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 153. 71 Edwards, Discovering John, 120–21. 72 See further Chapter 6. 70

Chapter 5

The “Atheists’” Gods The tetrapharmakos has shown that fear of the gods was a major consideration of the Epicurean tradition: the FG, likewise, has a great interest in developing a picture of God. Both seem to reject conventional understandings of the function of gods within Graeco-Roman society, to the point of being identified as atheists, as that environment understood the term: the charge of atheism in the ancient world rather signified a rejection of conventional contemporary understandings of the Olympian and chthonic gods. The early Christians were similarly described,1 and atheism appears to signify a belief in gods who are invisible (Justin Martyr, 1 Apol 6). So, it is worth considering whether this ascription really indicates a commonality between the two traditions.

A. The Gods of Epicureanism While their contemporaries described the Epicureans as atheists (ἄθεος), it would be erroneous to think that the modern understanding was being invoked. Significantly, Philodemus would defend Epicurus against the charge of atheism.2 His programme, notably in both De pietate (Piet.) and De diis (D.) , dispensed with popular views such as the gods punishing wrongdoers,3 and stressed that such views were inadequate for the beings they claimed to portray, either in architecture or poetry.4 Prior theological positions adopted by Plato and the Stoics, namely, the ideas that (1) god is the creator of the universe, or (2) that the world itself is god are both given short shrift by Velleius, the spokesman for Epicurus in Cicero’s Nat. d. 1.18–24.5 Additional criticisms were aimed at the philosophers,6 mainly for positing “insensate, inanimate,

1

Lucian, Alex. 38; Plutarch, Mor. 1119; Tomlin, “Christians and Epicureans”, 65. Dirk Obbink, “‘All Gods Are True’ in Epicurus” in Traditions of Theology: Studies in Hellenistic Theology, Its Background and Aftermath, ed. Dorothea Frede and Andre Laks (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 183–221 at 184. 3 Obbink, “‘All Gods’”, 192. 4 Philodemus, Piet. 199; Cicero, Nat. d. I.42; Obbink, “‘All Gods’”, 194. 5 Essler, “Cicero’s use”, 130–131. 6 Obbink, “‘All Gods’”, 196–198. 2

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non-anthropomorphic divinities”.7 Stoic philosophers would be criticised for perpetuating ideas found in both the poets and earlier philosophers.8 Such remarks indicate a theistic worldview: atheists rarely argue in such terms, rejecting theological stances on the grounds that they fail to do justice to the nature of deities.9 So what, then, did the Epicureans hold to be true about the gods? Epicurus, indeed, stressed that the gods existed: θεοὶ µὲν γάρ εἰσιν∙ ἐναργὴς δέ ἐστιν αὐτῶν ἡ γνῶσις. οἵους δ᾽ αὐτοὺς πολλοὶ νοµίζουσιν, οὐκ εἰσίν∙ οὐ γὰρ φυλάττουσιν αὐτοὺς οἵους νοοῦσιν. Indeed, there are gods. Knowledge of them is obvious; but they are not as many consider them to be, for people cherish what notions they have.10

They are also, “just as mortal beings are, subordinate, to the primary ‘constituents’ of the universe, namely atoms and the void”.11 The gods are also removed from the affairs of this world living at peace in the void spaces between the worlds (intermundia):12 Τὸ µακάριον καὶ ἄφθαρτον οὔτε αὐτὸ πράγµατα ἔχει οὔτε ἄλλῳ παρέχει, ὥστε οὔτε ὀργαῖς οὔτε χάρισι συνέχεται∙ ἐν ἀσθενεῖ γὰρ πᾶν τὸ τοιοῦτον. What blessed and indestructible does not act for itself and does not act on behalf of another, thus it has no anger or favour. Anything of this kind stems from weakness.13

This is accomplished by describing the nature of the gods using materialist cosmology. They are described as flimsy or insubstantial, made of finer material than what might normally be called matter. As such, they are unable to interact with matter. So enfeebled, they have no creative power or potential, nor ability to interfere in the material realm. “Living in the intermundia” may suggest a more complex cosmology than Epicurus’s statement that the gods lived somewhere outside the world (ἔξω τοῦ κόσµου). Philodemus strenuously rejects the concept that they are “star gods” who travel ceaselessly through the heavens: this would not be commensurate with happiness.14 Their existence is analogous to human existence (Cicero, Nat. d., 1.49), but not fleshly. Despite this, Philodemus states that the gods are sources of harm or

7

Obbink, “‘All Gods’”, 198. Obbink, “‘All Gods’”, 201. 9 Mecci, “The Ethical Implications of Epicurus’ Theology”, Philosophia 48 (2018), 195– 204 at 196. 10 DL 10.123. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 805. Translation mine. 11 Rist, Epicurus, 148. 12 Cicero, Nat. d. 1.18, Fin. 2.75, Div. 2.40; Lucretius, DRN 3.18–24; 5.154. Cyril Bailey, Phases in the Religion of Ancient Rome. (Sather Classical Lectures Vol. 10. Berkeley, CA: Univ. of California Press, 1932), 316, n.18 13 KD 1, DL 10.139. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 814–15. Translation mine. 14 Essler, “Cicero’s use”, 133–134. 8

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benefit.15 How can this be – given Epicurean views about their physicality? The claim arises from: The idea that according to the Epicureans the gods’ existence is due in some respect to human understanding, that they are constituted by our (materially formed) ideas of them, and exclusively so, makes it possible for Philodemus to maintain here and elsewhere that the gods can both benefit and harm us.16

This quote, however, raises two potential interpretations of Epicurean theology: a “realist” position that there were actual, physical gods who existed in such places, or an “idealist” one, in which they did not.17 The terms will be used thus in the remarks which follow. In the realist position, advocated by scholars like Knut Kleve and Dietrich Lemke, the gods are real creatures.18 For Kleve, they are “intangible intramundial creatures emitting eidola in streams dense enough to ensure their ἐνάργεια”:19 they are not simply human inventions.20 There is a two-way movement of eidola to and from the gods in the intramundia and the cosmos.21 Analogy and isonomia (powers of conservation and destruction or “balanced strife”)22 lie at the heart of Epicurean theology and understanding of the gods: isonomia is the principle which allows them to be identified as immortal and able to enjoy both ἀπονία and ἀταραξία.23 For Lemke, the Epicurean programme could also absorb the Olympian gods, each of whom is “a species of which there are innumerable instantations throwing off eidola…”.24 The fact that images flow to the gods implies an objective existence: The sticking point, however, is the phrase, ad deos. Long and Sedley comment: ‘The images are said to arise from an inexhaustible source of atoms and flow to the gods, not from them. That is, by converging on the mind they become our gods.’ But how flowing to the gods can

15

Philodemus, Piet. 1023–1059. Obbink, “’All Gods’”, 214. 17 Peter G. Woodward, “Star Gods in Philodemus PHerc 152/157”, Cronache Ercolanesi 19 (1989), 29–47 at 33. For an account of these two competing versions, see David Konstan, “Epicurus on the gods” in Epicurus and the Epicurean Tradition, ed. Jeffrey Fish and Kirk R. Sanders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 53–71 at 53; David Sedley, “Epicurus’ theological innatism”, in Epicurus and the Epicurean Tradition, ed. Jeffrey Fish and Kirk R. Sanders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 29–52 at 29–30. 18 Knut Kleve, Gnosis Theon: Die Lehre von der natürlichen Gottereskenntnis in der epikureischen Theologie. (Symbolae Osloenses Fasc Suppet. XIX. Oslo: In Aedibus Universitetsforlaget, 1973), 121–125; Dietrich Lemke, Die Theologie Epikurs: Versuch einer Rekonstruktion (München: Verlag C.H. Beck, 1973), 84. 19 Woodward, “Star Gods”, 33, fn. 27. 20 Kleve, Gnosis Theon, 122. 21 Drozdek, Greek Philosophers, 219–221. 22 Drozdek, Greek Philosophers, 215. 23 Rist, Epicurus, 143–146. 24 Woodward, “Star Gods”, 33, fn. 27. 16

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mean becoming gods in our minds is obscure: if they flow ‘to the gods’, then gods there must be.25

From the idealist perspective, the gods are primarily projections of ideals, who, nevertheless, have a “material existence in the form of unending streams of eidola”.26 From this perspective, the gods do not appear to be solid bodies, but “just streams of images”27. Any impression of objective entities is “an instance of…Epicurus’s lingering Platonist assumption that any object of thought must somehow objectively exist in order to be thought of”.28 In a more recent defence of this idealist reading, David Sedley suggests that knowledge of the gods is based upon innate dispositions (πρόληψις), which themselves are not dependent on objective entities.29 Despite the appearance of objective reality which spatial language might suggest: The process by which we are said to form our prolepsis of the gods cannot, according to the principles of Epicurean psychology, amount to our witnessing, via dream contact, actual gods leading their actual lives.30

However this does not mean that the gods are ideal representations “in the human soul”,31 since their existence cannot depend on conscious human thinking, as “it would be detrimental to their existence if people ceased thinking about the gods”.32 Πρόληψις is key to understanding why the gods are not simply a human construct, and implies more than human mental activity: The prolepsis is not a sensation. It is not a theoretical explanation of sensation either. Rather the prolepsis is a name, a ‘general term’.33

The term has been subject to number of critical interpretations. For Elizabeth Asmis, πρόληψις indicates a preconception which is “epistemically prior to the beliefs that are attached to them”.34 Such a definition begs the question of 25

Konstan, “Epicurus on the gods”, 70. Woodward, “Star Gods”, 33, fn. 28. In Nat. d. 1.104, Cotta attacks the Epicurean view of eidola using arguments against atomistic theories in general as well as claims which had already refuted by Lucretius, DRN 4.732–744; Essler, “Cicero’s use”, 146. 27 A.A. Long and D.N. Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers Vol. 1: Translations of the Principle Sources with Philosophical Commentary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 147. 28 Long and Sedley, Hellenistic Philosophers, 147. 29 David Sedley, “Epicurus’ theological innatism”, 34–40. This more recent account also distances Epicurus from Platonic notions of the pre-existence of the soul (38). 30 Sedley, “Epicurus’ theological innatism”, 49. 31 Drozdek, Greek Philosophers, 220. 32 Drozdek, Greek Philosophers, 221. 33 Roecklein, Machiavelli, 74. 34 Elizabeth Asmis, Epicurus’ Scientific Method (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1984), 282. 26

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how such names are reached, given that sensation is more their justification than source or cause.35 For John Rist, they are “general concepts” used to check whether propositions are valid, and which depend on “records of sensation in the mind”.36 Again, this does little to identify their origins,37 and there is nothing which demands a basis in concrete realities. For Dominic Scott, in remarks which are pertinent to theology, the questions of the origins of a πρόληψις appear almost insoluble: What the prolepsis itself is need not be evident to the person who has it. It is evident in an objective sense, i.e. in that it is an entirely accurate picture of the common property of godhood, indeed it requires no further clarification. But this does not imply subjective clarity: a prolepsis does not have ‘prolepsis’ written all over its face. Our prolepses are by no means easy to distinguish from other, more dubious notions we may have.38

For D.K. Glidden, πρόληψις is a “conception of the things that underlie our utterances”.39 Memory becomes a source or recognition, leading to an “extended form of habitual perception”.40 A passage in the Letter to Herodotus (DL 10:37-39) roots πρόληψις in human memory and experience: without this their origins would be difficult to explain.41 What becomes apparent is that an investigation of πρόληψις will not resolve the issue of whether a realist or idealist interpretation is to be preferred. However, the authority of the term, name or entity has been upheld, and this is critical to Epicurus who wishes names such as “god” to have a new significance: He [Epicurus] is entirely determined to employ his administrative authority, to challenge, if not to reverse the way names such as justice, injustice, divinity and truth are employed.42

Both the realist and the idealist readings allow for this. The idea that the gods are a purely human mental construct is put aside, because something (whatever that something is) anticipates and drives their recognition: this might well be described as an “innate predisposition”.43 Common sense would also dictate that the concept of a wholly mental construct was not held by the Epicureans: if it were, the easiest way to diminish fear of the gods would simply be to excise

35

Roecklein, Machiavelli, 79. Rist, Epicurus, 29. 37 Roecklein, Machiavelli, 79. 38 Dominic Scott, “Epicurean Illusions”, Classical Quarterly 39 (1989), 360–74 at 368. 39 D.K. Glidden, “Epicurean Prolepsis”, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 3 (1985), 175–217 at 175. 40 Glidden, “Epicurean Prolepsis”, 186. 41 Roecklein, Machiavelli, 75. 42 Roecklein, Machiavelli, 80. 43 Sedley, “Epicurus’ theological innatism”, 31–36 for a detailed treatment of πρόληψις as an innate predisposition in regard to theology. 36

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them from rational thought. Such an option was simply neither pursued nor entertained.44 The difference would seem primarily one of degree: the realist and idealist positions respectively embrace either objective entities or innate disposition as grounding a correct understanding of the gods. David Konstan seems to tread a middle. Arguing for material existence for the gods, he suggests that these are simulacra: Second-order propositions: real enough, in their way, but what Epicurus would describe as σύµπτωµα, or an accident of atomic combinations, rather than a concretely existing thing.45

The difference may ultimately be academic: If Epicurus were to learn that his existential assertion would mislead many of his later readers, even within his own school, into assuming his stance to be realist rather than idealist, I doubt that he would be all that disconcerted.46

The preference for one view or the other depends greatly on whether the spatial language used necessarily demands some grounding in reality. However, the ambiguity about realism or idealism may not have been as problematic for ancient readers as they are for moderns who reflect on divinity in primarily ontological categories. This was not so in the ancient world where divinity might be a social rather than an ontological construct based on factors such as honour, shame, remembrance and fame as expressed in honour-shame cultures.47 Epicurus may simply not have needed to address or resolve an ontological issue. A difference in terminology then arises: should the gods be identified as “intramundial” (“possessing three dimensional existence in the intramundia”) deities or “metacosmic” (“to be imagined as located beyond the cosmos”), a term which can bear both the idealist and realist interpretations,48 and which shall be the preferred term from hereon, as it encompasses both readings.49

44

Sedley, “Epicurus’ theological innatism”, 35–36. Konstan, “Epicurus on the gods”, 70. 46 Sedley, “Epicurus’ theological innatism”, 52, on the basis that the theological environment of Epicurus’s time would not tolerate a full-blown atheism as understood in the modern sense, so a degree of linguistic moderation, implying realism, was necessary for the presentation of Epicurean theology. 47 Ben C. Blackwell, Christosis: Pauline Soteriology in Light of Deification in Irenaeus and Cyril of Alexandria (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 2.314. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 46–47. 48 Woodward, “Star Gods”, 33. 49 Thus J. Kany-Turpin, “Les dieux: Représentation mentale des dieux, pieté et discours théologique” in Lire Epicure et les épicuriens, A. Gigandet and P-M. Morel (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 2007), 145–165 maintains an agnosticism on the nature of the Epicurean gods. 45

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Whether or not an idealist or realist position is assumed, the Epicureans provide descriptions of the gods which define their characteristics. Throughout Epicurean theology, mention is made of the gods, not of a singular deity. Philodemus states boldly that the Epicureans entertain a number of gods: ἡµῶν οὐ µόνον ὅσους φασὶν οἱ Πανέλληνες ἀλλὰ καὶ πλείονας εἶναι λεγόντων… We say that there are not just as many gods as the Greeks claim, but even more.50

Whilst πλείονας may be interpreted in four ways (as many gods as those of the Hellenistic peoples, a contrast with the gods of Hellenistic peoples, only the major gods, or the gods of non-Greek peoples), all share a common factor: a plurality of gods, not a singular god.51 In addition to these deities there is also the vexed question of what are labelled as the “star gods”, that heavenly bodies have an anthropomorphic deity linked to them, found in the fragments of Philodemus (PHerc 152/157; D. III, Col.s viii–x).52 However, the star gods neither embrace the idea of humans being transformed in to heavenly bodies, as found in mythology, nor of souls ascending to the stars (Plato, Tim. 42b),53 most likely because such claims would compromise Epicurean teaching about the finitude of human life. In other ways, these fragments from Philodemus are puzzling, not least because they introduce descriptions of the gods which appear quite novel (sleeping, speaking Greek – PHerc 152/157), even if not entirely so.54 Yet, Philodemus appears to develop them to an unprecedented extent.55 These details appear to be added to suggest that the Epicurean understanding converges, but is not identical with, Homeric concepts.56 A similar programme is also seen in his political writing (Hom.), which also embraces both Epicurean principles and loyalty to Greek culture,57 which somehow needs a Homeric flavor. So, even if Homeric language and

50

Philodemus, Piet. 362–2, cited with translation in Obbink, “‘All Gods’”, 209–10. Obbink, “‘All Gods’”, 212–213. 52 Woodward, “Star Gods”, 29. 53 Woodward, “Star Gods”, 31. Later, after Philodemus’s death, it is possible that they might have come to provide a veiled critique of some of the more elaborate claims to deification made about the emperors of the early Roman empire. These were also satirised in Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis, and potentially, in the dying words ascribed by Suetonius to Vespasian, if interpreted ironically (Suetonius, Vespasian, 23.4; Albert I. Baumgarten, “Deathbed Moral Instructions in The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs” in Heroes and Saints: The Moment of Death in Cross-Cultural Perspectives, Phyllis Granoff and Koichi Shinohara (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2007), 247–260 at 259, n.1). 54 Woodward, “Star Gods”, 30–31. 55 Woodward. “Star Gods”, 31. 56 Thomas G. Rosenmeyer, The Green Cabinet: Theocritus and the European Pastoral Lyric (Campus Vol. 90. Berkeley, CA: University of California, 1973), 110. 57 Woodward, “Star Gods”, 31. 51

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terminology intrudes, it is re-accentuated to fit with his broader programme:58 the gods of Epicurus will never be identical with the Homeric deities, just as they will not be transformed human beings. Despite this, anthropomorphism underlies other Epicurean descriptions: it is not clear whether the gods can be viewed without it.59 Indeed, Adam Drozdek suggests that the human form of the gods is based on their being perfect, and that perfection is based on the beauty of humanity.60 Such anthropomorphism is also adopted as a means of rejecting the theological speculations of other schools, notably Stoicism with its non-human metaphysical concept of deity.61 Yet, it is clearly an object of scorn to Stoic and other opponents, as seen in Cotta’s (Stoic) engagement with Velleius (Epicurean) in Cicero’s Nat. d. 1.46–47.62 Three arguments are brought by Velleius in defence of the Epicurean view: a consensus omnium, an aesthetic argument from their perfection and beauty, and an argument that virtue is a necessary condition of happiness, which entails reason, which entails a human form.63 What does this anthropomorphism entail? It includes φιλία (usually translated as “friendship” in discussions of Epicureanism),64 which the gods do not need: they remain friends to each other, but not with humanity.65 Their conversation has similarity to that of Epicurean sages.66 This leads to a paradox which will be explored later: the Epicurean value of φιλία amongst people does not fit well with the gods for whom it is “vacuous”.67 Both the idealist and realist interpretations have profound implications for the consideration of the relationship between the gods and this world. The notion that the world is created by divine activity is replaced by a materialist philosophy in which chance, not providence or divine activity, causes the creative process. These themes reappear in Lucretius’s theology: the gods are made of fine matter and are barely visible (DRN 1.44–49; 2.646–652), divorced from human and earthly affairs (DRN 1.45–46, 455–458), and not involved in the creation or governance of such a flawed realm as the earthly (DRN 2.167–183, 1090–1094;

58

This has a ritual as well as a theoretical dimension, see Chapter 6. Essler, “Cicero’s Use”, 139–142; Sedley, “Epicurus’ theological innatism”, 49. 60 Cicero, Nat. d., 1.47; Drozdek, Greek Philosophers, 224. 61 Peter A. Brunt, Studies in Stoicism, ed. Miriam Griffin, Alison Samuels and Michael Crawford (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 494 notes that Stoicism rejected the idea that the gods shared the same corporeal form as humanity, but “found it impossible to divest them of supreme excellence in those mental characteristics for which men are to be approved”. 62 Essler, “Cicero’s use”, 139. 63 Essler, “Cicero’s use”, 140–141. 64 A full discussion of friendship will follow in Chapter 6. 65 Essler, “Cicero’s use”, 131. 66 Essler, “Cicero’s use”, 131 67 Drozdek, Greek Philosophers, 222. 59

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5.156–194).68 Unlike Plato’s Tim. which ascribes the flaws of creation to a lesser deity, the Epicurean takes an all-or-nothing approach: flaws imply that the gods could not and did not create. Their materialist physics gives an alternative account which does not need them. There is no room here for lesser or higher degrees of divinity. Nor, contrary to the behaviour of the gods in classical Greek mythology, could they interfere for personal reasons (KD 1, above). The end result is clear: the gods have no part in creation, cannot be involved in this world, and therefore should not be the cause of any fear or distress. Nor are the gods creators of activities like music: these are human inventions.69 In spite of holding such beliefs, Epicurus participated in religious ceremonies, describing such participation as joyous or pleasurable, and contributing to the good life. One fragment, perhaps originating with Epicurus himself, commends such participation: . . . . [..] υτικον τε και κεχα[ρισ]µε νον εαν ευκαιρηι τιµ̣ων αυτην την θεωιριαν σεαυ του ταις συγγενεσιν κατα π σαρκα ηδοναις αι οτ αν καθηκωσιν αλλα ποτε και τη τον νοµων συµπε s ριφοραι χρωµενο[[υ]] σον δεος [it is for you a thing both] salutary and agreeable, as suits the occasion, to observe this your own religious practice, while enjoying innate physical pleasures (which are fitting) and conforming besides to conventional social customs.70

Philodemus (Piet. 27–31) also rejected the charge of impiety, by indicating advice about participation in religious festivals, and concluding with remarks attributed to Epicurus himself: ἀλλὰ κα[ὶ πρὸς Πο]λύαινον [συνεορτασ]τέα κἀν[θεστήρι]α· καὶ γὰρ τ̣ῶ̣[ν θεῶν] ἐπιµνηστ͙έ[ον....]|τον πολλῶν[ .....||

68 69

Colman, “Lucretius”, 233a; Mecci, “The Ethical Implications”, 198. Philodemus, Mus., references to book IV from Ferguson, “The Art of Praise”, 399–

400. 70 P.Oxy 215. 2–18. Greek text from Oxyrhynchus Papyri, ed. with trans. and notes by Bernard P. Grenfell and Arthur S. Hunt (London: Egypt Exploration Fund, 1898), 30– 31. Retrieved 27 June 2018 from https://archive.org/details/TheOxyrhynchusPapyrieditedWithTranslationsAndNotesByBernardP. Translation from Simon Price, Religion of the Ancient Greeks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 136.

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But also writing to Polyaenus that the Anthesteria too must be celebrated and that it is necessary to make mention of the gods (one word missing) | of many…71

and: [ἵνα δὲ µὴ] ἐκτείνω̣ [τὸν λόγον,] πάλιν∙ “ἡµ[εῖς θεοῖς]| θύωµέν” φησιν [“ὁσί]ως καὶ καλῶς οὗ [καθ]ήκει κα[ὶ κ]αλῶ πάντα πράττωµεν [κα]τὰ τοὺς νόµους, µ[η]θὲ[ν] ταῖς δόξαις α[ὑ]τοὺς ἐν τοῖς περὶ τῶν ἀρίστων κ[αὶ] σεµνοτάτων διαταράττοντε[ς∙ ἔτι]| δὲ καὶ δίκαιο[ι θύω]µεν ἀφ ἧς ἔλε[γον δό]ξης∙ οὔτω γὰρ [ἐν]δέχεται φύσ[ιν θνη]τὴν ὁµοίω[ς τῶι ∆ιῒ] νὴ ∆ία γειν [ὠς φαί]νεται∙” And, lest I extend my discussion, again; ‘let us sacrifice to the gods’, he says, ‘devoutly and fittingly on the proper days, and let us fittingly perform all the acts of worship in accordance with the laws, in no way disturbing ourselves with opinions in matters concerning the most excellent and august of beings. Moreover, | let us sacrifice justly, on the view that I was giving. For in this way it is possible for a mortal nature, by Zeus, to live like Zeus, as it seems.”72

All of which leads Peter A. Brunt to conclude: Epicurus himself had faithfully fulfilled all traditional religious practices; he offered prayers and sacrifices in conformity with the laws, participated in religious festivals, was actually initiated into the Eleusinian Mysteries (fr. 169 Us.), insisted on fidelity to oaths, and was careful in invoking the names of gods when appropriate (fr. 142). But all this was not due simply to fear of social disapproval, or worse. He held that it was proper 'not only because of the laws but for reasons in conformity with Nature' (frs. 13; 387). In acts of piety and especially in festivals the wise man comes more vividly to apprehend and share the joy of the gods. True piety consists in perceiving what the divine nature really is, honouring it, and modelling one's own life on it (fr. 386).73

Participation in religious activities is indicative of Epicureanism’s relationship to wider society. This does not imply, as has sometimes been suggested, a divorce or separation from society at large, but a more nuanced relationship:74 Epicureans may join in religious festivities as long as they keep pure of wrong beliefs. Epicurus himself is said to have taken part in “all the traditional festivals and sacrifices,” and to have used the common oaths. He proclaimed that the wise man enjoys the sights and sounds of Dionysiac rites as much as anyone. Epicurus sought to elevate people from all ranks of

71 Philodemus, Piet. 30. Greek references, text and translation from Philodemus, On Piety, ed. Dirk Obbink (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 164–165. See also Text 56 in Inwood and Gerson, Reader, 82. 72 Philodemus, Piet. 31. Greek text and translation from Philodemus, On Piet. 166–167. See also Text 55 in Inwood and Gerson, Reader, 81–82. 73 Peter A. Brunt, “Philosophy and Religion in the Late Republic” in Philosophia Togata, ed. Miriam Griffin and Jonathan Barnes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 174–198 at 186. 74 See further in Ch. 7.

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society to the heights of happiness by having them accept social institutions while rejecting conventional beliefs.75

Lucian confirms this by recording Epicurean views in Sacrifices and pointing out that such participation should not be based on the hopes that the gods may be “manipulated by the sacrificial cult” because of their nature which is above emotional concerns or essentially “commercial transactions”.76 Lucretius follows Epicurus in never questioning the existence of the gods, even if he is highly critical of religious belief, particularly in relation to politics.77 Yet he too resists the charge of blasphemy.78 He aims rather to correct misleading views: the religious quest to make humanity feel at home “in what seems to be an uncaring world”79 is illusory and compromises the quest for ἀταραξία. It stands in need of reform: this Epicurus has undertaken,80 and it was a source of pride for Epicureans.81 Popular religious belief attempts to make the gods able to achieve effortlessly the desires and outcomes which humans seek, including immortality. It is aspirational, deluded, and crucially ripe for correction: The association drawn between the gods’ happiness and their freedom from fear of death is a projection of man’s highest desire. The gods’ perfection is due to their freedom from fortune and necessity. They are, accordingly, in all respects self-sufficient, totally without need or fear. The ideas that most move and trouble man find resolution in theology. A proper understanding of the nature of the gods is, thus, an appreciation of the complexity of man’s neediness, and the parsing of theology an essential part of the investigation into the nature of man’s soul.82

However, one last point needs to be made. It should not be blithely assumed that Epicureanism demands polytheism, in either an idealist or realist reading. Thus, David Sedley notes that Epicurus’s repeated use of the plural is not as simple as it appears in The Epistle to Menoeceus (DL 10.123–124): the plural ‘gods’ captures the fact that many different gods are recognized, across and within cultures; hence in the remainder of the passage Epicurus continues to use the plural when generalizing over prevalent religious beliefs. On the other hand, the advice he offers his reader is about a grammatically singular god, namely, one’s own. And the advice focuses on 75

Asmis, “Epicurean Economics”, 135. See KD 1. See also Charles H. Talbert, Ephesians and Colossians. (Paideia Commentaries on the New Testament. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2007), 66. The Epicureans were not alone in denying such do ut des or do quia dedisti understandings. So did Plato and Hierocles, thus Brunt, “Philosophy”, 184. 77 John Colman, “Lucretius on Religion”, Perspective on Political Science 38/4 (2009), 228–239 at 229b. 78 Lucretius, DRN 1.80–81, 102–103; Colman, “Lucretius”, 228b. 79 Colman, “Lucretius”, 230b. 80 Lucretius, DRN 1.62–74; Colman, “Lucretius”, 229b. 81 DL 10.81–82, 123–124; Lucretius, DRN 1.62–79, 6.50–79; Tomlin, “Christians and Epicureans”, 65. 82 Colman, “Lucretius”, 232a. 76

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how to construct the conception of that god, a task in which the reader is given the active role.83

Epicurean philosophy is thus profoundly theological, a factor often overlooked by the stress on natural philosophy.84 Equally, the importation of a modern atheistic agenda which would divorce philosophy from theology also does great violence to any reading of Epicureanism by forcing a false and anachronistic dichotomy. What is needed is a proper understanding of the gods: this will be a source of liberation for humanity and is a source of Epicurean boasting. Neither Epicurus nor Lucretius know or recognise the non-existence of the gods. With the existence of the gods a given, Epicurean theology explores the claim that the gods are not to be feared: a functional atheism rather than a fullblown atheism, albeit one which may adopt either an idealist or realist position. Epicurean theology needs to be interpreted without reference to the popular conventions of Graeco-Roman theology: it neither implies that the gods may directly intervene for the harm or benefit of humanity, nor that they only exist as ideas, but that they are an indirect source of benefit if right preconceptions about them are entertained. False ideas about them will be a source of harm, fear or disturbance. Ideas about the gods thus are the focus of their being harmful or beneficial. Knowledge of the gods is bracketed together with ideas about non-sensible or non-corporeal things which can be of benefit, things like virtue and mathematics: Knowledge of the gods, like that of virtues, makes up a reality that supervenes on corporeal physical existence. For this reason, Epicurus singled the gods out as a special class of existents. A subsidiary objection that our corporeal concepts are here, in this world, whereas the Epicurus’ gods are supposed to have lived somewhere outside the cosmos, is similarly met by the fact that the content of our idea of god fulfils this requirement: we are to think of them as living outside the cosmos.85

The gods remain divorced completely from our reality, it is the false ideas and “preconceptions” which, respectively are sources of harm and benefit. That said, they still fulfil an important role, indicated by the denial that they behave like the weak: they are exemplars of living a life free from disturbance: They benefited people merely by their example of ataraxy, which humans could imitate. Indeed, such ὁµοίωσις θεῷ (“assimilation to the divine”), accomplished through the imitation of the ataractic god was indispensable for development as an Epicurean, and sages, inasmuch as they assimilated themselves to the gods, became their peers – thus, an advanced sage like Epicurus was revered as a god.86

83

Sedley, “Epicurus’ theological innatism”, 51. Colman, “Lucretius”, 238b, fn. 13. 85 Obbink,”’All Gods’”, 215. 86 Rundin, “The Epicurean Morality”,165. 84

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Within the Epicurean view, the sage who has achieved such god-like status effectively had a proselytizing role, giving a glimpse of ἀταραξία and how it might be attained which might result in the non-Epicurean imitating such a lifestyle. Deification was a concept well known to the ancient world, one which embraced a number of understandings. The scope of deification reveals a fundamental difference between Christianity and Graeco-Roman theology, namely, that “there was no sharp polarity, but a spectrum between the human and the divine”.87 The ancient world admitted the possibility that human beings might be identified as gods. A useful overview is given by Nock: From Homeric times onwards the Greeks regarded certain individuals as more than human, as θεῖοι with more or less qualification. Such an individual might be called a god, either unreservedly or with reference to yourself, a god to you. If you recognized in him the essential characteristics of a particular god, you might call him that god, again either unreservedly or with reference to yourself. To the ancients the line of demarcation between god and man was not constant and sharp, or the interval as wide, as we might naturally think. Πάντα θεῶν µεστά: the gods ranged from Zeus to οἱ παρὰ µικρὸν καλούµενοι θεοί. θεός does not necessarily imply more than a being possessed of a greater power than humanity has and immune from death. An Alexander fits this as well as a Dionysus; an Epicurus fits it too.88

Sometimes human beings might be linked to a particular pre-existent deity. Duncan Fishwick identifies this as: The practice commonly called identification. The term is acceptable provided it is realized that identification of this kind is still a form of comparison – strong, open comparison in contrast to the restrained innuendo of assimilation.89

The ascription of divinity to Hellenistic rulers was a recognised phenomenon, and the Greek practice was adopted with modifications by the Romans (as indicated by Cicero’s use of the Greek ἀποθέωσις in his planned divinisation of his daughter, Tullia).90 A more specific Roman development was the ascription of posthumous divinity to individuals: Posthumous deification with the status transition of apotheosis – as opposed to earthly honours – becomes a characteristically Roman phenomenon.91

87 Mary Beard, John North and Simon Price, Religions of Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 141. 88 Arthur D. Nock, “Notes on Ruler-Cult I–IV”, Journal of Hellenic Studies 48/1 (1928), 21–43 at 31. 89 Duncan Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West, Vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1987), 29. 90 Spencer Cole, Cicero and the Rise of Deification at Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 18–48; for Tullia, see 6. 91 Cole, Cicero, 6, see further 80–110. 91 Blackwell, Christosis, 47.

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This may seem strange if deification is considered primarily in ontological terms: how could people be ascribed divinity without some kind of existence which transcended the finitude of human existence? Ben Blackwell notes that ancient deification might be based on both immortality and the power to bring order from chaos.92 Immortality simply means that “they have no end, that they are not subject to death”.93 Such immortality need not be predicated on ontological claims, but social factors like “honour, fame and remembrance”.94 This is true of Roman practice, too, in which the claims for the divinity of great statemen were connected to their virtues and mythic predecessors like Romulus.95 Spencer Cole makes the point that such claims, and, indeed, the use of metaphors as well, should not be qualified by adverbs which effectively dismiss their significance: “just” and “only” being cases in point.96 Immortality of rulers thus becomes a strong recognition of their power, not least by their ability to provide order (Aristides, Or. 26.32; 26.103–105, 107; Plato, Tim. 90d).97 This process of deification is primarily expressed in memorial or cultic terms.98 It also gives us an understanding of divinity which is not founded on ontic categories, but rather on values which shaped many ancient societies: honour and status. Viewed from this perspective, divinity becomes the preferred identification of pinnacle of human perfection. Such developments were not restricted to the political sphere, but were also found in philosophy. Other schools provide precedents in which divinity is associated with a philosophical perspective. The ascription of divinity, immortality or proximity to the gods to the sage was not unique:99 such claims had been made

92

Blackwell, Christosis, 46. Blackwell, Christosis, 47. 94 Blackwell, Christosis, 47. 95 Cole, Cicero, 185–198 for a summary, including the prominent role played by Cicero in the extant writings of the period. 96 Cole, Cicero, vi. If it is easy for classicists to slip into this trap, it may be even more perilous for Christian theologians with an inherent bias towards ontic categories of divinity. 97 Blackwell, Christosis, 47–48, citing Stephen D. Friesen, Twice Neokoros: Ephesus, Asia, and the Cult of the Flavian Imperial Family (Leiden: Brill, 1993), 151–152. Translations of Aristides in Charles A. Behr, Aelius Aristides: The Complete Works Vol. 2 (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 96. 98 Blackwell, Christosis, 103. Note that ontological claims may also be sustained, further divided into the following sub-categeories: essential, which may be further subdivided as either natural or transformational, or attributive (metaphorical), which may be further subdivided as likeness (ethical) or participation (realist).These figure more prominently in Gnostic, Platonic, Neo-Platonic and Christian writing (104). 99 For an overview, see John R. Lenz, “Deification of the Philosopher in Classical Greece”, in Partakers of the Divine Nature: The History and Development of Deification in the Christian Traditions, ed. Michael J. Christensen and Jeffrey A. Wittung (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2008), 47–67. 93

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in respect of Socrates.100 The behavioural or ethical dimension of divinity includes a discussion which flows from terms associated with ὁµοίωσις θεῷ, long a goal and outcome of Platonic ethics.101 Indeed, Epicurean assimilation of the concept appears to draw on the imagery of the Timaeus and the Laws, but with a focus on the mortal self rather than the Platonic concern with the immortal. 102 The philosopher is ascribed immortality on the basis of bringing order from chaos in the sense of providing a way of life, and a rationale for existence. As well as the social construct of divinity, the constraints of atomism and materialism within Epicureanism suggest there is no claim for posthumous existence.103 It is possible to be a god in this lifetime. This is how Lucretius describes Epicurus: deus ille fuit, deus.104 The tense is significant: fuit, not est. It eliminates any possibility that Epicurus has some continuing existence.105 This is not Lucretius’s only word on the matter. He is not above using the mythological imagery of his time to describe Epicurus. Thus, Epicurean doctrine springs from the fertile mind of Epicurus much as the Goddess Athene sprang from the head of Zeus: Nam simul ac ratio tua coepit uociferari Naturam rerum, diuina mente coorta… As soon as your philosophy of the nature of the universe began to be expounded, arising from a divine mind….106

Epicurean tradition appears to recognise the possibility of deification, but not according to the tenets of Epicurus’s predecessors, and distinct from the identification as gods (deus/divus) of those who wield political power.107 The subjects of deification here are sages who reveal knowledge for achieving ἀταραξία and ἀπονία. The claim is not without its difficulties, but these may stem from our modern tendency, strongly shaped by Christianity, to polarise the human and the divine. 100 Necip Fikri Alican, Rethinking Plato: A Cartesian Quest for the Real Plato (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2012), 454–455; Cole, Cicero, 147; Michael Erler, “La Sacralizzazione Di Socrati e Di Epicuro” in Il Culto di Epicuro: Testi. Iconografia e Paesaggio, ed. Marco Beretta, Francesco Citti and Alessandro Iannucci (Biblioteca di Nuncius Studi et Testi LXXV. Firenze: Leo S. Olschki, 2014), 1–13; Hadot, What is Philosophy?, 39–50. 101 Michael Erler, “Epicurus as Deus Mortalis: Homoiosis Theoi and Epicurean Self-Cultivation” in Traditions of Theology: Studies in Hellenistic Theology, Its Background and Aftermath, ed. Dorothea Frede and Andre Laks (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 159–177 at 159. 102 Erler, “Deus Mortalis”, 163–167. 103 Charles Segal, “Poetic Immortality and the Fear of Death: The Second Proem of the De Rerum Natura”, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 92 (1989), 193–212 at 195. 104 Lucretius, DRN 5.8. 105 Erler, “La Sacralizzazione”, 1. 106 Lucretius, DRN 3.14–15; Kenney, Lucretius, 37, 76–77. Translation mine. 107 Michael Peppard, The Son of God in the Roman World: Divine Sonship in its Social and Political Context (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 41.

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It becomes obvious that the concept of “god” is not simple within Epicureanism. “Gods” as used of the metacosmic beings is very different in meaning and substance from “god” as used of Epicurus, where it signifies one in whom human life has been brought to perfection.108 This is itself evidence of the spectrum of possible understandings of divinity within the school; a warning that the use of a term or concept need not be monolithic, and may be refined by the lexical field in which the word is located.109 Other objections arise from within the ancient world. In his discussion of such matters, Cicero explores this Epicurean claim and makes the Academician Cotta criticise the Epicurean Velleius for holding beliefs about the divinisation of humans which appear tantamount to the Stoic claims which he as just dismissed (Nat. d., 1.39, 43).110 This criticism may not be justified: it is more of a rhetorical conflation to make a point. The Stoics viewed the soul of the individual merging with a universal divinity (Cicero, Nat. d. 1.39): Epicureanism did not. The term used in praise of Epicurus (Lucretius, DRN 5.8) echoes the view of Euhemerus of Messene that those who give great benefits to humanity become gods, 111 though it is unlikely that Lucretius subscribed wholesale to a full-blown Euhemerism.112 Rather the divinisation of Epicurus is accomplished by following what Michael Erler identifies as “three prescriptions”: a) he listened to nature and interpreted it rightly b) he knows how to control the emotions, using measure and limit as criteria c) he approached the gods with a pure soul, for he did not project false opinion upon the conception of them.113

From this point, ὁµοίωσις θεῷ becomes ὁµοίωσις φύσει: the assimilation, not the transcendence, of nature, in which mortality is perfected.114 Claims for immortality were part and parcel of ancient life: there were a number of claims for heroes, poetic, and literary figures being immortalised.115 Similar claims had been made for Hellenistic rulers and would persist, later, in regard to Roman emperors. They could be problematic because of the undesirable characteristics of some for whom divinity was claimed.116 Obviously such objections 108

Erler, “Deus Mortalis”, 168. James Barr, The Semantics of Biblical Language (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1961), 235. 110 Cole, Cicero, 152. 111 W.L. Leonard and S.B. Smith, De Rerum Natura: The Latin Text of Lucretius (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1942), 645. 112 Monica Gale, Myth and Poetry in Lucretius (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 75–80; Algra “Hellenistic”, 215. 113 Erler, “Deus Mortalis”, 169. 114 Erler, “Deus Mortalis”, 172. 115 M. David Litwa, Jesus Deus: The Early Christian Depiction of Jesus as a Mediterranean God (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2014), 26. 116 Litwa, Jesus Deus, 24. 109

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do not arise in the claims of a philosophical school for their exemplary founder. In many of these mythic and historic situations, immortality and deification/divinisation were synonymous: “Insofar as the life received is immortal life, it is also divine life”.117 However, the language of immortality is not really appropriate for a discussion of Epicurus, who was divinised, not immortalised. Immortality is not, cannot be, accurate in respect of Epicurus (fuit, not est). Claims for his divinisation did not demand a claim for immortality. How could they? He had died, and death was then followed by nothing-ness. To claim immortality would have been an impossibility. His heirs recognised the difference: Lucretius pointedly never uses the language of immortality (perpetuus, aeternus) of persons or living creatures. Divinisation is more about the value of Epicurus’s teachings, and the honour and status he accrued from it, than an ontological or metaphysical claim.118 Epicurus is divinised because of his teaching just as the poetic greats had been for their verse.119 His teaching contains a theoria (a way of understanding the world) which is highly pragmatic, as the control of the emotions suggests, “transmits behaviour”,120 and puts life and death in perspective.121 As Litwa notes: The benefits of Epicurus are better than Ceres, Liber, and Hercules. The reason why they are better, we learn, is because they are moral. They purge the heart from its infections. They do away with internal fears, anxieties, arrogance, and sloth that worm their way into the human soul. Because he freed people from these passions, Epicurus – who models the victory over all the wild beasts of the soul – is worthy to join the gods.122

Except that he cannot join “the gods” (for him, those named are not gods), cannot join the metacosmic gods, and cannot have an immortal, post-mortem existence. A significant point of this exemplary status is that the Epicurean gods, either in their metacosmic existence, or as a code for the sage, are not constrained by ἀνάγκη.123 This is not the illusory wishful thinking of idealised behaviour for which Epicurus and Lucretius criticised conventional Graeco-Roman theology, but the outcome of their natural philosophy which is predicated on the machinery of chance. The resulting pragmatic theoria gives people control over their own destinies, and the chance to live the perfect life, and to become gods within this world, and this world alone.

117

Litwa, Jesus Deus, 168. Segal, “Poetic Immortality”, 199–200. 119 Segal, “Poetic Immortality”, 201–202. 120 Erler, “Deus Mortalis”, 174. 121 Segal, “Poetic Immortality”, 207–208. 122 Litwa, Jesus Deus, 107. 123 See Chapter 3. 118

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B. God in the FG From the very outset, it is clear that the FG’s theology is very different from that of Epicureanism. The Prologue (John 1:1–18) reveals major divergences. These, it must be added, are never addressed in a manner which engages with Epicurean theology. Rather, they are presented as definitive statements about God. The Prologue begins with a stress on the singularity of God which is sustained throughout the whole FG. This need not mark a significant practical difference from Epicureanism, given that its plural language need not indicate any commitment to polytheism. However, there is no room for even plural language in the FG. The use of the singular is pervasive; the FG contains no mention of a plurality of gods: θεός alone appears throughout. The understanding of “gods” will be a false idea which is a source of harm and needs replacement with the correct preconception. Indeed, the singularity of god is potentially stressed by the disputed, though well-attested, reading, µονογενὴς θεὸς (Jn 1:18).124 Even if this is an emendation, its traction shows that such a claim was permissible within the trajectories which circulated around the FG. Then there is the question of divine identity. The FG’s repetition of Father as identifying God marks a radical difference from Epicurean theology which will admit neither a creative nor relational dimension to its metacosmic deities.125 We have already noted the possibilities of realism or idealism in Epicurean theology, recognising that ancient understandings did not demand a clear ontic claim about the gods. If the Epicureans held to an idealist construct of the gods, this is challenged by the opening verses of the FG, which rather opts for divine realism and ontology: καὶ θεὸς ἦν (John 1:1).126 Then, there is the vexed question of the variety of divinity within Epicureanism. The FG’s understanding of God does not share the premises of Epicurean theology with its metacosmic deities distinct from a divinised founder. It is based on Jesus as the Logos made flesh, which in turn implies an action taken by a real God. In contrast to an Epicurean understanding in which the metacosmic gods are apprehended through streams of emanations or eidola, and a human being may also be called divine because its theological language admits a spectrum of possibilities, the FG’s audience is given a picture in which God is apprehended through the truly human Jesus. Hans Weder summarises it in the following way: Christology here is not a theory of the incarnation, but rather an evocation in language of what Christ embodies. Christology is anything but a theory which replaces Christ. Rather, it 124

The text is disputed. See Moloney, The Gospel, 46. Comparison of the roles of Epicurus and Jesus is further addressed in chapter 6. 126 Charles K. Barrett, “‘The Father is Greater than I’: John 14:28: Subordinationist Christology in the New Testament” in Essays on John, ed. Charles K. Barrett (London: SPCK, 1982), 19–36 at 23. 125

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is a language with but one goal, namely, to provide access to the event of the incarnation itself. It is the making – the representation – of something that can never be comprehended theoretically, since its fulcral point is the assertion that Christ represents the reality of God in the world, in the sense of his efficacious presence. The Christ is not information about God, but rather the incarnation of the divine Logos.127

William Loader has succinctly summarised the content of the FG’s theocentric Christology: The central event is the Son’s making of the Father known, bringing light and life and truth, and completing the Father’s work. All else focusses on this. His having been with the Father, being sent and coming from the Father, is what makes this possible. His return to the Father – exalted, glorified, and ascended – and his sending the disciples and the Spirit is what make it possible for this to be understood, announced to the world and lived out in the community of faith.128

Thus, a real God is apprehended through a real human life. The two traditions have very different theophanies. Discussions of the Messiah or Christ demand knowledge of Jewish theology which is not part of Epicurean thought. Such references (John 1:17, 20, 41; 3:28; 4:25, 29; 7:27, 31, 41; 9:22; 10:24; 11:27; 20:30), let alone the finer details of competing Messianic language, as well as other Judaic phrases like ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου (Son of Man – John 1:51; 3:13–14; 5:27; 6:27, 53, 62; 8:28; 9:35; 12:23, 34; 13:31) and ὁ ἀµνὸς τοῦ θεοῦ (Lamb of God John 1:29, 36), are alien to the Epicurean tradition, and their presence suggests that significant portions of the FG’s depiction of Jesus simply would not resonate with it, beyond a general impression that such terms impute some desirable or high honour or status to Jesus. The FG’s usage of ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου includes a number of elements: pre-existence, crucifixion/exaltation/ heavenly ascent, judgment. These will allow his followers to be exalted.129 These all indicate major departures from Epicurean thought: a postmortem or spiritual life, movement between different cosmic layers, judgment, and a soteriological and positive function for death. As Jaime Clark-Soles summarises, such a worldview is “diametrically opposed” to Epicureanism.130 Ὁ ἀµνὸς τοῦ θεοῦ is equally difficult: it presents Jesus as taking away death, bringing life and delivering his followers from bondage, from their sins and their ignorance,131 whether construed in sacrificial, cultic or revelatory terms.132 The only common point here with Epicureanism is the idea of being set free from ignorance. The accounts of Epicurus’s death depict him maintaining his values

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Weder, “Deus Incarnatus”, 328. Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 143–144. 129 Adela Yarbro Collins and John J. Collins, King and Messiah as Son of God (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008), 183–186. 130 Clark-Soles, Death, 140. 131 Brant, John, 48–50, 63. 132 See the extensive treatment in Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 148–213. 128

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even on his deathbed: he died according to his principles.133 Nothing more, nothing less. There the similarity ends. Epicureans viewed ignorance as the failure to grasp ἀταραξία and ἀπονία; the FG, failure to recognise Jesus. These cannot be readily reconciled. Such differences need to be acknowledged and recognised; otherwise a false picture of similarity may emerge. However, the Johannine account lends itself to an understanding of God more readily acceptable to an Epicurean, that of status. God and the relationship of Jesus to God are explored using the theme of δόξα (glory), which is used repeatedly to denote God’s presence.134 Thus, if the claim that Jesus was God is made, it might initially be acceptable as a statement about divinity couched in terms of divinization or ὁµοίωσις θεῷ. However, the other factors already mentioned would soon make clear that this was a programme in which God and humanity combined in a way different from the dual exposition of divinity given in Epicureanism. This holds good even if the language of heaven in the FG is not a literal description of the location of an afterlife, but rather a “metonym for God” which is about a “familial relationship, not a castle in the sky”.135 They might also recognise a moral component, insomuch as Jesus embodies a perfect morality identified by the language, of love, of obedience, of doing the Father’s will, and being one with him. Obedience is couched in terms which make it attractive, neither “legalistic” nor “onerous”,136 and leads to a desirable outcome shared with Epicureanism: χαρά (joy).137 They might also recognise the envoy motif used of ambassadors and other across the ancient world in which the one sent may share the status of the one who sends, without any ontological identification,138 even if the FG’s usage appears to include pre-existence, and thus, an ontological dimension,139 likely reflecting a Judaic understanding of divine agency.140 Readers who approach the FG with understandings of divinity based on morality, honour, and status will however be faced with other passages which appear to make the case

133 Eleni Kechagia, “Dying Philosophers in Ancient Biography: Zeno the Stoic and Epicurus” in Writing Biography in Greece and Rome: Narrative Technique and Fictionalization, ed. Koen De Temmerman and Kristoffel Demoen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 181–199, esp. 190–199. 134 Thompson, The God, 123. 135 Clark-Soles, “I Will Raise”, 48–49. 136 Bruner, The Gospel, 31. 137 Andreas J. Köstenberger, John (Baker Exegetical Commentary on the NT. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2004), 456. 138 Barrett, “‘The Father Is Greater than I’”, 25–26; Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 23– 24. 139 Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 455. 140 Per Jarle Bekken, The Lawsuit Motif in John’s Gospel from New Perspectives: Jesus Christ, Crucified Criminal and Emperor of the World (Supplements to Novum Testamentum 158. Leiden: Brill, 2014), 148–175.

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for an ontic understanding of Jesus and God, and so challenged to accept a set of claims alien to their presuppositions. If this is so, their reading experience may resemble that of those who appear to approach the FG from a Docetic perspective, disputed though this is, finding some verses which seem to agree with that view, but others which do not. There is, of course, one major difference. Views of divinity based on moral, honour/status, and ontic claims need not suffer the antithesis found between Docetic and anti-Docetic: they can be held in tandem (“both-and” rather than “either-or”). In short, the Epicurean context provides one in which moral, honour, and statusbased views of divinity are countered with views which recognise those values as lenses for making such pronouncements, but further add ontology and metaphysics to their claims. The putative dialogue between the two traditions is a reminder that divine claims in the ancient need not have an ontological dimension; divinity could be predicated in different ways. If anthropomorphism, to the extent that the gods are described in human terms, and a theology based on analogy and isonomia, informed the Epicurean tradition, the Johannine programme embraces knowing God by knowing Jesus, and that means knowing Jesus as the Logos made flesh, as a human being. Both share an interest in the “flesh” as the locus for developing a way of life and its attendant theory. 141 Unfortunately, scholarship on the FG has often introduced a dichotomy: “scholars have tended to align themselves either with a more divine reading of Jesus or a more human one”, depending on whether they stress δόξα (glory – the divine) over σάρξ (flesh – the human).142 However, the fusion of the two has been recognised in more recent scholarship by both Marianne Thompson, who stresses both the divinity and humanity of Jesus,143 and Paul Anderson, who argues for the co-existence of both in Jesus.144 It is thus possible, in the broadest terms, to see a shared correspondence between the two traditions: the recognition of the divine in the human. The resemblance crumbles for reasons already pointed out. The FG posits knowledge of God through a human life lived in the world, not the flow of eidola which give human form to metacosmic deities, together with a second, distinct manifestation of divinity in the life of the sage preserved in a philosophic legacy. There is also a crucial difference in timing which again shows how different the Epicurean and Johannine concepts of god in human form were metaphysically. It can be expressed simply: deus ille fuit, with the conclusion that Epicurus no longer exists, simply cannot be reconciled with πρὶν Ἀβραὰµ γενέσθαι ἐγὼ εἰµί (John 8:58), which suggests that Jesus 141

See Chapter 3. Meredith J.C. Warren, My Flesh is Meat Indeed: A Nonsacramental Reading of John 6:51–58 (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2015), 23. 143 Thompson, The Humanity, 40–42, see also Warren, My Flesh, 24. 144 Anderson, The Christology, 137–66, see also Warren, My Flesh, 25. 142

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points to God, with all that entails about the Father-Son relationship145 and/or pre-existence.146 Both are alien to Epicureanism. Nevertheless, both view a human dimension as a vital component of theological understanding, particularly given Epicurean theology’s basis in προλήψεις and innatism, as well as the identification of the sage. It is much easier to see common ground in the shared assumption that God or ‘gods’ have an exemplary function. Epicurean and Johannine theology share an interest in the exemplary function of the deity, the significance of “flesh”, and the fact that the divine is correlated with human life – a theme which will be re-iterated when the saving role of Epicurus is explored in Chapter 6. The Epicurean sage reveals divinity through the acquisition of ἀπονία and ἀταραξία; Jesus presents an immanent picture of a transcendent God and reveals how to participate in ζωὴ αἰώνιος. Jesus is God revealed and known in human form. This location in a life suggests that Jesus, like Epicurus, in the broadest terms, functions both as an example of right living, and provides teaching which allows his followers to practise what he has shown them. However, the relationships between Jesus and God, and Epicurus and the gods, are different. Additionally, the narrative suggests that God will further provide assistance to enable those followers to follow Jesus’s example: the work of the Spirit or Paraclete.147 However, further exploration of this exemplary function is best left until the full role of Epicurus has been described, and then a more complete comparison can be drawn between the two, particularly to show how Jesus might function better in this regard.148 This common emphasis on the human dimensions of theological discourse also distances the FG’s theology from the opponents of Epicureanism. Even if the Logos, with all its Stoic associations, is used as a key term to identify God, the substance of the one so identified becomes more remote from the non-anthropomorphic deities of Stoic thought. The FG’s conflation of Logos and anthropomorphism means that, in regard to both Stoicism and Epicureanism, his theology provides a frustrating combination of acceptable and unacceptable elements to the members of both schools. Mapped against the theological contours of such schools, the FG’s God cannot simply be identified as adopting any single viewpoint: it is a fusion, or hybrid, of elements which are acceptable to the evangelist’s own programme, not simply the adoption or regurgitation of an already 145 Charles K. Barrett, “Symbolism” in Essays on John, ed. Charles K. Barrett (London: SPCK, 1982), 65–79 at 71–72. 146 Masanobu Endo, Creation and Christology: A Study on the Johannine Prologue in the Light of Early Jewish Creation Accounts (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 2.149. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 232–233; John Lierman, Challenging Perspectives on the Gospel of John (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2.219. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 104; Witherington, John’s Wisdom, 157. 147 See Chapter 3. 148 See Chapter 6.

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developed position. This fusion also includes the biblical and post-biblical traditions about wisdom, and the related speculations of Hellenistic Judaism, all of which lead to the implication that Jesus was “a pre-existent figure who became incarnate”.149 The FG might also reflect modified monotheistic traditions within Judaism, in which different aspects of God were identified using a variety of divine or angelic names and titles.150 If Philodemus’s depiction of the gods in anthropomorphic terms marked a critique of Stoic theology, the FG presents an equally anthropomorphic view of God, but one completely different from the Epicurean. The FG allows perception of God in the world (ἐν τῷ κόσµῳ – John 1:10), one which reaches its climax in the word made flesh dwelling in the created world (καὶ ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο καἰ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡµῖν – John 1:14). Marianne Thompson has argued that the use of σάρξ demands that the revelation of God occurs through the “flesh” of Jesus, not just a revelation in the “earthly sphere”. 151 This is far removed from προλήψεις, which might conceivably be considered in this way. The FG’s cosmology will bring God back into the world, rather than leaving the gods beyond it. Epicureans used the geographical location ἔξω τοῦ κόσμου to diminish fear of the gods. From an Epicurean point of view, this has re-introduced the potential for fear. The next step for the FG, if it shares the concerns of the Epicureans to diminish fear of the gods, will be to describe the nature of the God who is able to be ἐν τῷ κόσµῳ without provoking fear, but this strategy is necessarily contrary to the Epicurean. Revelation is inextricably linked to the FG’s preferred term for Jesus’s activity: σηµεία (signs – John 2:11,18, 23; 3:2; 4:48, 54; 6:2, 14, 26, 30; 7:31; 9:16; 10:41; 11:47; 12:18, 37; 20:30). These signs serve to embody God’s δόξα in “visible manifestations”.152 Here it may be helpful to define δόξα not just by the common cipher of “glory”, but within its wider sense as a category of status or honour, which tends, in the NT, to be used of God (John 5:44; 7:18; 8:50), but not exclusively (thus, John 5:44).153 Δόξα as a key term in the categories of honour and shame in the ancient world thus makes honorific claims about divine status.154 At a number of points these resonate with the honour claims of the ancient world.

149

Collins and Collins, King and Messiah, 177–178. Margaret Barker, The Great Angel: A Study of Israel’s Second God (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1992). 151 Thompson, The Humanity, 50. 152 Thompson, The Humanity, 83. 153 Halvor Moxnes, “Honor and Shame” in The Social Sciences and New Testament Interpretation, ed. Richard L. Rohrbaugh (Grand Rapids MI: Baker Academic, 2003),19–40 at 23–24. 154 David DeSilva, Honor, Patronage, Kinship & Purity: Unlocking New Testament Culture (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2000), 27–28; Jerome H. Neyrey, The Gospel of John, 218: Richard L. Rohrbaugh, “The Jesus tradition: The gospel writers’ strategies of 150

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The phrase ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ (son of God) is one example.155 Unlike titles which were essentially Judaic, this had some traction in Graeco-Roman theology,156 from where its usage seems to have influenced Jewish messianism “as an honorific title and perhaps also in the willingness to entertain language of divinity with reference to a future king”.157 This convergence explains its appearance in the dialogue between Jesus’s accusers and Pilate (John 19:7) and may indicate an attempt to politicise Jesus. The same goes for Thomas’s declaration of him as Lord and God ( ὁ κύριός μου καὶ ὁ θεός μου – John 20:28), with its echoes of the Latin dominus et deus, used to flatter Domitian.158 Such political claims, and identifications as divine, may have sat uneasily with Epicurean readers, but it must be remembered that Vergil, sympathetic as he was to Epicurean thought, could also write panegyrics for Augustus, and identify him as a child of god. Ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ is a conduit which makes clear the honour and status claims which lie behind the many references to Jesus as the Son, and the fatherhood of of God. However, the FG gives this traditional term its own specific focus: Jesus is portrayed as a pre-existent, heavenly messiah. He is son of God in a unique way as the “only-begotten God”. 159

Verses like John 1:18 and 3:16 support the claim for uniqueness,160 and Jesus becomes open to the charge of blasphemy (John 5:18; 10:33, 19:7). However, care needs to be taken. Jewish definitions of blasphemy were not identical to Graeco-Roman. Further, there is no guarantee that claims to be divine were illegal in Roman law. 161 Indeed, the designation of Epicurus as deus, even if he was never subject to Roman jurisdiction, implies a strong acceptance and approval for divine claims, and may even suggest that such claims were not contentious as long as they had no political aspirations.162 The title claims an exalted origin: that Jesus has a heavenly origin, or rather a divine one, sometimes explained as coming from the Father, will be repeated to challenge the slur of his earthly origin in an undesirable area (John 3:13, 31; persuasion” in The Early Christian World Vol. 1, ed. Philip F. Esler (London: Routledge, 2000), 198–230 at 211. 155 John 1:34(?), 49; 3:18; 5:25; 10:36; 11:4: 19:7. 156 Martin Hengel, The Cross of the Son of God, trans. John Bowden (London: SCM Press, 1986), 19–39; Peppard, The Son of God, 14–49 for an overview both of modern scholarship and “son of God” in the Roman world. 157 Collins and Collins, King and Messiah, 73–74. 158 Collins and Collins, King and Messiah, 175–176, fn. 3. 159 Collins and Collins, King and Messiah, 186. 160 Zumstein, L’Évangile (1–12), 67, 121. 161 Collins and Collins, King and Messiah, 181–183. Thus Brant, John, 247–48 points out that “to proclaim oneself the Son of God is not self-evidently blasphemy or a violation of Jewish or Roman law.” 162 Thus, such claims appear to straddle two lexical fields and are distinguished by political concerns.

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6:35–40, 46–51, 57; 7:18, 28–29; 8:23, 29, 38, 42; 9:36). John 1:51 implies that the glory properly due to Jesus surpasses anything earthly, 163 and so makes claims for him as holding a status which surpasses any earthly or human claim. The practice of using heavenly imagery in a symbolic rather than a cosmological or geographical sense to indicate superior status was known to Epicureans, given that Lucretius makes use of the image of heavenly ascent.164 The claims about honour and status being made here will be comprehensible to some degree. Claims about honour and status in the FG also include earthly geography and location, and like those of a divine or earthly origin, imply the highest status. Again, some prior knowledge is needed to get the point. The question of origins returns in the question of Jesus’s hometown (John 7:27), which leads into a discussion of the Messiah’s origins (John 7:40–42), which rapidly deteriorates into a debate about whether a prophet, let alone a Messiah, may come from Galilee (John 7:52). This last claim can be quickly dismissed given the origins in Galilee of “Jonah (2 Kgs 14:25) and possibly Elijah (1 Kgs 17:1) and Nahum (Nah 1:1)”.165 The FG drips with irony at this point.166 However, if Palestinian geography and scriptural claims are strange to the reader, the claims made about him will be equally elusive. The comments about Jesus’s origins (John 1:45–46) are further examples, indicating either that he has triumphed over such a humble beginning, or that it is an illusion: his origins lie elsewhere (John 1:1) as does his ultimate destination (John 1:51) which will thus give a new quality of seeing and knowing to his followers. This is what lies behind the motifs of exaltation and glorification.167 As such, it marks a claim for superiority over all other religious or philosophical traditions, including Epicureanism. John 7 includes a further debate about Jesus’s ultimate destination, where again the claim of his opponents, that he might simply be going to another country (John 7:35), has failed to recognise a superior claim: his ultimate return to the Father (John 7:33–34). The point is made again when Jesus’s warning of his departure is interpreted as a sign of his intending suicide (John 8:21–22). This same chapter contains further argument about status, in the claim that Jesus is possessed (John 8:48) as opposed to being worthy of honour because of his relationship with the Father (John 8:49–51). The debate about honour and status also concerns the number of signs which are performed by Jesus (John 7:31), that they

163

Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 256. Michael J. Edwards, “Treading the Aether: Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, 1:62–79”, Classical Quarterly 40 (1990), 465–69. The FG shares this symbolic pattern (Clark-Soles, Death, 139–140). 165 Andreas J. Köstenberger, “John” in Commentary on the New Testament Use of the Old Testament, ed. Gregory K. Beale and Donald A. Carson (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic/Apollos, 2007), 415–512 at 456. 166 Collins and Collins, King and Messiah, 179; Keener, The Gospel, 734–735. 167 Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 255. 164

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indicate status (he is not a sinner – John 9:31), and their unique quality (John 9:32). Such elements leave open the possibility that Epicurean readers might interpret the God of the FG and Jesus in social terms. This, from their perspective, need not be a diminished theology (“only a social understanding”) simply because it lacks an ontic dimension. That said, it would demand a different understanding of the nature of deity, as the FG’s heavenly god made human would be different from the metacosmic gods and deified sages of Epicureanism. Accepting an ontic understanding of God would demand an even greater shift away from Epicurean metaphysics. The focal point, too, is completely different: Jesus, not Epicurus and his fellow sages. Other factors in the FG’s presentation would also be problematic, given the terms used. The identification of God with the Logos (ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος, καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν θεόν, καὶ θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος – John 1:1) smacks of a Stoic resonance, given the prominence of the Λόγος in the theology of that tradition. If so, it indicates a very different programme from Epicureanism. Any such identification is, however, short-lived: that the Logos becomes flesh (καὶ ὁ λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο καὶ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡµῖν – John 1:14) marks a significant departure from Stoic norms. Further problems come in the shape of theological language. As has been seen, Epicurean descriptions of the gods appear buttressed by Hellenistic traditions: Philodemus’s descriptions have been explained thus as a way of validating Hellenism, notably its Homeric elements. This cannot be said of the gospels. Whilst the History of Religions School may have attempted to identify origins and influences of Johannine theology anywhere but in Judaic culture, the study of the FG in more recent years, notably after the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, has tended to re-iterate the strongly Judaic identity of the FG: The exegesis of no document in the New Testament has been so fundamentally altered by the recovery of the scrolls as the Gospel according to John: What some nineteenth century scholars had identified as a second century Greek composition is now perceived to be a late first century Jewish writing. That is a shift in paradigms, and it is due in part to the assessment of archeological discoveries, especially the Dead Sea Scrolls.168

This paradigm shift169 may well raise questions about the fluidity with which an Epicurean might move towards the FG’s Christianity and adds a further note 168

James H. Charlesworth, “The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Gospel according to John” in Exploring the Gospel of John: In Honor of D. Moody Smith, ed. R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996), 65–97 at 65. 169 For treatments of the paradigm shift, see Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions: 50th Anniversary Edition (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2012) and David J. Bosch, Transforming Mission: Paradigm Shifts in Theology of Mission. 20th Anniversary Edition (American Society of Missiology Series, No. 16. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2011).

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of caution to DeWitt’s optimism about the closeness of the Epicurean and Christian traditions, particularly with respect to this gospel. With this shift, the Epicurean is confronted with a battery of alien language, concepts and metaphors, especially if hailing from a context with little exposure to Judaism, not just material congenial to a Graeco-Roman environment. The divine “I am”, and the cognate sayings associated with it (John 6: 35, 48, 51; 8:12; 10:9, 11, 14; 11:25; 14:6; 15:1), are essentially Judaic constructions. Yet the absolute “I am” (John 8:58) would not be completely inaccessible. It makes a claim about Jesus which might have been recognizable to a Greek or Roman: religious and magical inscriptions alike used an identifiable “I am” formula to indicate divinity,170 but this does not indicate that it would have resonated with the particular theological concerns of Epicureanism. The same applies to the cognates. Previous remarks also hold good. Such symbols may function at a very basic level: – Bread is indicative of giving life in general terms, but also used thus in philosophical legend.171 Thus, Epictetus, Diatr. 2.20.32 comments on Demeter as the divine source of bread. – Wine – may indicate the presence of a deity (e.g., Dionysus)172 – Darkness is associated with death from Homer onwards173 – Light – is related to life, but also enlightenment, esp. in Platonism, and thereafter, the transformation of life to be achieved via philosophy174 – Water – associated with life175 – Shepherd – is used sometimes of political leaders. It is interesting to compare the words attributed to Tiberius: boni pastoris esse tondere pecus, non deglubere (“the good shepherd is to shear his sheep, not skin them”– Suetonius, Tib. 32.2).176 The term is always linked to context and not be assumed to have a single, universal application: Romans did not use the term “shepherd” for their emperors, considering it offensive.177 There is no guarantee that all ancient readers would read even general symbolism in exactly the same way.

170

Koester, Symbolism, 94. Koester, Symbolism, 97–98. 172 Koester, Symbolism, 80–81. 173 Koester, Symbolism, 128. 174 Koester, Symbolism, 128, 131–132. Plutarch, Mor. 76B, 77D, 81E; Philo, Opif. 30– 31, 54–55, 71; Somn. 1.75. 175 Koester, Symbolism, 155. 176 Suetonius, Tiberius, ed. Maximilian Ihm (Leipzig: Teubner, 1897), 138. Translation mine. See also Brant, John, 160. 177 Wayne Baxter, Israel’s Only Shepherd: Matthew's Shepherd Motif and His Social Setting (Library of New Testament Studies Vol. 457. London: T&T Clark, 2012), 96. 171

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These might well have been accessible to any reader or audience. However, the use of such phrases in the FG is often enriched by links to specifically Judaic contexts, like the Temple, its feasts (John 2:13; 5:1; 6:4; 7:2; 10:22; 12:1; 13:1), and the scriptures. At best such general symbolism can provide only an introit to the FG’s depiction of Jesus and God. Despite such differences, there is an epistemological point held in common: that god has not been properly recognised (καὶ ὁ κόσµος αὐτὸν οὐκ ἔγνω – John 1:10). Epicureans and the adherents and producers of the FG might well agree that common versions of divinity were erroneous. However, agreement is short-lived. The same verse reveals a further division: the God of the FG has created the world (καὶ ὁ κόσµος διʼ αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο – John 1:10). Immediately this marks a departure from the Epicurean view. The role of the Logos as creator admits no place for materialism, chance, or the random swerve of molecules. However, it also makes a further point of agreement: it rules out the concept of ἀνάγκη. The FG avoids any concept of fate, notably in denying such forces any role precipitating Jesus to his death: Jesus is always the master of his own destiny. What Neyrey says of Jesus’s arrest (John 18:7–8), namely that “nothing happens against his will; he is in no way diminished”, holds good for the FG in its entirety.178 This leads to a further potential agreement with an Epicurean ethos. Epicureans, in rejecting both concepts like Ἀνάγκη and the possibility of divine intervention in the world, made human responsibility critical to the living of the good life. The language that the FG uses of God makes this an appropriate juncture to consider the relationship between God and the world as deterministic. A number of phrases appear to support such a reading of God’s relationship with the world (John 6:37; 10:28–30; 17:12; 18:9). If this is so, it is a major divergence from Epicureanism, for it would imply that Johannine teleology was not predicated on the behaviour of the individual, but on that of God. Whilst it is certainly the case that some Johannine phrasing may be read thus, it does not comprise the total picture given, one which needs to be read against the background of the OT prophets, notably Isaiah.179 Indeed, there are some hints of predestination or predeterminism in John 6:44; 8:44, 47; 12:40, and 18:37, which share, with the Qumran writings, “dualistic motifs”.180 John 6:37 is a further example, with its injunction πᾶν ὂ δίδωσίν µοι ὁ πατὴρ πρὸς ἐµὲ ἤξει, which makes God the significant actor, and seemingly reduces believers to object status.181

178

Neyrey, The Gospel of John, 420. B.J. Oropeza, In the Footsteps of Judas and Other Defectors: The Gospels, Acts and Johannine Letters. Apostasy in the New Testament Communities Vol. 1 (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2011), 168. 180 Charlesworth, “The Dead Sea Scrolls”, 83–84, quote from 84. 181 Barrett, The Gospel, 282. 179

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Yet this process is a parallel to, and needs to be read in, the context of “believing” (ὁ πιστεύων εἰς ἐµὲ οὐ µὴ διψήσει πώποτε – John 6:35), with its Isaian promise of a people collected from a variety of backgrounds.182 However, such a gathering does not guarantee the salvation of every member of the constituent groups: What is inevitable is the collective whole made up of various people groups coming to Jesus. These groups are destined for salvation, rather than every individual or a preselected number within those groups. They are predetermined in the sense that God, through his prophet, promised that such an event would take place – i.e., that the various peoples would all be saved in the new era – and God’s word would accomplish what I sets out to do (Isa 55:1– 11).183

Rather than teach determinism, the verses expect that individual believers and groups need to persevere in doing the will of God, and that is a matter of choice and responsibility: These promises seem to assume human responsibility because final perseverance applies to those individuals who continue believing..., and Johannine thought assumes human beings are presumably free enough to either do or not do God’s will (John 7:17; 9:31; 1 John 2:17; cf. John 5:34–37). A final assurance of perseverance independent of human responsibility to believe does not seem to be what is claimed here.184

The view that human responsibility is significant holds good even for Judas. John 13:18 indicates Judas being chosen for the purpose of fulfilling Ps 40[41]: 9–10,185 but this is exceptional.186 Despite his fulfilling the seemingly inexorable prophecy of the Psalm, he remains culpable: Yet even though Judas’ betrayal seems inevitable, he is still held responsible for his act, and there is no indication that he was coerced to do it (John 12:4–6; 18:2–5).187

The notion of personal responsibility tallies with previous comments made about judgment. John 3:16–21 would shift the onus of judgment from God to humanity: believers and non-believers receive the judgement which they pass upon themselves by believing in Jesus or rejecting him. In the FG, then, “there is no thoroughgoing predestination because of its missiology (see, e.g., 3:16–21)”.188 Far from denying human responsibility in a world where all is predetermined by God, The FG stresses its role as crucial to receiving the promises of God. Its adherents can escape their moral obligations 182

Oropeza, In the Footsteps, 171–172. Oropeza, In the Footsteps, 172. 184 Oropeza, In the Footsteps, 173–174. 185 Judas serves to reveal Jesus’s foreknowledge and as a fulfilment of a prophecy, thus Köstenberger, “John”, 487. 186 Oropeza, In the Footsteps, 183. 187 Oropeza, In the Footsteps, 185. 188 Charlesworth, “The Dead Sea Scrolls”, 83. 183

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neither by appeals to prophecy or necessity or to being simply puppets in some divine plan: Judas is a case in point. Epicureans would have found common ground here in the role of human responsibility. Thereafter their ways would have parted. The Epicurean would need to accomplish this singlehandedly: the Johannine believer would have the assistance of the Paraclete. This adds a further difference between the two traditions. Within Epicureanism, the attainment of ἀταραξία and ἀπονία depend on the individual’s grasp of the tenets of the school. Living by these will assist in reaching such goals. The FG adds in the possibility that the heavenly God, in addition to sending Jesus, will send a second helper (ἄλλον παράκλητον – John 14:15, see also 14:26; 15:26; 16:7; further identified as τὸ πνεῦµα τὸ ἅγιον – John 14:26, or τὸ πνεῦµα τῆς ἀληθείας – John 15:26, 16:12). Effectively, this suggests the intervention of the heavenly god in the earthly realm to help believers to live properly. It is a further example of divine intervention; one which is at odds with Epicurean cosmology and theology. Thus far, the two systems reveal similarities: a role for a deity of some kind, and the rejection of concepts like fate or ἀνάγκη. They share further: (1) the rejection of damaging and illusory ideas, what might be termed conventional religious beliefs, (2) an anthropic element, and (3) the exemplary nature of the deity. Both share common starting point: the rejection of illusory notions about the gods which shaped popular theology. There will be no more room for the gods of Olympus and the chthonic deities of Graeco-Roman religion in the FG than in Epicurus. The FG, like the Epicureans, rejects conventional beliefs about religious practice. The Johannine narrative further shows a rejection of conventional Graeco-Roman religion in a passage which is rarely interpreted thus: John 12:22– 30. The desire of the Greeks, if identified as ethnic Greeks rather than Greekspeaking Jews,189 to see Jesus implies a dissatisfaction with the conventional religion and theology of their culture: they seek religious knowledge in the person of a Jewish man, not a Greek temple, philosophy or mystery religion. This effectively places a human life in a pivotal role as Epicureanism did: Epicurus for the school, Jesus for the FG’s audience. Such a critique includes the conventional beliefs of Judaism as well as GraecoRoman religion. Jn. 4:21–23 makes this explicit: worship in spirit and truth, a higher order than current practice, will replace both Jerusalem and Mt Gerizim. Popular piety has failed to recognise what it claims to both proclaim and anticipate: the presence of Jesus, the Messiah, in the Temple at the feast of Tabernacles shows this. The festival is one with a strong Messianic theme in both its imagery and symbolism. Yet Jesus, identified by the FG as the Messiah, is largely 189 Brown, The Gospel, 466; Brodie, The Gospel, 413; Keener, The Gospel, 872–873; Koester, Symbolism, 21-22, 226-227; Schnackenburg, The Gospel Vol. 2, 381. For an alternative, “Hellenistic Israelites”, see Malina and Rohrbaugh, Social-Science, 211.

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unrecognised by the worshippers in the Temple, and rejected by the religious authorities. However, Jesus is not presented as a rejection of the feast and all it anticipates. Neither is this the case, even for the Temple: a point made clear in the Cleansing of the Temple (John 2:13–21). Here the account makes clear that the destruction of the Temple is not envisioned. Rather, the risen Jesus will perform the functions of the building and precinct.190 In the FG, rejection does not mean so much rejection of the Temple and cult as an affirmation of its significance, now accessible through the person of Jesus rather than the practice of the Temple. However, these points may remain opaque, in all but the broadest terms, to an Epicurean reader, who might be able only to deduce that there is a rejection here of patterns of worship practiced somewhere far off, and a claim that they have been replaced with something or someone claimed to be of a higher order. The FG, like Epicureanism, demands a shift away from generally held contemporary theological convictions. Yet, the grounds of the shift are completely different. For Epicureans, the teaching of Epicurus is the key; for the FG, Jesus. At the heart of the Johannine programme lies a nexus of relations; between Jesus, the Father, the Paraclete and the disciple. The language of “knowing” here is as much relational as epistemic. 191 The language of sonship, conspicuously absent from Epicurean theology, becomes also important. Jesus’s relationship as Son to the Father implies an ontic equality, even if there remains a hierarchical subordinationism.192 That Jesus can do nothing independently of the Father becomes the foundation for the claims which follow, notably in the “I am” sayings.193 His identification as one “sealed” (John 6:27) confirms this: it implies God’s approval194 and Jesus’s worthiness.195 Yet all this depends on knowing the theological landscape of the story. Given that God is identified as Father, and the relationship with humanity which this entails, significant elements of the FG’s narrative will be alien to the Epicurean tradition, even if recognised elsewhere in 190 Barker, King, 148 argues that the FG shows Jesus as a replacement of Temple practice consonant “with the older ways of the first temple”. Paul M. Hoskins, Jesus as the Fulfilment of the Temple in the Gospel of John. (Paternoster Biblical Monographs. Milton Keynes: Paternoster, 2006), 108–193 considers this process to be part of a trajectory delineated as “tabernacle-Temple-Jesus” across the OT and the FG. 191 See Chapter 7. 192 See Barrett, “’The Father is Greater than I’” 19-36 esp. 25–26 for an overview. A subtle difference from the later phenomenon known as subordinationism which denies that the Son and the Holy Spirit share the divinity of the Father can be recognised: relational or hierarchical subordinationism admits the full divinity of both, see H. Wayne House, “The Eternal Relational Subordination of the Son to the Father in Patristic Thought” in The New Evangelical Subordinationism?: Perspectives on the Equality of God the Father and God the Son, ed. Dennis W. Jowers and H. Wayne House (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2012), 133–181 at 155. 193 Bruner, The Gospel, 323–325. 194 Brant, John, 121. 195 Neyrey, The Gospel of John, 22.

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Graeco-Roman theology.196 Given their cosmology, it remains highly dubious that the Epicureans would have bought into narrative of this kind in any form, even given their metaphorical use of heavenly ascent language. Additionally, the relational dimension of knowing will be at odds with the epistemic or therapeutic patterns of Epicurean thought: knowing what Epicurus taught was more important than knowing Epicurus himself.

C. Summary of Findings Both Epicureans and the Christianity of the FG rejected conventional views of the gods found within Graeco-Roman culture. They also have no place for concepts like ἀνάγκη. Thereafter, they follow radically different paths. There is little, if any, engagement between the two traditions. Any putative Epicurean reader will not find a refutation of the school’s thinking, but rather the account of a human life which reveals a divinity radically different from the metacosmic gods. This god, like the Epicurean deities, is not to be feared. While they are not to be feared because they neither create nor have any truck with the world, the god of the FG is not to be feared because he creates and loves the world. The two views are irreconcilable. One of them would need to be chosen over the other. Our Epicurean would need to weigh up whether the desirable goals of ἀταραξία and ἀπονία were better contained in the narrative of the FG than the teaching of Epicurus. The dynamics of such a choice are also radically disparate. The Epicurean programme sets up a worldview in which fear of the gods is minimised by presenting them as exemplars of ataractic bliss with no interest or inclination to intervene in the affairs of humanity or this world. Epicureanism also offers the possibility of deification to the extent that the Epicurean will be able achieve divinity through the cultivation of ἀταραξία and ἀπονία. It offers a system with different kinds of deities: Epicurus may have become deus, but he did not become a metacosmic deity. The FG’s programme flips this picture. Fear is removed by presenting God as a loving Creator (John 3:16–18). The, the believer is able to enter into a superior and desirable state (indicated by terminology like ζωὴ αἰώνιος). This goal is attained, not by following teaching that promotes ἀταραξία and ἀπονία, but by becoming a creature of a new order: being born from above (John 3:3) and following Jesus (e.g., John 1:37–42). At its heart this allows a relationship with God: an unattainable concept within Epicurean theology. 196

Walter Burkert, Homo Necans: The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and Myth, trans. Peter Bing. (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1983) 72–82; Litwa, Jesus Deus, 37–67. Others have argued for a universal redeemer myth, but these hypotheses are fraught with difficulties, thus Litwa, Jesus Deus, 21–32.

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Both the FG and Epicureanism, however, agree that it is in the realm of the “flesh” that their way of life is best expressed, despite their very different metaphysics and cosmology. Both reject or marginalise the possibility of unpleasant post-mortem existence.74 Does this mean a convergence with Epicureanism? Perhaps – yet there is a substantial and qualitative difference between arguing for post-mortem existence of some kind, and for none at all. And there is certainly a difference in the means by which bliss is attained through a right understanding of death through the teaching of Epicurus, or through abiding in the words and actions of Jesus, notably his cross and death, after being “born from above”. The God of the FG is depicted by non-threatening imagery, some of which will resonate with behaviour and practice which was upheld by the Epicureans. If the FG raises the spectre of an interventionist God as a potential object of fear, it also reveals that same God as primarily an agent of love, not judgement, whose intervention in the affairs of the world is not capricious, violent or judgmental, but calculated to provide the best possible outcomes for humanity. This is not a god of fear, but of love.

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See Chapter 4.

Chapter 6

Founding Figures As we have seen in Chapter 5, Epicurus held that the gods existed, albeit in an unconventional form. Yet those gods, with their blissful ataractic life also served as exemplars. However, their divine status did not lead to ritual or cult which focused on them. Such gods were accorded a “duty of formal piety”,1 and Epicurean participation in civic religion might well be due to social and political reasons, rather than religious functions.2 If the language and conventions of the ancient world regarding deities appear in Epicurean discourse, they are used of Epicurus, not of the Olympian, chthonic, or metacosmic gods.3 The use of divine language to describe Epicurus has already been noted (deus ille fuit). In part this is because his life and doctrine provide the stuff by which his followers might attain the ataractic bliss of the gods: his exemplary lifestyle allows him to be identified as a god.4 Epicurean materials show Epicurus being identified as a god: by titular designation, notably as god and saviour, and by rituals associated with his worship or veneration. The idea that Hellenistic practices of deification might have influenced early Christian thought is not new. The History of Religions School looked to a number of religious traditions, which included the imperial cult, the mystery religions and Oriental religion, as putative sources for emerging Christian thought,5 but their stress on the θεῖος ἀνήρ (divine man) has been put aside, simply because the claims that it made about Christian origins could not be sustained: it is not even certain that a person so named be viewed as a god.6 Interest turned more to Jewish sources for Christian expressions, even if it was admitted that Hellenism might have interacted with Judaism from an early date. Hengel, for example, whilst acknowledging the persistence of Hellenistic motifs with Judaism, rejected their influence on early Christian speculation.7 The

1

Thus, Lucretius, DRN 6.67–79, see Kenney, Lucretius, 2. See Chapter 5. 3 Kenney, Lucretius, 2–3. 4 See Chapter 5. 5 Litwa, Jesus Deus, 10. 6 Litwa, Jesus Deus, 22. 7 Hengel, The Cross, 89. Martin Hengel, Studies in Early Christology, trans. John Bowden (London: SCM Press, 1995), 293–331 considers claims made for Dionysiac influence ultimately to be over-stated. 2

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more recent quest for the historical Jesus has privileged Judaism as the source of Christian speculation, to the point of even excluding potential Graeco-Roman material.8 Others are less sure. In a multi-cultural ancient world whose component cultures had porous boundaries, considering Judaism to be a “pure” source is not an option. Litwa takes issue with the methodological tension that appears within Hengel’s corpus of work and remains more open to Hellenistic influence shaping early Christology.9 Deification (the depiction of a person as a god) remains a valid area for research, explored by a number of scholars from Bousset to Yarbro Collins.10 Bilde also moves in this direction, suggesting that Socrates, Plato and Epicurus be included with deified rulers in a wider category of “a historical person who, at some time before or after his death, was deified and mythologized by his adherents.”11 This remark is worth further investigation, and a comparison of the FG’s depiction of Jesus with Epicureanism may serve to examine the potential overlap between such treatments, without assigning the origins of its theology and practice to direct influence from Epicureanism. The following remarks examine not just the language, but also cult and ritual of both.

A. The Epicurean Σωτήρ As well as being considered divine (deus), Epicurus is also described as Σωτήρ (Saviour).12 The word and its associated terms may be used in a number of discourses; political, religious, theological, and philosophical. What of its 8 Litwa, Jesus Deus, 9-18 reflects on the values given to Judaism and Graeco-Roman cultures as appropriate to the task of providing the stuff appropriate for a Christian theological task. In biblical studies, this may seem a rather recondite argument about the relative merits of ancient cultures; all now changed, if not dead. The analogous question of the merits of cultures as providing material which is appropriate for the Christian theological task remains live elsewhere in modern contexts, for example, in African theology. African Christian theologians have to argue that African traditions and cultures are appropriate sources of material for the theological task or risk being shoe-horned into European worldviews. Here, the views of biblical scholarship are not without influence. Approaches which see a value in Graeco-Roman culture are more likely to provide examples of positive engagement with non-Judaic or Christian cultures within the canonical texts of Christianity than approaches which look to ring-fence Christianity within Jewish boundaries from “pagan” influences perceived as pernicious to the theological task. For an exploration of such themes, see Robert S. Heaney, From Historical to Critical Post-Colonial Theology: The Contribution of John S. Mbiti and Jesse N. K. Mugambi. (African Christian Studies Series 9. Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2015). 9 Litwa, Jesus Deus, 6–7. 10 Litwa, Jesus Deus, 3, 23–27. 11 Per Bilde, The Originality of Jesus: A Critical Discussion and A Comparative Attempt (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 247. 12 Erler, “Epicureanism in the Roman Empire”, 53.

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application to Epicurus? Precursors can be seen in the description of Hellenistic monarchs,13 and Roman generals, like T. Quinctius Flamininus.14 Such claims were invoked in titles (like that of Ptolemy I Soter), and statues: Ptolemy I and his wife Berenike remembered as “saviour Gods” in chryselephantine statues commissioned by their son Ptolemy II Philadelphos.15 Epicureanism knew statuary: statues and mosaics of Epicurus, notably the Ludovisi throne. However, these cannot, as Frischer claimed, have been the dominant factor in Epicurean propaganda.16 Statues existed of other Epicurean sages. Later, the statue of Themista of Lampsacus, a female correspondent of Epicurus’s, would eventually end up in the third century Christian community of Hippolytus,17 albeit with a very different symbolic function.18 Statuary was not the only way of identifying Epicurus as a Saviour. A verbal tradition developed as well. Lucian’s Alex. 61 describes Epicurus as a saviour and liberator in the face of false religion: Ταῦτα, ὦ φιλότης, ὀλίγα ἐκ πολλῶν δείγµατος ἕνεκα γράψαι ἠξίωσα, καὶ σοὶ µὲν χαριζόµενος, ἀνδρὶ ἑταίρῳ καὶ φίλῳ καὶ ὃν ἐγὼ πάντων µάλιστα θαυµάσας ἔχω ἐπί τε σοφίᾳ καὶ τῷ πρὸς ἀλήθειαν ἔρωτι καὶ τρόπου πραότητι καὶ ἐπιεικείᾳ καὶ γαλήνῃ βίου καὶ δεξιότητι πρὸς τοὺς συνόντας, τὸ πλέον δέ,—ὅπερ καὶ σοὶ ἥδιον,— Ἐπικούρῳ τιµωρῶν, ἀνδρὶ ὡς ἀληθῶς ἱερῷ καὶ θεσπεσίῳ τὴν φύσιν καὶ µόνῳ µετ᾿ 13 Jonathan Bardill, Constantine: Divine Emperor of the Christian Golden Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 108; Collins and Collins, King and Messiah, 48–54; Christian Habicht, “Messianic Elements in the Prechristian Greco-Roman World” in Toward the Millennium: Messianic Expectations from the Bible to Waco, ed. Peter Schäfer and Mark Cohen. (Studies in the History of Religions Vol. 77. Leiden: Brill, 1998), 47–55 at 47–50. 14 Frank W. Walbank, Polybius, Rome and the Hellenistic World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 86. 15 Kenneth D.S. Lapatin, Chryselephantine Statuary in the Ancient Mediterranean World (Oxford Monographs on Classical Archaeology. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 120. For the Canopus Decree of 4th March 238 BCE concerning the divinity of Ptolemy III and Berenike, and for the ascription of religious honours (which may or may not imply deity) to Antigonus by Scepsis, see Michel Austin, The Hellenistic World from Alexander to the Roman Conquest: A Selection of Ancient Sources in Translation, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 470–475, 86–88 respectively. 16 Diskin Clay, “Review of Bernard Frischer. The sculpted word: Epicureanism and philosophical recruitment in Ancient Greece.” The American Journal of Philology 105/4 (1984), 484–489. These practices persisted into the Roman imperial period. Thus, the mosaic of Epicurus and Metrodorus at Autun: Dorandi, “Aspetti”, 377–380; Bernard Frischer, “Ripensando The Sculpted Word. Come Ricostruire e Iterpretare La Statua di Epicuro Oggi” in Il Culto di Epicuro: Testi. Iconografia e Paesaggio, ed. Marco Beretta, Francesco Citti and Alessandro Iannucci (Biblioteca di Nuncius Studi et Testi LXXV. Firenze: Leo S. Olschki, 2014), 177– 92; “Reconstructing Epicurus’ Lost Portrait Statue”, Digital Sculpture Project: Epicurus. Retrieved 31 May 2017 from http://www.digitalsculpture.org/epicurus/index02.html. 2009–2013. 17 Allen Brent, Hippolytus and the Roman Church in the Third Century: Communities in Tension before the Emergence of a Monarch–Bishop (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 52–58. 18 Brent, Hippolytus, 69–76.

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ἀληθείας τὰ καλὰ ἐγνωκότι καὶ παραδεδωκότι καὶ ἐλευθερωτῇ τῶν ὁµιλησάντων αὐτῷ γενοµένῳ. οἶµαι δὲ ὅτι καὶ τοῖς ἐντυχοῦσι χρήσιµόν τι ἔχειν δόξει ἡ γραφή, τὰ µὲν διεξελέγχουσα, τὰ δὲ ἐν ταῖς τῶν εὖ φρονούντων γνώµαις βεβαιοῦσα. This, my friend, is but a little out of a great deal; I have thought fit to set it down as a specimen, not only to pleasure you as an associate and friend whom above all others I hold in admiration for your wisdom, your love of truth, the gentleness and reasonableness of your ways, the peacefulness of your life, and your courtesy toward all whom you encounter, but mostly – and this will give greater pleasure to you also – to right the wrongs of Epicurus, a man truly saintly and divine in his nature, who alone truly discerned right ideals and handed them down, who proved himself the liberator of all who sought his converse. I think too that to its readers the writing will seem to have some usefulness, refuting as it does certain falsehoods and confirming certain truths in the minds of all men of sense. 19

A further fragment describes an act of veneration shown to Epicurus by Colotes: Ὡς σεβοµένῳ γάρ σοι τὰ τότε ὑφ᾽ ἡµῶν λεγόµενα προσέπεσεν ἐπιθύµηµα ἀφυσιολόγητον τοῦ περιπλακῆναι ἡµῖν γονάτων ἐφαπτόµενον καὶ πάσης τῆς εἰθισµένης ἐπιλήψεως γίνεσθαι κατὰ τὰς σεβάσεις τιµῶν καὶ λιτάς∙ ἐποίεις οὖν καὶ ἡµᾶς ἀνθιεροῦν σὲ αὐτὸν καὶ ἀντισέβεσθαι. Ἄφθαρτός µοι περιπάτει καὶ ἡµᾶς ἀφθάρτους διανοοῦ. In your feeling of reverence for what I was then saying you were seized with an unaccountable desire to embrace me and to grasp my knees and show me all the signs of homage paid by men in prayers and supplications to others; so you made me return all these proofs of venerations and respect to you. Go on thy way as an immortal, and think of us too as immortal.20

Latin treatments took up the theme. Lucretius DRN 10.1045–1052 speaks of Epicurus in terms like those use for deified Hellenistic monarchs.21 Abraham Malherbe has noted the neglect of philosophical texts in studies which have “concentrated on the imperial cult, and neglected the philosophical background”.22

19 Lucian, Alex. 61 in Lucian. Anacharsis or Athletics. Menippus or The Descent into Hades. On Funerals. A Professor of Public Speaking. Alexander the False Prophet. Essays in Portraiture. Essays in Portraiture Defended. The Goddesse of Surrye. trans. A. M. Harmon. (Loeb Classical Library 162. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925), 252–253; Francesca Longo Auricchio, “Il Culto di Epicuro. Testi e Studi: Qualche Aggiornmamento” in Il Culto di Epicuro: Testi. Iconografia e Paesaggio, ed. Marco Beretta, Francesco Citti and Alessandro Iannucci (Biblioteca di Nuncius Studi et Testi LXXV. Firenze: Leo S. Olschki, 2014), 39–64 at 47. 20 Plutarch, Adv. Col. 17.1117bc. Text and translation from Bailey, Epicurus, 128–29. 21 Kenney, Lucretius, 222 22 Abraham J. Malherbe, “‘Christ Jesus Came into the World to Save Sinners’: Soteriology in the Pauline Epistles” in Light from the Gentiles: Hellenistic Philosophy and Early Christianity. Collected Essays 1959–2012, by Abraham J. Malherbe, ed. Carl. R. Holladay, John T. Fitzgerald, Gregory E. Sterling and James W. Thompson (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 431–457 at 441.

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Epicureanism provides evidence that Σωτήρ might be used in a lexical field which is different, if not distinct, from the political, not least because of Epicureanism’s apparent disengagement and dislocation from the political mainstream.23 Education, too, may be salvific: salvation should not be reduced or limited only to the realm of political discourse or controversy. If nothing else, the remarks that follow are a reminder that the discussion of Σωτήρ should not be confined to relations between emerging Christianity and the Roman political establishment.

B. Ritual: Epicurean Cult Practice Epicureans could take part in religious festivals provided that they did so with a right understanding or attitude.24 Epicurean cult practice did not, however, simply engage with the practices of wider society, but existed inside Epicurean communities. Theirs was not a philosophy which rejected wholesale religious practice, but rather re-accentuated it according to their own dogma. As Epicureanism respected the authority of its founding father, this meant that they developed what might be termed their own “religious” or cult activities. These can be seen not only from the memorial meals held in honour of Epicurus and other significant sages, but also from the titles to delineate his status, and the statuary in his honour. Statues of Epicurus make several claims: he is portrayed variously as philosopher, father figure (which includes claims to vanquish death), hero (using iconography associated with Herakles and claiming Epicurus’s superiority), saviour (a healer superior to the god Asklepios and his supposedly miraculous healing powers), µεγαλόψυχος ( a great-minded man), and deity.25 As the Epicureans were criticised for their apparent inconsistency in participating in religious activities within their cities,26 some rationale needs to be sought for their importing similar practices into their communities. It is one thing to participate to keep the common good, or for the sake of social order, but quite another to then develop similar activities when there is no such reason within the school or community. The practice of erecting statues of the Epicurean sages serves to explain what was happening. Statues were not only made, but venerated within the 23

See Chapter 7. See Chapters 2 and 5. 25 Bernard Frischer, The Sculpted Word: Epicureanism and Philosophical Recruitment in Ancient Greece (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2006), 202–261. Frischer defines “great-minded” as “including indifference to fortune, willingness to run risks – even to sacrifice his life – for his friends, self-sufficiency, and concern about great matters” (242). 26 See Chapter 5. 24

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school. Frischer reckons that this is because they could perform a salvific function, that is, assist in the learning and adoption of the right understandings which led to living the good life. However, he continues, this should not be confused with the conventional veneration of statuary in classical practices,27 which included ideas like do ut des, and the manipulation of deities for the benefit of the worshipper.28 Even if the veneration of statues is described as “fetishistic”,29 it is modified to conform to their philosophy. Thus, Epicurus would have been a “primary image”, with the potential to work a salvific change in the life of his disciples. His statue is a “secondary image”, which can be as powerful in setting off such reactions.30 However, this is a “qualified fetishism” based in the philosophical doctrines of the school: For the Epicureans, secondary images, though lifeless objects, do possess definite powers of salvation. However, because the Epicureans can ground their analysis of secondary images in the physical doctrines of the school, Epicurean fetishism is a qualified fetishism, consciously avoiding the pitfall of superstitious animism.31

Secondary images also allow the dead sage to remain influential, without positing either an eternal or post-mortem existence. This serves a broader Epicurean agenda: Behind this qualified fetishism we see operative the same desire, unique among the ancient philosophical schools, to legitimize popular religious beliefs that led the Epicureans to claim, for example, that the gods really are anthropomorphic and actually do correspond to the Olympian pantheon, just as the common man supposes; but we also see an equal emphasis on providing a new, scientific rationale for popular belief.32

This insight is worth remembering, because it shows how other ritual practice may have appeared to conform to popular norms, but was actually reaccentuated in accordance with the school’s doctrine. Ritual practice also involved eating. The meals celebrated in honour of Epicurus and Metrodorus were celebrated on the twentieth of each month on the instructions left by Epicurus himself in his will (DL 10.18, 6.101; AP 11:44; Cicero, Fin. 2:101; Pliny Nat. 35.2; Athenaeus Deipn. 7.298D; cf. PHerc

27

Frischer, The Sculpted Word, 118–119. James B. Tschen-Emmons, Artifacts from Ancient Rome (Daily Life through Artifacts. Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood/ABC–CLIO, 2014), 17. 29 Frischer, The Sculpted Word, 98–107 addresses the bias against “fetishism” seen in the projection of modern values onto the text. In a similar vein, consider, Ludwig Wittgenstein, “Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough” in Philosophical Occasions 1912–1951, ed. James Klagge and Alfred Nordmann (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Co. Inc., 1993), 115–155. 30 Frischer, The Sculpted Word, 119. 31 Frischer, The Sculpted Word, 119. 32 Frischer, The Sculpted Word, 119–120. 28

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1232).33 Additionally, the will prescribed funds be left for funerary rites for his parents and brothers, an annual celebration of his own birthday, and two annual days of celebration for his brothers and Polyainos. These monthly meals on the twentieth might coincide with a similar annual celebration.34 In a detailed study of the relevant texts, Diskin Clay suggests that the meals function in much the same way as the rituals of hero cults. Their function maybe considered twofold: First, they gave the members of his community who aspired to the tranquillity of the philosophical life a model in the lives and deaths of the philosophers who had come before them to show them the way; and they made for a sense of group identity and belonging as nothing else could. In doing this, these cults provided a bridge for those would cross over from the larger society of the polis to “open the doors to our community which are entered through fellow feeling”.35

They also compare to the meal traditions of the ἔρανος, the Hellenistic dining club.36 However, there are also significant differences from some such traditions. They did not have secret doctrines like those of other religious groups (ὀργεῶνες): the Epicurean λάθε βιώσας (Fr. 551 Us.) refers to keeping a low profile, and avoiding the problems which a high profile or public exposure may bring, not secrecy or a complete withdrawal from society.37 Meals, even feasts, appear to have been celebrated in a simple way. Epicurus’s own preference for plain food or frugality38 is further echoed by Philodemus: Αὔριον εἰς λιτήν σε καλιάδα, φίλτατε Πείσων, ἐξ ἐνάτης ἕλκει µουσοφιλὴς ἕταιρος εἰικαδα δειπνίζων ἐνιαύσιον∙ εἰ δ’ ἀπολείψεις οὔθατα καὶ βροµίου Χιογενῆ πρόποσιν, ἀλλ’ ἑτάρους ὄψει παναληθέας, ἄλλ’ ἔπακούςῃ Φαιήκων γαίης πουλὺ µελιχρότερα∙ ἤν δέ ποτε στρέψῃς καὶ ἐς ἡµέας ὄµµατα,Πείσων, ἄξοµεν ἐκ λιτῆς εἰκαδα πιοτέρην.

33 Auricchio, “Il Culto”, 48–55. Clay, “The Cults of Epicurus”, 13–14 (for PHerc 1232), 19–21 provides a catena of the other texts. Note that Clay cites Pliny Nat. 35.5, but the text quoted (feriasque omni mense vicesima luna custodiunt, quas icadas vocant, ii maxime, qui se ne viventes quidem nosci volunt) appears to come from Pliny Nat. 35.2, as in Rackham, Pliny, 264–265. 34 Gigante, Philodemus in Italy, 80. 35 Diskin Clay, “The Cults of Epicurus”, Cronache Ercolanesi 16 (1987), 11– 28 at 27–28. 36 Gigante, Philodemus in Italy, 60. 37 For the “unnoticed life”, see Geert Roskam, A Commentary on Plutarch’s De Latenter Vivendo, (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2007), 17; Live Unnoticed (Λάθε βιώσας): On the Vicissitudes of an Epicurean Doctrine, (Leiden: Brill, 2007) Λάθε βιώσας need not demand complete separation from political life, see Chapter 7 . 38 See Chapter 3.

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Tomorrow, Piso, your musical comrade Drags you to his modest digs at three in the afternoon, Feeding you at your annual visit to the Twentieth. If you will miss udders and Bromian wine mis en bouteille in Chios, yet you will see faithful comrades, yet you will hear things far sweeter than the land of the Phaeacians. And if you ever turn an eye to us too, Piso, Instead of a modest feast we shall lead to a richer one. 39

Epicurean φιλία and, presumably, table-talk, will far surpass a rich table or a sybaritic dining experience. Meals also provided an opportunity to extend hospitality to friends. Even those in despair might be invited and find the experience helpful: ∆[ι]ὰ ταράχους µ[οχ]θοῦσι τὰς π[ερὶ̣ των ἀρίστων καὶ µακαρισ̣[το τά]των φύσεω[ν] ἐνν̣[οίας. .... [κα]λεῖν εὐωχ[εὶσ]θαι αὐτους τε κ̣α[θ]ὼς και τ[οὺς] ἄλλους... As concerns those who experience turmoil and difficulties in their conceptions of natures that are best and most blessed. [But Epicurus says] that he invites these very people to join in a feast, just as he invites others.40

It is possible that the meals involved something more than a simple memory. Certainly, it would seem that Epicurean metaphysics, with their stress on the nothingness of death would have made it unlikely that they believed in the presence of deceased sages. Other Graeco-Roman traditions around meals for the dead involved the idea of eating with them and have frequently been taken to imply some kind of post-mortem state, or “risen” deities. However, such meals did not necessarily demand an ontological or metaphysical post-mortem presence. In a summary of Sfameni Gasparro’s work, Jonathan Z. Smith produces a catena of texts related to the notion of presence in the cult of Attis, and concludes: common to each of these interpretations is the notion of a soteriological death of a cult figure without invoking the notion of resurrection or ‘rising’.41

So, metaphysically, the ancient world knew systems which did not demand an ontological presence of some kind. Physics and metaphysics may not provide an insurmountable obstacle to thinking, then, of Epicurus and the other sages 39

AP 11.44. Greek text from Gigante, Philodemus in Italy, 80. See also David Sider, Epigrams of Philodemos: Introduction, Text, and Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 152. English translation from Gigante, Philodemus in Italy, 59–61. 40 PHerc 1232 fr. 8 col. 1= test 16; Clay, “The Cults of Epicurus”, 13–14. 41 Jonathan Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 128.

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as somehow “present”. However, the persistence of memory may provide something: There is a memory which if undertaken in a ritualized context guarantees a sort of presence and, above all, a confidence in the face of inescapable death.42

Epicurean statuary may explain what is happening: the “secondary image” could function just as effectively in the performance of a ritual meal as in the veneration of a statue. The “secondary image” serves only to preserve and maintain the saving power of the sages as encountered in their legacy of teaching. This is true also of the death of the sage. There is nothing within the school which sees Epicurus’s death as serving a salvific or soteriological purpose: his teaching alone provided that, and the accounts simply reveal his fidelity to his own values in the face of death.43

C. The Σωτήρ in the FG As the FG’s portrayal of divinity and christology have already been addressed, a simple summary of that material serves here. As has been seen above, the FG’s interest in divinity is marked by the following concerns: pre-existence, exaltation, the Father-Son relationship, and an exemplary, mimetic or revelatory dimension. All are indicative of a markedly different theology from Epicureanism. Σωτήρ is, however, common, to both traditions. Like Epicurus, Jesus is identified as such. The ascription of Σωτήρ to Epicurus surely challenges any claim that this terminology refers exclusively to the political, and, therefore, whether the ascription of the term to Jesus may be exhausted by a consideration of the politics of the day. This is not to say that the term must be shorn of all political significance, nor is this being suggested: the critique of both the Jewish authorities and Pilate make this clear.44 There is a strong indication of a political element in the dialogues between Jesus and Pilate, when the latter evasively asks: “τί ἐστιν ἀλήθεια;” (John 18:38). Yet, this may well be construed as a philosophical as much as a political question. It indicates a moral and political bankruptcy.45 Whilst Pilate may be 42

Smith, Drudgery, 129. Kechagia, “Dying Philosophers”, 190–199. 44 See below, Chapter 7. 45 Christopher M. Tuckett, “Pilate in John 18–19: A Narrative-Critical Approach” in Narrativity in Biblical and Related Texts, ed. George J. Brooke and Jean-Daniel Kaestli (Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium CXLIX. Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 131–140 at 135–136. 43

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portrayed as either a willing46 or reluctant47 participant in the death of Jesus, his actions reveal a failure to exercise justice and/or to understand what is unfolding in front of him. Jesus’s remarks about a kingship of a different order (John 18:36), further indicated by his rejection of violence to resist arrest (John 18:10–11) indicate he that he is not playing a political power game, but is nonetheless making a claim for something better than the order that currently exercises power and authority. If not politics, what else? The philosophical environment of Σωτήρ offers a potential answer. However, to admit this philosophical dimension equally does not limit the claims being made about Jesus as Σωτήρ to those which might have applied to any other philosophical teacher. It is not simply a question of claiming that Jesus trumps Epicurus as an educational saviour on the merits of his teaching: the salvation offered by Jesus has a dimension which exceeds the epistemic. An immediate point of departure may be found in the FG’s depiction of Jesus as ὁ σωτὴρ τοῦ κόσµου (John 4:42). This cosmic dimension implies a qualitative difference from Epicurus, who can only ever be the saviour of those who follow his teaching. Nor, indeed, is it ever claimed that Epicurus and his legacy could achieve such cosmic ends. Thus, the scope of salvation offered by Jesus has been expanded far beyond that of Epicurus. Differences can also be seen when the nature of salvation is considered. For the Epicureans, the scope of Epicurus’s saving work was restricted to favourable outcomes in earthly existence: ideals such as ἀταραξία and ἀπονία. The materialism of the school dictates that there is no possible post-mortem, otherwordly, or supernatural frame of reference. This is different in scope to the possibilities of salvation offered by the FG, which offers the hope for ζωὴ αἰώνιος, often linked to a descriptive cosmology which offers both an earthly and heavenly, below and above, locations for the believer, and, in so doing, adds a transcendent dimension. One of the key titles of Jesus in the FG which overlaps with the Σωτήρ is the Christ: it is a focal point for reflections on the person of Jesus in an “obsessively christological”48 text. The term “Christ” is completely absent from the Epicurean tradition. This, in itself, indicates a major difference between the two traditions: the Epicurean Σωτήρ does not exercise a Messianic function. By extension, the debates over the nature of the Messiah or Christ, which was never defined uniformly, even if commonly focused on a warrior king,49 are 46

Tuckett, “Pilate in John 18–19”, 131–140. Martinus C. de Boer, “The Narrative Function of Pilate in John” in Narrativity in Biblical and Related Texts, ed. George J. Brooke and Jean-Daniel Kaestli (Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium CXLIX. Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 141–158. 48 Stephen G. Wilson, Related Strangers: Jews and Christians 70–170 C.E. (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1995). 49 Craig S. Keener, “Jesus and Parallel Greco-Roman Figures” in Christian Origins and Greco-Roman Culture: Social and Literary Contexts for the New Testament, ed. Stanley E. 47

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predominantly foreign, as are the eschatological and cosmological reflections which accompany it. Anything that the Epicurean reader brings to an interpretation of Christ language will likely have been gleaned from other sources. For some, there is little chance that messianic or Christ language and imagery might come from Graeco-Romanitas: Keener claims that the title is so Judaic that “the occasional proposal that later Gentile Christians invented the title can be dismissed outright”.50 Others are more cautious. Such figures may have had some currency in the Graeco-Roman world: discussion of the Σωτήρ in Hellenistic and Graeco-Roman literature eventually includes a text which is sometimes labelled “messianic”51 because of the birth of a child which signifies a new age: Vergil’s Ecl. 4.52 However, genealogical approaches struggle to discern whether the Judaic figure influenced the Latin, or vice-versa.53 The Judaic and Graeco-Roman figures also vary in detail:

Porter and Andrew M. Pitts (Texts and Editions for New Testament Studies Vol. 9. Leiden: Brill, 2012), 85–111 at 102–105. For the variety of messianic beliefs in early Judaism, see Peter Schäfer, “Diversity and Interaction: Messiahs in Early Judaism” in Toward the Millennium: Messianic Expectations from the Bible to Waco, ed. Peter Schafer and Mark Cohen. (Studies in the History of Religions– Numen Book Series Vol. LXXVII. Leiden: Brill, 1998),15–35. Early and rabbinic Messianic speculation could embrace the idea of a “suffering Messiah”, see Michael Fishbane, “Midrash and Messianism” in Toward the Millennium: Messianic Expectations from the Bible to Waco, ed. Peter Schafer and Mark Cohen. (Studies in the History of Religions– Numen Book Series Vol. LXXVII. Leiden: Brill, 1998), 57–71; Israel Knohl, The Messiah before Jesus: The Suffering Servant of the Dead Sea Scrolls, trans. David Maisel (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2000; Messiahs and Resurrection in 'The Gabriel Revelation' (London: Continuum, 2009). 50 Keener, “Jesus and Parallel Figures”, 100. 51 Habicht, “”Messianism”, 50; Perluigi Piovanelli, “ ‘A Testimony for the Kings and the Mighty who Possess the Earth’: The Thirst for Justice and Peace in the Parables of Enoch” in Enoch and the Messiah Son of Man: Revisiting the Book of Parables, ed. Gabriele Boccaccini (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2007), 363–379 at 376. 52 The child is identified variously as the new governor of Spain, (Leonard A. Curchin, “Vergil’s ‘Messiah’: A New Governor of Spain?” Ancient History Bulletin 2 (1988), 143–144), the child of Mark Anthony and Octavia (Knohl, The Messiah, 98), the pact of Brindisium (Paul J. Alpers, The Singer of the Eclogues: A Study of Virgilian Pastoral (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1979), 178; Wendell V. Clausen, A Commentary on Virgil, Eclogues (Oxford: Oxford University Press,1995), 121–122), or the “optimism associated with Octavian’s nascent reign” (R. Alden Smith, Virgil (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), 67). Habicht, “Messianism”, 53 notes Vergil, Aen. 6.791–793 (hic vir, hic est, tibi quem promitti saepius audis, Augustus Caesar, divi genus, aurea condet saecula – this man, this is Caesar Augustus , who is so often promised to you, the child of a god, will found a golden age) foretells Augustus as the founder of a Golden Age. 53 Knohl, The Messiah, 100 for Vergil influencing Jewish messianism; John C. O’Neill, Who Did Jesus Think He Was? (Biblical Interpretation Series Vol. 11. Leiden: Brill, 1995), 38 for the Roman appropriation of a Jewish type.

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So we find mortal saviors, present on earth, their activity beneficial to all mankind, specifically by bringing about peace and prosperity: their birthday the beginning of a Golden Age. They are, however, not expected in the future as the Messiah is; they are present, their work has already been done. They are recognized for what they are, not announced for what they might become one day. Also missing is another element: while these human saviors improve people’s lives, they do not create a new order, and do not regenerate the world – at least this aspect is not stressed.54

This may be an overly rosy picture. Piovanelli takes a more brutal view: Vergil addresses the “glorification of a future great leader” and “the birth of a strong man and the beginning of an authoritarian regime”, while the Judaic material “is more concerned with the rehabilitation of an oppressed community and/or nation through the agency of a divine saviour” and “condemns any form of human despotism”.55 Thus, they indicate radically different political aspirations: the Roman predicated on the desire for stability and peace within a powerful state racked by civil war; the Judaic by a desire to be freed from foreign oppression. Habicht’s summary suggests the FG’s portrayal, to some extent, resonates with both: with the Graeco-Roman in regard to timing (the realised elements of its inaugurated eschatology); with the Judaic in terms of the scope of the Messiah’s work. His conclusions about the differences between Christian and pagan versions are less convincing: Christian portrayals of the Messiah focus on redemption of the soul, the afterlife, the individual, and eternity rather than deliverance from the problems of this world, the “conditions of life”, groups, and temporality.56 However, this seems close to a dangerous caricature. Even if anti-imperial readings of emerging Christian literature have been, on occasion, overconfident, they serve as an important reminder that ancient theological categories do not neatly bifurcate the personal and the political along the fault lines adopted in later discourse. The literature may embrace both sets of values rather than place them in a binary opposition. Irrespective of this point, though, none of the above variants, Graeco-Roman, Judaic, or Christian, matches the Epicurean epistemic figure, because of its diminished interest in political or spiritual concerns.

54

Habicht, “Messianism”, 50. The Golden Age here marks a progressive view of history which is very different from the decline seen in, say, Hesiod’s Works and Days (Habicht, “Messianism”, 52). The Jewish Scriptures may use elements of both to suit their purposes. The idea of a better age to come is pervasive; Dan 2:31–45 is evidence of a pattern of decline. 55 Piovanelli, “A Testimony”, 377. 56 Habicht, “Messianism”, 53–54.

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D. A Ritual Meal in the FG? Consideration of the FG and its approach to eating is contentious. We have no direct accounts of the practice of its audience itself regarding meals and should not automatically assume their presence. The Johannine letters are silent on the subject of meals or eating, and so may be removed from any discussion of these matters. Claims that the audience had a ritual meal tradition may be reconstructed from the FG as well as background material. Given that meals were a recurring feature of sodalities within both the Graeco-Roman and Judaic contexts, and the prevalence of meals in other early Christian trajectories, it would appear likely that there might have been some meal tradition within the FG’s tradition.57 Within Graeco-Romanitas, different guilds and associations often shared meals. These might thus serve a social function as indicating a boundary or identity for members of a group.58 Religious activity also included eating: the evidence from Corinth, for example, suggests that religious meals may have been linked to concepts like commensality59 and κοινωνία.60 Meals held in religious contexts are sometimes identified as having a sacramental dimension, in that they effect a link between the believer and the deity. Geradus van der Leeuw identifies the mysteries of Attis, the Eleusinian mysteries, and the Mithraic rituals thus.61 Some have gone further, and suggested that some of these meals involved theophagy, that the god is consumed in the meal. The strongest, if not the only,62 contender is Dionysiac ritual, but the description is increasingly doubtful for several reasons. First, the text used to claim the aetiology of the ritual is Euripides’s Bacchae, whose story contains significant divergence from the claimed ritual practice of the ὠµοφαγία (sacrifices of raw meat) and the

57 The difficulty of identifying and reconstructing any “Johannine community” will be explored in detail in Chapter 6. 58 Smith, From Symposium, 9–12; 275. He (275) suggests that the John 6 refers to meal tradition which functions thus. The discussion which follows will be more cautious in assuming that a discernible meal practice of an actual community may be extrapolated from this passage. 59 King, More Than a Passover, 296. 60 Ernst Käsemann, Essays on New Testament Themes, trans. W.J. Montague (London: SCM Press, 1964), 124–25. 61 Gerardus van der Leeuw, Religion in Essence and Manifestation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986), 366. Antonia Tripolitis, Religions of the Hellenistic-Roman Age (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2002) 34–35 notes that the most “Christian” forms of the Attis cults appear later, and therefore raise the question of which might have been influenced by the other, or, as Smith, Drudgery, 113–114 prefers, what environmental factors might have influenced the development of both, either independently or in tandem: analogous processes. 62 Van der Leeuw, Religion, 366.

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behaviour of maenads. It is not a liturgical text.63 One might argue only that the Bacchae was a liturgical text, not because it contains a liturgy or ritual, but because it was produced for a liturgical occasion. The two are different. Further, the fluidity of Dionysiac tradition leaves open the question of what was going on.64 Sandelin dismisses the claim of theophagy simply because it does not fit with the narrative presented in the Bacchae,65 but Henrichs goes further, adding observations about the attitudes of modern readers: The idea of eating and drinking Dionysus is intrinsically attractive to modern minds steeped in Christian sacramentalism and Frazerian anthropology, and is difficult to resist. But as long as we cannot even be sure that the Greek identified Dionysus with his sacrificial animals, or that historical maenads practised omophagy in the literal sense, the whole theory remains a splendid house of cards.66

The belief in sacramental consumption of wine has more traction. For at least a minority, to drink wine was to drink the deity: that the idea is rejected (Cicero, Nat. d. 3.16.41) is at least witness to the belief being held by someone, somewhere.67 But not all the texts cited necessarily describe real religious practice or thought.68 Ovid Metam. 6.488 (“et Bacchus in auro ponitur” – “and Bacchus [wine?] is placed in gold”) may indicate a sacramental action,69 but this need be no more than a defining common literary trope – the Apellative.70 Ironically, if claimed as a transformation, it would appear to be the only change within the 63 Albert Henrichs, “Greek Maenadism from Olympias to Messalina”. Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, 82 (1978), 121–160 at 121–23, 150–152; Henrichs, “Changing Dionysiac Identities”, 143–45. 64 H.S. Versnel, Ter Unus: Isis, Dionysos, Hermes – Three Studies in Henotheism. (Inconsistencies in Greek and Roman Religion Vol. 1. Leiden: Brill, 1990), 137–146. 65 Karl-Gustav Sandelin, Attraction and Danger of Alien Religion: Studies in Early Judaism and Christianity (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 290. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 126-127. Sandelin, Attraction, 198 concludes that 1 Cor 1:14–21 is not concerned with theophagy. 66 Henrichs, “Changing”, 159–160, for similar conclusions, see Versnel, Ter Unus, 135– 137. Walter F. Otto, Dionysus: Myth and Cult, trans. and with an introduction by Robert B. Palmer (Bloomington IN: Indiana University Press, 1965), 131–132 similarly rejects any reading of Dionysiac ritual as “sacramental sacrifice”. Henrichs’s comment is a reminder of Smith, Drudgery, 34: the retrojection of Christian theological dispute (“Protestant anti-Catholic apologetics”) into ancient texts of non-Christian provenance. Sandelin, Attraction, 77–79, 104–105 also notes the potential danger of reading sacramentalism into 1 Cor 10, when the text itself does not demand such things. 67 Henrichs, “Changing”, 160, 236, fn. 220. 68 Dennis R. MacDonald, The Dionysian Gospel: The Fourth Gospel and Euripides (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2017), whilst predominantly an intertextual study, persists in using the Bacchae as a source for Dionysiac ritual to strengthen the author’s thesis. 69 P. Wick, “Jesus gegen Dionysos? Ein Beitrag zur Kontextualisierung des Johannesevangeliums”. Biblica 85 (2004), 179–198 at 191. 70 King, More Than a Passover, 124–125.

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whole work which Ovid does not elaborate in narrative, but mentions en passant. Within Judaism, meals were a characteristic of some Jewish groups: the Qumran literature suggests that social life involved a complex meal structure,71 Pharisaism indicated membership by participation in meals like the chaburah,72 and Todah.73 Jos.Asen. raises the possibility of Judaic sacramental meal traditions.74 These meals often were associated with cultic activity, and potentially indicated commensality, “reminding God”, or ἀνάµνησις.75 Thus, there would appear a wide number of potential scenarios from its environment to inform the practice within the FG, and to suggest that these practices might have been adopted, albeit in a reaccentuated form. If we take Jonathan Z. Smith’s views seriously, it is worth asking what was going on within the environment which produces a tradition.76 Study of the Judaic environment which shaped the FG shows that a number of Judaic groups adapted their meal traditions because of circumstance. Thus, the groups associated with Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls developed a pattern of behaviour which included ritual eating to restore what they believed had been lost through the corruption of the Temple. It is important to note that theirs was a rejection of Temple practice, but not its values. Similarly, the process of sacrificialisation or spiritualisation which is identified is not driven by a rejection of cult practice, but by pragmatism: the impossibility of being present in the Temple on all the occasions demanded.77 It should not come as a surprise, therefore, if the FG did not evolve its own cultic traditions, and that those might well include rituals involving eating. It is, however, another thing to prove this conclusively. It is also important not to impose a metanarrative or a monomyth over the whole of emerging Christianity. Any clear picture of what the first Christian 71

King, More Than a Passover, 80–85. King, More Than a Passover, 77–79. 73 Tim Gray, “From Jewish Passover to Christian Sacrifice: The Todah Sacrifice as Background for the Last Supper” in Scripture and the Mystery of the Mass, ed. Scott Hahn and Regis J. Flaherty (Catholic for a Reason Vol. 3. Steubenville, OH: Emmaus Road, 2004), 65–76; King, More Than a Passover, 79–80. 74 Christoph Burchard, "The Importance of Joseph and Aseneth for the Study of the New Testament: A General Survey and a Fresh Look at the Lord’s Supper”, New Testament Studies 33 (1987), 102–34. 75 King, More Than a Passover, 112–113. 76 Smith, Drudgery, 112–113. 77 King, More Than a Passover, 115–116. Readings which would see a complete rejection of cultic practice are better recognised as retrojection of later Christian debate, usually along the lines of Catholic vs. Protestant, into the debate, see Smith, Drudgery, 34. For the retrojection of anachronistic religious and ideological distinctions with Judaism and Hellenism, see Dale B. Martin, “Paul and the Judaism/Hellenism Dichotomy: Toward a Social History of the Question” in Paul Beyond The Judaism/Hellenism Divide, ed. Troels Engberg-Pedersen (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 29–61 at 58–59. 72

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groups actually did is made increasingly difficult by the adaptation of a variety of meal traditions within the extant sources. These traditions were not used universally. The Seder is a case in point: it provides a framework for discussing the Lord’s Supper within the Synoptic traditions, where the Last Supper is identified with it. However, if it is assumed that there was a ritual meal tradition, however flimsy, in the FG, its chronology logically rules out any identification with the Seder. In the FG, the Day of Preparation and the death of Jesus provide the connection to the Passover, not the Seder.78 This does not, however, rule out a meal, given that sacrifice and meal were two indispensable parts of the whole pattern of sacrificial ritual:79 metonymy is always a possibility. Furthermore, John 6, critical for any reflection on eating in the FG, is set at Passover (John 6:4).80 The problem, of course, is that, when we turn to the separate question of the practice of the FG’s audience, we lack any independent details of what they actually did, so any proposed description remains conjectural. It becomes even more difficult if we exercise caution in reading practice from other emerging Christians or trajectories into the FG and its environment. It becomes even more complicated when the FG is considered as a possible source for the practice of the Johannine tradition, and any prior assumption that they held any meal is set aside. The FG itself is a problematic source, not least because of the debate over the degree of sacramentalism in John 6, and the scant details of a final meal in John 13. While it may well address concerns of its readers and their practice, it would be controversial to say that everything in the FG necessarily reflects their Sitz im Leben. The interpreter needs to distinguish elements which may reflect the writer’s and audience’s Sitz im Leben from recorded tradition about Jesus, recognising that there may be points at which they converge, and others at which they do not. The dangers of either ignoring or simplistically employing any criterion of dissimilarity do not need repeating.81 Additionally, there is a methodological problem, when the texts themselves are the primary evidence on which the identity of a community is based:

78 John Paul Heil, The Gospel of John: Worship for Divine Life Eternal (Cambridge: James Clarke, 2016), 133–134. Only approaches which reject any historical value to the Johannine tradition may claim with any degree of confidence a clear link to the Seder, and these are still viewed by many as problematic. It is too simplistic, for many, to address the topic as a clear choice between one tradition or another. Even in Paul, the reference to the Passover (1 Cor 5:7) is less clear-cut – referring to the sacrifice as much as the meal. 79 King, More Than a Passover, 99. 80 Andrew T. Lincoln, John (Black’s New Testament Commentaries. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2005), 211. 81 Eric L. Mascall, Theology and the Gospel of Christ: An Essay in Reorientation, 2nd edition. London: SPCK, 1984, 87–97.

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There is a dangerous circularity involved in defining the audience behind the text without anything behind the text.82

This still holds good even if the text is buttressed by general reflections on the environment. The FG contains several passages which seem to make eating important: John 6:1–71, with its initial sign and subsequent exploration of the themes raised by that event, John 13:1–30, with the conundrum of an implied meal which defies an easy identification with the Passover Seder, and John 21:1–14, a meal with the risen Jesus, by the sea of Galilee. Theissen notes of that the ritual of the foot-washing (John 13) reveals an interest in mutual service and love, but that this may be incompatible with, or intended to replace, the interpretation focused on a meal (John 6:51–58).83 If vocabulary is used to draw a connection between the three and indicate a significant meal practice, it is focused on two actions: giving and taking ( ἔλαβεν...διέδωκεν – John 6: 11; δίδωσιν – John 13:26, adding that some textual traditions include λαµβάνει;84 λαµβάνει τὸν ἄρτον καὶ δίδωσιν – John 21:13). Critics argue that the three incidents differ in other significant details: the omission of other actions, and the difference in the food shared.85 In addition, they suggest that none of the accounts function as an ordinance,86 or set a precedent for future repetition. So, while the incidents may suggest a meal, they do not provide definitive evidence for one being practised in the community.87 82 Edward Klink, The Sheep of the Fold: The Audience and the Origin of the Gospel of John (Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series Vol. 141. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 47; see also David A. Lamb, Text, Context, and the Johannine Community (Library of New Testament Studies Vol. 447. London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 22. 83 Gerd Theissen, A Theory of Primitive Christianity (London: SCM Press, 1999), 137. 84 Francis J. Moloney, The Gospel, 383–384; Glory Not Dishonor: Reading John 13–21 (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1998), 22–23. 85 Thus, Barrett, The Gospel, 447 suggests the ψωµίον need not refer to bread, a claim which is complicated by its dependence on a tradition in which the Passover meal traditions, as seen in the Synoptics, persist within the FG. Brown, The Gospel, 575 sees the lack of a description of the institution of the eucharist within the FG as problematic. 86 For a definition of this term, see Anderson, The Christology, 113. 87 The later Quartodeciman movement provides clear evidence for a group which based its practice on the chronology also found in the FG, see Brent, Hippolytus, 65; William L. Petersen, “Eusebius and the Paschal Controversy” in Eusebius, Christianity, and Judaism, ed. Harold Attridge and Gohei Hata. (Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1992), 311–325 at 312– 313. Eusebius dates the controversy to 191 CE, but notes that this reflected an ancient tradition (Petersen, “Eusebius”, 314). Paul F. Bradshaw and Maxwell E. Johnson, The Origins of Feasts, Fasts and Seasons in Early Christianity (Alcuin Club Collection 86. London: SPCK, 2011), 40–47 suggest that it may be the earliest form of Easter celebration. Roger T. Beckwith, Calendar and Chronology, Jewish and Christian: Biblical, Intertestamental and Patristic Studies (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 59–60 suggests that the Quartodeciman practice may originate with the

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If the simple celebration of a meal is this difficult, the vexed question of sacraments also needs to be addressed, particularly in relation to John 6. First, an understanding appropriate to the context of the FG must be identified, one which is free of the charge of anachronism. This, then rules out all of (1) the ex opere operato understanding,88 (2) the Augustinian definition of sacrament which would come to dominate Western theology,89 and (3) later institutional understandings.90 What is left? There were, as has been seen above, sacraments of some kind in Graeco-Roman religion, even if they did not command universal belief. They were also found within Judaism: Christoph Burchard provides a clearer definition of the sacramentology of the period in his exploration of Jos.Asen. “Sacramentals”, to avoid an anachronistic conflation, consist of ordinary items performing a spiritual function linked to a benediction, which needs to be carefully protected.91 Such sacramentals have a saving effect which may indicate the social, causal, or real presence of the deity.92 Such a view is affirmed by Paul Anderson: a physical sign of a spiritual reality.93 From this perspective, the sacramentals of Second Temple Judaism operate through rituals which impart a supernatural dimension to ordinary objects or materials.94 Of course, the presence of such ideas on the world which shaped the FG is no guarantee that they are to be found within the text itself. Historically, readers of the FG have read the passage and claimed sacramental or spiritual meanings. It was not considered necessary to choose one of the two as correct, but both could be held together.95 The modern debate is broad, addressing both

apostles, and was notably celebrated in Asia Minor, but pertinently asks why it was then condemned by those who, like Polycarp, claimed to know and follow those same apostles. Alistair Stewart-Sykes, The Lamb’s High Feast: Melito, Peri Pascha and the Quartodeciman Paschal Liturgy at Sardis (Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae Vol. 42. Leiden: Brill, 1998), 11–29 and Wilson, Related Strangers, 235–240 both suggest Palestinian origins. Thereafter they diverge. For Stewart-Sykes, the tradition is subsequently mediated through links between the Melito of Sardis, the Johannine tradition and congregations at Sardis and Ephesus; for Wilson, through the appointment of Gentile rather than Jewish bishops at Jerusalem in wake of the Bar Cochba revolt (135 CE). 88 Alistair C. Stewart-Sykes, “Bathed in Living Waters: Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 840 and Christian Baptism Reconsidered”, Zeitschrift für die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 100:2 (2009), 278–286 at 285. 89 George D. Kilpatrick, The Eucharist In Bible and Liturgy, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 57. 90 Anderson, Christology, 113. 91 Burchard, “The Importance”, 117. 92 Gerd Theissen and Annette Merz, The Historical Jesus: A Comprehensive Guide (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1998), 406. 93 Anderson, Christology, 113. 94 Burchard, "The Importance”, 117. 95 Bruner, The Gospel, 437–443.

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baptism and the eucharist, with eminent critics and supporters of sacramentalism alike.96 The sheer variety of arguments which persist in the ongoing debate suggest caution in saying that the theory or practice identifiable in the FG can be stated unequivocally. A key critic of sacramentalism in the twentieth century was Rudolf Bultmann who argued, in Francis Moloney’s words, that: It would be foreign to John’s whole theological vision to present a human, cultic place where one could have some sort of union with Christ.97

Bultmann’s claim that the FG is not eucharistic has to address three problematic verses: John 3:5, 6:51c-58; 19:34. Our focus here, given that this is a reflection on what might be identified as a meal, will be on 6:51-58.98 Bultmann’s approach was linked to a developmental view of the FG in which these could be excised as later additions contrary to some earlier and unaltered text. This begs a number of questions. That the FG was subject to a long process of development is queried by the sizeable minority who would give it an early date. That they are additions which may readily be deleted is to make a value judgment about the comparative value of different traditions: that later additions must be viewed as corruptions rather than clarifications is by no means certain. That the true meaning of the FG is necessarily to be found in some earlier version is also debatable: a more recent emphasis on “Johannine unity” has, in many ways, rendered the text critical arguments redundant.99 Additionally, and this is an insight from later Orthodox tradition, there is no necessity to distinguish word and sacrament.100 To do so may introduce an anachronistic rupture in the flow of the narrative. This would even hold good with the “sacramentals” just described: they demand words. The focus then shifts to the text rather than the process of its composition or transmission. A brief summary of the tensions between the sacramental and non-sacramental approaches may be found in the debate between Moloney and Jones which suggests four criteria for assessing sacramental significance: – elements which refer to sacramental ritual or symbol – used in early liturgical contexts

96 Warren, My Flesh, 33–34, fn. 29 provides an extensive bibliography; see also Petterson, From Tomb, 46–53, who is certainly right to comment, similarly to Jonathan Z. Smith, that the debate about the eucharist and Christology may well reflect later controversies than the text of the FG (55–58). 97 Francis J. Moloney, “When is John Talking about Sacraments?”, Australian Biblical Review 30 (1980), 10–33 at 15. 98 Anderson, The Christology, 134–36 offers a succinct summary of his lengthy critical evaluation of Bultmann’s diachronic reading of John 6. 99 Barrett, The Gospel, 22; Warren, My Flesh, 6. 100 J. Sergius Halvorsen, “The Context of the Eucharistic Liturgy” in Preaching at the Double Feast: Homiletics for Eucharistic Worship, ed. M. Monshau (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2006), 111–149 at 115–119.

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– polemic which indicates a break from the synagogue – Jesus presented as the revelation of God. Jones, however, notes that the last three topics “offer little help”: use in liturgical contexts says more about how the text was read, than how it might be written, and much of the polemic in the FG can be read without reference to sacramentals, as can much of the narrative which depicts Jesus as a revelation.101 Even with this degree of caution, however, sacraments arguably still remain visible within the text. Jones, for all his caution in gauging the sacramental claims made for the FG, comments that John 6:22–59 demands such a reading, albeit in a very limited form: … only the words of Jesus to the crowds beside the Sea of Galilee (6.22–59) seem clearly to have sacramental overtones. Jesus’ call for them to eat his flesh and drink his blood (6.53) has only an utterly revolting meaning unless it refers to the bread and wine of the eucharist. His promise that those who eat his flesh and drink his blood will abide in him, live because of him, and live forever (6.56–58) further supports a sacramental interpretation.102

Thus, it remains plausible that sacramental interpretations, which might or might not demand a ritual within the life of the community, might be possible. That they refer to meal is also possible, given that the language of John 6:51 has a strongly sacrificial element: ὁ ἄρτος δὲ ὃν ἐγὼ δώσω ἡ σάρξ µού ⸀ἐστιν ὑπὲρ τῆς τοῦ κόσµου ζωῆς (the bread which I will give is my flesh for the life of the world) where δώσω (I will give), σάρξ (flesh) and ὑπὲρ (for, on behalf of) all make such a suggestion.103 Such sacrificial terms lend themselves, given the prevalence of such actions in the ancient world, to imply a literal meal. They may share characteristics with other early Christian traditions,104 but these must not drive or “prove” such interpretations of the verses, only corroborate their possibility. Conversely, care must be taken not to import modern Western or Northern worldviews alienated from the concept of sacrifice, not least because of years of Christian squabbling: One major narrative of European modernity involves the notion of its systematic and increasing repudiation of sacrifice. And indeed, the idea that sacrifice should be rejected in the West has been popular since the Reformation, albeit in different guises and with different justifications.105

101

Jones, The Symbol, 27–28. Jones, The Symbol, 236. 103 George R. Beasley-Murray, John, 2nd ed. (Word Biblical Commentary 36. Nashville, TN: Nelson, 2000), 93–94; Heil, The Gospel, 55. 104 Moloney, The Gospel, 220. 105 Johannes Zachhuber and Julia Meszaros, “Introduction” in Sacrifice and Modern Thought, ed. Johannes Zachhuber and Julia Meszaros. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 1–11 at 1. 102

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Such views would strip sacrifice from its immediacy and place to the FG’s ancient audience and allow anachronistic prejudices to drive the reading of the text in its context. One thing is certain: a literal reading of anthropophagy would have been highly problematic, if not impossible, for any ancient reader. Warren states that “Both cannibalism and anthropophagy as culturally sanctioned behaviours are fictional”,106 and take place within the narrative location of novels.107 Additionally, a number of passages in ancient historiography refer to a rite, sometimes called the assaratum, in which blood was mixed with wine (Herodotus, Hist. 1.74, 3.8, 4.70; Lucian, Tox. 22; Tacitus, Ann. 12.47; Valerius Maximus, Facta et dicta memorabilia, 9.11.3; Sallust, Bell. Cat., 1.124). However, these may serve a rhetorical effect, demonstrating those joined by the rites as “profoundly negative and morally condemnable”.108 Whilst Warren reckons that anthropophagy was never actually practised, passages in a number of ancient writers (Celsus De medicina 3.23.7–8; Scribonius Largus; Pliny Nat. 28. 4–5; Aretaeus Cur acut. 7.4.7-8), though not about anthropophagy, suggest that the consumption of gladiators’ blood might be a cure for epilepsy, and raise the possibility that, whilst not enshrined in ritual, actual consumption was known.109 Of course, the texts are not evidence that the cure was actually used: they, too, are tinged with horror. It is sure that literal readings of John 6 simply cannot endorse any positive practice of anthropophagy. Given the number of scholars who have argued that this passage is nonsacramental,110 it is worth considering alternative readings which also shun literalism, but without recourse to sacramentalism. Christological readings of John 6:51–8c raise the possibility of interpreting the passage as a claim about Jesus’s person and actions, not sacramentalia.111 Doing this resolves the seeming difficulty of anti-sacramentalism and sacramentalism (as noted by Bultmann) co-existing in the same work, as the passage may be interpreted

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Warren, My Flesh, 13. Warren, My Flesh, 14. 108 Klaus Oschema, “Blood-Brothers: A Ritual of Friendship and the Construction of the Imagined Barbarian in the Middle Ages”, Journal of Medieval History 32 (2006), 275–301 at 279–82, quotation from 282. 109 Ferdinand Peter Moog and Axel Karenberg, “Between Horror and Hope: Gladiators’ Blood as a Cure for Epileptics in Ancient Medicine”, Journal of the History of the Neurosciences 12/2 (2003), 137–143 at 138–139. Scribonius Largus describes consumption of the liver of the gladiator, rather than the drinking of blood. According to Moog and Karenberg, the cures may be a medical appropriation of ancient Etruscan rituals, and they further note the persistence of related practices into the modern era. 110 Warren, My Flesh, 49–50. 111 Witherington, John’s Wisdom, 95–97. 107

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metaphorically rather than sacramentally.112 Such christological readings make the passage function more as a theophany, in which the identity of Jesus as God is linked with his death. However, a further question, as Petterson observes, might be asked: whether there is an opposition between sacramental or eucharistic and Christological readings?113 Does one need to be chosen, but not the other? Paul Anderson’s reflections do not demand a choice between Christological and sacramental readings. They do, however, rule out a number of understandings of sacraments in the text: In the broad sense of the term, John’s must certainly be considered ‘sacramental’. Through the ‘flesh-and-bloodness’ of Jesus, God has spoken to humanity, and this communion demand a response from the world. It is also clear that John contains no ‘ritual ordinances’ and even seems to de-emphasize the the value of such sacramental rites as water baptism and the eucharist.114

Yet even this does not remove completely any association from lustral or meal traditions, but simply places them a different point on a trajectory: “de-emphasize” does not mean “eliminate” or “remove”. Anderson concludes his reflections on sacramentalism with the suggestion that: Perhaps Johannine Christianity had not yet made the transition from a real, corporate meal to a symbolic ritual one as the topos in which the presence of the Lord was celebrated sacramentally.115

However, this statement begs two questions: not least whether such a transition ever took place,116 (a claim which gains increasing traction when the origins of the eucharist are embedded within symposium traditions), and how “distinct” any practice of the eucharist might have been within the circles associated with the FG (so that any analysis is not based on Eucharistic material from the Synoptics or Paul).117

112 James D.G. Dunn, “John VI – A Eucharistic Discourse?”, New Testament Studies 17/3 (1971), 328–338 at 334–335. 113 Christina Petterson, From Tomb to Text: The Body of Jesus in the Book of John (London: Bloomsbury, 2017), 53. 114 Anderson, The Christology, 114. 115 Anderson, The Christology, 119. 116 Fergus J. King, “There’s More to Meals than Food: A Contextual interpretation of Paul’s Understanding of the Corinthian last Supper” in Christian Worship in Australia: Inculturating the Liturgical Tradition, ed. Stephen Burns and Anita Monro (Strathfield: St Pauls, 2009), 167– 179 at 174–176; John O’Neill, “Bread and Wine”, Scottish Journal of Theology 48 (1995), 169–184 at 179. 117 Esther Kobel, Dining with John: Communal Meals and Identity Formation in the Fourth Gospel and its Historical and Cultural Context (Biblical Interpretation Series 109. Leiden: Brill, 2011), 212–214.

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Anderson’s conclusions would thus allow for a meal experience within the FG’s environment, and also an indication of a shared communal meal, given that these were part of the structures of the various guilds and associations. They rule out a sacramental meal being described or set up as an ordinance in the FG itself. Sacramental efficacy may be achieved by another means. Meredith J.C. Warren’s work makes a similar point, but provides a description of this occurring by means of narrative: … this section of John embeds a sacrificial ritual in narrative… Jesus’ exhortation in this pericope is not a description of the early Christian practice of the Eucharist. His exhortation to eat his flesh and drink his blood is not a description at all; rather the words spoken affect his identification with God.118

Her description of the text as a “ritual in ink”119 effectively removes the dichotomy not just between sacramental and Christological readings,120 but even between experience focussed on reading and participation in ritual and action. The efficacy of reading for participation is not, however, confined to the processes which Warren sees at work in the Greek novels. Within Judaic contexts, the phenomenon identified as “sacrificialisation”,121 in which the verbal recitation of the ritual activity was equivalent to the performance of that ritual as,

118 Warren, My Flesh, 234. There is much that is useful in Warren’s monograph for exploring how, particularly, Graeco-Roman readers, not well-versed in the sacramental of materials like Joseph and Aseneth, might have approached such a passage, given a different kind of anterior knowledge. Even if the FG might not be shaped by these literary tropes, a reader might be – and that will influence the interpretation made of the text. Thus, to a reader versed in such literature, the trope might well provide a hermeneutical key which led to a non-sacramental “significance” (as opposed to the “original meaning”, to use Coxon’s distinction, whatever that might have been: sacramental or not; Paul S. Coxon, Exploring the New Exodus in John: A Biblical Theological Investigation of John Chapters 5–10 (Eugene, OR: Resource, 2014),18). Warren is rightly wary of the danger of reading the FG through the lens particularly of Matthew, and stresses that it should not be conformed to the Matthean pattern. That said, the question of the interrelationship between the traditions of the Synoptic gospels and John is still debated, as in the Louvain school. Her statement logically raises a major concern about the validity of any comparison. If it is invalid to compare John to Matthew, surely it is also invalid to compare it to the romances? Warren (20) also notes that some have considered the eucharist a later development. Again, this is contentious, given that it is possible to posit an early date (before 70 CE) for John in its completed form, (among others, Robinson, Redating, 254-311, esp. 284; 310–311), and that any sacramental reading cannot simply be thus ruled out on the basis of a time frame. 119 Warren, My Flesh, 8–13. 120 Warren, My Flesh, 32. 121 Jonathan Klawans, “Interpreting the Last Supper: Sacrifice, Spiritualization, and AntiSacrifice”, New Testament Studies 48 (2002), 1–17 at 14 opts for “sacrificialization” as a more accurate term than “spiritualization”.

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for example, in synagogue worship,122 may provide a precedent. It raises, if nothing more, the potential from the practice of the time, that the efficacy of eating Jesus’s body and drinking his blood might be effective in a “sacrificialised” reading of the relevant text as much as a sacramental action or ritual.123 Anderson and Warren’s researches both suggest that Bultmann’s strong anti-sacramental stance cannot be sustained, but, equally, they caution against seeing a sacramental meal in the FG. They do not demand a legitimation of the eucharist in John 6, but offer alternative avenues for sacramental efficacy. The scholarly debate is unlikely to be resolved. As Jones and others point out, the strongest evidence to adduce such an event is the inclusion of blood into the narrative of John 6:53–57.124 Yet it remains possible that the inclusion of blood might serve a christological rather than a sacramental purpose: to identify Christ’s death as sacrificial, given that blood is deemed a symbol of such actions.125 Nor does it demand a sacramental act of eating within the community, inasmuch as sacraments may be effected by other means. Arguments for sacramentalism, and how it might be performed within the community on the basis of the text of the FG remain contested at best, but still possible, given that some kind of meal remains a strong likelihood for many interpreters. What is perhaps more problematic for a comparison with Epicureanism is that any sacramental interpretation would appear to fracture the strict dichotomy between the realm of the gods and this world. Epicurean metaphysics appear to preclude the irruption of the supernatural into a meal, ritual or reading, as well as any suggestion of benefit from sacrifice, beyond the social, or commensality. However, the Epicurean meals were not concerned with a metacosmic or supernatural deity, but with the presence of the this-worldly, and the dead, notably Epicurus and other sages. Epicurean metaphysics could explan their presence by means of “secondary images” which effected some presence which

122 John M. Lundquist, The Temple of Jerusalem: Past, Present, and Future (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2008), 132–135. 123 It should be noted that Klawans’s handling of sacrificialisation envisions a ritual, not simply a reading, as part of early Christian practice. Petterson, From Tomb to Text seems to make a similar claim to Warren, arguing that the text is what is ultimately significant for understanding the Jesus of the FG. I am not convinced that this does justice to John 20:30–31 which seems to posit the text as sharing the revelatory merits of the experience of the first disciples, notably Thomas, presented as a lived experience (John 20:24–29). Taken together, Lundquist’s and Klawans’s comments imply a reality that is being made present by a metaphorical action or recitation of the text within a context of worship, and that such theory and practice might be part of the FG’s environment. Their focus on the ancient practices and the equivalence of ritual and/or reading is quite different from Petterson’s predominantly modern and literary approach. 124 Jones, The Symbol, 236. 125 Warren, My Flesh, 143.

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was not “real” or ontological, but was, nonetheless, efficacious or helpful in nurturing disciples. From this perspective either a meal or the record of the tradition might serve to make Jesus present. However, for there to be any convergence, there needs to be evidence of memory in the FG. The passages associated with meals and eating are not helpful: John 6 talks of eating and abiding, but not remembering. Talk of the Johannine meals as “memorial meals” may be overly bold. But what is memorial is not linked just to meals. In describing the use of memory found within the FG, John A. T. Robinson noted: This is not just a neutral exercise in historical reminiscences- what Justin called the ἀποµνηµονεύµατα, or memoirs, of the apostles, (Dial. 106.2f.). It is ἀνάµνησις in the deep Hebraic sense of a recalling of the past that does not leave it in the dead past but recreates it as present experience at a deeper level.126

Such Judaic memory has four purposes: building a sense of identity with an existential dimension of “making present”, fostering a communal experience, producing hope, and remembering God.127 The last needs to be expanded to include “reminding-God”: an activity which involves the active prompting of God to intervene on behalf of his people through the celebration of past saving acts.128 There is potentially compatibility between the two traditions, in that they both “make present”, build community, and engender hope in those who participate of also sharing in their respective salvific goals. The last point, remembering, might be rejigged: both somehow make the founder present and identify that founder as a god, notwithstanding their very different theologies. That needs a qualification. Both will allow remembrance of the deity, but only the Judaic allows for “reminding-God”; the Epicurean god, whether a metacosmic deity or a dead sage, cannot be “reminded”, and will not intervene in the affairs of this world. Nor could the Epicurean version readily include notions of sacrifice, beyond a social purpose, but those of the FG might, given the open-ness of both Judaic and wider Graeco-Roman traditions to embrace sacrifice. Within Epicureanism, meals clearly assist the shaping of memory. Within the FG, this might also be the case, but the practice of meals is, for some, open to question. That said, the process of memory as efficacious may still be maintained. Thus, we may tentatively conclude that both traditions used memory as a way of shaping disciples, and even a “making present” of their respective founders – and this could include meal practices.

126

Robinson, The Priority, 344–345. The FG never uses the terminology of ἀνάμνησις in passages which might be interpreted as sacramental or eucharistic or even related to meals, unlike the accounts in 1 Cor. 11:24–25 and Luke 22:19. 127 R. Alan Streett, Subversive Meals: An Analysis of the Lord’s Supper under Roman Domination during the First Century (Cambridge: James Clarke & Co., 2016), 556–558. 128 King, More Than a Passover, 242–243.

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If conclusions about ritual meals remain uncertain, the same is likely to hold good for other sacramental activities. Similar concerns may arise from the FG’s treatment of baptism. However, the two cases, meals and baptism, are not identical. Baptism is first encountered in relation to the Baptist (John 1: 25–26) and is quickly followed by the statement that someone is coming who will provide a superior baptism which involves the Spirit (John 1:27, 29–34). Critical for any consideration of the sacramental nature of baptism is John 3:5 which places water and the Spirit together as prerequisites for being born from above (John 3:3). This may raise questions about Anderson’s view that the FG de-emphasises such practices: why include or retain the combination?129 Objections to a sacramental reading are two-fold: interpretive and textual. Rensberger sums up the objections concisely. The claim that water refers to physical birth is illogical and redundant, given that all may be said to be born from “water” in this sense. Symbolic readings that would make “water” simply a symbol for the Spirit neglect the baptismal context, as do claims that mention of “water” is inauthentic, which also fail to address its social significance in forming a boundary between believers and non-believers. Rejection on the grounds of historicity falsely conflates what the historical Jesus might have said with the Johannine Jesus.130 That John 4:2 suggests that Jesus himself did not baptise followers or disciples, may indicate a lack of dominical precedent or ordinance, and, therefore, no such practice, or aspiration.131 Yet this is not universally held, even if, for example, John O’Neill’s suggestion that the Syriac contains a variant stating the opposite does not seem to have gained much traction.132 That Jesus’s disciples also baptise suggests, even if no ordinance is clearly stated, that the action remains appropriate for his followers. This train of thought suggests that a sacramental understanding of baptism may be retained. Let us assume that there was some kind of baptism. What functions did it perform?133 It functions both as a public expression of faith and a boundary between believers and non-believers. The connection of baptism in the FG to John the Baptist who prophetically reveals the Messiah (John 1:23, 26, 29–34) makes it profoundly christological, but also related to the forgiveness of sin (John 1:29), inasmuch as this is one of the tasks performed by the one who is anticipated. Baptism also serves to join the believer both to faith in Jesus and what he accomplishes. One thing is certain: it is unlikely that baptism, if practised as a ritual or liturgical means of indicating status as a believer, would 129

Anderson, The Christology, 114. David Rensberger, Johannine Faith and Liberating Community (Philadelphia, PA: Westminster, 1988), 67–68. 131 Anderson, The Christology, 113. 132 John C. O’Neill, “The Origins of Christian Baptism”. Unpublished NT Seminar Paper presented at New College, Edinburgh Oct. 1992, 1. See also Dale C. Allison, Constructing Jesus: Memory, Imagination, and History (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker: 2010), 211. 133 Rensberger, Johannine Faith, 69–70. 130

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have had any resonance with the Epicurean tradition, given that there are neither records of programmes of initiation within that school, nor was there any recognition of “forgiveness of sin” analogous with the content of the FG.134 Epicureanism did not share the lustral traditions or symbolism of Judaism,135 let alone the gospel’s focus on Jesus. Discussion of meal traditions is not exhausted by their content, but may include the literary presentation of a meal. Dennis E. Smith has identified a literary trope which might be called the “philosophical banquet”.136 This was not a specifically or exclusively Epicurean phenomenon, but one found in a variety of philosophical traditions. It could include the following elements, a number of which can be seen within the FG narrative: a meal setting, appropriate conversation (in this case, φιλία, joy), and the washing of feet.137 This trope, it must be stated, need not say anything about the practice of the community,138 or its view of its own identity, but it does potentially address contemporary perceptions of Jesus. The use of the philosophical symposium as a literary genre, with all its resonances to wider tradition, may present Jesus as a teacher or sage.

E. Summary of Findings In Chapter 5 reflections on the nature of divinity included the competing claims made for Epicurus and Jesus. Both traditions share the convention of describing their pivotal figure as Saviour. They were not alone in this: Imperial cults could do the same.139 From that point onwards, discrepancies appear between the teachings of the two schools. Epicurus is a Saviour whose teaching allows his disciples the right thinking to enter ataractic bliss, which is a purely thisworldly phenomenon. Jesus, on the other hand, enables a relationship with his

134

For the FG and the forgiveness of sins as part of discipleship, see Chapter 7. An extended discussion of the symbolism of water follows in Chapter 7. 136 Smith, From Symposium, 47–65. 137 Smith, From Symposium, 47; 51–55; 273–275. 138 See further, Chapter 7. 139 Allen Brent, The Imperial Cult and the Development of Church Order: Concepts and Images of Authority in Paganism and Early Christianity before the Age of Cyprian (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 71, 93, 105, 181, 194. 135

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disciples which allows believers to enter into a state described as ζωὴ αἰώνιος. This has dimensions alien to the materialist metaphysics of Epicureanism. Epicureanism also claimed Epicurus as philosopher, father figure, hero, µεγαλόψυχος: all based on his imparting of the right understanding necessary for living well. All of these are revealed in statuary. There is no evidence for any monumental depictions of Jesus in the Johannine environment. Any such claims are found within the text of the FG. Jesus obviously does not feature as a father figure. The title of Father is reserved for the one who sends him: at best Jesus reveals the Father through his modelling of love, obedience, and shared will. Nor is Jesus ever identified directly as a philosopher. Yet, he is portrayed as a teacher (rabbi), which may be analogous, and as one who, by implication knows what truth is (John 19) and embodies it (John 14:6). Jesus is not called µεγαλόψυχος, but gives his life for his friends, and leaves teaching to guide them. The act of his dying appears, however, to have soteriological layers which go beyond mere generosity, such as the passing on of the Spirit, and the forgiving of sins. These are alien to Epicureanism. Finally, Jesus is depicted as a hero in ways reminiscent of the Graeco-Roman world, 140 even if not identical to its heroes and rulers.141 A number of incidents both in the depiction of his life reveal a “kinship” with the biographical literature of the ancient world whose various forms embrace the lives of mythic heroes, rulers, statesmen, and the founders of philosophical schools.142 These include his origins, which the FG roots in “primordial origins” within a “mythical prehistory”,143 his provocative teaching144 and healing,145 all of which culminate in an heroic death.146 John's handling of Jesus’s passion and death on the cross is counter intuitive and deeply ironic: shame becomes honour,147 and death, springing from obedience to the will of God, becomes the way to life. Whilst crucifixion and the associated insults (John 19:18, 19, 23– 24) imply a shameful death, Jesus’s control over his destiny (John 10:17–18), and the minimal mutilation, which is turned into the fulfilment of a prophecy

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Warren, My Flesh, 20, 52–57, 188. Brant, John, 38–39. 142 Thus Lawrence M. Wills, The Quest for the Historical Gospel (London: Routledge, 1997), 14–18; “kinship” from 17. 143 Wills, The Quest, 53. 144 Wills, The Quest, 66. 145 Wills, The Quest, 71. 146 Brant, John, 232; Wills, The Quest, 43–50. The pattern finds an interesting, but ironic, analogy in contemporary Roman historiography. Tacitus Ann. 16.18–19 records that Titus Petronius, one of whose qualities is described as exercising freedom in action and speech, controlled the circumstances of his own death when he fell out of favour with Nero. 147 Neyrey, The Gospel of John, 418–438. 141

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(John 19:32–37; Zech 12:10) point rather to honour:148 the bystanders’ shameful crucifixion is the believers’ glorious exaltation.149 What of other ritual practices? Epicureanism offers a ritual memorial meal. Scholars continue to wrangle about whether the FG includes a sacramental meal. There appears to be a possible area of agreement. The Judaic pattern of memorial as “making present” is present in the FG, either through a meal or the written tradition, whilst Epicurean “secondary images” allow for a “making present” of the dead sages through statuary, literature, and meals. However the act of eating is construed in the FG, whether as a Christian sacrament, a memorial meal, a communal meal, or a metaphor for eating connected to the death of the Saviour, one major difference remains obvious: that it is Jesus who becomes the focus of attention, not Epicurus. Further, it is his death, not his teaching, which is significant. Nothing in the Epicurean material suggests, even if contended, that it was Epicurus who was “consumed”, either sacramentally, metaphorically, or, after Warren, “in ink”: the sages could only be present as remembered exemplars. Epicurean cosmology comprehensively ruled out any divine role in this world, either through presence or intervention of some kind. Sacraments, in the sense of an ontological supernatural or divine irruption, either by a metacosmic deity or a dead sage, would have been impossible. Thus, the traditions do not converge except at a general level: both may involve a “making present” focussed on the founder, but there is no guarantee that they share either a ritual, meal pattern, significance or a theophany involving the death of the exemplar. Epicurus’s death does not achieve the significance of any of the christological or sacramental readings of John 6. In fact, the Epicurean tradition makes present those known to have died, whereas the FG claims to make present one who has a continued existence. Neither sacramental nor christological readings of the FG allow an easy identification of Johannine and Epicurean ritual meals, or any glib conclusion that the Epicureans and the early Johannine Christians might readily have grasped the significance of what the other group was actually doing. Lastly, the FG never reveals any inkling of the Epicurean physics which shaped their understanding of “right worship” or “making present”, just as the Epicureans entertain none of Judaic memorial patterns.

148 149

Neyrey, The Gospel of John, 432–434. Neyrey, The Gospel of John, 418–419.

Chapter 7

Friendship and Discipleship: The Garden and “the Johannine Community” If ritual and cult suggest that a group of people do things together, that observation then introduces a wider consideration of the social configuration of a tradition. The Epicureans were well known for their communities, which seem to have offered some degree of detachment from wider society. The FG, certainly in recent study, has been identified with a community related not just to the gospel, but the Johannine Epistles. These groupings may have more in common than modern distinctions of a philosophy, school, or religious community may admit.

A. Schools and Communities In his study of the various philosophical traditions of both Judaism and GraecoRomanitas, R. Alan Culpepper provides a list of nine characteristics of the “schools” of the ancient world. They may be summarised as: – a group with identifiable φιλία (friendship) and/or κοινωνία (community/allegiance) – an exemplary founder – followers of that founder – valued teachings or traditions concerning the founder – teaching, learning, studying and writing – communal meals, often memorial in nature – admission and membership patterns – a degree of distance from wider society – an organisation to ensure perpetuity.1 As 2 and 6 have been examined in the previous chapter, what follows will concentrate on the other points. Issues of learning and structure will be explored under the heading of psychagogy (the process in which disciples were formed), membership patterns under παρρησία and φιλία, and “distance from society” under “wider society”. In his introduction to Paul and Philodemus, Clarence

1

Culpepper, The Johannine School, 258–259.

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E. Glad argues that Epicurean practice was the closest philosophical parallel to the “psychagogy and nurture of the proto-Christian communities”,2 taking psychagogy: to characterize a mature person’s leading of others and thus feature the close connection of ψυχαγωγέω and moral exhortation or the “manner of leading the soul through words”.3

This draws on Malherbe’s observation that Epicurean and Pauline communities resembled each other by being “genuine communities that engaged in mutual exhortation”.4 For, unlike the Cynicism which was preoccupied with the individual, Epicureanism exhibited a strong communal concern.5 Even Wayne Meeks, whilst skeptical of the correspondence between the Pauline communities and their Epicurean counterparts, admits that they offer significant analogies.6 Common points held by the two groups included diverse memberships, a participatory psychagogy, the nurture of new members,7 and, potentially, cult practice (as seen in the previous chapter). However, Glad’s study makes clear that two concepts dominate this discussion: παρρησία (variously: frankness, frank speaking, candour) and φιλία. As a number of verses in the FG use παρρησία, this term needs to be measured against the Epicurean usage: a linguistic resonance per se is not an adequate foundation for a meaningful comparison. It further explores points 5 and 7 in the above definition, and merits a separate study, as does φιλία (point 1). Again, in itself, this need not indicate any departure from cultural norms: φιλία was a common theme in the both Graeco-Roman and Judaic discourse, often connected to values such as loyalty and affection, providing networks of associations outside the family.8 Indeed, it could also be a constituent part of the bonds between patrons and clients.9 Any detailed exploration of this theme embraces both the concept of φιλία, and the ways in which it was cultivated or learned. Starting with the Epicurean tradition, it thus overlaps with descriptions of the Epicurean communities the nature of their life together, and how it was learned (the 2

Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 4; Dutch, The Educated Elite, 75. Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 17. 4 Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Thessalonians. The Philosophic Tradition of Pastoral Care (Philadelphia, PA: Fortress, 1987) 84. 5 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 7. 6 Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983), 84. Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 8–9, 335 identifies psychagogy as a shared constitutive element, and that the two groups were linked together by other commentators. 7 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 10–11. 8 Koester, Symbolism, 240 whose survey of literature does not include the Epicurean material. 9 Halvor Moxnes, “Patron-Client Relationships and the New Community in Luke-Acts” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: New Models for Interpretation, ed. Jerome Neyrey (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 241–268 at 244–246. 3

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psychagogy of the school). Study of the FG focusses on related themes: φιλία, the nature of the Johannine community, patterns of making disciples, and παρρησία. Both traditions appear to have shaped communities with a distinctive ethos; how these related to the societies in which they were located will also need scrutiny.

B. Epicurean Communities Epicureans cultivated social relationships and friendships through the practice of living in communes. The first of these, supposedly, is Epicurus’s own garden at Melite in 306 BCE. It did not remain the sole centre for Epicurean study: others were established, and eventually these were linked in a “worldwide network of communities”.10 This points to a key feature of the Epicurean school: a deliberate foundation indicating an “active” as opposed to a “passive” founder.11 Traditions about Epicurus’s will indicate the intention of setting up a group in perpetuity, notwithstanding the question of claims that the Epicureans withdrew from wider society. This means that he serves two roles; he is the “mythic” founder, as well as the community and the “institutional” founder. However, other significant Epicureans might also have taken some role as “institutional” founders, especially as new communities were established. From these beginnings, Epicureanism grew into a network of communities which stretched across the Mediterranean from the Greek-speaking East to the Latin West.12 Additionally, biographical information about Vergil, Horace, and Epicureanism in Naples point to the continued existence of such establishments.13 Communes provided a positive environment in which the good life might be cultivated. However, subsequent descriptions have sometimes suggested that they contributed to the myth of Epicurean withdrawal from society and political life. This needs to be reviewed. Epicurus bought a property in 306/7 or 304/5 BCE at Melite which was subsequently handed on to successive heads of the school: there is, however, no evidence to support claims that small dwellings were built there, or even that Epicurus made living in community mandatory.14 Indeed, he is recorded as rejecting requirements to surrender individual property and the communal holding of property alike.15 Communal life, not communism, appears to have been the order, and φιλία was critical in describing such a pattern of life. However, these communes would have been places 10 Thomas L. Brodie, Birthing the New Testament: The Intertextual Development of the New Testament Writings (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2004), 66. 11 Culpepper, The Johannine School, 249. 12 See Chapter 2. 13 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 103–104. 14 Asmis, “Epicurean Economics”, 135–136. 15 DL 10.11, Epistle 6.6; see in Asmis, “Epicurean Economics”, 137.

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where psychagogy could be practised effectively. Glad has noted the analogies between Pauline and Epicurean communities: Member participation, trust and openness, are thus intrinsic to the two communities. The social matrix of their common practice of communal, participatory psychagogy, suggests a close knit community integrated by active member participation.16

Of course, a caveat is needed: what is applicable to a comparison with a Pauline community will not automatically translate to the Johannine. He further suggests they share “religious” aspects, meaning common attitudes to the prevalent religious patterns of their environment.17 These common features do not serve “to demonstrate either a pattern of influence and cultural borrowing or direct influence or reaction, but to highlight a widespread and shared communal practice among Epicureans and early Christians.”18 Of additional significance in such a claim may be the fact that outsiders bracketed Epicureans and Christians together,19 but this linkage need not depend on shared communal practice, as Glad suggests.20 It may stem from their refusal to participate in common cult practices.21 However, this always needs to be qualified by the recognition that Epicureans still could participate in religious activities within the societies in which they found themselves. Such participation did not demand any theological assent, but served a social and political function. Glad is on firmer ground with his remarks that communal practice was found in a number of ancient groups, including the Pythagoreans, the Essenes, and the school of Epictetus, but that other factors make their comparison with the Pauline communities less likely. There are significant differences. These include the Pythagorean selection process and novitiate, which militate against fluid teacher-student relationships,22 the hierarchical nature of the Essene communities,23 and Epictetus’s comparative lack of interest in “reciprocal participation in corrective discipline”.24

16

Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 8. Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 8. See Chapter 5. 18 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 9. 19 Lucian, Alex. 25.38; Joseph J. Walsh, “On Christian Atheism”, Vigiliae Christianae 45/3 (1991), 255–77 at 261. 20 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 9. 21 George van Kooten, “Christianity in the Graeco-Roman World: socio-political, philosophical and religious interactions up to the Edict of Milan (CE 313)” in The Routledge Companion to Early Christian Thought, ed. D. Jeffrey Bingham (Abingdon: Routledge 2010), 3–37 at 23, and Paul Hartog, “Greco-Roman Understanding of Christianity” in The Routledge Companion to Early Christian Thought, ed. D. Jeffrey Bingham (Abingdon: Routledge 2010), 51–67 at 56. 22 Iamblichus. Vit. Pyth. 17: 71-4; Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 11 fn. 20. 23 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 11 fn. 21. 24 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 11–12 fn. 22. 17

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In contrast to asymmetrical25 or hierarchical26 descriptions of the school and its therapeutic method, it is possible to argue that Epicureans were more collaborative in their community life.27 Where DeWitt saw a structured hierarchical organisation, with six clear ranks, Gigante saw two tiers which encouraged a “free and open coexistence of masters and disciples”.28 However, proponents of both views recognise that there were characteristics which transcend these distinctions: Gigante’s emphasis on the collaborative nature of Epicurean psychagogy…draws attention to a basic symmetry present in the relationship between the sages and the fellow students. This de Witt recognised also in his emphasis on the culpability of all and on goodwill, voluntary co-operation, and friendship. Both Gigante and de Witt have correctly gauged the similar situation of leaders and fellow-disciples.29

Their remarks serve also to show that, in describing the nature of Epicurean communities, attention must be paid to both psychagogy and φιλία. They provide a reminder that the consideration of symmetry and mutuality in relations must be to the fore in claiming any analogy between the Epicurean and Johannine traditions.

C. Epicurean Psychagogy Given that etymology is notoriously suspect as a grounds for meaning, there is a certain irony in the use of psychagogy as “to lead departed souls to the nether world”.30 Ancient philosophy’s strong pre-occupation with matters of life and death continues to engage with this frame of reference, not least Epicureanism, and echoes Montaigne’s comment: “that to philosophize is to learn to die”.31 The phenomenon can be traced through a number of ancient mythic and historical models: Athena’s shaping of Telemachus in the Odyssey, Chiron the

25 Martha C. Nussbaum, “Therapeutic Arguments: Epicurus and Aristotle” in The Norms of Nature: Studies in Hellenistic Ethics, ed. M. Scholfield and G. Striker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 31–74 at 46–47. 26 Norman DeWitt, “Organization and Procedure in Epicurean Groups”, Classical Philology 31/3 (1936), 205–11; “Epicurean Conturbium”, Transactions of the American Philological Association 67 (1936), 55–63. 27 Marcello Gigante, Ricerche Filodemee (Seconda edizione rivedata e accrescuita. Biblioteca della Parola del Passato, 6. Naples: Gaetano Macchiaroli Editore, 1983), 97, 110. 28 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 154. 29 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 155. 30 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 18. 31 Clark-Soles, Death, 135.

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Centaur, the sophistic movement, and Plato, significantly in the Phaedrus.32 Such mentoring demanded the attributes of both a homo simplex (who speaks candidly, e.g., Achilles) and the homo duplex (who hides his motives, e.g., Odysseus):33 [an] ambiguity…seen in two recurring prerequisites for being a psychagogue, namely selfscrutiny and consistency of word and deed.34

and culminated in a: Harmonization of speech and behavior, the requirement of consistency in word and deed… [which] reveal a proclivity to view “behavior” holistically.35

Psychagogy thus embraces both the teaching of the philosophical craft and sets out the relationships between older and younger philosophers.36 It would persist into the Roman world and the imperial period, as is witnessed by Seneca and Maximus of Tyre.37 It is also visible in a particular form in Epicureanism. Glad gives a summary which is worth quoting in full: Psychagogy is non-dogmatic and preceptive, aimed at molding and consolidating the recipients for the purposes of communal solidarity. Its function is only secondarily for legitimation purposes, i.e., to establish the authoritative status of the “spiritual guides” or to inculcate belief. Those two subsidiary beliefs, though present, are secondary both chronologically and in importance. Trust and submissiveness to persons in authority who are capable of guiding one through life is indeed underlined. The primary function, however, of a psychagogue in these communities is to distinguish neophytes from society at large, to attempt a certain transformation of the self, to establish a certain in-group mentality, and to highlight the awareness of the recipients in view of the total realignment implicit in their conversion.38

However, as with community, it must not simply be assumed that the evidence from Pauline communities will necessarily translate to the environment of the FG. Philodemus’s Περὶ παρρησίας (Lib.), which preserves material from Zeno of Sidon’s (Stoic) lectures,39 is critical in recording such practices in a trajectory which derives from Epicurus’s own focus on “philosophy as a therapy for the soul”.40 For Philodemus, there was an emphasis on cognitive and 32 Paul R. Kolbet, Augustine and the Cure of Souls: Reviving a Classical Ideal. (Christianity and Judaism in Antiquity Series Vol. 17. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2010) 24–38. 33 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 19. 34 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 21. 35 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 22. 36 Kolbet, Augustine, 60. 37 Kolbet, Augustine, 44–56. 38 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 10. 39 Tsouna, The Ethics, 91. 40 Kolbet, Augustine, 42–43; from Epicurus Fr. 54: κενὸς ἐκείνου φιλοσόφου λόγος, ὑφ’ οὗ µηδὲν πάθος ἀνθρώπου θεραπεύεται (“empty is the theory of a philosopher, by

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judgmental techniques, drawn from both Epicurean tradition and elsewhere,41 which have a wide range of effects: Intellectual as well as moral, self-reflective as well as instinctual, dispositional and also behavioural, drawing on reason and sensibility, imagination and sensitivity.42

Related strategies covered four broad areas: learning to read (which included the understanding and memorising of key doctrines), to discuss or dialogue, to live, to die.43 The use of literary collections, including materials such as the KD (DL 10.139–154) allowed the precepts of the school to be taught in a form which was readily memorised. The lists preserved in Diogenes Laertius suggest a considerable literary output, and collections like those from Herculaneum point to community libraries which would allow its members access to the school’s writing. They also, given that a number of titles indicate this, suggest that lectures within the school were an important source of information, and that their production and performance were significant parts of the life of Epicurean communities. The writings preserved in DL, which include letters to specific addressees (Menoeceus, Herodotus and Pythocles)44 and purport to come from Epicurus’s hand, suggest that the epistolary form was a medium of communication. Their survival in this form is also telling and suggests that they were preserved within Epicurean institutions or by individual practitioners, for example, at Athens and Oxyrhynchus.45 Their survival suggests that these letters, whether or not intended for private use, were preserved and circulated in a general form.46 Epicureans included the ἐπιτοµή in their literary production, along with γνωµολογία (gnomologia – collections of sayings).47 These include the letters preserved by Diogenes Laertius (the letters to Herodotus, Menoeceus and Pythocles), the KD, the VS, the Oenanda inscription and a number of other fragments.48 The writings of Diogenes of Tarsus, Demetrius Λacon, and even Lucretius have been similarly designated.49 The Letter to Herodotus (DL 10.35) outlines the function and purpose of the ἐπιτοµή. It performs two functions: an accessible version (for beginners or

whom no human suffering is healed” – translation mine). Greek text from Kolbet, Augustine, 233, fn. 12. Kolbet, Augustine, 43–44 also notes the prevalence of medical imagery to describe the educational programme of the school. 41 Tsouna, The Ethics, 75. 42 Tsouna, The Ethics, 76. 43 Tsouna, The Ethics, 77. 44 DL. 10.122–136; 35–83. 45 Dorandi, “The School”, 32–37, 40–48. 46 Dorandi, “The School ", 29. 47 MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 6. 48 Dorandi, “Aspetti”, 27–72. 49 MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 6, fn. 19.

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those constrained from full participation in the school), and a form which may be memorised by those who are more advanced in their studies.50 It even appears possible that they may be used outside the school setting, by independent readers (ἐν τοῖς κυριωτάτοις βοηθεῖν αὑτοῖς δύνωνται),51 but always as aids for those who were interested in their tenets: Their construction was predicated upon them being utilized by readers who already had an established disposition towards the philosophy. They were not fashioned to pique the attention of outsiders or to lure the masses to Epicureanism by providing them with a simplified route to achieve philosophical literacy.52

That said, it appears that later Epicureans used the ἐπιτοµή, despite what seems to be their “insider” language, to popularise the beliefs of the school more widely. This would not have been completely at odds with early Epicurean practice, even of Epicurus himself: the claims of Frischer that the Epicureans engaged in only a “passive recruitment” cannot be sustained.53 From the second century BCE, the ἐπιτοµή form was produced by a new kind of writer: the Epicurean proponent who extensively redacts/abbreviates the texts and teachings of their school to suit their audience’s limited ability either to understand or tolerate sustained intellectual deliberation.54

These writers included Philonides (200–130 BCE), whose output is lost. References to his legacy are found in the writings of later critics (Philodemus and Demetrius Lacon) who raised concerns about the ἐπιτοµή encouraging laziness, oversimplifying, and corrupting the school’s philosophical rigour.55 Cicero, most likely on the basis of such popularising works, brought similar criticisms: Epicureans were reducing the amount of study needed, and lacked sophistication (urbanitas).56 While Philodemus is concerned that the ἐπιτοµή may not always be the best guide, this must be balanced by his interest in including the less well-educated.57. It is an argument about how best to present the school’s doctrines: at a high intellectual level, or at a more demotic and less technical one.

50 MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 8. The Letter to Pythocles (DL 10.85) also indicates different versions, see MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 10. 51 MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 9. 52 MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 10. 53 Clay, “Review of Bernard Frischer”, 487–489. 54 MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 11. 55 MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 11–13. 56 MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”,15–20. This adds a certain irony to the trope used so often by those poets sympathetic to Epicureanism. The locus amoenus made the countryside the preferred location for the good life; see below. 57 MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 23–25.

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Philodemus is concerned that dependence on the ἐπιτοµή form may stunt development and engagement with the school’s tenets. The outcome of this is a pedagogy which will recognise the importance of the ἐπιτοµή as both an introduction and a form apt for memorisation (as Epicurus had recognised);it is not an end in itself, but rather the means of entering into a more detailed appropriation of the school’s doctrines which should culminate, if circumstances allow, in a more detailed study of what was summarised and simplified in the ἐπιτοµή. Their privileging is part of a wider cultural phenomenon: Just as with Lucilius’ depicted preference to read epitomized versions of Stoic philosophy, Galen’s complaints about people who were not willing to read his works but depend upon faulty epitomes of them, as well as the likely audience of Demetrius Lacon’s works, the lure of texts that offered an expedited route to gain scholarly literacy was evidently compelling for highly educated students. The proclivity to misuse epitomes, however, was, I suggest, likely more acutely felt in the Epicurean school due to the normalization of having philosophical discourse located within abbreviated formats.58

Nevertheless, the ἐπιτοµή retained some value as means of making the doctrines of the school comprehensible to those who were less well-educated, and, in so doing, reveal an interest held by the members of the school in sharing their philosophy with others, from a variety of backgrounds. Texts, books and lectures were not the only tools used for learning and development. The importance of discussion can be seen in Philodemus’s exploration of παρρησία.

D. Epicurean Παρρησία Michel Foucault’s Fearless Speech has given the term παρρησία a new lease of life in postmodern discourse.59 At the heart of his analysis lies a perception that παρρησία is a dangerous business: “truth occurs where the speaker freely risks his or her freedom to say what he or she must”.60 In a broad sweep, he 58

MacGillivray, “Epitomizing”, 28. Michel Foucault, Fearless Speech, ed. Joseph Pearson (Los Angeles, CA: Semiotext(e), 2001). For a modern application, not least the difficulties raised for the notion of truth in Foucault’s depiction of parrhesia, see Vinceno Pavone, “Parrhesia, Prophecy and Scientific Totalitarianism”, Review Journal of Political Philosophy 1 (2003), 5–28, Michael A. Peters, “Truth-telling as Educational Practice of the Self: Foucault and the Ethics of Subjectivity” in, Education, Philosophy and Politics: The Selected Works of Michael A. Peters, ed. Michael A. Peters (Abingdon: Routledge, 2012), 73–89 at 73, 76–78, Diane Skinner, “Fearless Speech: Practising parrhesia in a self-managing community”, ephemera 11/2 (2011), 157–175; Maria Tamboukou, “Truth telling in Foucault and Arendt: Parrhesia, the Pariah and Academics in Dark Times”, Journal of Education Policy 27/6 (2012), 849–865. 60 Kalliopi Nikolopoulou, Tragically Speaking: On the Use and Abuse of Theory for Life (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2012), 111. 59

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notes the development of the term in the tragedies of Euripides, the democratic institutions of the early Hellenistic period, and within the philosophical schools. This last grouping includes the Epicureans: Philodemus’s treatise Lib. ( – PHerc. 1471) is a significant text on the subject. Foucault notes this work, and his debt to Marcello Gigante in interpreting what is a difficult and fragmentary text.61 This text provides a substantial foundation for the more limited and historical explanation of the practice of παρρησία within the school. Descriptions of the historical development of the practice share much with, but are not confined to, Epicurean practice which is but one manifestation of a larger phenomenon. Παρρησία begins as a part of political life as the practice of free speech in the democratic institutions of Athens.62 Foucault’s analysis of this period draws particularly on the tragedies of Euripides,63 texts which are absent from the brief review in Konstan et al., who embed the practice in the context of friendship and its expression in the democratic institutions of the city.64 Nikolopoulou notes that the Euripidean portrayal of παρρησία, in which she includes the Bacchae, effectively makes “claiming truth” an activity centred on “human rationality” rather than “divine revelation”.65 Theatre further alerts us to the fact that παρρησία was not a universal right: both tragedians and comedians note the difficulties for aliens and slaves in exercising it, and the exclusion which was indicated by non-participation.66 However, caution is needed. If there are perils and pitfalls in describing religious behaviour from the tragedies,67 the same may be true for the depiction of political activity. Not only that, but Euripides’s understanding of παρρησία appears at variance with that found in Plato, who locates it within the Socratic dialogue: only later would παρρησία be more firmly located within rhetoric.68

61 Foucault, Fearless Speech, 110. A detailed text, together with translation, introduction and commentary, has been published under the aegis of the Society of Biblical Literature: David Konstan, Diskin Clay, Clarence E. Glad, Johan C. Thom and James Ware, Philodemus: On Frank Criticism – Introduction, Translation and Notes (Texts and Translations 43: Graeco-Roman 13. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1998). 62 Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism, 3. 63 Foucault, Fearless, 25–74. 64 Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism, 3. 65 Nikolopoulou, Tragically Speaking, 112. 66 Euripides, Ion, 671–75, see Daniel Ogden, Greek Bastardy in the Classical and Hellenistic Periods (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 171, Arlene W. Saxonhouse, Free Speech and Democracy in Ancient Athens (Cambridge; Cambridge University Press, 2006), 131. 67 See chapter 5 on Euripides’s Bacchae and the Dionysiac cults. 68 Michael Donnelly, Freedom of Speech and the Function of Rhetoric in the United States (Lanham, MD: Lexington: 2017), 35. The Socratic dialogue is, of course, innately suspicious of rhetoric and its goals.

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Furthermore, questions can be raised about supposed freedom associated with the practice, which could be risky rather than indicative of political tolerance: But once we recall that Anaxagoras, Protagoras, Diagoras, and perhaps Diogenes of Apollonia had to run for their lives and that Socrates did not flee and was killed, this account of the root attraction of parrhesia for ordinary Athenian democrats becomes far less appealing.69

In the period of the Hellenistic monarchies, παρρησία evolves, for Foucault, into speech which is to be addressed to monarchs: Parrhesia is no longer an institutional right or privilege– as in a democratic city– but is much more a personal attitude, a choice of bios.70

We might ask whether this is really accurate as previous remarks have queried the actual practice of democratic Athens. Παρρησία is impossible for monarch or authority figures: the best they can aspire to is being viewed as generous for permitting such speech rather than tyrannical.71 It can only come from those who lack such authority, and may put themselves in danger to say what they must say from a sense of duty, and without thought for personal gain.72 So, παρρησία was not a complete freedom to speak out, but a “relative freedom to speak out (παρρησία) in his presence”,73 which was “contingent on the ruler’s goodwill rather than a right guaranteed to all.”74 The end of democracy curtails free speech, even though the plight of Socrates and others had undermined this already, and παρρησία was contrasted with flattery – a process made more complex by the ability of flatterers to cloak their words in its garb.75 Its meaning shifts “from freedom of speech to personal candor”.76 For Konstan et al. there is also a palpable shift from the practice of παρρησία in the public to the private sphere. Pavone suggests that it “gradually came to describe the attitude of speaking freely without careful reflection, losing its original meaning of political critique.”77 However, there are limits to 69 S. Sara Monoson, Plato’s Democratic Entanglements: Athenian Politics and the Practice of Philosophy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), 54. 70 Foucault, Fearless, 86. 71 Monoson, Plato’s Democratic Entanglements, 55. 72 Vincenzo Pavone, From the Labyrinth of the World to the Paradise of the Heart: Science and Humanism in UNESCO’s Approach to Globalization, (Lanham, MD: Lexington, 2008), 39. 73 Krzyzstof Nawotka, Alexander the Great, (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars’ Publishing, 2009),10. 74 David Konstan, “Parrhesia: Ancient Philosophy in Opposition” in Mythos and Logos: How to Regain the Love of Wisdom, ed. Albert A. Anderson, Steven V. Hicks and Lech Witkowski (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2004), 19–33 at 23. 75 Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism, 4. 76 Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism, 4. 77 Vincenzo Pavone, From the Labyrinth, 39.

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the extent of παρρησία: “the parrhesiast found it compelling to tell the truth not to impose it.”78 Again, its practice may be far from ideal either in sympotic contexts,79 as when Cleitus’s παρρησία allegedly resulted in his killing by a drunken Alexander (Plutarch, Alex. 7.51),80 or in ambassadorial work where: The philosopher’s παρρησία must be coupled with an attitude of supplication or practical negotiation, the self-centered conception of eudaimonia must give way to an identification of one’s self and well-being with the safety of his community, and the aloof sage must reach out to compromise with a political authority or enemy.81

All of which warns against overly idealistic claims. Indeed, the writings of philosophers involved in political delegations plays down the element of risk, even to the point of condemning risky practice (Plutarch Mor. 68a–b).82 The final stage of the process sees παρρησία increasingly privatised as part of the discourses within a number of philosophical schools including the Cynics, Stoics and the Epicureans. 83 It was not removed completely from the realm of public and political discourse: it continued to be used in both public and private (psychagogic) settings. Later writers such as Plutarch, Dio Chrysostom, Lucian, and Maximus of Tyre address the place of παρρησία in the philosopher’s engagement with the political order, often in terms of the patron-client relationship, and frequently in juxtaposition with its antithesis, κολακεία (flattery).84 That the public and private spheres intersect to some degree is indicated by the language common to both. Yet, the distinction between the practice of παρρησία in public spheres, as in Athenian democratic process, the courts of the Hellenistic monarch or the Roman emperor, and the private contexts of the philosophical schools raises the question of whether a single definition really

78

Pavone, From the Labyrinth, 39. Andreas J. M. Kropp, Images and Monuments of Near Eastern Dynasts, 100 BC – AD 100 (Oxford Studies in Ancient Culture and Representation. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 169; Konrad Vössing, “Royal Feasting” in A Companion to Food in the Ancient World, ed. in John Wilkins and Robin Nadeau (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell, 2015), 243– 252 at 248. 80 I am grateful to Joel Kelsey for pointing out this reference. 81 Evangeline Z. Lyons, “Hellenic Philosophers as Ambassadors to the Roman Empire: Performance, Parrhesia and Power” (PhD diss, the University of Michigan, 2011), 2. 82 Lyons, ‘Hellenic Philosophers”, 11. 83 Foucault, Fearless, 91–166; Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism, 4–5. 84 David Colclough, Freedom of Speech in Early Stuart England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 26; Troels Engberg-Pedersen, “Plutarch to Prince Philopappus On How To Tell a Flatterer from a Friend” in Friendship, Flattery and Frankness of Speech: Studies of Friendship in the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 61–79; Clarence E. Glad, “Frank Speech, Flattery and Friendship in Philodemus” in Friendship, Flattery and Frankness of Speech: Studies of Friendship in the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 21–59 at 24–29; David Konstan, “Parrhesia”, 19–21. 79

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does justice to these different environments. Would a philosopher’s practice of παρρησία be identical in political or psychagogic situations? For this reason alone, it may be that Foucault’s “fearless speech” may not do full justice to the variety of παρρησία. Malherbe’s definition of παρρησία as critical, reflective and limited in scope is less dependent on fearlessness, but rather indicates: the boldness of the philosopher who has found true personal freedom, and who on the basis of freedom strives to lay bare the shortcomings of his audience as a first step in improving them.85

Such a practice is equally applicable to both the public and psychagogic. But, this, it must be remembered, is a definition which is made in the context of Cynicism.86 The ethos of a school may shape its practice. There is considerable difference about the tone of παρρησία between the schools, specifically about how harshly one might speak. Παρρησία may, on occasion be, harsh, but only as required: harshness for its own sake could be a sign of weakness, or a lack of true freedom.87 Παρρησία ideally did not involve insults, but these, according to Cicero and Plutarch, could be used as a response to offensiveness from one’s opponents. Cynics, in particular, might speak in ways which seemed harsh or offensive.88 Philodemus’s more guarded views suggest Epicureans were even less likely to do so.89 The freedom of the Cynic need not be the freedom of an Epicurean. So, it is worth focusing on the practice as seen within Epicureanism. For Glad, the practice includes the elements of “mutual exhortation, edification and correction”.90 Gigante notes that παρρησία is significant in the Epicurean way of living: Here I cite only one connection between the Epicurean wise and political personalities, as well as the great message of Epicurean civility in the synthesis of “freedom of speech” (parrhesia), “friendship” (philia), gratitude (charis), and “goodwill” (eunoia) which exemplified Epicurean society.91

85 Abraham J. Malherbe, “‘Gentle as a Nurse’: The Cynic background to 1 Thess 2” in Light from the Gentiles: Hellenistic Philosophy and Early Christianity. Collected Essays 1959–2012, by Abraham J. Malherbe, Carl. R. Holladay, John T. Fitzgerald, Gregory E. Sterling and James W. Thompson, (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 53–67 at 58. 86 For Cynic practice, see Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 89–98. 87 Malherbe, “Gentle as a Nurse”,58–59, 64–65. 88 William Klassen, “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ in the Johannine Corpus” in Friendship, Flattery and Frankness of Speech: Studies of Friendship in the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 227–254 at 232. 89 Huby, “Epicurus’ Attitude”, 84. 90 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 335. 91 Gigante, Philodemus in Italy, 28.

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The writings of Philodemus give the most detailed picture: Περὶ παρρησίας (Lib.) is the only writing from antiquity to bear such a title.92 It appears to have been part of the larger series of writings, Περὶ ἠθῶν καὶ βίων (On Characters and Ways of Life).93 Another treatise by Philodemus, Περὶ κολακείας ( Adul.– PHerc 222, 223, 1082, 1089, 1457, 1643 and 1675),94 deals with its converse. This fragmented document is difficult to reconstruct, but it includes the characteristics of flattery, the behaviour of flatterers and their relationships with their victims, its links to other vices, and the differences between sage and flatterer, as well as advice on how to avoid the practice.95 Lib. describes how students and teachers are to participate in a therapeutic process, often described using medical imagery which aims to shape morality.96 It uses both admonitory and corrective speeches, combining reasoning and rhetorical techniques.97 It describes four types of corrective practice: self-correction, correction by others, correction on the basis of reports to teachers, and mutual correction by the wise.98 An ideal scenario is the unease felt by a student which leads to disclosure to a teacher.99 As the practice depends greatly on the relationship between teachers and students in particular, the work explores how the temperaments, attitudes and reactions of both participants may have positive or negative effects on the process.100 There were a number of techniques which needed to be carefully matched to the severity of the matter being treated. Correction could be µέτριον (mild), σκληρόν (harsh) or πικρόν (bitter):101 any or all of affection, anger, hatred or blame might be employed in addressing serious misbehaviour.102 Social standing, gender and age are all considered to provoke particular resistance to correction: Philodemus exemplifies this by case studies of the powerful, women 92

Tsouna, The Ethics, 91. Tsouna, The Ethics, 91. 94 Tsouna, The Ethics, 126. 95 Tsouna, The Ethics, 126–127. 96 Philodemus, Lib. 8, 23, 30, 32, 34, 36, 39, 40, 43, 44, 59, 61, 63, 65, 66, 69, 77, 78, 79, 84, 86, col. XVIIa, col. XXIb Tab. XIIm. Numbers given in this and subsequent notes follow the conventions in Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism. See further Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 133–37; Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism 10, 20–23; Tsouna, The Ethics, 93. 97 Philodemus, Lib. 1.5–10, 57. 1–10, col. VIIa. Tsouna, The Ethics, 92–93. 98 Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism, 10–11. 99 Tsouna, The Ethics, 94. 100 Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism, 11–12, 14–20. See also, Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 137–152; Tsouna, The Ethics, 99–101, 110–13 (teachers), 103–107 (students, who may seek correction with the wrong attitude, resist or deny correction, love flattery, become irritable, or even angry). 101 Philodemus, Lib. 6. Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 119; Tsouna, The Ethics, 96. 102 For examples, see Philodemus, Lib. 20, 25, 31, 37, 46, 79, col. XIIa, XXIIb. Tsouna, The Ethics, 96–97. 93

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and the elderly, who are considered particularly resistant.103 The language of correction may be artful (διαφι[λ]οτεχν[ή]σει) or simple (ἁ[πλ]ῶς).104 Rooted in the observation, and correction, of lived behaviour, it is aimed at both the development of the individual and the community. Tsouna concludes: The method of parrhesia represents a pragmatic as well as an optimistic approach to human fallibility and to the possibility of correction and salvation. It has humanitarian and philanthropic dimensions, involving as it does elements of empathy, compassion and forgiveness. Equally important are the social and institutional practices forged by that practice, in particular the friendship and solidarity which glue together each member of the Epicurean school.105

It is worth noting that this is not just theoretical. Philodemus cites examples from the history of the school to show that its famous practitioners were willing to submit to such criticism.106 Even if it is excessive to claim that Philodemus was a decisive influence on Horace’s satirical style as an ethical tool, he did adopt the image of the trainer in advising “the young how to restrain and enchain the animus, the passionate part of the soul”.107 Παρρησία, as advocated and described by Philodemus, is a clearly defined set of techniques for personal and community development, with a strongly therapeutic character, often mediated through medical language, and a firm basis in inter-personal encounter. Crucial to Epicurean behaviour and ethos, it: determines the nature of Epicurean communities and the relationships between their members. It accounts to a large extent for the cohesion of these communities, the transmission of Epicureanism from the teachers to the students, and the systematic promotion of Epicurean values and goals.108

Παρρησία was a significant phenomenon within Epicurean psychagogic theory and practice, relationships, and communal life with subtle distinctions from its practice in other schools and traditions. These distinctions warn against generalised definitions of παρρησία, and show the importance of dealing with the phenomenon as it appears is different traditions and settings. One size does not fit all. The differences seen between Epicurean and other philosophical practice may well be replicated in its comparison with the FG.

103 Philodemus, Lib. col. XXII–XXIV. Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism, 12–1; Tsouna, The Ethics, 108–110. 104 Philodemus, Lib. 10. Tsouna, The Ethics, 97. 105 Tsouna, The Ethics, 103. 106 Philodemus, Lib. 49. Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism, 60–61. 107 Gigante, Philodemus in Italy, 27–28. 108 Tsouna, The Ethics, 118.

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E. Epicurean Φιλία Any study starts with a recognition that three Greek terms need to be addressed when talking of love: ἀγάπη, ἔρως, and φιλία. A consideration of the Epicurean material reveals that ἀγάπη is used in a general sense of one thing being preferred to another.109 Ironically, it is used thus in a sentence which concludes a section on sexual love: συνουσίαν δέ φασιν ὀνῆσαι µὲν οὐδέποτε, ἀγαπητὸν δὲ εἰ µὴ καὶ ἔβλαψε. For they say that sexual intercourse never benefits anyone, and it is a blessing (ἀγαπητὸν) if it does not cause harm.110

There is much more interest in the other two terms, where it becomes apparent that φιλία indicates a desirable state, and that ἔρως is more complicated. Epicurean focus is on these two varieties of love rather than ἀγάπη. However, Epicurus’s thinking about ἔρως remains elusive despite the apparent prominence it has in the lists of his writing.111 Epicurus has little, if anything, good to say about erotic love.112 The sexual appetite of ἔρως is a natural, but not necessary, pleasure: sexual passion, which may have harmful effects, is particularly problematic.113 Epicurus’s chief concern is that sexual love is dangerous because it allows one to be influence by “false belief”.114 His dislikes were maintained by Lucretius, who identifies sexual desire with Venus, the god of love: an appellative figure or a personification rather than an endorsement of widely held theological opinions. Indeed, Lucretius’s aim is “to create, or rediscover, a human view by rejecting the superstitions and mythologies of the popular religion of love”:115 a correct understanding of love will contribute to liberation “from all religion and stress”,116 and strip it from all pretensions or claims to be a lofty, rather than just a natural, behaviour.117 Yet it still is viewed positively. Books 1 and 5 of the DRN stress that the value of love is found in its social contribution: it reduces violence, and introduces stability and

109 Philodemus, Lib. 18.3–4. For text and translation, see Konstan et al., Philodemus: On Frank Criticism, 38–39. 110 DL 10.118. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 80; translation mine. 111 Thus, it merited a full treatise, Περὶ ἕρωτος: DL 10.27, see Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 149. 112 Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 149–151. 113 William O. Stephens, “What’s Love Got to Do with It?: Epicureanism and Friends with Benefits” in College Sex-Philosophy for Everyone: Philosophers with Benefits, ed. Michael Bruce and Robert M. Stewart (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 77–90 at 81. 114 Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 151, 153–154. 115 Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 158. 116 Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 159. 117 Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 160–161.

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tenderness.118 However, this tempering leads to a paradox: the “distractions” of marital and social life may not only be “valuable”, but even of “intrinsic worth”, “as expressions of our political nature”.119 A similar paradox arises from Epicurus’s own understanding of φιλία.120 Whilst the chief goals of Epicurus and his followers are frequently identified with pleasure and related terms like εὐδαιµονία, ἀπονία and ἀταραξία, these do not exhaust the positive concerns of the school. Φιλία also takes a prominent place in the thought of Epicurus and his followers.121 Indeed, Epicurus himself suggests that φιλία is intrinsically good: πᾶσα φιλία διʼ ἑαυτὴν αἱρετή· ἀρχὴν δὲ εἴληφεν ἀπὸ τῆς ὠφελείας. All friendship is desirable in itself, though it starts from the need of help.122

Φιλία thus initially benefits the individual, and allows the procuring of basic needs of life through the association.123 It also indicates a fundamental difference between the context of the sage and the god: the sage is in a place of need, while the god is not. KD 27 suggests that φιλία is not just desirable as providing a context to achieve happiness, but is the most significant, perhaps even necessary, component of happiness: Ὧν ἡ σοφία παρασκευάζεται εἰς τὴν τοῦ ὅλου βίου µακαριότητα, πολὺ µέγιστόν ἐστιν ἡ τῆς φιλίας κτῆσις. Of all the ways which wisdom uses to ensure happiness throughout the whole of life, by far the most important is to get is friendship.124

Φιλία is also considered to add a strong humanising element to pleasurable activities: circumspiciendum est, cum quibus edas et bibas, quam quid edas e bibas. Nam sine amico visceratio leonis ac lupi vita est. You must reflect carefully beforehand with whom you are to eat and drink, rather than what you are to eat or drink. For a dinner of meats without the company of a friend is like the life of a lion or a wolf.125

118

Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 162. Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 187. 120 Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 187. 121 John M. Rist, “Epicurus on Friendship”, Classical Philology 75 (1980), 121–129, at 121. 122 VS 23, see Bailey, Epicurus, 108–109. 123 Hibler, Happiness, 43. 124 KD 27; DL 10.148. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 820. Translation mine. 125 Seneca, Ep. Mor.19.10–11 Text from Lucius Annaeus Seneca, Epistulae morales ad Lucilium. In Bibliotheca Teubneriana Latin (BTL Online. 2013. Berlin/Boston MA: 119

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VS 78 appears even to place φιλία above wisdom: ὁ γενναῖος περὶ σοφίαν καὶ φιλίαν µάλιστα γίγνεται, ὧν τὸ µέν ἐστι θνητὸν ἀγαθόν, τὸ δ’ ἀθάνατον. The noble soul occupies itself with wisdom and friendship; of these the one is a mortal good, the other an immortal.126

Φιλία may even cause one to take uncharacteristically disturbing risks: οὔτε τοὺς προχείρους εἰς φιλίαν οὔτε τοὺς ὀκνηροὺς δοκιµαστέον· δεῖ δὲ καὶ παρακινδυνεῦσαι χάριν, χάριν φίλιας. We must not approve either those who are always ready for friendship, or those who hang back, but for friendship’s sake we must even run risks.127

and even suffer some measure of pain: ἕνεκα τὴν φιλίαν αἱρούµενος ὑπὲρ τῶν φίλων τὰς µεγίστας ἀλγηδόνας ἀναδέχεσθαι: Though choosing friendship for the sake of pleasure, he takes on the greatest pains on behalf of his friends.128

Some commentators have seen the prominence given to φιλία as problematic. This concern arises because it seems to impinge upon the concept of αὐτάρκεια (natural self-sufficiency) which would free the Epicurean from being dependent on the vagaries of others.129 However, Epicurean practice and reflection seemingly ignored these tensions and stressed that, such ideas notwithstanding, φιλία was important. Justification for this may be found in the Epicureans’ awareness of how the divine ideal might be tempered by the cosmic context of the sage as opposed to the metacosmic location of the gods. If it is assumed that the metacosmic gods provide direct exemplars for the Epicurean sage, φιλία becomes a paradox, since it appears that these gods shun φιλία. As Drozdek summarises: There is no association and friendship for the gods. Help is beneath the gods’ dignity and so their friendship is vacuous, directed to those who require no assistance, no helping hand. If the gods are considered the paragon of happiness, then friendship in human relationships as de Gruyter. Retrieved 18 Dec. 2017, from https://www.degruyter.com/view/BTL/ASENPPST/181585. See also Hibler, Happiness, 44; Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility”, 303. 126 VS 78; Bailey, Epicurus, 118–119. See also Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility”, 303. 127 VS 28; Bailey, Epicurus, 110–111. See also Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility”, 304. 128 Plutarch. Adv. Col. 8, 1111b, cited in Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility”, 303. Text and translation both from Plutarch. Moralia, ed. Gregorius N. Bernardakis (Leipzig: Teubner, 1895). Retrieved 7 April 2017 from http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A2008.01.0396%3Asection%3D8. 129 Andrew Mitchell, “Friendship Amongst the Self-Sufficient: Epicurus”, Essays in Philosophy 2/2 (2001), Article 5. Retrieved 6th July 2017 from http://commons.pacificu.edu/eip/vol2/iss2/5/.

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commonly understood is but a necessary evil, and the true sage who strives for the ideal of human happiness should turn back to the world and its mundane affairs, and his friendship is merely the fondness of those who want nothing of the sage. So, it appears that one can count on help from anyone but a sage. Like in the case of the gods, a sage would compromise his status by reaching to anyone who asks for help. The circle of friends among Epicureans must not include the sages. And those who are in the circle do their best to attain the status of a sage, that is, to leave the circle, to be like the gods.130

Such is the apparent logic of the Epicurean ideal. However, the previous discussion of emotions shows that the contexts of the sage and the gods are not identical, even if they are analogous.131 A similar caveat may thus apply to φιλία. Certainly, the extant writings confirm that it was a major topic of interest for the Epicureans in describing the human condition, even if it does not fit well with their theology. Previous attempts to resolve this anomaly regarding αὐτάρκεια have been open to criticism. Explanations given by Festugiere and Stern Gillet seem to argue that φιλία is a high pleasure, but do so without really giving an explanation, and Mitsis has concluded that the Epicurean account of pleasure and φιλία is incoherent.132 However, Wheeler argues that it is indeed possible to hold a “normative hedonism while promoting friendship as an intrinsic good”.133 He does this through an exploration of katastematic pleasure, suggesting that φιλία is not identical with katastematic pleasure, but that “every friendship is identical with some state of katastematic pleasure”.134 Where does this leave the Epicurean in relation to αὐτάρκεια? Φιλία becomes “an opening of the self-sufficient individual onto the natural world”.135 It acts as the gateway to distinguish between the necessary/unnecessary and the natural/unnatural, and thus of correct approaches to desire, pain and pleasure: Only in friendship is self-sufficiency first attained, for only in friendship is pain as an argument against the pleasure of life refuted.136

130

Drozdek, Greek Philosophers, 222. We might tentatively suggest that Epicurean awareness of the limits of analogy participates in a wider philosophical debate, and perhaps anticipates later reflection, such as in patristic theology, on such issues, see Charles C. Twombly, Perichoresis and Personhood: God, Christ, and Salvation in John of Damascus (Princeton Theological Monograph Series 216. Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2015), 12, 20 132 Philip Mitsis, Epicurus’ Ethical Theory, 114; Mark R. Wheeler, “Epicurus on Friendship: The Emergence of Blessedness” in Epicurus; His Continuing Influence and Contemporary Relevance, ed. Dane R. Gordon and David B. Suits (Rochester, NY: RIT Graphic Arts Press, 2003), 183–194 at 184. 133 Wheeler, “Epicurus on Friendship”,184. 134 Wheeler, “Epicurus on Friendship”, 187. 135 Mitchell, “Friendship”, np. 136 Mitchell, “Friendship”, np. 131

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Difficulties in understanding this stress on the value of φιλία for ἀταραξἰα may come from over-reading individualism into the acquisition of pleasure, particularly given the way in which modern Western thought is predicated on such concepts. Whilst the origins of Western individualism may stem from both the Sophists and the Epicureans, subsequent developments mean that modern individualism, a term embracing a number of different standpoints, is a very different.137 Worldviews which have a communitarian basis have less trouble embracing the role of altruism or social duties and responsibilities, even if they remain limited in scope. That ancient thought was potentially more communitarian can be seen in Aristotle’s famous dictum that man is by a nature a political animal,138 as well as the Sophistic and Epicurean adoption of the social contract.139 It can also be seen in the Stoic understanding that the sage’s web of relationships became broader and broader, ultimately embracing a universal dimension which included even non-Hellenes, slaves, and the “uncivilised”, based on their understanding of natural law,140 συµπάθεια (sympathy, understanding the situation of others) and οἰκείωσις (the capacity for right thought and action).141 This idea became increasingly prominent in the Roman development of Stoicism.142 It may also be seen in the strong communal element which is revealed by social historians in their analyses of 137 Lars Udehn, Methodological Individualism: Background, History and Meaning (London: Routledge, 2001), 7–40. 138 Aristotle, Politics, 1253a 1–3. 139 Udehn, Methodological Individualism, 7. I am not sure that Udehn is right to describe Epicureanism as individualistic, as individualism, for the Epicurean, cannot lead to ἀταραξία without a social component. 140 Urmila Sharma and S.K. Sharma, Western Political Thought from Plato to Burke Vol. 1 (New Delhi: Atlantic, 2006),193. Bo Lindberg, “Stoicism in Political Humanism and Natural Law” in (Un)masking the Realities of Power: Justus Lipsius and the Dynamics of Political Writing in Early Modern Europe. Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History 193, ed. Erik de Bom et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 73–93 at 74 notes that idealised views of human relationships may be compromised by the Stoics’ primary loyalty to their gods. Ilaria Ramelli, Hierocles the Stoic: Elements of Ethics, Fragments and Excerpts (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009) xliv–xlvii suggests that the increased interest in neighbours marks a softening of earlier rigorous views of ἀπάθεια which were incompatible with such an outwardly directed οἰκείωσις. 141 John T. Fitzgerald, “The Stoics and the Early Christians on the Treatment of Slaves” in Stoicism in Early Christianity ed. Tuomas Rasimus et al. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2010), 140–175 at 159–1. Given Ramelli’s comments (fn. 140) we might conjecture that the use of ἀπάθεια changed in light of an increased emphasis on συµπάθεια. Troels EngbergPedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000), 60 considers that oἰκείωσις develops with age and understanding to consider the interests of others as no less important than one’s own. 142 Stanley K. Stowers, “Jesus the Teacher and Stoic Ethics in the Gospel of Matthew” in Stoicism in Early Christianity ed. Tuomas Rasimus et al. (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2010), 59–76 at 70.

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the shame and honour cultures of the Ancient Mediterranean: identity was predicated on social factors like rank and wealth.143 This is not to say that everyone held such a high view of society. The Cynics could be seen as testing such conventions.144 For them natural law implied freedom from the restraints imposed by living in society.145 However, communitarianism, that is, the notion that a person is socially constituted,146 lies at the heart of the Epicurean project. It can be seen not just in the writing about φιλία, but in the communal expression of the Epicurean life: In essence, the Epicurean fellowship looked upon friendship as the technique by which resident-members of the school could grow in physical maturity….By sharing social, emotional, and intellectual experiences the students grew in their understanding of the cult dogma, as well as in perfecting their own self-realization…Friendship was more than an instrument to propitiate learning, it became and end in itself.147

The communitarian dimension meant that it was possible for Epicureans to entertain even the prospects of suffering, or even dying for the sake of friends. Diogenes Laertius attributes to Epicurus the remark that: Καὶ ὑπερ φίλου ποτὲ τεθνήξεσθαι. He will even die for a friend.148

This remark seems to bear out two other associated comments to the effect that it is more noble to give than receive benefits,149 and that seeing the pain of others may be no worse than experiencing pain oneself:

143 M. Harlow and R. Laurence, Growing Up and Growing Old in Ancient Rome: A Life Course Approach (New York, NY: Routledge, 2002) 59. John H. D’Arms, “The Roman Convivium and the Idea of Equality” in Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposion ed. O. Murray (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990) 308–319 and Jo-Ann Shelton, As the Romans Did: A Source Book in Roman Social History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988) 39 would put less emphasis on wealth given the known disparagement of the nouveau riche. 144 William D. Desmond, Cynics (Berkeley, CA/Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 2008), 45–48 notes that Cynic values did not sit well with Roman gravitas and mores Downing, Cynics, 79 notes that in the imperial period the early Cynic stress on solitary self-sufficiency had been modified to include a collective aspect, restricted to Cynic masters and pupils. 145 Raymond Belliotti, Happiness is Over-rated (Oxford MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2004) 20. 146 Charles R. McCann, Individualism and the Social Order: The Social Element in Liberal Thought (New York, NY: Routledge, 2004), 6. 147 Hibler, Happiness, 45. 148 DL 10.120. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 803. Translation mine. 149 Plutarch, Moralia, 778c.

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ἀλγεῖ µὲν ὁ σοφὸς οὐ µᾶλλον στρεβλούµενος < αὐτὸς ἢ ὁρ ῶνστρεβλουµένον τὸν φίλον… ὁ βίος αὐτοῦ πᾶς διʼ ἀπιστίαν συγχυθήσεται καὶ ἀνακεχαιτισµένος ἔσται. The wise man is not more pained when being tortured his friend : , his whole life will be confounded by distrust and completely upset.150

The second part carries the implication that ἀταραξία may be disturbed more by the consequences of betrayal than by the experience of torture. Hibler notes such duty is limited in scope: the Epicurean is able to consider dying for friends, but not for just anyone.151 Whilst moving beyond self-interest, the Epicurean does not seek the universality, say, of later Stoicism, or even the structure of a society which provides security for its members but rather: the relations of a smaller, more coherent society-within-a-society, formed, as the larger society is formed, by the mutual agreement of its members …The group of friends demands similar attitudes, intentions, philosophical outlooks, and so on.152

Any move beyond self-interest extends only to a limited circle. The desirability of φιλία is also linked to Epicurean theology: it approximates to the idyllic metacosmic existence of the gods.153 In wider terms, it is thus possible to say that Epicureanism also had an evolved sense of justice, but that: Ὁ δίκαιος ἀταρακτότατος, ὁ δ᾽ ἄδικος πλείστης ταραχῆς γέµων. The just man enjoys the greatest peace of mind, while the unjust is stressed to the maximum.154

While this contributes to the good life, it is neither identical with φιλία, nor some universal philanthropic principle.155 Justice is, for the Epicurean: A set of principles in accordance with which people should behave habitually (as a result of having a character trait) in order to secure their well-being.156

This creates a social environment in which happiness is possible.157 Descriptions of Epicureanism which would see its adherents divorcing themselves completely for the wider life of society are problematic. Whilst it may be true to say that they might, in part, shape their environment by the creation of their own communes, this did not mean that they withdrew entirely 150 VS 56–57; Bailey, Epicurus, 114–115, noting a number of textual variants in the apparatus criticus. 151 Hibler, Happiness, 43. 152 Strozier, Epicurus, 105–106. 153 Strozier, Epicurus, 106. For more on the Epicurean gods, see Chapter 5. 154 KD 17; DL 10.144. Text from Dorandi, Diogenes Laertius, 818. Translation mine. 155 Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility”, 305. 156 Rosenbaum, “Epicurean Moral Theory”, 392. 157 Rosenbaum, “Epicurean Moral Theory”, 393.

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from political and public life. The claim that Epicurus and his followers denied the existence of human society cannot be upheld.158 Epicureans stressed: The life that they shared with other Epicureans was especially important; it was, in a sense, the only real life. Yet, there was also a life, however attenuated, outside the Garden, and Epicurus gave instructions on how to cope with it.159

Such interests were not restricted to mundane day-to-day matters. They could still extend to embrace political philosophy.

F. The Epicureans and the World The injunction to λάθε βιώσας, “live unknown”, has been taken to indicate a complete removal from politics and some distancing between Epicureans and wider society in which they were located: Epicurean communities were separate entities from society at large, perhaps even “alternative communities”, as references to “members of the household (οἱ οἰκεῖοι) over against “outsiders” (οἱ ἔξωθεν), and “intimate fellows” (οἱ συνήθεις) as opposed to those outside the intimate fellowship ( οἱ ἔξω τῆς συνηθείας) suggest. 160

However, the language of separation, of inside/outside, need not indicate a complete divorce. There is evidence for at least some Epicurean engagement with wider society: The Epicureans were not closed within the confines of a private club; a new evaluation of φιλοδοξία and public engagement emerged: “live unknown” was not strictly followed.161

Indeed, as J. Patrick Ware points out: Yet, paradoxically, this most reclusive of schools was very successful in attracting new friends into the Epicurean communities. Nevertheless, Epicurean theology had no room for a divine preaching command or a sense of personal divine mission, nor did Epicurus’ followers possess any command of Epicurus himself to engage in propaganda to outsiders.162

The Epicureans did not indulge in aggressive proselytising, but:

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Lactantius, Inst. III 17, 42, see Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility”, 289–290. Asmis, “Epicurean Economics”, 140. 160 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 104. 161 Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 103. 162 J. Patrick Ware, The Mission of the Church: In Paul's Letter to the Philippians in the Context of Ancient Judaism. (Novum Testamentum Supplements Vol. 120. Brill: Leiden, 2005), 17. 159

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in fact, exhibited an altogether more restrained form of inclusion; opening themselves up to consider and include outsiders, orienting their texts to serve those on the periphery of the school.163

Nor were they detached completely from political life. Extant Epicurean writing shows a continued comment on political life. Their continued interest in political matters is visible in such works as Epicurus’s Of Kingship164 and Philodemus’s On the Good King according to Homer (Hom.). Whilst Philodemus appears to have shared broad Epicurean concerns that engagement in politics was likely to be a disturbance,165 he was also able to write this treatise which aims to provide a “paradigm for the ruler” based on Homeric exempla rather than from philosophy.166 Even a critic like Plutarch could say: ὅθεν οὐδ᾽ Ἐπίκουρος 8 οἴεται δεῖν ἡσυχάζειν, ἀλλὰ τῇ φύσει χρῆσθαι πολιτευοµένους καὶ πράσσοντας τὰ κοινὰ τοὺς φιλοτίµους καὶ φιλοδόξους, ὡς µᾶλλον ὑπ᾽ ἀπραγµοσύνης ταράττεσθαι καὶ κακοῦσθαι πεφυκότας, ἂν ὧν ὀρέγονται µὴ τυγχάνωσιν. For this reason not even Epicurus believes that men who are eager for honour and glory should lead an inactive life, but that they should fulfil their natures by engaging in politics and entering public life, on the ground that, because of their natural dispositions, they are more likely to be disturbed and harmed by inactivity if they do not obtain what they desire. 167

Epicureans also recognised the value of law and order, beyond fulfilling the needs of the individual. Colotes, in Plutarch’s account, was also able to say: τὸν βίον οἱ νόµους διατάξαντες καὶ νόµιµα καὶ τὸ βασιλεύεσθαι τὰς πόλεις καὶ ἄρχεσθαι καταστήσαντες εἰς πολλὴν ἀσφάλειαν καὶ ἡσυχίαν ἔθεντο καὶ θορύβων ἀπήλλαξαν εἰ δέ τις ταῦτα ἀναιρήσει, θηρίων βίον βιωσόµεθα καὶ ὁ προστυχὼν τὸν ἐντυχόντα µονονοὺ κατέδεται. Those who drew up laws and customs and established monarchical and other forms of government gave life great security and tranquility, and banished turmoil; and if anyone

163 Erlend MacGillivray, “Epicurean Mission and Membership from the Early Garden to the Late-Roman Republic”. (Unpublished MTh Thesis, University of Aberdeen, 2010), 32. 164 DL 10.28. 165 Marcello Gigante, Philodemus in Italy, 34. 166 Gigante, Philodemus in Italy, 67–68. 167 Plutarch De Tran. An. 465f–466a. Greek text from Gregorius N. Bernardakis. Plutarch: Moralia (Leipzig: Teubner, 1891). Retrieved 18 April 2017 from http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A2008.01.0266%3Asection%3D2. Translation from W. C. Helmbold, Plutarch: Moralia. with an English Translation. Vol. 6 (Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UniversityPress, 1939). Retrieved 18 April 2017 from http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A2008.01.0267%3Asection%3D2.

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should remove these things, we would live a life of beasts, and one man meeting another will all but devour him.168

Indeed, Epicurean thinking about justice is not peripheral, but comes directly from reflections about φρόνησις: Phronesis is the basis for Epicurean morality, because it recognizes that in social situations in which human conflict is possible, certain constraints on behaviour are useful for the promotion of wellbeing. The conceptual root of justice, planted by phronesis, and its wise insights about how to live, centres on what contributes to living well. From this goal, phronesis develops the virtue of justice and the closely related, but causally and logically distinct contract which established social justice.169

Political structures are useful inasmuch as they facilitate the acquisition of the good life: Epicurus aimed to keep his followers “integrated in the daily routine of everyday life while shifting his or her aims away from those of the rest of society”.170 Epicureans could offer three defences against the criticism that they had withdrawn from political life: – that their ethical theory provided a foundation for peaceful co-operation, – that contemporary societies failed to provide a proper environment which will fully support the good life, and – that the Epicurean commune provided a model of the best possible society.171 Arguably Lucretius’s location of Epicurean philosophy in a pastoral location, the locus amoenus, made a similar claim in the aftermath of the brutal civil wars which dominated late Republican Rome. Indeed, DRN 5.1019–1027 gives a picture of an emerging society which was characterised by Epicurean values, notably φιλία, which would develop into a system of justice.172 Such a system of justice would be vital to the potential acquisition and retention of ἀταραξία. Roman poets would take the Hellenistic pastoral idiom and develop a motif to describe Epicurean bliss in terms of an idyllic country location. The motif has four distinctive features: (1) a mixture or real and unreal elements, (2) elements desirable for life, (3) a potential for encounter between the human and the

168 Plutarch Adv. Col. 30.1124d, cited in Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility”, 291. Greek text from Bernardakis. Plutarch: Moralia. Retrieved 4 April 2017 from http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A2008.01.0396%3Asection%3D30. 169 Rosenbaum, “Epicurean Moral Theory”, 401; Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility” 298 also mentions the key role of φρόνησις. 170 Asmis, “Epicurean Economics”, 135. 171 Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility”, 293. 172 Long, “Pleasure and Social Utility”, 309–311.

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mythical or divine, and (4) an eschatological or teleological function.173 These themes are common to Horace, Vergil and Statius, whose descriptions of the countryside reflect the goals and aspirations of Epicureanism. For all of them Epicureanism appears to offer a lifestyle which is far removed from the turmoil of the late Republic and early Empire (thus Horace and Vergil) or of the less than tranquil pax Romana of the late first century CE (Statius), and can be described as such using spatial metaphors. 174 Explorations of the communal life of the Epicureans thus reveal a removal from, but tacit acceptance, of wider political realities. They also reveal a characteristic which challenges the conventions of many, but not all, ancient societies and schools: the place of women. Any treatment of this subject has to recognise that this phenomenon is complicated by three factors. The first is that a number of the sources which detail the place of women within Epicurean communes are polemic, and so cannot be taken at face value: the use of sexual slurs by critics to diminish the role of women is not a purely modern phenomenon. Such remarks must be balanced by the more positive materials which are also available, albeit mainly from within the Epicurean tradition.175 The second is that claims that Epicureanism was the only school which allowed participation by women are open to question. In his overview of the philosophical context of 1st century CE Corinth, Nathan Barnes identifies a number of schools which seem to have explicit mentions of women as philosophers:176 Pythagoreanism, in particular, appears to have had a place for women.177 So, such freedom was not unique to Epicureanism. Third and last, the public role of women in Roman imperial contexts appears less restricted than in classical Hellenism. A number of differences can be noted. The description given of Sempronia, the wife of D. Brutus, by Sallust is a case in point: Litteris Graecis et Latinis docta, psallere saltere elegantius quam necesse est probae, muta alia quae instrumenta luxuriae sunt.

173 Fergus J. King, “Revelation 21:1–22:5: An Early Christian Locus Amoenus?”, Biblical Theology Bulletin 45/3 (2015), 174–183 at 178. 174 King, “Revelation 21:1–22:5”, 175–178. 175 For a selection of texts and a more positive evaluation of women within Epicureanism, see Barnes, Reading 1 Corinthians, 100–108; Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 117. 176 Barnes, Reading 1 Corinthians, 65–120. 177 Voula Lambropolou, “Some Pythagorean Female Virtues” in Women in Antiquity: New Assessments, ed. Richard Hawley and Barbara Levick (London: Routledge, 1995), 122– 134 at 122.

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Well-read in Greek and Latin literature, she could play the lyre and dance more elegantly than any honest woman needs to; and she had many other gifts which are the stock in trade of luxuria. 178

Even if the behaviour described is not exemplary or completely applauded, it certainly points to a freedom not available to Greek women. This wider range of options for women seen across both Roman society and a wide range of philosophical traditions diminishes any claim that any such role for women was unique only to Epicureanism. Claims which would make such roles distinctive to Christianity and Epicureanism, and so posit some special analogy between them simply do not reflect the broader spectrum of classical philosophy and practice.

G. The FG and “the Johannine Community” Within recent scholarship, much effort has been expended on both identifying the writer(s), sources and audience of the FG, and it has become common to talk of the “community”, often described as the “Johannine community”, so that reconstructions of this group may include the other NT writings ascribed to John. Descriptions of the “Johannine community” become embroiled in disagreements over the definitions of key terms: “community” itself is “a notoriously ambiguous term”.179 Even “the” is a problem, for it gives the impression that this was a single, distinct group with clear boundaries, even, perhaps, unique in forming the identity of its members. Need this be the case? As David A. Lamb notes in his remarks about the author(s) of the FG: I have little doubt that the author or authors of the Jn writings belonged to a community. Indeed he/they almost certainly belonged to several communities: a community of kin relationships, although conversion to Christianity may have led to ostracism from these; a geographical community amongst whom he/they lived and worked; and a community of Christians with whom he/they worshipped and evangelized.180

It cannot be bluntly claimed or asserted that a particular individual belongs only to one social group which shapes identity to the exclusion of all else. A near contemporary example from Epicureanism illustrates Lamb’s point. Whilst the poet Horace may not be counted as “average” by any stretch of the imagination, his life reveals membership not just of the Epicurean community at Naples, but of several others as well: the patron-client group round

178 Sallust, Cat. 25.2. Text and translation from Timothy P. Wiseman, Catullus and His World: A Re-Appraisal (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 47. 179 Stephen C. Barton, “Can We Identify the Gospel Audiences?” in The Gospels for All Christians, ed. Richard Bauckham (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 173–194 at 174. 180 Lamb, Text, 204.

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Maecenas, his connections to Augustus, a circle of poets, his country farm near Tivoli, and his life in Rome. Without firm evidence for the complete isolation of the adherents of the Johannine tradition from their environment, the same surely holds good for the audience: membership of several social groupings. It simply cannot be assumed that the “Johannine community”, however construed, defines the totality of their social presence and identity. Following the studies of J. Louis Martyn and Raymond E. Brown, exploration of the nature of the “Johannine community” rose to prominence in studies of the Johannine literature and environment. It appeared that a distinct community or group lay behind the literature, to an extent unprecedented in the consideration of other NT materials.181 However, studies of the community have failed to reach any precise resolution of its nature.182 Dogged by a number of methodological and practical issues, scholars have become increasingly cautious, if not skeptical, about reconstructing the identity of the putative community. These issues may be sketched out briefly. First, a limited amount of evidence dogs attempts to describe the community in detail. For many, the FG and 1–3 John are the strongest sources. Circularity may ensue.183 There is an additional complication in thinking about these documents: their relative dates. Both Brown and Culpepper note that the letters most likely post-date the FG. Even if this is a very narrow chronological window, questions may be asked about details of the community supposedly seen in the epistles, and how they might be pertinent to the community which produced the FG.184 Similar concerns would remain, even if the chronology was reversed, or if they are considered independent.185 Difficulties in clearly delineating the nature of the community come from the lack of clarity about its precise context: its date and place. Still, general remarks may be drawn from its environment both within Judaism and the Roman Empire in which the Johannine literature was produced: “a prior understanding of the sociohistorical world in which they were written”.186

181 It is not unique. See Krister Stendahl, The School of Matthew and Its Use of the Old Testament (Acta Seminarii Neotestamentici Upsaliensis Vol. 20. Uppsala: C.W.K. Gleerup, 1954). 182 For a critical overview of the debate, see Lamb, Text, 6–28. 183 Klink, The Sheep, 22. 184 For example, Raymond E. Brown, The Epistles of John (The Anchor Bible v. 30. London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1983), 32–35; R. Alan Culpepper, The Gospel and Letters of John (Interpreting Biblical Texts Series. Nashville, TN: Abingdon, 1998), 48, 54–61. 185 All three options find support, see George L. Parsenios, First, Second, and Third John (Paideia Commentaries on the New Testament. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2015), 11–13. The language of friendship, which dominates the FG, as opposed to the more familial terms of 1 John indicate shifts in thinking in even a short period of time. 186 Lamb, Text, 3 fn. 8.

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The relationship between the Johannine Christians and their Judaic counterparts is a case in point. Both Capper and Charlesworth have explored similarities between the Qumran and Johannine communities,187 an avenue opened by the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Care needs to be taken that the putative parallels between the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Johannine community are not overstated.188 This is also true of other social and historical factors. Many scholars have noticed that the Johannine literature itself indicates a separation of the Johannine community from the synagogue, but the details of any such expulsion remain uncertain, and are no longer treated with the confidence afforded them by previous scholarship.189 187 Brian J. Capper, “John, Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls” in John, Qumran, and the Dead Sea Scrolls: Sixty Years of Discovery and Debate, ed. Mary L. Coloe and Tom Thatcher (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 94–116 at 99–112; James H. Charlesworth, “A Study in Shared Symbolism and Language: The Qumran Community and the Johannine Community”, in The Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls: The Princeton Symposium on the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. James H. Charlesworth (The Scrolls and Christian Origins Vol 3. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2006), 97–152 at 110–129. 188 Lamb, Text, 14–15. 189 The claim gains much traction from ἀποσυνάγωγος (John 9:22, 12:42, 16:2), which is linked to the birkat ha-minim of the Eighteen Benedictions and thought to taken to indicate a formal expulsion of Christians from the synagogues. However, the Benediction seems to have been a “pre-existent curse…extended to sectarians and implicitly to Christians” (Alan F. Segal, “Ruler of This World: Attitudes about Mediator Figures and the Importance of Sociology for Self-Definition” in Jewish and Christion Self-Definition Vol. 2: Aspects of Judaism in the Graeco-Roman Period, ed. Ed P. Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten and Alan Mendelson (London: SCM Press, 1981), 245–268 at 256–257). Its focus was more concerned with fitness to lead synagogue services than a general ban from being considered part of the Jewish people (Robinson, The Priority, 73–74, quoting Laurence Schiffmann, “At the Crossroads: Tannaitic Perspectives on the Jewish-Christian Schism” in Jewish and Christion SelfDefinition Vol. 2: Aspects of Judaism in the Graeco-Roman Period, ed. Ed P. Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten and Alan Mendelson (London: SCM Press, 1981), 115–156 at 152. This is queried by Reuven Kimelman, “Birkat Ha-Minim and the Lack of Evidence for an AntiChristian Jewish Prayer in Late Antiquity” in Jewish and Christion Self-Definition Vol. 2: Aspects of Judaism in the Graeco-Roman Period, ed. Ed P. Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten and Alan Mendelson (London: SCM Press, 1981), 226–244 at 227. Kimelman argues that the exclusion was directed against Jewish sectarians, and latterly, in the genizah version, against Jewish Christians, but that there is no clear evidence for the cursing of Christians, nor even that they were unwelcome in synagogues. These factors militate against the Benediction being viewed as a watershed moment, or a single edict, leading to the separation of Jews and Christians (244). Scholars increasingly have abandoned the theory of a formal expulsion or excommunication circa 86 CE in favour of less-organised pattern of “ostracism” (Segal, “Ruler of this World”, 258. See also Brant, John, 166–68, Robinson, The Priority, 78; Skarsaune, In the Shadow, 104–108; 197–201). Lamb, Text, 8–9 raises a further point: that such expulsions need not reflect the experience of a community or group as such, but of individuals related to the Johannine tradition.

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Whilst it has been common to link the Johannine community with the synagogue, it is not the only possible formative influence. More recent scholarship has suggested that other organisations may well be as important. The role of Graeco-Roman social groups, including religious associations or trade guilds in the community formation of emerging Christianity has been clearly identified by Alistair C. Stewart, who has queried whether early Christian communities necessarily adopted synagogue models, not least because vocabulary which has been previously viewed as indicating a synagogue context (like πρεσβύτερος – 2 John 1; 3 John 1) was not found there exclusively, but also appeared in the descriptions of Graeco-Roman associations.190 Socio-historical studies of these groups afford the possibility of gleaning some information about the nature of the Johannine group.191 Nevertheless, there remains a fundamental problem: what kind of community? Claims to identify the Johannine community with any of Qumran, the Essenes, the Graeco-Roman voluntary associations, and schools face one problem of detail. John C. Collins put the problem this way in considering comparisons between the community of the Dead Sea Scrolls and the GraecoRoman associations: The crucial issue here is the degree to which the community was cenobitic, i.e., the degree to which the members shared a common life.192

The same could be asked of any hypothetical Johannine community. A further complication comes from the Scroll’s association with not one, but two, different orders or kinds of community: a celibate order (Community Rule) and one which allowed for marriage (The Damascus Rule).193 A tradition may embrace different expressions of communal life: why demand or posit a single form? Study of Epicureanism suggests not only the practice of cenobitic life, but also the potential for some adherence to the school’s doctrines by those who lived outwith such institutions (popularising). However, as there is even less information for the Johannine community than for either the community of the Dead Sea Scrolls or the Epicureans, it is not possible to make such a claim. Nor do we have archaeological evidence like that from either Qumran or Herculaneum.

190 Alistair C. Stewart, The Original Bishops: Office and Order in the First Christian Communities (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2014), 117–118, 134–44. See also Stanley K. Stowers, “Does Pauline Christianity Resemble a Hellenistic Philosophy?” in Paul Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide, ed. Troels Engberg-Pedersen (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 81–102 at 83–89. 191 Thus, for example, Philip A. Harland, Associations, Synagogues, and Congregations: Claiming a Place in Ancient Mediterranean Society (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2003). 192 Collins, “Forms of Community”, 99. 193 Collins, “Forms of Community”, 101.

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Even with such archaeological evidence, problems would remain. Literary materials may still be difficult to interpret, even when their context has been identified in some detail. James Kugel has noted, in discussing Qumran, that texts in a library cannot automatically be assumed to mirror the life of the community with which they are associated: they are not all “sectually explicit”.194 Caution is needed in assuming that practices outlined in the Johannine literature necessarily shaped, mirrored or resonated with the lived practice of its readership. As the literature is quiet on the community’s organisation, it is not possible to state whether the environment of the FG involved cenobitic practice, gathered occasionally, or both. Any such claims remain speculative. In this regard, the lacuna makes any comparison with Epicureanism impossible. Reflection on the nature of the Johannine group has, broadly speaking, gone in two directions: those who view it as isolated or sectarian (including Ernst Käsemann, J. Louis Martyn and Wayne Meeks), and those who view it as more compatible with other Christian trajectories (thus, Raymond E. Brown, Martin Hengel), sometimes identified as the “Great Church”:195 yet both might be described as “communities”. Whilst “community” is a popular term to describe the group, it has been queried for a number of reasons, not least the lack of evidence for community rules like those at Qumran and the problems of monastic overtones.196 Some scholars have suggested that the designation of the Qumran group as a community stemmed from a priori assumptions about it being a “monastic” community. This, in turn, has led some to question whether the terminology is too loaded by its Christian associations to reflect accurately the actual practice 194

James Kugel, “What the Dead Sea Scrolls Do Not Tell (Unanswered Questions about Conflicting Jewish Tribes and the Early Origins of Christianity)”, Commentary 106/5 (1998), 49–53 at 50. 195 Capper, “John”, 94; J. Louis Martyn, “A Gentile Mission That replaced and Earlier Jewish Mission?” in Exploring the Gospel of John: In Honor of D. Moody Smith, ed. R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996), 124– 144 at 124–125, 136–139, fn. 6–12. 196 John C. Collins, “Forms of Community in the Dead Sea Scrolls” in Emanuel: Studies in the Hebrew Bible, the Septuagint, and the Dead Sea in Honor of Emanuel Tov, ed. Shalom M. Paul, Robert A. Kraft, Lawrence H. Schiffman, Weston W. Fields and Eva Ben-David (Brill: Leiden, 2003), 97–111 at 98. Charlesworth, “The Dead Sea Scrolls”,79–80 notes some sociological parallels between the Johannine group’s environment and that of Qumran, but does not see it as a revival of Qumran. Howard Teeple, “Qumran and the Fourth Gospel”, Novum Testamentum 4/1 (1960), 6–25 at 9 notes that degrees, ranks, and titles are absent from the FG. Michael A. Knibb, The Qumran Community. (Cambridge Commentaries on the Writings of the Jewish and Christian World 200BC–AD200. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 145 notes that the Community Rule allowed for married members which is problematic for a monastic community.

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of the group, which might be better termed “ascetic”.197 Brian J. Capper, on the other hand, has avoided “monastic” language but proposed that the language of “religious orders” and “religious virtuosity”, which are not identical with either monasticism or sectarian language, may still serve to describe those associated with the Dead Sea Scrolls, Epicureans, and the FG. This would seem to bypass the problem of whether a group is cenobitic or occasional in nature, and remain helpful irrespective of the precise, and unrecoverable, composition of the “community”. This change in vocabulary means that our attention shifts to the attitudes of adherents of both traditions, rather than to the precise nature of their communes or gatherings. Not only that, but the burden of proving what an actual historical group did is removed, and attention may turn to the ideals and practice of discipleship and living well expressed in FG, irrespective of whether they were ever realised by its readers. The two terms, thus, refer: only to the activity of the individual ascetic and aggregations of such persons in religious orders, and not to the social type of the sect.198

Even if the “religious order” tag is retained, there remain differences between the Johannine literature and Qumran, given the lack of evidence for “elaborate disciplinary rules”199 seen in some of the Qumran writings. Equally, the “religious order” tag does not fit squarely, given modern views of what constitutes “religious”,200 with the Epicurean communities, even though they exhibit signs of “religious” behaviour. However, these terms, freed from limitations circumscribed by modernity, are broad enough to embrace all these ancient forms: philosophical and religious. As Nasr comments: The Universe was an order or cosmos…Different schools were to interpret this order in different ways, but most remained faithful to these principles, which were intimately linked to the Greek religious view of the universe. That is why the Greek philosophical explanations of the order of nature did not cease to possess a religious significance and could for that reason be integrated by the schools of philosophy within the Abrahamic monotheisms…201

197 Jodi Magness, Debating Qumran: Collected Essays on its Archaeology (Leuven: Peeters, 2004), 81–86. Collins, “Forms of Community”, 98 notes that “monastic” has been used positively by both Jewish and Christian scholars. 198 Capper, “John”, 95. 199 Edwards, Discovering John, 51. For a summary of these rules and their application to the various orders associated with the Dead Sea Scrolls, see Collins, “Forms of Community”, 100–110. 200 For a general comment on the anachronism of applying modern views of religion to the ancient world, Richard A. Horsley, “Innovation in Search of Reorientation: New Testament Studies Rediscovering Its Subject Matter”, Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 62/4 (1994), 1127–1166 at 1156–1157. 201 Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Religion and the Order of Nature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 81–82.

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Noting these difficulties, it is still possible, as Capper does, to use the term “religious virtuosity”, and its six key characteristics, namely, that it: 1. Is a matter of individual choice; 2. Involves an intensification of personal commitment over normal compulsory religious routine, norms, and behavior; 3. Involves the seeking of perfection, an extreme urge to go beyond every-day life and average religious achievement; 4. Sustains the seeking of perfection in a disciplined, systematic fashion, a defined rule or method; 5. Implies a normative double standard—its rigor is not only not necessary for all, but also impossible for all; 6. Is based in achievement and non-ascriptive criteria and is in principle an option for all, although in practice only achieved by a “heroic” minority.202

All of these could be claimed by the Epicureans: 1–4 approximate to the philosophy being adopted as a way of life and the means to obtain ataractic bliss, 5–6 with the difficulty recognised in achieving such an end. However, there is a key difference. Individual Epicurean communities did not seem to share the religious order’s “liminal social position” which “falls short of breaking all ties with its wider religious community”.203 However, they did hold a liminal position in relation to their place within Graeco-Roman society. Whatever might be said about the Johannine community, and whether it had a “liminal social position” in regard to the wider church, there can be little doubt that the FG places believers in an analogous liminal position in regard to the world. The language of religious virtuosity may usefully address some of the problems caused in identifying the theology of the FG as sectarian. Even “sect” itself is ambiguous: the British usage (a religious group distinct from the mainstream churches) needs to be differentiated from the American (a group which is negative in its view of the world and cuts itself off).204 The American usage seems to underpin the description of the Johannine community as sectarian, evidence for which is claimed from the Johannine writings, often from a social-scientific perspective. To some, such approaches are problematic, not least because of the assumption of “mirror-reading”,205or circular arguments.206 There is a further problem with the sectarian description: a 202

Capper, “John”, 96. Capper, “John”, 96. 204 Edwards, Discovering John, 51. 205 For the difficulties of “mirror-reading”, see John M.G. Barclay, “Mirror Reading a Polemical Letter: Galatians as a Test Case”, Journal for the Study of the New Testament 31 (1987), 73–93. Whilst John may not be a polemic in the style of Galatians, a number of the methodological issues persist. 206 Lamb, Text, 18–19, summarising themes in Richard Bauckham, The Gospels for All Christians (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998). 203

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number of scholars have questioned its usefulness, given that “sectarian” features are found in a number of early Christian groups and traditions. As Capper concludes: The perception of all of early Christianity as “sectarian” raises questions concerning the heuristic value of the sociological category of sect for understanding the distinctiveness of the Johannine literature and community.207

Even Bryan Wilson’s more refined typology of sectarianism, which would identify seven ideal types, “does not yield an unambiguous explanation of Johannine Christianity as “sectarian”.208 Descriptions of the group and the FG as sectarian portray them as withdrawing from the world and having “totalistic and exclusive claims”.209 These may be attributed to their origins within Judaism, and its apparently inward focus: Under the influence of Qumran, the Johannine group more and more delimited the love commandment so that it included only its own members.210

The identification as sectarian is, thus, based on the restriction of desirable behaviour to those who are members of the group alone. Some have also argued that the Johannine tradition exhibits the characteristics of a sectarian “antilanguage”.211 Yet such “sectarian” tendencies must be balanced against other characteristics: the FG is not uniformly negative regarding the “world”. The FG is interested in the world’s salvation, not just that of believers: the Father loves the world and sends the Son (John 3:16–17),212 who is the “Saviour of the world” (John 4:42) and the bread which gives life to the world (John 6:33).213 The disciples, too, are sent into the world (John 17:18).214 It is hoped that all people will be drawn to the Son (John 12:32) and that the world will believe (John 17:21). Moreover, the FG also shows affinities with Wilson’s “conversionist” type of sectarianism: it does not advocate leaving or renouncing the world and does not offer a soteriology based upon a separated community, but rather includes an individualistic dimension.215 Furthermore, even if it is admitted that the FG uses language in new ways, this need not demand a sectarian attitude or social construct. To Lamb’s criticism of such 207

Capper, “John”, 94. Capper, “John”, 94. 209 Wayne A. Meeks, “The Man from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism”, Journal of Biblical Literature 91 (1972), 44–72 at 70–71. 210 Charlesworth, “The Dead Sea Scrolls”, 80. 211 For a description and critique of such views, see Lamb, Text, 103–144. 212 Zumstein, L’Évangile (1–12), 121–122. 213 Zumstein, L’Évangile (1–12), 224. 214 Jean Zumstein, L’Évangile Selon Saint Jean (13–21) (Commentaire du Nouveau Testament Deuxième Série IVb. Genève: Labor et Fides, 2007), 183. 215 Capper, “John”, 94. 208

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claims, including the point that antilanguage need not demand an antisociety or sect, and that relexicalising is not necessarily a sign of an antilanguage,216 it may be worth adding that other descriptions, primarily used in literary studies, such as re-accentuation217 and retroactive continuity (altering facts to explain current situations),218 are not tied to a sectarian mindset. If the community is an extension of the love shown by God, it cannot be solely inward-looking: it must engage with the world. However, even if a sectarian definition of the school is rejected, this does not mean that it is accepting of its wider social context. The FG still appears to pursue a distinction between itself and the wider community: Jesus’s disciples are called to be “in the world”, but not “of the world”, and will not shirk from criticism of that wider society. Again, this is a commonplace across a broad number of early Christian traditions which employed the terminology of both µετάνοια and έπιστρφή to indicate the separation of congregation and society: Defining the borders between “us” and “them” was a constant struggle. It was counterbalanced, however, by an effort to cross established borders and to extend an invitation of community membership to those outside them.219

If this pattern shapes the Johannine community as much as other groups, rather than a sectarian description, it points to a further similarity between it and the Epicurean: a “missionary zeal” 220 to share their understanding of right living with others: In certain respects, early Christian missionizing shares more with Epicurean propaganda than with either Stoics or Cynics.221

The spread of Epicureanism demanded mobility, diversity, and multiplicity.222 This necessarily implies a degree of “geographical” freedom, not congenial

216

Lamb, Text, 140–143. See Chapter 1. 218 Christopher T. Paris, Narrative Obtrusion in the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2014), 51. The abbreviation “retcon” is used to identify this long-established practice in modern popular culture, see Andrew J. Friedenthal, Retcon Game: Retroactive Continuity and the Hyperlinking of America (Jackson, MS: University of Mississippi Press, 2017). James F. McGrath, Theology and Science Fiction (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2016), 16 identifies the use of Isaiah 53 by the NT writers as a significant example of the practice. FG’s depiction of the Temple, its Calendar and the “I am” sayings might also be so described. 219 Christine Lienemann-Perrin, "Configurations and Preconfigurations of Conversion in the History of World Christianity", Mission Studies 34/1 (2017), 5–28 at 8. 220 John Ferguson, “Epicureanism under the Roman Empire. Revised and supplemented by J.P. Hershbell [Minneapolis, Minnesota]”, in Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung Vol. 2, Issue 36, Part 4, ed. Hidegard Temporini (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1990), 2257–2327 at 2293. 221 Ware, The Mission of the Church, 16. 222 Brodie, The Birthing, 66. 217

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with a closed community or sect. If that holds good for Epicureanism, it also potentially holds good for the Johannine group if it shares in the general Christian pattern. Given the problems of “sect”, “community”, “religious order” and even “religious virtuosity” as appropriate terminology, it is also worth considering whether or not the alternative “school” might still have some traction, notwithstanding the claim that it may be too general a term. At any rate, if this is an association “solely within the space of the scholar’s own mind”,223 it has the merits of being a product of ancient minds as well as modern. This identification also reminds us that the demarcation of “religious” and “philosophical” is not identical in the ancient and modern worlds, any more than, for example, the definition of magic.224 Again, it should be stressed that here our concerns lie more with the attitudes and activity of individuals, rather than the social type. The reflections that follow will concentrate on what the FG potentially reveals as desirable characteristics and aspirations for the followers of Jesus, rather than claims about a Johannine community. A number of scholars still consider that the affinities to other “schools” of the period warrant its identification by this term.225 Ancient writers made similar claims. Philo’s treatment of the Therapeutae226 and Josephus’s analysis of Jewish religious groups as αἳρεσις (a tradition) both pitch their descriptions in terms which resonate with Greek philosophical movements.227 Arguably, the Johannine community may well be included within the broad spectrum of Jewish religious groupings, given its location within the broad sweep of Judaism before the full parting of the ways and after the emergence of Christian communities within it. However, in preferring demarcation as a school, Culpepper has noted that the terms αἵρεσις (a tradition) and σχολή (a local school) are not synonymous.228 However, they may overlap. A tradition does not exist independently of its manifestations in local schools, so it may not be as easy to distinguish them as Culpepper has suggested. Nor may it be necessary. The Johannine environment appears to embrace both: a tradition of teaching about Jesus, and a local community or audience, even if the nature of 223

Smith, Drudgery, 115. Fergus J. King, “Pointing the Bone: Sorcery Syndrome and Uncanny Magic in Acts 5:1–11”, Irish Biblical Studies 30/1 (2012), 12–34 at 15. 225 Charlesworth, “The Dead Sea Scrolls”, 75; Culpepper, The Johannine School, 127– 128, 249, 259, 287–90: Schnelle, Antidocetic, 41–63. 226 Philo, Contempl. Life, 57–63. 227 Steve Mason (with Honora Chapman), Flavius Josephus, Judean War 2, Vol. 1B (Leiden: Brill, 2008),83; Fergus J. King, “Ice-Cold in Alex: Philo’s Treatment of the Divine Lover in Hellenistic Pedagogy”, in Alcibiades and the Socratic Lover-Educator, ed. Harold Tarrant and Marguerite Johnson (London: Bristol Classical Press, 2012), 164–179 at 167– 168. 228 Culpepper, The Johannine School, 127–18, 249, 259. 224

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that community remains frustratingly elusive. Furthermore, consideration of the Johannine community or audience as a “religious order”, or a group exhibiting a distinctive pattern of “religious virtuosity” bypass this distinction which essentially is based on social types. Indeed, reflections on nature of the Johannine community include consideration of whether it was a single group or composed of a number of small groups. Claims that 1 John was a circular letter are used to support this theory, potentially after the Pauline model and based around households,229 but are not dependent solely on this claim. However, for this to have traction usually means that 1 John is compared to Ephesians. This is open to criticism, as there is no equivalent “epistolary Opening Formula and Conclusion”, so: it is more plausible to think of 1 John as addressed to Johannine Christians in one place, presumably the “mother” Johannine group that spawned the Johannine churches in the outlying areas.230

However, 2–3 John add the further implication that there were satellite churches at some remove from the author, leading Brown to conclude that the “community” comprised a number of house churches in a metropolitan centre, and further house-churches in nearby provincial towns.231 Yet, as has already been seen in considering the hypothetical nature of the community, any physical or geographical description must be subject to the same constraints in the evidence available.232 Nevertheless, it raises the possibility of a network of groups analogous to the Epicurean in which there were different houses, and movement between them, but on a far smaller scale. However, the continued debate over the exact location of the Johannine community also demands a degree of caution in respect of such claims,233 as does the difficulty in knowing any detailed history of how and when a single community might have metamorphosed into “mother church” and “satellites”. However, if such “seeding” did occur, it might further strengthen an analogy with the growth of Epicureanism. What cannot be proven is that such processes in the putative history or development of the Johannine community have a genealogical relationship to Epicureanism, even if there seem to have been historical links later between Hippolytan and Epicurean groups through the Johannine, as

229 Judith M. Lieu, I, II, & III John (The New Testament Library. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 259–260. 230 Brown, The Epistles, 89. 231 Brown, The Epistles, 101–102. 232 Lamb, Text, 25, fn. 107, citing Adele Reinhartz, “Women in the Johannine Community: An Exercise in Historical Imagination” in A Feminist Companion to John, Vol. II, ed. Amy-Jill Levine and Marianne Blickenstaff (London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003), 14– 33 at 17. 233 See Chapter 2.

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Brent has conjectured.234 Culpepper makes a related point: that the movement may well have had an “indirect influence”, not least in regard to φιλία, on emerging Christianity. 235 Thus, two scholars would place the Epicureans and the Johannine community on a broadly similar trajectory of community formation in the ancient world. Yet, even this remains difficult if the FG is considered independently of 1–3 John, and a silence hangs over the exact social type of its audience or readership. Criticism of the identification of the Johannine community as a school may dwell on the concept of a “founder”. Certainly, given the potential locations of the community, there can be no parallel between Epicurus as the founder of the Garden, and Jesus as the “active” founder of the Johannine community. Wherever the community actually was based and however it was constituted, Jesus was not the “active” or “institutional” founder. He would appear to be its “mythic” or “passive” founder. That said, the “mythic” or “passive” portrayal of Jesus is linked to the “active” or “institutional”. This is more clearly seen in the Synoptics in which Jesus functions as an “institutional” founder on the basis of his calling of the Twelve, the sending out of the disciples and so on.236 It then manifests itself in the claims of churches in different places to have been founded by one of the apostles and to maintain their teaching.237 Even if these events are not to the fore in the FG, these claims are addressed in discussions of the Spirit being handed on (John 15:26–27; 16:7–14; 19:30), the forgiveness of sins (John 20:21–23), and the fate of both Peter and the Beloved Disciple (John 21:15–23). Critically, the “mythic” and the “institutional” are linked when the Beloved Disciple is identified as a manifestation of the work of the Paraclete and a guarantor of the message about Jesus. 238 It implies that the Beloved Disciple held some kind of role as an “institutional” or “active” founder, either as a source of the traditions in the gospel, or as a source and redactor of some or all the possible versions of the FG or, perhaps, even as founder of the community as well. Those who find it difficult to imagine a “single founder and leading teacher” are more hesitant about such claims.239 Thus, John Ashton finds the identification unhelpful as it demands the Beloved Disciple as a founder or head of school. This, for him, trumps possible shared features like φιλία.240 Schnelle is also critical of the identification of the 234

Brent, Hippolytus, 60. Culpepper, The Johannine School, 121. 236 Allison, Constructing Jesus, 25–26. 237 Laurent Cleenewerck, His Broken Body: Understanding and Healing the Schism Between the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Churches (Washington, DC: Euclid University Press, 2007), 49. 238 Culpepper, The Johannine School, 264-270. 239 Edwards, Discovering John, 191, fn 13. Approaches like those of Martin Hengel and Richard Bauckham would find this less problematic. 240 John Ashton, Understanding the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 195. 235

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Beloved Disciple as founder, questioning his “equation… with the Paraclete”, and following Strecker in seeing the Presbyter of 2/3 John as the “institutional” founder.241 For scholars like Hengel and Culpepper, whose analyses of the Johannine trajectory place a greater emphasis on the Beloved Disciple as a key historical player in its life, the “institutional” claims about his role as founder persist.242 The final verdict ultimately depends on the contested role seen in the portrayal of the Beloved Disciple as an historical and/or idealised figure.243 Given the disparity of views on the subject, this cannot be resolved definitively. However, they reveal one difference: the two roles performed by Epicurus were not repeated exactly by Jesus. Furthermore, whilst the Beloved Disciple may have an institutional role which also includes idealised or mythic elements, it is not identical with that of Epicurus, nor is that of the Presbyter. As Epicureanism was notorious for is inclusion of women, or, rather, the capital their opponents made of it, the role of women in the FG also must be addressed in any comparison. Ruth B. Edwards provides a helpful summary.244 The Samaritan Woman often features prominently in modern discussion, much of which focusses on her marginal status – as a woman, as a Samaritan, as one compromised by her previous life perhaps excessively.245 These features will, to the extent they are recognised and assimilated by the reader, heighten the core significance of her transformation from one who initially misunderstands into an effective witness (John 4:39).246 Martha and Mary (John 11:17–44) both provide positive pictures of women as disciples, even if tradition has tended to exalt Mary at Martha’s expense. 247 Tellingly, women prevail at the foot of the Cross (John 19:25), and Mary of Magdala is the first witness of the Risen Lord (John 20:1, 11–18). Nor are the epistles illuminating. As Judith Lieu notes, (1) the practice of translating ἀδελφ–ός in 1 John as “brothers and sisters” may well reflect accurately that the community was not all-male, but (2), in some verses, the male propensity for competitive behaviour may be under criticism,

241

Schnelle, Antidocetic, 45–46. Culpepper, The Johannine School, 264–270; Hengel, Johannine Question, 104–105. 243 Lamb, Text, 15–17. 244 Edwards, Discovering John, 124–129. 245 Thus, Moore, “Are There Impurities”, 210–215. 246 Edwards, Discovering John, 126, as the conclusion to a discussion of how scholars may romanticise the woman’s situation to make political points which say more about their concerns than those of the evangelist. She rightly, and summarily, dismisses the identification of Jesus as bridegroom in this passage as “fanciful reinterpretation”. 247 In the FG, Mary should not be conflated with the anonymous woman of Luke 7:37. Against the view that Martha’s faith is inferior, see Edwards, Discovering John, 126–127, Heil, The Gospel, 78 who considers that Mary’s falling at Jesus’s feet (John 11: 32) is “a devotional act of worship [which] coincides with and complements that of her sister Martha”; see also Barker, King, 341, for Mary’s actions as worship. 242

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so that the inclusive translation may not always be historically accurate.248 If this is correct, the letters say more about male behaviour than female. Details of female behaviour and roles are scant. 2 John 1 and 10 may indicate that the recipients of the letter meet in a house under the patronage of a woman.249 Lieu cannily makes no further claims about structure or authority beyond this patronal role. It would appear, like Epicureanism, Johannine Christianity entertained the possibility of female followers of Jesus, and, by implication, members of the community. Indeed, modern scholars have even raised the question of whether the Beloved Disciple might be a woman.250 The absence of any conclusive answer to this must, however, raise questions about the veracity of such claims for reconstructing the identity of the community. Irrespective of this, such a characteristic does not link the two schools in opposition to every other Greek philosophical tradition. As Nathan Barnes has shown, women were players in a number of schools in a variety of time periods, including the environment of the late Republic and early Empire.251 What the FG shows, to borrow Edwards’s judicious summary, is that: John depicts women as sharing the faith, as seeing the Risen Christ, and as devoted and theologically perceptive. But he should not be taken as offering specific support to the ordination of either women or men, since he does not think in those terms….252

In other words, certain characteristics are attributable to women as disciples, indeed they may be cast as “examples of the proper relationship with the divine”.253 However, further speculation about authority, rank etc. within the community is outwith the purview of the FG.254 Nor are the Johannine epistles of much help in this regard. In recognising the potential for women as disciples, the FG agrees with the Epicurean tradition, but also a much wider spectrum of Graeco-Roman philosophical practice of the period.255 Beyond this, little can

248

Lieu, I, II, & III John, 80. Lieu, I, II, & III John, 240, 259. 250 Thus, Hengel, Question, 96–108; see also Esther de Boer, The Gospel of Mary: Listening to the Beloved Disciple. (Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series Vol. 260. London: Bloomsbury, 2004), 184. 251 Barnes, Reading 1 Corinthians, 112–120. 252 Edwards, Discovering John, 130. See also Brant, John, 184–85, who agrees about the silence about ordination, but suggests additionally that Jesus’s encounters with women have a christological function: evidence for a new understanding of glory within the honour/shame cultures, which anticipates the reversal of the usual understandings at the crucifixion. 253 Colleen Conway, “Gender Matters in John”, in A Feminist Companion to John, Vol. II, ed. Amy-Jill Levine and Marianne Blickenstaff (London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003), 79–103 at 102. 254 In fact, even the recognition of women’s role as model disciples carries the disturbing implication, that, within the Johannine environment, they may stand outside the bounds of authority, and may never exercise such a function, thus Conway, “Gender Matters”, 100. 255 Barnes, Reading 1 Corinthians, 120–121. 249

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be said. Without further independent material which clearly outlines the place of women within the Johannine tradition, any additional claims will remain speculative. The FG may share a descriptive literary feature with Epicureanism: the locus amoenus.256 However, if present, it is used in a distinctive fashion. The pastoral idylls of Lucretius, Vergil and Horace used the motif to symbolise the goals and the aspirations of Epicureanism. Arguably, the FG may use similar conventions at a number of points: Nathanael’s fig-tree (John 1:48–50), the well at Sychar (John 4:5–6), the countryside (John 6:1, 10), and the Sea of Galilee (John 21:1) may symbolise a better quality of life. The Temple in Jerusalem, to the extent that it renders the creation of God in the form of a building257 might be a technological variant, like Statius’s villas. However, it is apparent that these landscapes are not really ends in themselves, or a symbolic depiction of a philosophical teleology: rather they point to the power of Jesus to transform this world into something better. Nathanael will not be left sitting under the fig-tree (John 1:48), but will see a vision of the Son of Man: the classic locus amoenus is replaced with something claimed to be superior. The Samaritan Woman (John 4:1–26) will be set free from her past, and drink water of a better quality. Galilee is transformed into an environment where Jesus will feed his disciples and save them from the brute forces of nature (John 6:10, 16–21). Jesus will effectively embody all the promises and hopes set in stone in the Temple, and enacted in its rituals (e.g., John 7:37). The Risen Lord appears to his followers in a garden (John 19:41; 20:11–18) and in Galilee (John 21:1–14).258 This is not to claim that the trope exhausts the symbolism of such images, but only provides an accessible bridgehead to the FG’s intention from “the public aspects of Greco-Roman culture”.259 So further layers of detail are also present, but not related to the trope. Thus, the fig tree has possible echoes of paradise, the Messiah, 260 or Israel.261 Water imagery, specifically “living water”, is arguably the clearest manifestation of this, revealing additional layers of contextually grounded

256 See further Fergus J. King, “Pleasant Places in the Gospel according to John: A Classical Motif as an Introit to Theological Awareness”, Pacifica 30/1 (2017), 3–19. 257 Margaret Barker, The Gate of Heaven: The History and Symbolism of the Temple in Jerusalem (London: SPCK, 1991), 57–103; The Great High Priest (London: T&T Clark, 2003), 47, 129. 258 For John 21:1–14 as the potential realisation of John 1:51, see Jean Zumstein, “La Rédaction Finale De L’Évangile Selon Jean (À L’Exemple du Chapitre 21)” in Communauté Johannique et son Histoire: La Trajectoire de l’Évangile de Jean aux deux premiers siècles, ed. Jean-Daniel Kaestli, Jean-Michel Poffet and Jean Zumstein (Genève: Labor et Fides, 1990), 209–30 at 220. 259 Royalty, The Streets of Heaven, 81. 260 Theobald, Das Evangelium, 194. 261 Brant, John, 54.

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symbolism which go far beyond the simple expression of a general symbol indicating a desirable, utopian element. 262 Phraseology analogous to “living water” is comparatively rare in GraecoRoman literature. In myths about Oceanus, it marks the boundary between this life and the afterlife; in Orphic traditions it is linked to the lake of Mnemosyne, implying an association with life.263 Elsewhere, it is linked with divine powers (Muses, prophecy) and inspired utterance.264 As has been seen, pastoral poets like Horace knew the desirability of water, often in “living” forms: springs and rivers.265 In Horace’s locus amoenus, its ready availability makes for a place where negotium (the daily grind) is replaced by otium (leisurely bliss).266 Water is sometimes “sacred” (ἱερὸν ὓδωρ – Theocritus 1. 69; 7.136) and is a “numinous substance whose presence marks man’s entrance into a world beyond his normal ken and normal powers”.267 Water, often from streams or springs, was certainly used in a number of purification rituals in the GraecoRoman world, as shown by a number of archeological sites, including Delphi.268 Thus, the idea of “living water” seems to indicate water of the best kind.269 However, ὕδωρ ζῶν appears rare as a phrase in the Graeco-Roman literature.270 A comparable phrase, ὕδωρ ζήνιον in the Greek Magical Papyri, 262

Zumstein, L’Évangile (1–12), 149. Stovell, “Rivers”, 472–475. 264 Koester, Symbolism, 179. Plutach, Moralia, 411F, 414C; Acts 16:13, 16. 265 Thomas Hubbard, “Locus Amoenus” in The Classical Tradition, ed. Anthony Grafton, Glenn W. Most and Salvatore Settis (Cambridge, MA: Belknap/Harvard University Press, 2010), 538; Carole E. Newlands, Statius’ Silvae and the Poetics of Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 130. 266 King, “Revelation 21:1–22:5”, 177. 267 Charles Segal, Poetry and Myth in Ancient Pastoral: Essays on Theocritus and Virgil (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981), 48–49. Segal notes that such environments have potential for blessing or destruction. 268 Koester, Symbolism, 179; also Anders Klostergaard Petersen, “Rituals of Purification, Rituals of Initiation: Phenomenological, taxonomical and Culturally Evolutionary Reflections” in Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism: Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity Vol. 1, ed. David Hellholm, Tor Vegge, Øyvind Norderval and Christer Hellholm (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 3–40 at 7–11. Fritz Graf, “Baptism and the Graeco-Roman Mystery Cults” in Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism: Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, Vol. 1, ed. David Hellholm, Tor Vegge, Øyvind Norderval and Christer Hellholm (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 101–118 makes no mention of “living water” in his analysis of these rites. 269 Koester, Symbolism, 175. 270 Sοme scholars muddy the issue. Thus, Charles E. Hill, “‘The Orthodox Gospel’: Reception in the Real Church” in The Legacy of John: Second-Century Reception of the Fourth Gospel, ed. Tuomas Rasimus (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 233–300 at 276 implies the phrase occurs in Hellenistic literature and cites William R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch: A Commentary on the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch, ed. Helmut Koester (Hermeneia. Philadelphia, PA: 263

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means “rain water”.271 It has no spiritual significance in itself. In Vergil’s Aen., Aeneas stresses his need to be purified in a flumine vivo (living stream).272 However, there is no indication of any reference to a specific cult or practice and appropriating poetic literature as evidence of cultic practice or theory can be a fraught business.273 This phraseology is much more common within Judaic writings,274 and is often linked to purification.275 Second Temple Judaism uses terms like miqveh and bet tevilah for a variety of lustral traditions and practices.276 Debates over which kinds of water were most effective: “running water” or “living water”.277

Fortress, 1985), 185 as evidence. However, Schoedel refers not to ὕδωρ ζῶν, but to λάλον πιόντες ὕδωρ – drink[ing] speaking water (Anacreontea 12.7, cf. Ps-Justin Cohort. 3 and Apuleius, Met. 6.14). 271 PMag.Par.1.225, see also Theodor Klauser, “Taufet im Lebendigem Wasser: Zum religions – und kulturgeschichtlichen Verständnis von Didache 7,1/3” in Gesammelte Arbeiten zur Liturgiegeschichte Kirchengeschichte un Christlichen Archäologie, ed. Ernst Dassmann (Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum Ergänzungsband 3. Münster: Aschendorffsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1974), 177–183 at 182. 272 Vergil, Aen. 2.717–220, cited in Petersen, “Rituals of Purification”, 7. 273 A point which is most apparent in the discussion of Dionysiac ritual and the value of Euripides’ Bacchae as a source: Albert Henrichs, “Greek Maenadism”, 121–123, 150–152; “Changing”, 143–145. 274 Dale C. Allison, “The Living Water”, St Vladimir’s Quarterly 30 (1986), 143–157 at 144–146; Stovell, “Rivers”, 466–71; 475–482. 275 Koester, Symbolism, 168. 276 Stuart S. Miller, At the Intersection of Texts and Material Finds: Stepped Pools, Stone Vessels, and Ritual Purity Among the Jews of Roman Galilee (Journal of Ancient Judaism Supplement 16. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015), 32–44. 277 Miller, At the Intersection, 110–122 notes that this debate appears in intra-Jewish debate and latterly in controversies between Judaism and Christianity. In some contexts, like Did. 7: 1–2, the phrase may simply mean “running water”, thus Hill, “‘The Orthodox Gospel”, 276; Joseph Martos, Deconstructing Sacramental Theology and Reconstructing Catholic Ritual (Eugene, OR: Resource, 2014), 101; Michael Peppard, The World's Oldest Church: Bible, Art, and Ritual at Dura-Europos, Syria (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016), 156; Willy Rordorf, “Baptism according to the Didache” in The Didache in Modern Research, ed. Jonathan Draper (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 212–222 at 218; Huub van de Sandt, “Baptism and Holiness: Two Requirements Authorizing Participation in the Didache’s Eucharist” in The Didache: A Missing Piece of the Puzzle in Early Christianity, ed. Jonathan A. Draper and Clayton N. Jefferd (Atlanta, GA: SBL Press, 2015), 139–164 at 149. But for Did. 7:1–2 as ‘living water’, see Boris Repschinski, S.J., “Purity in Matthew, James and the Didache” in Matthew, James, and Didache: Three Related Documents in Their Jewish and Christian Settings, (Issue 45, Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2008), 379–396 at 393; Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 185; Stephen Richard Turley, The Ritualized Revelation of the Messianic Age: Washings and Meals in Galatians and 1 Corinthians, (The Library of New Testament Studies Vol. 544. London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015),77.

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Water, including “flowing water”, stands for the gift of life.278 Imagery in the Old Testament (Ezek 47) sees water as a gift from God, as does Jeremiah (πηγὴν ὕδατος ζωῆς – “the fount of living waters” – Jer 2:13; also πηγὴν ζωῆς –“the fountain of life” – Jer 17:13).279 In the time after Jeremiah, more complex interpretations of water and rain as given by God, and of rain water as a vehicle of purity appeared.280 Later readings made water synonymous with the Torah (Ps 1:1–3, 1 Bar 3:12, and the CD 3:13–17; 6:3–8),281 and suggest a potentially sacramental frame of reference may have emerged: John himself may be drawing on a tradition of association between water and the Spirit such as that found in the Community Rule of Qumran.282

Thus, “living water” may symbolise purity, lustral rites, which might include baptism in emerging Christianity, or the Holy Spirit.283 The reader’s awareness of these will depend on their anterior knowledge of such traditions. The FG is familiar with a number of these traditions: water indicates the inauguration of eschatological hopes, which Jesus will give.284 The point is further made in John 7:37–38 when Jesus identifies himself as the source of this living water,285 who replaces the Temple.286 As the precise reading has been disputed,287 it is worth looking at the two options: Ἐν δὲ τῇ ἐσχάτῃ ἡµέρᾳ τῇ µεγάλῃ τῆς ἑορτῆς εἱστήκει ὁ Ἰησοῦς, καὶ ἔκραξεν λέγων· Ἐάν τις διψᾷ ἐρχέσθω πρός µε καὶ πινέτω. 38 ὁ πιστεύων εἰς ἐµέ, καθὼς εἶπεν ἡ γραφή, ποταµοὶ ἐκ τῆς κοιλίας αὐτοῦ ῥεύσουσιν ὕδατος ζῶντος.

The Eastern reading, adopted in the SBL text cited here, places a stop after πινέτω: the Western text is differently puts a comma after πρός µε and a period after εἰς ἐµέ.288 While the Western reading gives a chiastic poetic parallelism congruent with Johannine thought, in language similar to a number

278

Miller, At the Intersection, 124. Miller, At the Intersection, 125–130. 280 Miller, At the Intersection, 130–137. 281 Miller, At the Intersection, 137. 282 Stewart-Sykes, “Bathed in Living Waters”, 284 as part of the thesis that the writer of POxy 840 interprets living water sacramentally within a wider Syrian tradition which may well include a baptismal typology derived via the FG. 283 Xavier Léon-Dufour, “Spécifité symbolique du language de Jean” in Communauté Johannique et son Histoire: la Trajectoire de l’évangile de Jean aux deux premiers siècles, ed. Jean-Daniel Kaestli, Jean-Michel Poffet and Jean Zumstein (Genève: Labor et Fides, 1990), 121–134 at 134. 284 Allison, “The Living Water”, 144–147; Barker, King, 218. 285 Miller, At the Intersection, 139–140. 286 Barker, King, 265–269. 287 Ashton, Understanding, 183 notes the grammatical uncertainty of the verse. Brant, John, 140 notes the ambiguity of the construction, but favours the reading adopted here. 288 Jones, The Symbolism, 153. 279

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of OT texts, Larry Paul Jones argues convincingly that the Eastern is to be preferred.289 It renders a translation like this: The one believing in me, as Scripture says, “streams of living water will flow from his heart.”

It is the believer from whom living water flows, a pattern seen in John 4:14; 13:13, 20; 14:16–17. However, this does not mean that the believer is the fons et origo, the primary source, of such water, and that Jesus vanishes from the picture: ultimately, he is the source. Such a reading of John 4:14, 39 and 7:37– 38 gains support from John 19:34 which also makes Jesus the source of water, which flows from his side as a gift to be passed on.290 Thus, Jones concludes: Believers are not the sources of the gifts Jesus brings, but when they receive those gifts they do so not merely for personal satisfaction but also to meet the needs of others who can come to faith after and through them.291

One thing remains sure: that the “living water” is associated with the status of a believer, not a general anthropological category.292 How might the phraseology of “living water” be summarised? Nine points emerge: an invitation to drink (John 7:37; Rev 22:17), free of charge (John 4:10, 14; Rev 21:6, 22:17), a fountain (πηγή – John 4:14; Rev 7:17, 21:6), ending thirst (John 4:14; Rev 21:6), giving an eternal quality (John 4:14; Rev 22:5), river(s), signifying an abundance (John 7:38; Rev 22:1), a present reality (Rev 22:16), an invitation to take (λαµβάνειν – John 7:39; Rev 22:17), and a divine source (John 4:10, 14; 7:38; Rev 7:17).293 Water also symbolises the Spirit.294 More controversial is whether the phrase has any sacramental connotation, given that the wide-ranging debate over sacramentalism in the FG.295 All of this moves well beyond general symbolism, and is not readily part of Epicurean tradition. Epicurean readers may fail to comprehend or recognise some of the key symbolism of the FG, given that familiarity with its details and nuances would depend on knowledge gained outside their own tradition.

289

Jones, The Symbolism, 153–154. Brant, John, 254, with the reminder that water is not the only symbol operating in that verse; Heil, The Gospel, 61; Miller, At the Intersection, 140–143, with the addition that John 21:1–11 develops this theme because of the rabbinic connection of the Feast of Booths with Ezek 47. 291 Jones, The Symbol, 155–156. 292 Clark-Soles, “I Will Raise”, 39. 293 Thus Allison, “The Living Water”, 148–149. The correspondences between the FG and Revelation are not to be read as an assumption of common authorship, simply of thematic similarity. 294 Allison, “The Living Water”, 149–154; Jones, The Symbol, 229; Stewart-Sykes, “Bathed in Living Waters”, 284. 295 Jones, The Symbol, 26–35, 231–235. For an overview of sacramentalism, see Anderson, The Christology, 137–166. 290

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H. Psychagogy in the FG Whilst the language of psychagogy is absent from the gospels, the twin concepts of discipleship and making disciples are a recurring feature. These provide a starting point for an exploration of Johannine psychagogy. Initially, the process of becoming disciples is described as staying with Jesus (John 1:38–39). Raymond F. Collins considers that John 1:35–39 gives important advice about the qualities and practice of discipleship within the FG. The narrative identifies a four-fold sequence: following (being attracted to Jesus from what he has been told), seeing (recognising what is really happening), seeking (apprehending Jesus through the interpretation of Scripture), and lastly staying or abiding (to remain in relationship with Jesus).296 This last stage, as has been seen above, indicates a relationship between master and disciple outwith the ken of the Epicureans. For Marianus Pale Hera, John 17 is an important passage. In his summary, christology is a not an end in itself, but a preparation for discipleship. Discipleship is based on knowledge about Jesus, who is the “prime model”: whatever he has or is, they too can have or become.297 It involves activity by both God and humanity: The privilege of becoming children of God is a matter of divine prerogative. Discipleship is granted from above because one can come to Jesus only if the Father draws him (6:44, 65). Yet, discipleship requires human responsibility.298

Jesus himself is the ultimate goal of discipleship. John 17 confirms this with constant shift from christological themes to discipleship.299 Disciples are involved in the relationship of the Father and the Son: given by the Father to the Son, they also receive what he has given to the Son.300 The glory of the Son is related to the ζωὴ αἰώνιος of believers: On the one hand, the disciples’ eternal life is the result of Jesus’ glorification. On the other, eternal life involves their active knowing of the Father and the Son.301

This act of knowing is described as faith by the FG. Knowing Jesus brings faith, which clarifies misunderstanding, and so brings greater knowledge.302 The prayer of John 17 shows the ideal of discipleship based on Christ: they are 296 Raymond. F. Collins, These Things Have Been Written: Studies on the Fourth Gospel. (Louvain Theological and Pastoral Monographs 2. Leuven: Peeters, 1990), 50–55. 297 Marianus Pale Hera, Christology and Discipleship in John 17 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 2.342. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 172. 298 Hera, Christology, 172. 299 Hera, Christology, 173. 300 Hera, Christology, 173–174. 301 Hera, Christology, 174. 302 Hera, Christology, 174–175.

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to be people of faith, people of responsibility, who, through that same faith and responsibility, grow into the fullness of God’s promises, exemplified in Jesus.303 The focus on both Jesus and the relationship with the Father and the Son make for a pattern of discipleship very different from Epicureanism, even if an epistemic element and the concept of taking responsibility for one’s own destiny are shared. Culpepper further notes that John 20:19–23 gives an important indication of the direction which the disciples should take. Their commissioning combines the forgiving of sins with a conferring of the Spirit as a mandate to continue the mission of Jesus.304 Whilst Epicureanism focusses on technical discussions and the practice of skills which will foster right living, such as the practice of παρρησία, the FG notes that the work of the disciples goes beyond the scope of forgiveness as reconciliation between members of the community which was found in Epicureanism. Here the forgiveness of sins expands to embrace a cosmic eschatological promise: “the new creation in which there is no sin” drawn from prophetic antecedents (Isa 32:15–18; Jer 31:31–34; Ezek 11:17–20; 36:26–28; 37:14).305 Such a commissioning is without parallel in the Epicurean world and reveals once more a qualitative difference between the two traditions. Misunderstanding, a recurring feature in the FG, frequently occurs as a means by which the disciples and other learn about Jesus (John 1:24–27, 48– 51; 2:20–21; 3:4–10; 4:10–15, 31–38; 6:1–66; 7:33–36; 8:21–24; 11:11–15, 24–25; 13:6–11). Such misunderstandings provide the starting point for dialogues which reveal more clearly who Jesus is. As a result, interlocutors grow in their recognition of him. The results are mixed: some come to believe in him, others reject him. This pattern, in turn, introduces a critical distinction from Epicureanism which viewed right knowledge as the key to acquiring the ends of ἀταραξία and ἀπονία. For it is not just the information given by Jesus, but also the encounter with him and the Father, that is valuable. Jesus, not the principles of the Epicurean tradition, is the content of right knowledge. Epicureanism suggests knowledge based on information and is different from that which focusses on a relationship, even if English usage of “know” blurs the distinction. The difference is explained by Iain MacGilchrist who identifies two kinds of knowing: one exemplifed by knowing someone through experience, the other by what might be called the knowledge of facts. This, as will be shown

303

Hera, Christology, 175–176. R. Alan Culpepper, “Designs of the Church in John 20,19–23” in Studies in the Gospel of John and its Christology: Festschrift Gilbert Van Belle, ed. Joseph Verheyden, Geert van Oyen, Michael Labahn and Reimund Bieringer (Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium CCLXV. Leuven: Peeters, 2014), 501–518. 305 Culpepper, “Designs”, 510–515, quote from 512. 304

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below, may be seen more clearly by reference to vocabulary related to “knowing” in languages other than English.306 While the FG talks of knowing Jesus, this is not simply epistemic knowledge (facts), but a kind of knowledge which has a relational or experiential quality, indicated in the FG by relationships between Jesus, God, and disciples being depicted repeatedly in literal and symbolic terms. Additionally, the FG holds that “belief” and “knowing” are parallel (πεπιστεύκαµεν καὶ ἐγνώκαµεν – we have believed and come to know – John 6:69).307 “Believing” and “knowing” both embrace factual and experiential knowledge. Both embrace the two kinds of knowledge given by MacGilchrist: “believing in” (equivalent of kennen [German], connaitre [French], cognoscere [Latin] – relational knowledge ) and “believing that” (wissen [German], savoir [French], sapere [Latin] – informative knowledge or “facts”).308 These overlap, and may not be readily compartmentalised.309 Matthew W. Bates adds a further dimension to these terms across the spectrum of the NT, not just the FG: allegiance.310 Epicurean knowing, on the other hand, leans towards the construction of an ideology based on “facts”, or theory. Furthermore, this modality is available to believers who were not Jesus’s contemporaries. They may gain access to the kind of belief which allows access to the goals and promises offered by Jesus by their appropriation of the subject matter of the written text. John 20:31 provides a summary: Πολλὰ µὲν οὖν καὶ ἄλλα σηµεῖα ἐποίησεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς ἐνώπιον τῶν⸀µαθητῶν, ἃ οὐκ ἔστιν γεγραµµένα ἐν τῷ βιβλίῳ τούτῳ· ταῦτα δὲ γέγραπται ἵνα ⸀πιστεύητε ὅτι Ἰησοῦς ἐστιν ὁ χριστὸς ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ, καὶ ἵνα πιστεύοντες ζωὴν ἔχητε ἐν τῷ ὀνόµατι αὐτοῦ.

Thus believing (πιστεύητε/ πιστεύοντες) what is written in the book (FG) becomes a means to this end. In this respect, there appears to be a parallel to the psychagogy of the Epicureans: appropriation of the right material is the means of achieving a desirable outcome. However, thereafter the analogy breaks down: the subject matter is different; material about Jesus, rather than right theory which constitutes what is helpful. “Believing”, as both an epistemic and relational action, not simply right knowing as the apprehension of the right information, provides the means. The book is not just a source of information, it is, for future believers, qualitatively equal to living with Jesus (John 20:29): it is a source of experiential or relational knowledge. 306

MacGilchrist, The Master, 93–96. Frank J. Matera, New Testament Ethics: The Legacies of Jesus and Paul (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996), 102. 308 MacGilchrist, The Master, 96–97. 309 Anthony Thiselton, The Two Horizons: New Testament Hermeneutics and Philosophical Description. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1993), 233, 409. 310 Matthew W. Bates, Salvation by Allegiance Alone: Rethinking Faith, Works and the Gospel of Jesus the King (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2017). 307

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Given that symmetry and mutuality were fundamental to Epicurean psychagogy; it is possible to ask whether similar traits manifest themselves in the FG. At this point, as in so many others, christological factors are relevant. On the one hand, the FG’s Jesus is distinctly other and superior: the Logos who comes into the world, the one from above, from heaven, who alone has seen the Father. Such remarks speak of superiority and asymmetry. However, they must be tempered by the stress on the humanity of Jesus: his emotions, the reality of his life and suffering. It is also brought to the fore by his preferred designation of himself as “friend”, which is much less hierarchical than “servant/master”. It becomes his preferred designation for his followers as his death approaches (John 15:15). These all indicate a symmetry and mutuality with the human condition. If Epicureans could live with a tension of symmetry and asymmetry in their community relationships, the FG expressed a similar tension, due to its christology. Jesus is, somehow, their superior, inasmuch as he is God and saviour, but he is also their equal, because of his humanity, and because he is their friend. So, there is a common tension, but a very different story which underpins it. This foundational myth demands a considerable shift away from the Epicurean worldview to grasp it, for it depends on the claim that a deity can be come human. That flies in the face of Epicurean orthodoxy. These two elements (a/symmetry) also appear in the titles used of and by the writers of the Johannine literature. However, there is a difference between the FG and the letters. The FG refers to the Beloved Disciple. Whilst scholars argue about the precise role and identity of this person, sometimes considered “the epitome of the Johannine notion of discipleship”,311 and whether the FG in its final form is the handiwork of one individual, or has been subject to a number of redactions, there is a general consensus that the Beloved Disciple is a significant exemplar. Culpepper identifies the salient characteristics: a Judaean with knowledge of the area’s geography, an otherwise unknown player, and an eyewitness, portrayed in an idealised fashion. This disciple’s testimony is perceived as true, and even, perhaps, inspired by the Paraclete. Comparisons with Peter suggest an apostolic authority, which, for those who engage with his tradition, surpasses that of Peter: The Beloved Disciple serves, therefore as an important figure, legitimating and authorizing the distinctive teaching of the Johannine community in the face of the rising authority of Peter in other traditions.312

This role is in stark contrast to that of Epicurus: the Beloved Disciple is an authoritative conduit of truth, but is not its source. That is reserved for Jesus,

311

Collins, These Things, 46, also 42–45. R. Alan Culpepper, John, The Son of Zebedee: The Life of a Legend (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 84–85, quotation from 85. 312

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and him alone. Epicurus, on the other hand, fulfilled both functions, with the ancillary support of other Epicurean masters. The designation, Beloved Disciple, has implications in considering the shape or structure of the hierarchy to which the FG aspires. It indicates symmetry, inasmuch as the writer is identified as a disciple, but also a certain asymmetry in the qualification of “beloved”. In the letters, the phrase is conspicuously absent. Indeed, across, the Johannine literature, there is no evidence which clearly states that the different writings share a common author, or even that they make “any explicit reference to any other of these writings”.313 In 1 John, the writer is not defined by a title: the closest to one is the claim to write in the name of the Son of God (1 John 5:13). The recipients are addressed by a number of names, sometimes with qualifications: children (1 John 2:14, 18; 3:1–2, 10; 5:2 [of God], 19 [of God]); little children (1 John 2:1, 12, 28; 3:7, 18; 4:4; 5:21); fathers (1 John 2:13–14); young people (1 John 2:13–14); beloved (1 John 2:7; 4:1, 7, 11); brothers (1 John 3:10, 13, 15, 17; 4:20–21; 5:16). The mutual identity of writer and recipients is enforced by 1 John 3:1–3 which identify both parties as children. Not only that, but Jesus is also identified as a son (1 John 1:3, 7; 2:22–24; 3:8 [Son of God], 23; 4:9–10, 14–15 [son, son of God]; 5:5 [son of God], 9–13 [10, 12–13 include son of God], 20) and a child (1 John 5:2). Such references stress “care and parental concern”.314 This is consistent with degree of mutuality revealed in the FG through the depiction of Jesus’s humanity. The writer is not described as father, that is used solely of God in the singular (1 John 1:2–3; 2:1, 15–16, 22–24; 3:1; 4:14). The ascription of πατέρες (fathers – 1 John 2:13–14), like νεανίσκοι (youths – 1 John 2:13), is likely to indicate the division of the audience of the letter along the lines of age, following OT precedent; all members are identified as τεκνία or παιδία (e.g. 1 John 2:12, 14).315 Thus, this familial language shows a degree of mutuality between Jesus, the writer and the recipients of the letter. Asymmetry arises predominantly in relation to God [the Father]. Even the linking of Jesus with the Father reveals a degree of symmetry given that believers are identified as children of god and born of God (1 John 3:9–10). 2–3 John introduce a different note, with the description of the writer as the Elder. 2 John uses no titles in addressing the recipients directly, but it might fairly be inferred from 2 John 13 that they might be addressed as children. No claims are made for “apostolic authority” and the letter is redolent with “goodwill, tradition, the authority of the commandments, and perhaps the warning that he will visit them in the near future”.316 3 John, which is addressed to an individual, not a group, sees him

313

Culpepper, John, 89. Culpepper, John, 91. 315 Parsenios, First, Second, and Third John, 82. 316 Culpepper, John, 91. 314

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identified as “beloved” (3 John 2, 5, 11), by an “elder” (3 John 1). The relationship between the Elder and Diotrephes is disputed: Assessments…have run the gamut from viewing the elder as an authorized representative of the church and Diotrephes as a rebellious local leader to the opposite situation in which Diotrephes is the bishop and the elder is a charismatic rebel against ecclesiastical authority.317

The Johannine literature reveals phenomena which might also be shared with Epicureanism. Within the FG, the Prologue might arguably be described as an ἐπιτοµή which functions as a summary of its main themes.318 Additionally, John 21:24–25 suggests that the FG might share some characteristics of the ἐπιτοµή, as it clearly states that it is not an exhaustive treatment of Jesus’s life and teaching: Οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ µαθητὴς ὁ µαρτυρῶν περὶ τούτων καὶ ὁ γράψας ταῦτα, καὶ οἴδαµεν ὅτι ἀληθὴς αὐτοῦ ἡ µαρτυρία ἐστίν. ἔστιν δὲ καὶ ἄλλα πολλὰ ἃ ἐποίησεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς, ἅτινα ἐὰν γράφηται καθʼ ἕν, οὐδʼ αὐτὸν οἶµαι τὸν κόσµον χωρήσειν τὰ γραφόµενα βιβλία. This is the disciple who is testifying to these things and has written them, and we know that his testimony is true. But there are also many other things that Jesus did; if every one of them were written down, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.

There is a problem with this. The ἐπιτοµή is a condensed version of a recognisably larger body of thought or writing. Any claim that the FG is an ἐπιτοµή is always compromised by the fact that there is no larger body of material which it can be seen to summarise, even if it claims to have recorded material 317

Culpepper, John, 91. Some writers describe the prologue as a generic literary epitome without reference to the ancient genre. Thus Louis Bouyer, The Fourth Gospel, trans. P. Byrne (Westminster, MD: the Newman Press, 1964), 57; Alf Corell, Consummatum Est: Eschatology and Church in the Gospel of St. John (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2016) , 113 as a “preparatory epitome” and “overture”; David J. Hawkin, The Johannine World: Reflections on the Fourth Gospel and Contemporary Society (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1996), 63 for John 1:14–18. This is different from the use of epitome as a thematic summary. Thus, Judas is the “epitome of defection” (Stanley E Porter and Andrew K. Gabriel, Johannine Writings and Apocalyptic: An Annotated Bibliography [Johannine Studies. Leiden: Brill, 2013], 161), the Beloved Disciple “an epitome of struggles to authenticate a particular rendering of Jesus’ story” (Raimo Hakola, Reconsidering Johannine Christianity: A Social Identity Approach [New York, NY: Routledge, 2015], 16), or “the epitome of the Johannine notion of discipleship” (Collins, These Things, 46), the cross “the epitome of Christ’s enfleshment” and “ the epitome of both the divine message’s enfleshment and of God’s love and faithfulness earlier revealed at Sinai” (Craig S. Keener, “‘We Beheld His Glory’ (John 1:14)” in John, Jesus, and History, Vol. 2: Aspects of Historicity in the Fourth Gospel, ed. Paul N. Anderson, Felix Just SJ, and Tom Thatcher [Early Christianity and Its Literature Vol. 2. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2015], 15–26 at 23, 25). 318

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selected from that much richer tradition (John 21:24–25). Not only that, but, as John 20:30–31 and John 21:24–25 both make abundantly clear, the FG is considered to contain all that is needed to gain ζωὴ αἰώνιος, or right knowledge or faith. Such claims demand a very different function within the Johannine tradition from the disputed role of the Epicurean ἐπιτοµή. Thereafter the differences are more conspicuous: the FG does not adopt the form of a philosophical treatise, or a technical manual giving advice on the application of theory, or a collection of sentences. It is more of a biographical account which imparts information about Jesus and is seen as providing the substance of faith. It is unlike any extant Epicurean ἐπιτοµή. These included number of forms: letters, γνωµολογία, even epic poetry. However, such a breadth of different writings must raise questions about how tightly the ἐπιτοµή might be defined in literary terms, except for it being some shortened form of text. The FG is as likely to defy simple definition as an ἐπιτοµή just as it defies easy comparison with other literary forms and genres of antiquity. The debate over the genre of the gospels has ebbed and flowed, and, most recently, thanks to the writing of Burridge and others, seems to have washed up on the shores of the βίος form – for the moment.319 This significantly includes a subtype which records the life of philosophers.320 Does the letter form provide a closer parallel between Epicurean and Johannine literature? Initially this seems likely. The epistle form was used as a means of communicating: 1–3 John provide evidence of this. However, their substance is quite different from that found in the extant letters of Epicurus. These, as we have seen, have the character of the ἐπιτοµή. Scholarly readings of the Johannine epistles have not identified them as such. Indeed, even categorising 1 John as an epistle is problematic, since it does not share a number of the “conventional components”, such as a salutation, greetings, or even the shape of the Pauline letters: it might be better identified as a sermon or homily, like Hebrews.321 Moreover, the Johannine letters may not have had the central role of their Epicurean counterparts. So, Raymond Brown suggests that some crisis between different Johannine communities “made it necessary to introduce the practice”, most likely after the FG was written.322 This would make the reasons for the epistles different from those of the Epicureans and his followers. What is common is that both schools preserved them, at first within their respective communities, then beyond their immediate confines (Diogenes Laertius, for example, for the Epicurean material, and the later canon for the FG). 319 Richard Burridge, What Are the Gospels?: A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biography. 2nd edition. (The Biblical Resource Series. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004). 320 Wills, The Quest, 10–18, esp. 15. 321 Lieu, I, II, & III John, 5. See also Brown, The Epistles, 87. 322 Brown, The Epistles, 690.

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Ι. Παρρησία in the FG Παρρησία appears across a number of the writings of the New Testament. However, it defies a simple or monochrome definition. In many ways it provides an excellent example of James Barr’s contention that meaning is not located in single words, but rather in the lexical fields in which individual words are used.323 This has already been hinted at in the overview of the development of παρρησία from democratic Athens onwards: it is not a uniform, ahistorical phenomenon, but rather one which is fine-tuned or re-accentuated in different times, places and cultural contexts. This also holds true in the New Testament treatments. Firstly, Stanley Marrow has suggested that παρρησία in the NT differs from that of the schools.324 Subsequent scholarship then reveals that there is, even within that corpus, a significant variety in the understanding and practice of παρρησία. Thus, Paul does not simply follow previous philosophical tradition and practice: In opposition to the philosophic tradition, in which the issues of legitimation and friendship were conceptualized either separately or opposed to one another, Paul consistently and conspicuously brings them together.325

Acts follows the usages in which παρρησία represented hostility to philosophers such as Socrates and Plato, and so equates the worst aspects of mobs with Judaic opposition to the early church.326 In Hebrews, παρρησία exercises a paraenetic function, instilling confidence.327 Significantly for this study, William Klassen has produced a study of παρρησία in the Johannine literature, albeit from a comparison primarily with the Cynic and Stoic traditions rather than the Epicurean,328 and Gail O’Day has stressed the value of the term in defining φιλία within the FG.329 Any study of 323

Barr, The Semantics, 235. Stanley B. Marrow, “Parrhēsia and the NT”, Catholic Biblical Quarterly 44 (1982), 431–36. 325 David E. Fredrickson, “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ in the Pauline Epistles” in Friendship, Flattery and Frankness of Speech: Studies of Friendship in the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 163–183 at 183. 326 Sara C. Winter, “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ in Acts” in Friendship, Flattery and Frankness of Speech: Studies of Friendship in the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 182–202. 327 Alan C. Mitchell, SJ, “Holding on to Confidence: ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ in Hebrews” in Friendship, Flattery and Frankness of Speech: Studies of Friendship in the New Testament World, ed. John T. Fitzgerald (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 203–226. 328 Klassen, “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ”. 329 Gail O’Day, “Jesus as Friend in the Gospel of John” in Transcending Boundaries: Contemporary Readings of the New Testament, ed. Rekha M. Chennattu and Mary L. Coloe. Biblioteca di Scienze Religiose – 187 (Rome: Libreria Ateneo Salesiano, 2005),75–92 at 86–91. 324

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the FG must begin with the instances found in the text (John 7:4, 10, 26; 10:24; 11:14, 54; 16:25, 29; 18:20). Klassen notes that a particular feature of Johannine usage is that παρρησία is repeatedly used in opposition to the phrase ἐν κρυπτῷ,330 suggesting openness rather than secrecy or esoteric teachings, notably in John 7:4, 10 and 26.331 This marks a departure from its use in the philosophical schools. He then identifies three distinct usages: – public versus private (John 7:4, 13, 26; 11:54) – plain against obscure (10:24; 11:14; 16:25, 29) – bold or courageous against timid (7:26, 18:20, related to meaning number 1 as well).332 He further notes that the dimension of public/private is “practically unknown” in Hellenistic Greek, and (bar one exception) in Philo and Josephus.333 From his focus on Cynic-Stoic sources, Klassen concludes that the usage in the gospel has a “totally different connotation”:334 it describes the “divine human encounter”.335 His caution stems from his insistence on the “divine-human” as making this presentation of παρρησία unique. Additionally, his strongly philological approach sees little common ground: associated phraseology is seen as indicating a qualitative difference. O’Day is more optimistic about comparing philosophical traditions and the FG. She notes three usages, different from Klassen’s: flattery/direct speech, direct and open speech, and freedom of speech.336 She notes that the first of these is not “overt”, 337 that John 11:14; 16:25, 29 indicate direct and open speech,338 and John 7:25–26; 18:20, freedom of speech.339 For her, this “resonates with what the Hellenistic philosophers taught about friendship”.340 O’Day’s sociocultural reading, through either the lens of φιλία or of the relationships between teacher and student, shows some degree of correspondence between the practice of the Epicureans and that delineated in the FG. In particular, the linking of φιλία and παρρησία in Epicureanism suggests that her claims for such a reading in the FG are not without parallel. This need not a causal connection, but simply a shared environment.341 330

Zumstein, Commentaire (1–12), 250. Klassen, “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ”, 240–241. 332 Klassen, “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ”, 243. 333 Klassen, “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ”, 243. The exception is “Philo Flacc. 4; cf. Spec. 1.321” (fn. 58). 334 Klassen, “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ”, 245. 335 Klassen, “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ”, 251. 336 O’Day, “Jesus as Friend”, 86. 337 O’Day, “Jesus as Friend”, 87. 338 O’Day, “Jesus as Friend”,88–90. 339 O’Day, “Jesus as Friend”, 90–91. 340 O’Day, “Jesus as Friend”, 91. 341 Smith, Drudgery, 112–113. 331

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Both Klassen and O’Day show that παρρησία defies a simplistic “one size fits all” definition: the variety found in the Greek philosophical schools and in the texts of the NT support such a conclusion. Additionally, the strong technical flavour of the Epicurean treatments, and the absence of such details within the FG, makes more detailed comparisons difficult. There is a broad agreement, given the significance of φιλία and παρρησία in both, but a detailed comparison is outwith our grasp.

J. Φιλία in the FG The language of love and friendship immediately reveals a philological difference between the Johannine tradition and Epicureanism. Certainly, both use φιλία to describe something which is both desirable and life-enhancing. Yet, Epicureanism has been seen to concentrate on the distinction between ἔρως and φιλία, with little interest in ἀγάπη. The FG, in contrast, explores the relative merits of ἀγάπη and φιλία, with no interest in ἔρως, which never appears within the text. Whilst the Epicurean comparison indicates a marked preference for φιλία, and some caution, if not hostility, towards ἔρως, the FG pairs φιλία and ἀγάπη.342 Both may be considered positively, but their relative worth is still has been debated. It has been suggested that they share a definition (love), but vary in quality.343 However, this distinction is sometimes questioned, and some critics consider it to be an anachronism, in which later Christian speculation about different kinds of love has been retrojected into the gospel.344 If nothing else, that both are used raises questions about how the FG considers the two might be linked. Whether or not any qualitative difference is maintained, the appearance of these two terms marks a departure from Epicureanism, which, whilst notable for the high value it placed on φιλία, does not use ἀγάπη. The gospel uses φιλία repeatedly to describe a desirable state. To that extent, it appears to share a concern which is also given high priority within 342 Francis T. Gignac, “The Use of Verbal Variety in the Fourth Gospel” in Transcending Boundaries: Contemporary Readings of the New Testament, ed. Rekha M. Chennattu and Mary L. Coloe. Biblioteca di Scienze Religiose – 187 (Rome: Libreria Ateneo Salesiano, 2005), 191–200 at 193–95; Lee, “Friendship. Love and Abiding”, 55. 343 A classic example is Anders Nygren, Agape and Eros, trans. Philip S. Watson (London: SPCK, 1957) who argues that ἀγάπη cannot overlap with either ἕρως or φιλία. Few today would maintain such clear distinctions. Indeed, the Johannine material is “detrimental” to them, thus Thomas Jay Oord, The Nature of Love: A Theology (St. Louis, MO: Chalice, 2010), 47–49. 344 Brant, John, 229 for φιλία and ἀγάπη as synonyms; Ferguson, “Epicureanism”, 2276 notes that, for Paul, “agape is rooted in God, and philia is not”. Gignac, “The Use of Verbal Variety”, 195 warns against conflating Johannine and Pauline usages.

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Epicurean and other philosophical traditions. The location of the major discussion of φιλία (John 15:13–15) within the context of a speech at a meal resonates with the philosophical symposium, in which φιλία was a significant topic.345 Its usage agrees broadly with a number of other ancient philosophical understandings understandings, inasmuch as love and loyalty are closely linked.346 However, Koester notes that the φιλία of the Johannine literature appears quite alien to the other general conceptions of the ancient world, because of its specifically christological perspective: Johannine Christians neither rejected friendship in order to embrace an ideal of complete independence and self-sufficiency nor relied on the network system of friendships which had the emperor at its apex. Instead they adopted a christological understanding of friendship through which Jesus’ commandment to love one another could be brought to expression. Friendship with Jesus was not egalitarian – he retained a singular position – yet it brought Jesus’ followers into a relationship of reciprocal love, creating a community in which people who addressed each other as “friends” could realize the idea of mutual self-sacrifice.347

However, this description focusses, so as to speak, on the “horizontal” axis of φιλία: between believers. Yet, the christological focus demands a “vertical” aspect: φιλία with Jesus himself, stated explicitly in his calling the disciples friends. This is alien to an Epicurean mentality as it entails at least one of two, for them, impossibilities: φιλία with a deity, and/or with one who had died. However, it is also rooted fundamentally in the relationship of the Father and the Son, which also involves the Spirit,348 a concept or entity conspicuously absent from Epicurean self-sufficiency. Other features appear to be shared. Jesus’s relationship allows for an intimate bond with both male and female disciples.349 Central to Jesus’s practice is his giving his life for his friends (τις τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ θῇ ὑπὲρ τῶν φίλων αὐτοῦ – John 15:13), which was considered admirable within a number of Greek philosophical traditions,350 Epicureanism among them, but not essential. The “noble death”, which includes the ironic transformation of shame into honour, and is found in Jesus’s parabolic teaching (John 10:11–18), as well as the prediction (John 11:45–50) and account of his death (John 18:1–19:42), provides a recognisable key to understanding Jesus from such viewpoints.351 In the FG, such actions, put in the language of obeying Jesus’s commandment (John 15:14), become

345

Smith, From Symposium, 268. Brant, John, 228; David Konstan, Friendship in the Classical World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 33. 347 Koester, Symbolism, 241. 348 Lee, “Friendship, Love and Abiding”, 59. 349 Lee, “Friendship, Love and Abiding”, 59–61. 350 O’Day, “Jesus as Friend”, 82. 351 Neyrey, The Gospel of John, 300–07; 418–438; O’Day, “Jesus as Friend”, 83. 346

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significant expressions of discipleship, and come to define the nature of love.352 Furthermore, it is the love of Jesus which makes the subsequent practice of love by his disciples possible.353 There is a contrast here with Epicurus, whose teaching revealed how to live right, but whose own lived life did not make such right living possible for his followers. It is also very different from the Epicurean value of φιλία as a means to self-sufficiency, and a means to navigate between pain and pleasure. Φιλία may be, for both traditions, a way of expressing where growth and maturity may be nurtured, but these are not configured in the same way. Even more alien would be the potential, albeit peripheral, readings of Jesus’s death in the FG as expiatory, vicarious or apotropaic.354 It is possible, then to conclude that christology and soteriology drive a wedge between the two traditions. Whilst the Epicurean tradition knows that φιλία is desirable, promotes katastematic pleasure, and may involve some degree of self-giving, it does not embrace the soteriological claims found within the FG. When Jesus talks of love as giving up one’s own life (John 15:13), his words anticipate his own death on the Cross and the benefits which it brings,355 benefits explicitly connected to his death by the pouring out of the Spirit (παρέδωκεν τὸ πνεῦµα – John 19:30). Epicurus’s death has no such function. Equally, views of death as imparting benefits beyond the confines of this world are, of course, outwith the Epicurean programme. Discussion of φιλία also returns to the vexed problems of the Johannine community as extrapolated from the literature. Certainly, the FG has a high view of φιλία, but this is not shared by the letters. They reveal a preponderance of familial language (1 John), and of terms like elder (2–3 John). The language of φιλία is barely seen. This suggests caution in assuming that themes dominant in the FG necessarily materialised throughout the tradition, given that this one, φιλία, does not appear elsewhere. However, one views the relationship between the FG and the Epistles, the discontinuity warns about an oversimplification of (a) the variety of the Johannine tradition, and (b) any supposed shape of the Johannine audience. Φιλία in the FG has also been linked to the nature of the community. Thus, Meeks suggested that the type of φιλία depicted was exclusive or sectarian; it lacked the language of loving enemies which may be found within the Synoptic tradition.356Whether or not this is taken as indicative of an actual community

352

O’Day, “Jesus as Friend”, 85. O’Day, “Jesus as Friend”, 86. 354 Loader, Jesus in John’s Gospel, 176–178. 355 Zumstein, L’Évangile (13–21), 107–108. 356 Wayne A. Meeks, “The Ethics of the Fourth Gospel” in Exploring the Gospel of John: In Honor of D. Moody Smith, ed. R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996), 317–326 at 324. 353

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or simply aspirations for community life, it need not indicate an exclusivist understanding. Brant takes issue with such claims, arguing that in the context of the Farewell Discourses: The discussion of love for one another on the eve of Jesus’ death does not preclude performing acts that benefit those who are not yet one’s friends.357

With the claim that the FG represents a sectarian theology removed, it becomes appropriate to reflect on the attitudes it reveals to the world, just as the findings that Epicureanism was not totally withdrawn from the world prompted a review of its political and social thinking.

K. The FG and the World The FG presents a picture of God engaged in the saving of the world: a combination of ideas which do not fit with Epicureanism, which denies the irruption of the gods into the world, and will limit salvific activity simply to the power of Epicurus’s teaching to the reduction or removal of the individual’s ἀταραξία and ἀπονία. Despite the caricatures which would depict both as completely removed from the world, they bear witness to a continued interest in political matters, as, indeed, does the Dead Sea literature.358 The FG, like the extant writings of the Epicureans and the Scrolls, is political in that it condemns political conduct. 359 This is shown in a number of ways. The Good Shepherd material has a critical political dimension, particularly when read with an understanding of the prophets (Ezek 34:5–6, 8–10; Jer 23:1– 3; Zech 11:15–17).360 However, The broader narrative of the FG picks up the theme. First there is the indictment of the Jerusalem priesthood, then Pilate in their interrogation and punishment of Jesus. Both the “Jews” and Pilate are deemed failures: “the poverty of Pilate’s judicial integrity, the lie at the heart of Caiaphas’s statecraft.”361 357

Brant, John, 228. Hanan Eshel, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Hasmonean State, (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008). 359 Travis Trost, Who Should Be King in Israel? A Study on Roman Imperial Politics, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the Fourth Gospel (Studies in Biblical Literature 139. New York, NY: Peter Lang, 2010) argues that Jesus’s reconstruction of the Temple on his own self rather than a rebuilt Temple which might be a focus of ethnic nationalism or provoke Roman insecurity offers an eschatological vision which avoids confrontation with the Roman authorities. 360 Zumstein, L’Évangile (1–12), 344. 361 Donald M. MacKinnon, Philosophy and the Burden of Theological Honesty: A Donald MacKinnon Reader, ed. John McDowell, asst.d Scott Kirkland (London: T&T Clark, 2011), 286. 358

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The irregular interrogations and treatment of Jesus in front the High Priest flout Jewish standards of justice.362 They are driven, to an extent, by some measure of brutal practicality (John 11:49–53). They mark the culmination of a process which has repeatedly seen Jesus’s accusers unable to act against him (John 5:18; 7:32, 44–51; 8:9 (?), 59; 10:31–39). The interrogation by the High Priest focusses on Jesus’s teaching and disciples (John 18:19).363 Allegations of secrecy or secret teaching, as opposed to what is both already known from public discourse and has failed to result in his being brought to trial, are rejected (John 18:20–21).364 For the accusers, the scene ends in an aporia formed by Jesus’s question, unanswered except by his being sent to Caiaphas (John 18:23–24). No account is given of what happens there.365 When the proceedings shift to the Praetorium (John 18:28), the charges laid against Jesus are tweaked and given a political dimension in front of Pilate.366 Pilate is ultimately manoeuvred into a corner where he has to choose between being branded a friend of Jesus or of the emperor (John 19:12).367 However the charge that has been brought is essentially one under Jewish law, of claiming to be the son of God (John 10:31–39, repeated in 19:7): it becomes an overtly political issue of kingship in front of Pilate (John 18:33; 19:12),368 in which the accusers of Jesus will eventually be hung on their own petard (John 19:15).369 Being the object of deification or veneration was not, in itself, an infringement of Roman statutes, as it did not necessarily demand a political claim.370 Thus, Apollonius of Tyana, the itinerant first century CE philosopher might be described in such terms.371 Furthermore, the hopes of Cicero, although formulated in the period before the deification of emperors became a standard part of the political and religious landscape, bear witness to hopes of deification which might be extended even to a dead daughter and had no political intent.

362

Brant, John, 240; Moloney, The Gospel, 489. Moloney, The Gospel, 487–488. 364 Moloney, The Gospel, 491. 365 Brant, John, 241; Malina and Rohrbaugh, Social-Science, 255. 366 Brown, The Gospel, 861; Zumstein, L’Évangile (13–21), 211. 367 MacKinnon, Philosophy, 198. 368 Brant, John, 243–244; Lindars, The Gospel, 557–558; Malina and Rohrbaugh, SocialScience, 257. 369 Malina and Rohrbaugh, Social-Science, 261. 370 Tacitus, Germania, 8.2. Text and translation in Holly Haynes, The History of MakeBelieve: Tacitus on Imperial Rome (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2003), 13, who notes that Tacitus may take an ironic view of such matters. 371 F. Scott Spencer, The Portrait of Philip in Acts: A Study of Roles and Relations (Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series 67. Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 99. 363

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Pilate is pictured as a holder of authority who falls short: in a narrative laden at various points, and with deep with deep irony,372 he is identified as outmanouevred by his inferiors,373 shirking responsibility,374 “vulnerable to pressure discreetly exercised”,375 bereft of values,376 reluctant,377 complicit,378 unjust,379 worldly,380 or concerned primarily with expediency,381 even if he may appear, on some readings, to have some inkling of the wrongs that he is abetting,382 but does not endorse them.383 None of these descriptions is to his credit. With his lack of understanding and repeated failures of political and juridical skill, Pilate becomes a damning indictment of the status quo, as do the accusers who bring him before Pilate and eventually cry out for his crucifixion (John 19:15).384 Like Epicureanism, the FG is able to criticise the political establishments of its environment without producing a plan for world domination on its own terms: “we find no trace here of those ‘theocratic temptations’ which have accompanied the Church in her history”.385 Its programme claims not to threaten Rome directly, indeed, “the State and its power is neither ignored nor condemned”,386 but it does imply a shattering of the: … traditional ‘theocratic’ ideals of Judaism, indeed, of the entire ancient world, all of which rest upon the unity of political and religious order. All theological justification and legitimation of political power, as well as every ‘political’ programme intended for the gaining of power can therefore, in principle, be avoided: the Gospel of John means the end of all political theology.387

372 Brant, John, 495; Moloney, The Gospel, 495; Malina and Rohrbaugh, Social-Science,258–259. 373 Troels Engberg-Pedersen, John and Philosophy: A New Reading of the Fourth Gospel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017) ,300. 374 Keener, The Gospel, 1129. 375 MacKinnon, Philosophy, 198. See also Brown, The Gospel, 861–62: “yielding to the subtle interplay of political forces”. 376 Brodie, The Gospel, 535; Moloney, The Gospel, 496. 377 de Boer, “The Narrative Function”, 157. 378 Brodie, The Gospel, 536; Tuckett, “Pilate in John 18–19”, 140. 379 Hengel, Studies, 355. 380 Barrett, The Gospel, 538. 381 Moloney, The Gospel, 498. Brown, The Gospel, 860 considers the expediency may include a reluctance to see Barabbas, a known troublemaker, set free. 382 MacKinnon, Philosophy, 198, indicated by an element of self-loathing by Pilate. 383 de Boer, “The Narrative Function”, 150–152. 384 Such comments need not be taken as automatically implying outright condemnation or rejection of Empire; ancient texts demand more than a simplistic reading, see Haynes, The History of Make-Believe, 17–18. 385 Hengel, Studies, 357. 386 Hengel, Studies, 355. 387 Hengel, Studies, 355.

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To do this it stresses that its concerns lie elsewhere: a kingdom from another dimension (John 18:36), of “a completely different quality”.388 The FG offers a certain salvation which has already begun and a “freedom over and against the State and powers-that-be, that manifests itself in the free, fearless confession of the Johannine Christ before Pilate and the High Priest”.389 While Epicureans presented themselves as not threatening the political order, and couched their political reflections in language about kingship, this kingship from another world would have been a step too far, so they will ultimately not agree on the substance of what is fundamentally important. Again, the difference of focus, Jesus’s, not Epicurus’s, teaching, is significant. That said there is common ground. Both are critical of the societies in which they find themselves, but do not intend to replace those political orders. Both distance themselves from the political establishments of their time as sources of salvation or happiness. Both are unequivocal in their rejection of the enduring value of the political establishments of their time.

L. Summary of Findings Given the difficulty in describing the Johannine community precisely, any comparison with the Epicurean schools will remain problematic. There appear to be a number of shared characteristics and practices: the role of the founder, and processes of psychagogy. The lack of detail about the Johannine community bedevils discussions about the extent to which its behaviour, as opposed to details about practice gleaned from the FG, might correspond with Epicurean communal life. Overall, the evidence found does not offer direct parallels: features overlap, but there are differences in substance and emphasis. This holds good over several areas including the role of the founder, the substance of knowledge within the tradition, and key values such as φιλία. Even the shared vocabulary, like παρρησία, defies a monolithic or uniform frame of reference: this much is clear from the variety of the term embraces both within Greek philosophy over the ages and the writings of the NT, not just the more focussed comparison of the FG and Epicureanism. This mirrors our findings about other key terms such as ἀταραξία in earlier chapters. In their views of wider society, both share a rejection of the political and social order as an environment in which their goals and ultimate purposes are well served. Following the remarks of Jonathan Z. Smith, it might be suggested that both respond to an environmental concern: the relation of the school or community to the current political order. Both fail to see the political arena as the locus of 388 389

Hengel, Studies, 338. Hengel, Studies, 356.

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happiness or salvation, and, to an extent, disengage from involvement in that order. They are also united in their rejection of the current order, but their reasons are very different. For Epicureans, political involvement is not conducive to ἀταραξία, while the FG sets its hopes on the kingship of Jesus – which is not of this world – and the saving of the world (John 3:16-17). The latter far exceeds the scope of Epicureanism. Yet, neither response, the Epicurean or the gospel, entails either isolationism or sectarianism: the missionary zeal of the Epicureans indicates as much. In the case of the FG, the debate over the (sectarian?) nature of the Johannine community makes precise conclusions more difficult to reach.

Chapter 8

Whither “Compatibility”? At the beginning of this work we noted DeWitt’s enthusiasm for the parallels between Epicureanism and Christianity. Here it seems that the assessment of his hopes, expressed by Culpepper and others, has more truth to it: DeWitt’s enthusiasm cannot be sustained. Why is this so? On a surface level, the enthusiasm seems quite probable. The two traditions appear to share a number of common concerns. These include: – what makes the good life? – from what do we need to be saved? – what is a deity? – what is death? – what is our place in the world? – what are the relative merits of the physical/material and the spiritual? – what are the resources, and who are the teachers, which inform this quest? The concerns listed are broad: interest in them permeates not just Epicureanism and the FG, but a swathe of religious and philosophical traditions in the ancient world. Hopefully, undertaking a comparison from such a basis avoids or diminishes the chance of working out later Christian theological controversies under the guise of historical research, or allowing such factors to drive the process. However, it quickly becomes apparent that the commonalities between the FG and Epicureanism arise from what both choose to reject. Theirs is a similarity based on dissimilarity, notably from conventional Graeco-Roman religion and cosmology. Thereafter, their compatibility evaporates, as detailed examination shows that very different patterns of thought lead to what they both reject. The FG shares vocabulary with the Epicurean, not least: ἀταραξία, φιλία, λύπη, χαρά, and παρρησία. The centrality of the term, Saviour (Σωτήρ), to describe the significant personality who dominates the tradition further seems to bind the two together. Φιλία, psychagogies which offer symmetry and mutuality, and a distancing or partial withdrawal from wider society all seem to indicate compatibility between the two. So far, so good. However, philological similarities may not be as strong as they appear, especially if a diverse range of lexical fields mean that key terms are potentially polyvalent. Added to that, when we dig deeper into the two traditions and compare them directly with each other, significant issues arise.

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Whilst ἀταραξία, together with its cognates, suggests a common peg, even this becomes increasingly tenuous. The Epicurean treatment of katastematic and kinetic pleasure is absent from the FG. The FG’s concerns with ζωὴ αἰώνιος, which dominates the text to a degree that ἀταραξία does not, are absent from the Epicurean literature. Not only that, the means of acquiring ἀταραξία is different. For the Epicureans, a right knowledge of how to live, particularly about the nature of the gods and death, is all that is needed. In the FG, “knowing Jesus” and, thus, “knowing God” comes to the fore. These are also very different ways of knowing, given that such “knowing” involves the continued presence of Jesus, and so a relational aspect, through the gift of the Paraclete. The FG’s µαθητής is far removed from the Epicurean σοφός. Their epistemologies are worlds apart. Epicurean concepts like πρόληψις (let alone the unresolved issue of the ontology of the gods which arises in its wake) do not figure. Epicurus, for the Epicureans, saves through passing on right knowledge on the acquisition of ἀταραξία and ἀπονία; Jesus, in the FG, gives knowledge of the Father and the power to grasp the benefits this gives through the agency of the Paraclete. The gospel further explicates the process with additional terms like “doing the Father’s will” and “obedience” which suggest a difference in emphasis from apprehending the doctrines of a philosophical school. Indeed, “doing the Father’s will” puts God at the centre, in a way which is different from the Epicurean, in which both gods and sages conform to an abstract set of ideals: they appear to be exemplars and teachers of living well, but not the foundation or sources of it. Living well, for Epicureans, has its sources, or explanation, in physics and materialism. Both groups recognise the reality of death, and the need not to fear it. But, where the Epicureans turn death into a sensible nothing, the FG sees a positive something, which gives benefits far superior to this life, and introduces a distinction, completely alien to the Epicurean tradition, of two kinds of death: spiritual and physical. The two groups may share a rejection of conventional contemporary theologies, but thereafter they disagree violently. Even a word like “god” has a complexity which warns against assuming a common meaning, even between two traditions which are united in their shared rejection of conventionally understood polytheism. The perfect and impassive metacosmic Epicurean gods are in stark contrast to the creator God of the FG who brings salvation to his people through a series of interventions in the world. Again, the question of the Saviour intrudes. Their understandings of divinization and of the divinity of the two founders also varied: Epicurus, dead and gone, is a very different kind of deity from Jesus, died and risen, even if he is called deus by his Roman heirs. In this regard, even the verb tenses preferred by each are indicative of difference. The FG’s programme places a right relationship with God at the centre as manifested in the life of Jesus: a conflation of the divine and human which is

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unparalleled in Epicurean theology and metaphysics, whose gods have nothing whatever to do with humanity. Furthermore, the FG’s version includes a number of elements simply alien to the Epicurean, such as sin (ἁµαρτία). The business of salvation thus configured differently in terms of how and what. As social entities, the two groups again share broad concerns: they appear to distance themselves from broader society, and to share a hierarchy which includes elements of mutuality and symmetry. Under subsequent examination, these, too, appear more disparate. Whilst the language of φιλία straddles both traditions, the Epicureans know it as essentially horizontal, between members of the school: their gods have no interest, desire, or need to pursue φιλία with humanity. The FG, on the other hand, offers φιλία with Jesus, and thus with God, an impossibility in the Epicurean cosmos, which then demands mutual love by his disciples for each other. That further speaks volumes about the place which humanity occupies both in the world, when compared to the Epicurean human, who is the creation of what is, in essence, a random process, and is equally of no interest or value to the gods. This combination of the vertical (God-ward) and the horizontal (communal) seen in the FG is markedly different to the Epicurean tradition. Further community practice is difficult to compare, given that confidence in reconstructions of the Johannine community has diminished significantly. The Epicurean school held memorial meals in which they remembered their founder and other significant sages. The details of meals in the FG and its associated tradition remain a puzzle, considering the full range of interpretations which have arisen from passages like John 6. If the FG is read christologically, it may raise doubts about whether the community had any meals at all. That said, broad social convention and the persistence of sacramental readings of John 6, not to say a broader sacramental tradition which also includes baptism, suggest that meals of some kind would likely have been celebrated, and might well have been considered to forge some kind of identification or relationship with Jesus. Many commentators would also still consider that some meal tradition is discernible from those gospel accounts. But, of what kind? Simply memorial meals in the sense of remembering, or, perhaps, of the “reminding God” type found in Judaism, or, perhaps, sacramental? All would find their proponents in contemporary analysis of the historical situation. This demands an honest admission that it may simply not be possible to compare the two traditions, simply because we cannot be certain about what the Johannine community actually did. If, however, “reminding God” or sacramental patterns could be proven from the FG, these, because of the interplay they suggest between the human and divine, would be radically different from the Epicurean. Neither can other elements of the two groups be taken for granted. Even if the FG admits that women could be disciples, the evidence from 1 John adds no more detail. If this is so, it suggests that both groups had male and female members. However, this is not exclusive to the two schools, but is seen in a

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Chapter 8: Concluding Remarks

number of philosophical traditions which allowed for the participation of women. Nor is παρρησία, a shared term, identical in the two traditions. The practice of the FG is quite different from that of the Epicureans, for whom it primarily functions as a method of enhancing personal growth and community development. All of this suggests that the transition from Epicureanism to the Christianity of the FG, or, following Campbell, in the other direction, would not have been a smooth one.1 Terms and concepts which appear in both traditions would have to undergo a considerable degree of re-accentuation, if not rejection and replacement, to contain the shifts in substantive detail. These include the key doctrines of the school, not just the superficial or peripheral. They would seem to have, rather, the character of paradigm shifts, which are marked by abrupt transitions from one viewpoint or practice to another, when the former view is no longer sustainable, but which also lack a clear flow or continuity, but rather a break. That would also fit with what Lienemann-Perrin has identified as characteristic of conversion in the period, identified by terms such as ἐπιστροφή (turning, conversion) and µετάνοια (change of mind, conversion), and including both moral and intellectual re-alignment, described as: a kind of break, described metaphorically as a change from dark to light, old to new, then to now, dead to born again.2

Whilst some of this imagery, such as the last phrase, might seem exclusively Christian, most could readily be used by groups or schools of all kinds to indicate the change in their situation marked by making a commitment to a particular philosophical or religious tradition. It is a pattern also reminiscent of that given by Rowe with his “rival traditions of true lives” or “lived truth”.3 Movement from one to another would have to demand the leaving of one and the adoption of the other; following Epicurus or Jesus. There is no smooth transition between the two, in either the substance or practice of right knowing. DeWitt’s hope of an easy transition from Epicureanism to emerging Christianity, at least of the type envisioned by the FG, is an illusion.

1

For the references, see Chapter 1. Lienemann-Perrin, “Configurations”, 8. 3 C. Kavin Rowe, One True Life: The Stoics and Early Christians as Rival Traditions (New Haven, CT/ London: Yale University Press, 2016), 7. 2

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Warren, James. Facing Death. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. –. Epicurean and Democritean Ethics: An Archaeology of Ataraxia. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Warren, Meredith J.C. My Flesh is Meat Indeed: A Nonsacramental Reading of John 6:51– 58. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2015. van der Watt, J.G. “The Use of Αἰωνιος in the Concept Ζωη Αἰωνιος in John’s Gospel”, Novum Testamentum 31/3 (1989), 217–228. Weder, Hans. “Deus Incarnatus: On the Hermeneutics of Christology in the Johannine Writings” in Exploring the Gospel of John: In Honor of D. Moody Smith, edited by R. Alan Culpepper and C. Clifton Black. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996, 327–345. Wheeler, Mark R. “Epicurus on Friendship: The Emergence of Blessedness” in Epicurus; His Continuing Influence and Contemporary Relevance. Edited by Dane R. Gordon and David B. Suits. Rochester, NY: RIT Graphic Arts Press, 2003, 183–194. Wick, Peter. “Jesus gegen Dionysos? Ein Beitrag zur Kontextualisierung des Johannesevangeliums”. Biblica 85 (2004), 179–198. Wills, Lawrence M. The Quest for the Historical Gospel. London: Routledge, 1997. Wilson, Stephen G. Related Strangers: Jews and Christians 70–170 C.E. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1995. Winter, Sara C. “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ in Acts” in Friendship, Flattery and Frankness of Speech: Studies of Friendship in the New Testament World. Edited by John T. Fitzgerald. Leiden: Brill, 1996, 182–202. Wiseman, Timothy P. Catullus and His World: A Re-Appraisal. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985. Witherington III, Ben. The Jesus Quest: The Third Quest for the Jew of Nazareth, 2nd ed. Downers’ Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1997. –. John’s Wisdom: A Commentary on the Fourth Gospel. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. “Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough” in Philosophical Occasions 1912–1951. Edited by James Klagge and Alfred Nordmann. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing Co. Inc., 1993, 115–155. Woodward, Peter G. “Star Gods in Philodemus PHerc 152/157”, Cronache Ercolanesi 19 (1989), 29–47. Wright, Stephen I. “Debtors, Laborers, and Virgins: The Voice of Jesus and Voice of Matthew in Three Parables” in Jesus and Paul: Global Perspectives in Honor of James D.G. Dunn for his 70th Birthday. Edited by B.J. Oropeza, C.K. Robertson and Douglas C. Mohrmann. London: T&T Clark, 2009, 13–23. Young, Frances. “Allegory and the Ethics of Reading” in The Open Text: New Directions for Biblical Reading. Edited by Francis Watson. London: SCM Press, 1993. Zachhuber, Johannes, and Meszaros, Julia. “Introduction” in Sacrifice and Modern Thought. Edited by Johannes Zachhuber and Julia Meszaros. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013, 1–11. Zimmerman, Maaike. “Text and Interpretation~ Interpretation and Text” in Aspects of Apuleius’ Golden Ass III: The Isis Book. A Collection of Original Papers. Edited by W. Keulen and U. Egelhaaf-Gaiser. Leiden: Brill, 2012, 1–28. Zumstein, Jean. L’Évangile Selon Saint Jean (1–12). Commentaire du Nouveau Testament Deuxième Série IVa. Genève: Labor et Fides, 2014. –. L’Évangile Selon Saint Jean (13–21). Commentaire du Nouveau Testament Deuxième Série IVb. Genève: Labor et Fides, 2007.

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Index of References Old Testament 1 Sam 1:8 1:10

38 38

1 Kgs 17:1

89

Jer 2:13 17:13 23:1–3 31:9 31:31–34

170 170 184 38 173

2 Kgs 14:25

89

Lam 2:18–19

38

Esth 8:3

38

Ps 1:1–3 40:9–10 46:1 126

170 93 39 38

Ezek 11:17–20 34:5–6 34:8–10 36:26–28 37:14 47

173 184 184 173 173 170

Nah 1:1

89

Zech 11:15–17 12:10

184 126

Isa 32:15–18

173

Apocryphal and Inter-Testamental Writings

1 Bar 3:12 CD 3:13–17

6:3–8

170

Sir 14:16 14:30

18 18

170

170

220

Index of References

New Testament

Mark 16:1

56

Luke 7:38–50 24:1

38 56

John 1:1–18 1:10 1:14 1:17 1:18 1:20 1:23 1:24–27 1:25–26 1:26 1:27 1:29–34 1:29 1:36 1:37–42 1:38–39 1:41 1:48–51 1:48–50 1:51 2:4 2:11 2:13–21 2:13 2:17 2:18 2:20–21 2:23 3:2 3:3 3:4–10 3:5 3:13–14 3:16–17 3:16–18 3:16–21 3:16 3:28

82, 89, 90 87, 92 87, 90 83 88 83 123 173 123 123 123 123 83 83 96 172 83 173 167 83, 89 48 87 95 92 41 87 173 87 87 96, 123 173 116 83 160, 188 96 93 88 83

4:1–26 4:2 4:5–6 4:10–15 4:10 4:14 4:21–23 4:25 4:29 4:31–38 4:39 4:42 4:46–54 4:48 4:54 5:1–9 5:1 5:18 5:27 5:44 6:1–66 6:1–71 6:2 6:4 6:10 6:11 6:14 6:16–21 6:22–59 6:26 6:27 6:30 6:33 6:35–40 6:35 6:37 6:44 6:46–51 6:48 6:51–58 6:51 6:53–57 6:53 6:62 6:69 7:2

167 123 167 173 171 171 94 83 83 173 165, 171 107, 160 45 87 87 45 92 88, 185 83 87 173 114, 167 87 92, 113 167 114 87 167 117 87 83, 95 87 160 89 91, 92, 93 92 92 89 91, 92 114, 116, 118 91, 92, 117 121 83 83 174 92

221

Index of References 7:4 7:10 7:13 7:18 7:25–26 7:26 7:27 7:28–29 7:30 7:31 7:32 7:33–34 7:33–36 7:35 7:37–38 7:37 7:38 7:39 7:40–42 7:41 7:44–51 7:52 8:9 8:12 8:21–22 8:21–24 8:21 8:23 8:28 8:29 8:38 8:42 8:44 8:47 8:48 8:49–51 8:50 8:53 8:58 8:59 9:1–12 9:16 9:22 9:31 9:32 9:35 9:36 10:1–18 10:9

180 180 180 87, 89 180 180 83, 89 89 48 83, 87, 89 185 89 173 89 170, 171 167 171 171 89 83 185 89 185 91, 92 89 173 48 89 83 89 89 89 92 92 89 89 87 55 85, 91 185 45 87 83 90 90 83 89 48 91

10:11–18 10:11 10:14 10:17–18 10:18 10:22 10:24 10:28–32 10:31–39 10:33 10:41 11:3 11:11–15 11:13 11:14 11:17–44 11:19 1:24–25 11:25 11:27 11:32–33 11:37 11:39 11:33 11:35 11:38 1:45–50 11:47 11:49–53 11:54 12:1 12:18 12:20–26 12:22–30 12:23 12:27 12:32 12:34 12:37 12:40 13:1–20 13:1–30 13:1 13:6–11 13:13 13:20 13:18 13:21 13:26

182 91 91 125 48 92 83, 180 92 185 88 87 38 173 56 38, 180 165 56 173 91 83 56 56 56 37, 39 37–38 37, 39 182 87 185 180 92 87 56 94 83 40, 48 160 83 87 92 56 114 48, 92 173 171 171 93 40 40, 114

222 13:27–28 13:31 14:1 14 14:6 14:13–14 14:15 14:16–17 14:16 14:17 14:26 14:27 14:28 15:1 15:13–15 15:13 15:14 15:15 15:26–27 15:26 16:6 167:7–14 16:7 16:12 16:20 16:25 16:29 17:1–26 17:1 17:12 17:18 17:21 18:1–19:42 18:7–8 18:9 18:10–11 18:19 18:20–21 18:20 18:33 18:36 18:37 19:7 19:10 19:12 19:15 19:18 19:19 19:23–24

Index of References 49 83 2, 36,45 4 91, 125 47 94 171 47 47 47, 94 2 46 91 182 182, 183 182 175 164 47, 94 45 164 45–46, 47, 94 94 46–47 180 180 172 48 92 160 160 182 92 92 107 185 185 180 185 107, 187 92, 125 88, 185 49 185 185 125, 186 125 125

19:25 19:26–27 19:30 19:32–37 19:33 19:34 19:35 19:38 19:39–42 19:41 20:1 20:11–18 20:19–23 20:20 20:21–23 20:22 20:28 20:29 20:30 20:31 21:1–14 21:1 21:13 21:15–23 21:15–19 21:20–24 21:22 21:24–25

165 45 37, 47, 56, 164, 183 126 56 56, 116, 171 56 56 56 167 165 165, 167 173 37, 47 164 47 88 174 83, 87 174, 178 114, 167 167 114 164 55 56 56 178

1 John 1:2–3 1:3 1:7 2:1 2:7 2:12 2:13–14 2:14 2:15–16 2:18 2:22–24 2:28 3:1–3 3:1 3:7 3:8 3:9–10 3:10 3:13

176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176

223

Index of References 3:15 3:17 3:18 3:23 4:1 4:4 4:7 4:9–10 4:11 4:14–15 4:14 4:20–21 5:2 5:5 5:9–13 5:13 5:16 5:19 5:20

176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176 176

5:21

176

2 John 1 10

156, 166 166

3 John 1 2 5 11

156, 177 177 177 177

Rev 7:17 21:6 22:1 22:5 22:16 22:17

171 171 171 171 171 171

Ancient Authors

AP 11.44

104–105

3.23.7–8

Aretaeus Cur. Acut. 7.4.7–8

Cicero

78 78 78

Athenaeus Deipn. 7.298d

118

118

Aristides Or. 26.32 26.103–105 26.107

Celsus De medicina

103

De fat. 22

28

Fin. 2.101

103

Nat. d. 1.18–24 1.39 1.43 1.46–47 3.16.41

65 80 80 72 111

224

Index of References Justin Martyr

Diogenes Laertius Vitae 6.101 10.18 10.22 10.35 10.65 10.118 10.120 10.123–124 10.123 10.124b–125 10.130–131 10.130 10.131–132 10.133 10.136 10.137 10.139–154 10.139 10.140 (= KD 5) 10.144 (= KD 17) 10.148 (= KD 27) 10.149

103 103 24–25, 27 7–8, 133 52 142 147 75 66 51–52 25–26 26 27 30 23 33 133 23, 52, 66 22 24, 26, 148 143 33

Epictetus Diatr. 2.20.32

1 Apol. 6 Lucian

65

Alex. 61

100

Tox. 22

118

Lucretius De Rerum Natura 1.44–46 1.124–126 1.455–458 2.1–61 2.167–183 2:646–652 2.1090–1094 3.581 3.754–859 3.857–858 5.8 5.156–194 5.1019–1027 10:1045–1052

72 31 72 23 72 72 72 56 71 53 80 72–73 151 101

91 Ovid

Eusebius Hist. eccl. 3.23.6–19

118 118 118

Irenaeus Haer. 3.1.1.1

111

PHerc. 152/157 222 223 1082 1089 1232 1457 1471 1643 1675

71 140 140 140 140 103, 105 140 136 140 140

15

Herodotus Hist. 1.74 3.8 4.70

Metam. 6.488

15

225

Index of References P.Mag. Par. 1.225 P.Oxy. 215.2–18

Philostratus 168–169 Vit. soph. 1.22.526

15

73 Plato

Philo Judaeus Deus 16–19

17

71 78

Pliny

Philodemus Adv. Soph. 5, 9–14

Tim. 42b 90d

28

Ir. VIII.20–27 33 XXXVII.24–XXXVIII.8 34 XXXVII.32–39 32 XL.2– 32 XLI.28 34

Nat. 28:4–5 35.2

118 103

Plutarch Adv. Col. 8.1111b 17.1117bc 30.1124d

144 101 151

D. III.viii–x

71

Alex. 7.51

138

Lib. 10

141

De Tran. An. 465f–466a

150

Mort. XIX 54 XX.1–14 54 XXIV.31 54 XXV.37–XXVI.11 54 XXVIII–XXIX 54 XXX 54 XXXII 54 XXXV.25–XXXVI.27 54

Mor. 68a–b 778c

138 147

Piet. 27–31 30 31 262–2

Scribonius Largus 73 73–74 74 71

Sallust Bell. Cat. 22 25.2

XVII

118 153

118

226

Index of References

Seneca Ep. Mor. 19.10–11

Valerius Maximus

143

Suetonius Tib. 32.2

Vatican Sentences

91

Tacitus Ann. 12.47

118

15 18 23 28 55 56–57 78

25 25 143 144 27 148 144

Vergil

Theocritus 1.69 7.136

Facta et dicta memorabilia 9.11.13 118

168 168

Aen. 2.227–230

169

Ecl. 4

108

Index of Modern Authors Allison, Dale C. 43 Anderson, Paul 85, 115, 119–121, 123, Annas, Julia 33, 35 Ashton, John 164 Asmis, Elizabeth 68 Barrett, Charles K. 2 Bates, Matthew W. 174 Bilde, Per 99 Blackwell, Ben 78 Bousset, Wilhem 99 Brant, Jo-Ann 3 Brent, Allen 163 Braudel, Fernand 18 Brodie, Thomas L. 2 Brown, Raymond E. 2, 15, 154, 157, 163, 178 Bruner, Frederick D. 2 Brunt, Peter A. 74 Bultmann, Rudolf 2, 14, 116, 121 Burchard, Christoph 115 Burridge, Richard 178 Campbell, James I. 1, 192 Capper, Brian J. 155, 158–160 Charlesworth, James A. 155 Clay, Diskin 104 Cole, Spencer 78 Collins, John C. 156 Collins, Raymond F. 172 Clark-Soles, Jaime 3, 37, 55, 58, 83 Culpepper, R. Alan 3, 127, 154, 162–163, 165, 173, 175, 189 DeWitt, Norman 1, 8, 91, 131, 189, 192 Dodd, Charles H. 2 Drozdek, Adam 72, 145 Edwards, Ruth B. 165–166 Engberg-Pedersen, Troels 3

Erler, Michael 12, 80 Festugiere, A -J. 145 Fiore, Benjamin 17 Foucault, Michel 135–137, 139 Fishwick, Duncan 77 Frischer, Bernard 100, 103, 134 Gasparro, Sfameni 105 Gigante, Marcello 131, 136, 140 Glad, Clarence E. 128, 130, 132, 139 Glidden, D.K. 69 Gordon, Pamela 11 Hadot, Pierre 6, 11 Hengel, Martin 15, 98–99, 157, 165 Henrichs, Albert 111, Hera, Marianus Pale 172 Hibler, Richard 18, 148 Holloway, Paul 18 Jones, Larry Paul 6, 116–117, 121, 170 Käsemann, Ernst 157 Keener, Craig S. 4, 14 Kennedy, George 60 Klassen, William 179–181 Kleve, Knut 67 Konstan, David 70, 136, 138 Koester, Craig 6, 182 Kugel, James, 157 Lamb, David A. 153, 160 Van de Leeuw, Geradus 110 Lemke, Dietrich 67 Lienemann-Perrin, Christine 192 Lieu, Judith 165 Lindars, Barnabas 2 Litwa, M. David 81, 99

228

Index of Modern Authors

Loader, William 42–43, 83 MacGilchrist, Iain 173–174 Malherbe, Abraham 101, 128, 139 Malina, Bruce J. 2, 127, 154, 162–163, 165 Marrow, Stanley B. 179 Martyn, J. Louis 154, 157 Meeks, Wayne A. 157, 183 Mitsis, Philip 145 Moloney, Francis J. 2, 49, 116 Morris, Leon 3 Nasr, Seyyed Hossein 158 Neyrey, Jerome H. 3, 92 Nikolopoulou, Kallliopi 136 Nock, Arthur D. 77 O’Day, Gail 179–181 O’Neill, John C. 123

Rowe, C. Kavin 192 Royalty, Robert 5–6 Russell, Daniel C. 22, 35 Sandelin, Karl-Gustav 111 Schnackenburg, Rudolf 2, 15 Schnelle, Udo 164 Scott, Dominic 69 Sedley, David 68, 75 Skarsaune, Oscar 19 Smith, Dennis E. 124 Smith, Jonathan Z. 105, 112, 187 Stern-Gillet, Suzanne 145 Stewart, Alistair C. 156 Strecker, Georg 164 Strozier, Robert 10 Suits, David 30 Thompson Marianne Meye 42, 85, 87 Voorwinde, Stephen 39

Pavone, Vincenzo 138 Petterson, Christina 119 Piovanelli, Perluigi 109 Ranocchia, Graziano 16 Rensberger, David 123 Ridderbos, Hermann 2 Rist, John 69 Robinson, John A.T. 43, 122 Rohrbaugh, Richard L. 2 Rosenbaum, Stephen 21, 23

Wahlde, Urban C. von 3, 41, 44 Ware, J. Patrick 149 Warren, Meredith J.C. 118, 120, 126 Weder, Hans 82 Wheeler, Mark R. 145 Wilson, Bryan 160 Witherington, Ben 3 Yarbro Collins, Adela 99

Index of Subjects Ἀνάγκη 30, 48–49, 57, 81, 92–94 Ἀνάµνησις 112, 122 Anthropophagy 118 Ἀπονία 22–25, 27, 36, 44–46, 49 A/symmetry (of/in relationships) 131, 138, 175–176, 189, 191 Association 110, 120, 156 Attis 105 Ἀταραξία 2, 8, 49–50, 96, 184, 187– 188, 190 – in Epicureanism 21, 22–25, 27, 31, 35–36, 51, 61, 67, 75, 77, 79, 86, 94, 107, 143, 146, 148, 151, 173 – in FG 36–37, 44, 46–48, 63–64, 84, 189 Atheism 65–66 Augustine of Hippo 12 Beloved Disciple 56, 164–166, 175–176 Cannibalism, see anthropophagy Chance 30, 72, 81, 92 Cicero 11–12, 27–28, 65–66, 72 Commensality 110, 112 Community 3 – as school 128–129 – location, Epicurean 12, 16–19, 100, 129 – practice, Epicurean 104, 131–153 – structure, Epicurean 129–130 – location of FG 13–16 – practice, in FG 63, 117, 121, 172– 187 – as sect, Johannine 157–162 – structure of, Johannine 156–166 Cynics/ Cynicism 5, 26, 128, 138–139, 147 Cyreniacs 23

Dead Sea Scrolls 90, 112, 155–156, 158, 184 Death 3, 17, 27–28, 36, 38–42, 48, 91, 105–106, 131, 182–184 – immortality 51, 54, 75, 78–81 – in Epicureanism 51–55, 81 – in the FG 38–42, 48–49, 56–64, 83 – physical 55–56, 58, 190 – of the soul 52–54, 58, 71 – spiritual 55, 57–58, 83, 190 Deity – and anthropomorphism 16, 65–66, 71–72, 85, 87, 103 – deification 77–78, 98–99, 185 – deification, Epicurean 79–81, 96 – honour–shame 78, 81, 83–85, 87– 89, 102 – metacosmic/intramundial 70, 80–82, 85, 90, 96, 98, 122, 126, 144, 148, 190 – monotheism 71, 87 – realism/idealism, Epicurean 67–72, 76, 82 – son/child of god 88, 172, 176 – “star-gods” 66–67 Democritus 22 Dionysus 91, 111 Discipleship, see psychagogy Docetism 41–42, 44, 85 Emotions 31–34, 37–45, 47–50, 54, 56, 75, 80, 145, 175 – anger 32–35, 38–41, 43, 45, 66, 141 – joy 21, 23–25, 27, 38, 46, 73 – grief 24, 27, 31, 38, 45–47 – tears 31, 38–39, 49, 56 Eleusis/ Eleusinian mysteries 74, 110 Epicurus 21–22, 25–27, 104–105 – as god, divinity 76–81 – as Saviour 99–102, 124

230

Index of Subjects

–

death of 48–49, 56–57, 83–84, 96, 106, 126 – founder 81–82, 122–123, 126, 129, 190 – teacher 64, 86, 95, 102, 125, 132– 133 Epistles, Johannine 41, 127, 154, 163– 165, 178 Ἐπιτοµή 7–8, 133–134, 177–178 Eschatology 36, 43, 59, 61–62, 108–109, 152, 170, 173 Euhemerus/ Euhemerism 80 Fate, see ἀνάγκη Forgiveness of sin 123–124, 164, 173 Fourth Gospel – and Johannine Community 113–114, 153–155 – provenance of 13–16 Free Will 29–30 God, see deity Guilds, see associations Heaven – in Epicureanism 66, 71, 90 – in FG 56, 83–84, 88–90, 94, 107, 175 Hedonism, 1, 16, 21–27, 30–31, 35–36, 38, 46, 48, 52, 54–55, 73, 101, 142– 146, 183, 190 History of Religions School 90, 98 Honour/Shame 70, 147, 182 Horace 11–12, 129, 141, 152–153, 167– 68 Isonomia 29, 67, 85 Jesus – Christ, Messiah 46, 82–83, 87–89, 94, 107–109, 116, 121, 123, 166– 167, 172, 187 – death of 113, 119, 121, 125–126, 175, 182–183 – founder 51, 122–123, 126, 164, 190 – glory, δόξα 38, 84–85, 87–89, 172 – as God/ divinity of 42, 83–96, 117, 120, 175 – humanity of 41–44, 48, 85, 175–176

– – –

Lamb of God 83 as λόγος 82–83, 85–86, 90, 92, 175 obedience of 48–49, 57, 84, 125, 190 – as Saviour 106–109, 126, 160, 189 – as Son of God 88, 176 – as Son of Man 83, 167 – suffering of 44–45, 63, 85, 175 – as teacher 107, 124–125, 164, 180 Josephus 19, 162, 180 Judas Iscariot 40, 48, 93 Κοινωνία 110, 127 Κυρίαι ∆όξαι (KD) 11, 22, 52, 73, 133, 143 Life/lifestyle 25, 77, 98, 152 Life, eternal 36, 60, 62, 172 Locus amoenus 11, 157, 167–168 Love 31, 45–46, 48–49, 57, 84, 97, 101, 125, 142, 160–161, 181–184, 191 – ἀγάπη 142, 181 – ἔρως 142, 181 – φιλία 4, 72, 105, 124, 127–130, 142–149, 151, 164, 179–184, 189, 191 Lucian 12, 75, 100, 118, 138 Lucretius 10–12, 29, 31, 52–54, 56, 72, 75–76, 79–81, 89, 101, 133, 142, 151, 167 Maximus of Tyre 7, 132, 138 Meals 37, 40, 102–106, 110, 112–117, 119–123, 126–127,182, 191 – Chaburah 112 – Epicurean 102–106, 126 – Eucharist 61, 116–117, 119–121 – Passover 113–114 – Seder 113 – symposium 37, 119, 124, 182 – Todah 112 Metaphysics 50, 90, 105, 121–122, 125 – atomism, Epicurean 79, 81 – chance, see chance – clinamen 28, 49 – creation/creator, divine 4, 28–29, 37, 65, 72–73, 82, 92, 96, 167, 173, 190

Index of Subjects –

materialism, Epicurean 1, 28, 38, 50, 53–55, 64, 66, 72–73, 92, 107, 125, 190 – πρόληψις 68–69 – soul 24, 27, 42, 52–54, 58, 68, 71, 75, 80–81, 109, 128, 131–132, 141, 144 – supernaturalism 45, 50, 107, 115, 121, 126 Metrodorus 31, 103 Misunderstanding 172–173 Necessity, see ἀνάγκη Paraclete, 21, 37, 46–47, 49, 86, 94–95, 164, 170, 175, 190 Παρρησία 128 – history of 135–139 – Epicurean 140–141 – in FG 179–181 Pastoralia, see locus amoenus PHerc [Herculaneum Papyri] 71, 103, 136, 140 Philo Judaeus 15–17, 162, 180 Philodemus 1, 11, 17, 19f, 27, 32–34, 54, 65–67, 71, 73, 87, 90, 104, 132, 134–136, 139–141, 150 Pilate, Pontius 48, 56, 88, 106–107, 184–187 Plato/ Platonism 2–3, 7, 11, 54, 60, 65, 68, 71, 73, 78–79, 91, 99, 132, 137, 179 Pleasure, see hedonism – katastematic 23–25, 27, 35–36, 44, 46, 145, 183, 190 – kinetic 23–25, 31, 35–36, 38, 44, 46–47, 190 Plutarch 11–12, 138–139, 150 Πνεῦµα, see Paraclete Politics – Epicurean attitudes to 75, 149–153 – in FG 107, 184–187 Psychagogy 8–9, 17, 127–129 – Epicurean 63, 129–135 – in FG 63, 172–178 Pyrrho 22 Qumran 92, 112, 155–158, 160, 170

231

Reconciliation, see forgiveness of sins Religious virtuosity 158–159, 162–163 Resurrection 39, 44–45, 55–57, 59, 105 Ritual 98–9 – baptism 61, 63, 116, 119, 123–124, 170, 191 – in FG 110–124 – Mithraic 110 – participation in religious activities, Epicurean 102–106 – “ritual in ink” 120 – sacrament 110–113, 115–123, 126, 170–71, 191 Sacrificialisation, 112, 121 Saviour, see also Epicurus, Jesus – in politics 100 – in philosophy 100–101 School, see community – αἵρεσις 162 – σχολή 162 Sect/ sectarian 157–59 Sodalities, see associations Spirit [Holy], see Paraclete Spiritualisation, see sacrificialisation Statius 11, 152, 167 Stoics/ Stoicism 1, 3, 7, 11–12, 23, 32, 54, 65–66, 71–72, 80, 86–87, 90, 132, 135, 138, 146–148, 179–180 Symbolism 6, 89, 91–92, 94, 100, 116, 119, 121, 167 – blood 117–121 – water 123–124, 167–172 Symposium, see meals Temple, Jerusalem 49, 92, 94–95, 112, 167, 170 Tetrapharmakos 27–28, 51, 65 Therapeutae 162 Vatican Sentences 3, 11, 27, 61, 133, 144 Vergil 11–12, 88, 108–109, 152 Women – in Epicureanism 141, 152–153, 191– 192 – in FG 165–166, 191–192 – in Johannine community 165–166