From Jesus to Christian Origins: Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro; 1-4 October 2015 (Judaisme Ancien Et Origines Du Christianisme) (English, French ... Ancien Et Origines Du Christianisme, 16) 9782503583273, 250358327X

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FROM JESUS TO CHRISTIAN ORIGINS

Judaïsme ancien et origines du christianisme Collection dirigée par Simon Claude Mimouni (EPHE, Paris) Équipe éditoriale: José Costa (Université de Paris-III) David Hamidovic (Université de Lausanne) Pierluigi Piovanelli (Université d’Ottawa)

FROM JESUS TO CHRISTIAN ORIGINS Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015)

Edited by

Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce With the Collaboration of Francesco Berno

F 2019

© 2019, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. ISBN 978-2-503-58327-3 E-ISBN 978-2-503-58328-0 DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.116486 ISSN 2565-8492 E-ISSN 2565-960X Printed in the EU on acid-free paper. D/2019/0095/123

CONTENTS A driana Destro – M auro Pesce , Questions about Christian Ori   gins. An introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 I. Methodology F.  R emotti, A  immagine di Dio. Dalla critica dell ’identità al    nodo delle somiglianze . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 F. Sbardella, Silence and Words: Monastic Soundscapes . . . . . 45 S. C. Mimouni, Les paroles et les actions de Jésus de Nazareth dans    le judaïsme de son temps. Quelques remarques et réflexions   d’un historien . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 L.  A rcari, “Alethurgic” Discourses on Jesus. The Gospel-Narrations    as “True Discourses” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 R. A lciati, Contra fontes: una via d’uscita dalla crisi per la Storia   del cristianesimo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 D.  Ullucci, Sacrifice, Superstition, and the Problem of ‘Spiritual ’   Offerings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 II. From Jesus to His First Followers A. Destro – M. Pesce, The Groups of Jesus’ Followers in Jerusalem.    Fractionation and Divergencies (30-70 ce) . . . . . . . . 153 F.  A dinolfi, Jesus and the Aims of John: Abandoning the Quest    for the Underivable Jesus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 G.  M assinelli, The Parable of the Two Sons and the Quest for the    Authentic Parables of Jesus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223 C.  Facchini, Historicizing Jesus: Leon Modena (1571-1648) and   the Magen ve-herev . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241 F. Bermejo Rubio, Was Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger an    Innovative Contribution? On Reimarus’ Significance in the    History of Jesus Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261 III. James, Peter, and Paul. Literature, Archeology, and Documentary Papyri C.  Carletti, Archeological Investigations Under the Vatican    Basilica: from Pope Pacelli’s Project to Revisions of the 50s . . 287 P.  De Santis, La ‘memoria’ di Pietro in Vaticano: morfologia e   funzionalità . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313

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P.  A rtz-Grabner , Census Declarations, Birth Returns, and Mar   riage Contracts on Papyrus and Paul ’s Ideas on These Matters 335 C. A ntonelli, The Death of James the Just According to Hegesippus    (Eusebius of Caesarea, Ecclesiastical History 2,23,10-18).    Narrative Construction, Biblical Testimonia and Comparison    with the Other Known Traditions . . . . . . . . . . . 373 IV. Early Christian Groups and Literature A.  A nnese , The Gospel of Thomas and Paul: Status Quaestionis,    Historical Trajectories, Methodological Notes . . . . . . . 405 T. Witulski, A  New Perspective on Dating the Book of Revelation 429 M.  Sommer , How Jewish is the (Ethiopic) Apocalypse of Peter? . . 451 G.  M archioni, Shepherds and Good Shepherd: Text and Images in   Pastoral Metaphors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 461 E.  Rubens Urciuoli, Tertullian, the Bishops of Elvira, and the Precession of Simulacra. Unpacking Strategies of a Christian Politi   cal Engagement before Constantine . . . . . . . . . . . 477 F. Berno, Erasing Apocalypticism: A Historical Trajectory from the    “School of Valentinus” to Plotinus (and Vice Versa) . . . . . 501 L.  Cerioni, Feminine and Bridal Imagery in the Book of Baruch    of the Gnostic Teacher Justin . . . . . . . . . . . . . 515

QUESTIONS ABOUT CHRISTIAN ORIGINS An Introduction A.  Destro – M.  Pesce The Annual Meeting on Jesus and the Origins of Christianity in the First Two Centuries reached its sixth year on September 26-28, 2019. Here we publish some of the contributions presented at the second Annual Meeting held on October 1-4, 2015. 1 The papers published in this volume follow the four programmatic lines that characterize our meetings: (1) deliberate attention to methodological perspectives; (2) the awareness that current research is part of a complex dialectical process that began in the modern age; (3) the examination of any writings produced by the followers of Jesus in the first centuries, without anachronistic distinctions between works later considered apocryphal or canonical; and (4) the need to integrate relevant material data from the ancient world (juridical documentation, archaeological data, documentary papyri, epigraphs, artistic production, etc.) into our analysis of early Christianity. The first section of the volume is dedicated to Methodological Questions. How should the human sciences (in the sense of the French definiton of “Sciences Humaines”) be used in a history of Christian origins? We believe that the greatest advantage that can be drawn from the human sciences for a better understanding of the historical figure of Jesus and the first groups of his followers does not primarily lie in a deductive application of the results of these sciences. It is more useful to take inspiration from them by directly observing the work carried out by the specialists of these disciplines. The value of these approaches lies in learning how to use methods and conceptual tool to ask better questions, rather than simply scholastically applying the results of human sciences research.

1.  The proceedings of the fìrst meeting were published in A. Destro -M. P esce , eds, with the collaboration of Mara Rescio, Luigi Walt, Emiliano Rubens Urciuoli, and Andrea Annese, Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2-4 October 2014) (Turnhout, 2017). From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 9-11.

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For this reason the section opens with two anthropological studies that are not directly dedicated to Jesus or to Christian origins. Francesco Remotti has criticized the exclusivist conception of identity in his previous books Contro l ’identità and L’ossessione identitaria. 2 His essay here introduces the concept of resemblance or similarity in overcoming of the problems inherent in the concept of identity. Francesca Sbardella makes a number of equally useful suggestions by employing an anthropology of space to understand the behaviour and conceptual constructions of a monastic group. The other four essays of this first section address urgent methodological questions concerning specific disciplines involved in the study of Christian origins. How does the historical study of Christian origins differ from the analysis of theology? (Simon C. Mimouni). What is the epistemological status of a history of Christianity? (Roberto Alciati). Is there still the possibility of a historical interrogation of the sources relating to Jesus? (Luca Arcari) What are the relationships between the history of religions and the history of Christianity? (Daniel Ullucci). The second section (From Jesus to His First Followers), addresses the historical representation of Jesus – the first task of any analysis of Christian origins. But all the available sources depend on the splitting up of the first groups of followers who transmitted different and sometimes divergent information about Jesus. On the other hand, the questions, conceptual systems, and cultural assumptions of the scholars who are investigating Jesus and Christian origins are also strongly conditioned by the separation and opposition between Christianity and Judaism. This means that historical investigations of Jesus and his early followers must necessarily confront a series of intricate questions: how does the anachronistic distinction between Judaism and Christianity condition research? How can seventeenth and eighteenth centuries authors like Leon Modena and Hermann S. Reimarus, who first systematically investigated the jewishness of Jesus, help us overcome our cultural conditioning? (see the studies by Cristiana Facchini and Fernando Bermejo). How does the theological contrasting of Jesus and John the Baptizer conceal a dependence of Jesus on the Baptizer? (see the article of Federico Adinolfi). How does the plurality of the groups of Jesus followers affect the divergences between the available sources? (see the essay by Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce on the plurality of groups in Jerusalem and the divergences among different resurrection narratives).

2. F.  R emotti, Contro l ’identità (Roma-Bari, 1996): I d., L’ossessione identitaria (Roma-Bari, 2010).

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The third section ( James, Peter, and Paul, Literature, Archaeology, and Documentary Papyri) focuses on the decisive role Peter, James and Paul (their historical action and the images built on them) play in the history of Christian origins. The literary and material evidence we possess allows a historical reconstruction that goes beyond the encrustations that centuries of traditions have deposited on these figures. Two masterly archaeological studies by Carlo Carletti and Paola De Santis show that the belief in certain traces of a tomb of Peter in Rome is poorly founded. The documentary papyri presented by Peter Arzt-Grabner allows us to reconstruct a plausible image of Paul that would be impossible on the basis of his letters alone. Cecilia Antonelli uses the historian Hegesippus to clarify the functions and image of James. The fourth section (Early Christian Groups and Literature) addresses one of the most essential questions for the reconstruction of Christian origins: to which group of Jesus followers should we attribute each of the early Christian writings we possess? The multiple early Christian works are not testimony of an undifferentiated movement of followers. Actually, they are the result of individual groups that, precisely through these works, expressed their particular convictions and projects. At what point in the group’s evolution should these writings be placed? What are the relationships between these works and the works of other groups? The seven essays in this section are focused on: the relation between the Gospel of Thomas and Paul (Andrea Annese); the dating of the Apocalypse (Thomas Witulski); the Judaism of the Ethiopian Apocalypse of Peter; Tertullian and the question of political commitment before Constantine (Emiliano R. Urciuoli); the non-use of apocalyptic from Valentinus to Plotinus (Francesco Berno); the female imaginary in the gnostic Justin (Lavinia Cerioni); and the relationship between texts and images in the Shepherd of Hermas (Giulia Marchioni). At present, the use of English as the main lingua franca for scholarly communication is certainly necessary. However, research on Christian origins takes place in many languages ​​and knowledge of the many linguistic traditions in which immense treasures of knowledge are kept remains unavoidable. This volume intentionally publishes essays in French and Italian as well as in English. We thank Prof. Simon C. Mimouni for accepting this book in the JAOC series, which he directs, and the Brepols publishing house for welcoming us once again. A special thanks goes to Dr. Francesco Berno, who is responsible for the editorial care of this volume.

I. Methodology

A IMMAGINE DI DIO Dalla critica dell’identità al nodo delle somiglianze F. R emotti 1. C r i t ica

de l l’ i de n t i tà

Chi scrive ha conosciuto, come tanti altri, un periodo pre-critico per quando riguarda l’uso di identità, concetto molto diffuso nelle scienze umane e sociali, in storia, in filosofia, oltre che nel linguaggio comune, giornalistico e politico. La banalizzazione per un verso e le preoccupanti implicazioni politiche, oltre che epistemologiche, di tale concetto per un altro verso hanno indotto l’autore di questo scritto a una progressiva messa in discussione e successiva presa di distanza dal paradigma identitario. Poiché già altrove si è avuto modo di chiarire il percorso compiuto nell’elaborazione della critica dell’identità, 1 qui ci si limita all’indicazione di alcuni punti essenziali. In Contro l ’identità – il testo che ha dato avvio al processo critico e auto-critico dell’autore – l’attenzione si concentrava soprattutto sull’impiego unilaterale e assoluto di questa nozione, facendo vedere come alla fine di “sola identità si muore”, nel senso che la rivendicazione della propria identità da parte di un “noi” può dare luogo non soltanto a un atteggiamento di difesa e di arroccamento, ma anche all’istituzione di una “identità armata”, che può portare allo sterminio dell’altro, inteso come nemico: uno degli esempi era in effetti tratto dai massacri del 1994 in Rwanda. 2 In quel testo, si sosteneva però anche che “l’identità è certamente un principio logico elementare” e in quanto tale “irrinunciabile”. La proposta consisteva dunque nel non lasciare “da sola” l’identità, nell’impedire che essa occupasse per intero lo spazio mentale e sociale, nel fare in modo che essa venisse contrastata da una tesi e da un’esigenza opposta, quella del carattere essenziale dell’alterità: fare ricorso all’alterità – come esemplificato, sia pure in termini estremi, dal caso vertiginoso del cannibalismo tupinamba 3 – era tutto sommato la soluzione indicata. Beninteso, non si trattava di offrire noi una soluzione, bensì di studiare più attenta1.  Cfr. F. Remotti, “Dall’identità alle somiglianze: un percorso a ritroso”, Bergasse, 19, 9 (2013), 133-152. 2.  Cfr. F. Remotti, Contro l ’identità, Roma-Bari 1996, 57. 3.  Ivi, 77-104. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 15-44.

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mente come le società facessero propria la dialettica (tensione, conflitto) tra identità e alterità e come certe società, invece, si spostassero troppo unilateralmente sul versante dell’identità. Negli anni successivi si è verificata, in chi scrive, una progressiva erosione del concetto di identità: dall’idea di un principio logico elementare, e quindi necessitante e irrinunciabile, si è passati alla concezione dell’identità come una rappresentazione sociale non necessaria e quindi non universale. L’ispirazione maggiore di questa svolta è dovuta a un filosofo del Settecento, David Hume, per il quale l’identità personale è frutto di immaginazione ed è di per sé un errore, una finzione, un’illusione, il prodotto di un’inclinazione psicologica a cui è difficile sottrarsi, ma di cui sarebbe bene essere consapevoli. La svolta di cui si diceva si è manifestata nel libro L’ossessione identitaria, in cui a chiare lettere si è voluto sostenere la tesi del carattere arbitrario del principio dell’identità. 4 A differenza di quanto affermato in Contro l ’identità (vale a dire la tesi del carattere irrinunciabile, e quindi universale, di questo principio), qui si è voluto sostenere un argomento più radicale, ossia che i soggetti – individuali e collettivi – possono rinunciare ad accampare pretese identitarie, o più precisamente che i soggetti possono organizzare sé stessi su principi diversi da quello dell’ identità. Se per identità intendiamo un essere sé stessi, un voler continuare a essere sé stessi, nonostante il tempo e le relazioni con gli altri (entrambi fonte di alterazione), è immaginabile, ed è verificabile sperimentalmente, che molti soggetti non siano affatto sedotti e posseduti da questa sorta di a-temporalità e di a-relazionalità, da questa specie di immortalità più o meno provvisoria, un mito del resto continuamente smentito dall’esperienza individuale, sociale, storica. Il ragionamento critico sull’identità presenta in effetti queste alternative. A) L’identità è una sorta di sostanza in qualche modo acquisita e costitutiva dei soggetti (ovvero, è una dimensione fondamentale della loro realtà e della loro esistenza) e allora essi non hanno null’altro da fare che ripulire e, se del caso, riaffermare e consolidare questo loro fondamento. Oppure B) l’identità è e continua a rimanere un’aspirazione universale, condivisa da tutti i soggetti, e tuttavia sempre incompiuta, mai del tutto realizzata, e dunque una continua fonte di frustrazione. Oppure ancora C) l’identità è una rappresentazione e un’aspirazione fatta propria da alcuni soggetti, ma non condivisa da altri: ovvero – come in effetti è dimostrabile sul piano storico ed etnografico – un mito che si è venuto a configurare in determinate circostanze sociali e politiche, in determinate congiunture ideologiche, e che non necessariamente affiora in altri contesti. Secondo questa prospettiva, l’identità non è universale: è invece una rappresentazione storicamente contingente, di cui occorre indagare motivazioni cultu4.  Cfr. F. Remotti, L’ossessione identitaria, Roma-Bari 2010.

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rali, modalità e tipi di configurazione strutturale, significati e implicazioni sociali, esiti ed effetti sul piano pratico, individuale e collettivo. Un corollario fondamentale dell’opzione C) sotto il profilo epistemologico consiste nel riconoscere che l’identità – privata della caratteristica dell’universalità – non può più appartenere alla cassetta degli attrezzi di antropologi, sociologi, psicologi, storici di non importa quale ambito, politologi e così via. 5 In altri termini, l’identità si trasforma da qualcosa che spiega (explanans) a qualcosa che deve essere spiegato (explanandum). Scienziati umani e sociali che aderiscono alle opzioni A e B annoverano sempre l’identità tra i loro attrezzi, in quanto, che sia una realtà (A) o che sia un mito (B), essa spiega i vari fenomeni che, nei più diversi contesti, sono riconducibili a questo principio. Di più, ad incrementare il ruolo e il valore di explanans dell’identità, subentra la convinzione che nessun soggetto, individuale o collettivo, ne possa fare a meno. Si suppone che, in qualunque territorio noi ci addentriamo come indagatori e come studiosi, incontreremo sempre fenomeni che risultano analizzabili in termini di identità (difesa di un’identità già data o aspirazione ad avere una propria identità). Questa presupposizione spiega del resto assai bene la pletora di studi condotti nei più diversi campi in nome dell’identità. Se l’identità è un explanans e se il suo valore di explanans è dovuto alla sua universale irrinunciabilità (quanto meno nella sfera dei soggetti umani), quale contesto psicologico, sociale, storico, culturale potrà mai sfuggirgli? Ma se si aderisce all’opzione C, l’identità cade dalle mani degli studiosi, i quali possono certo imbattersi in soggetti e in contesti in cui affiorano l’idea e la rappresentazione dell’identità, ma solo in quanto fenomeni contingenti, come prodotti storici, relativi a quei determinati soggetti e contesti: come fenomeni quindi che richiedono di essere spiegati, compresi, interpretati. Per l’autore di questo scritto, sono state dunque due le fasi o modalità di critica rivolta all’identità. Potremmo definire la prima come una fase “dialettica”, fatta cioè di tensione, di contrasto, di conflitto e di opposizione. E a ben vedere, il contrasto (l’essere contro) si collocava su diversi piani. Si era “contro l’identità”, nella misura in cui l’identità si ergeva – o veniva fatta ergere – a principio unico, totalizzante ed esclusivo. Il disporsi “contro l’identità” aveva quindi, in primo luogo, un significato epistemologico, contrastando l’idea che tutto potesse essere spiegato soltanto sulla base dell’identità. In opposizione all’identità, si faceva valere, come principio antitetico, l’alterità, e dunque fondamentale, e irrinunciabile, non era più soltanto l’identità, ma la sua relazione dialettica con l’alterità, intesa come l’altra faccia della medaglia, come un fattore o un elemento coessenziale, che non poteva essere obliterato, nascosto, fatto fuori. Ci si spostava così dal piano epistemologico a quello delle esperienze storiche e cultu5.  Ivi, 100-106.

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rali dei soggetti (dei “noi”), che in modi diversi si atteggiano nei confronti dell’alterità. Il nodo era proprio qui: come si comportano i “noi” nei confronti dell’alterità? La schiacciano, la trascurano o la valorizzano? È alla luce di questo nodo che il cannibalismo tupinamba si configurava come caso estremamente significativo ed emblematico. La seconda fase di critica dell’identità può essere definita invece come “liberazione” dal vincolo di questo principio, inteso ormai esplicitamente come mito, di cui si può fare a meno e di cui è anzi bene liberarsi. Facendo proprio il mito della caverna di Platone, ma rovesciandone esplicitamente i contenuti, si è argomentato che ciò da cui occorre liberarsi sono appunto i laccioli o meglio le catene dell’identità: uscire dalla caverna delle rappresentazioni false e illusorie significa uscire dalla caverna dell’identità. 6 2 . R icor so

a l l e som igl i a n z e

Fare a meno dell’identità: questa determinazione è stata considerata sia sotto il profilo epistemologico, sia sotto il profilo delle esperienze vissute e dei contesti storico-culturali. Fare a meno può essere una liberazione, ma da essa sorge immediatamente un problema, che consiste in un vuoto epistemologico e culturale. Se gli studiosi si liberano dello strumento identità e affrontano l’identità solo in quanto vi si imbattono nelle loro indagini, a titolo di rappresentazioni e di aspirazioni dei soggetti che studiano, che cosa resta loro in mano? Quali sono gli attrezzi che possono o debbono utilizzare? Non c’è il pericolo di affrontare il problema identità a mani vuote? Non è da sottovalutare l’angoscia epistemologica, che inevitabilmente assale lo studioso, allorché vede incrinarsi i propri strumenti abituali o perdere di credibilità i paradigmi a cui era rimasto fedele: su questo argomento sarebbe bene rifarsi a un autore come George Devereux. 7 Forse la paura del vuoto epistemologico contribuisce anch’essa a spiegare il ricorso così massiccio alla strumentazione dell’identità, all’identità come explanans. Anche sul piano epistemologico il principio dell’identità, di per sé così totalizzante, non lascia intravedere alternative: in assenza, non ci sarebbe che il vuoto epistemologico. Ritenendo che non vi siano alternative, si comprende quanto si possa rimanere attaccati al mito dell’identità, avviluppati nei suoi lacci. Allo stesso modo, se ora ci spostiamo dal piano epistemologico a quello delle esperienze vissute dei soggetti (gli “io” e i “noi”), ci rendiamo conto 6.  Cfr. F. Remotti, “Uscire dalla caverna: la somiglianza invece dell’identità”, in S.  A rcoleo (cura), Salvare l ’identità? Le regole, la giustizia, le relazioni con l ’altro, Novara 2011, 87-123. 7. G. Devereux, Dall ’angoscia al metodo nelle scienze del comportamento, Roma 1984.

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come la rappresentazione totalitaria dell’identità non lasci spazio ad alternative praticabili e quindi come il vuoto non solo epistemologico e cognitivo, ma anche più vastamente culturale, che si intravede come unica alternativa, spinga ulteriormente nelle braccia dell’identità. Al di là dell’identità appare il nulla. A rigore, al di là dell’identità non vi è il nulla, bensì l’alterità, a cui nella fase dialettica della critica all’identità (§ 1) si diceva di fare ricorso. E tuttavia, nella rappresentazione identitaria, l’alterità condivide qualcosa con il nulla, ossia la sua connotazione negativa. Dal punto di vista identitario, l’alterità non ha la stessa consistenza ontologica dell’ identità: l’alterità è propriamente il non-essere dell’identità. È bene rendersi conto che l’alterità, in quanto tale, non ha una sua autonomia: essa è una categoria che viene letteralmente istituita dalla rappresentazione identitaria; ne dipende del tutto. L’alterità è sempre l’alterità di un’identità, di un io o di un noi che rivendica la propria identità. L’alterità è il “non” (il contrario, l’opposto, la negazione) dell’identità. I soggetti che invocano la propria identità costruiscono l’alterità come la categoria in cui collocare tutto ciò che essi non sono. E anche quando i soggetti identitari non si limitano alla costruzione di una categoria generica di alterità, ma al suo interno ritagliano alcuni altri, a cui attribuiscono una specifica identità (come è il caso degli Ebrei, che subiscono un’identità costruita per loro e a loro attribuita dai Nazisti, o come è il caso degli Hutu e dei Tutsi del Rwanda e del Burundi), è importante rilevare che queste alterità più circoscritte e mirate sono concepite sempre in funzione oppositiva e dunque definitoria – nel senso più pregnante del termine – rispetto ai soggetti. Tutto questo per dire che identità e alterità formano una coppia indissolubile, ossia che l’alterità nasce e cade insieme all’identità e che, dunque, l’alternativa all’identità non è e non può essere affatto l’alterità (come invece l’autore riteneva nel suo Contro l ’identità). Abolita l’identità – nel caso si volesse fare questo utile esercizio mentale –, viene meno anche l’alterità, che è la sua ombra, ed ha in effetti la consistenza di un’ombra. La vera alternativa all’identità è un concetto che non fa il paio con l’identità: un concetto che si colloca su un altro piano e che emerge solo in concomitanza di un radicale cambiamento di paradigma, qual è quello proposto da Hume nel suo smontaggio dell’illusione identitaria. In effetti, il filosofo scozzese non ci lascia con le mani in mano: se l’identità personale viene concepita come rappresentazione finzionale (fittizia e illusoria), appartengono invece all’esperienza i legami di somiglianza e differenza di cui il soggetto è composto. 8 Come già abbiamo avuto modo di dire in un commento alle analisi di Hume, “l’io […] per Hume non è ‘identico’ a sé stesso: è solo ‘simile’. Esso vive in un regime di somiglianze e di dif-

8. Cfr. D. Hume , Trattato sulla natura umana, Milano 2011, 505-509.

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ferenze: la sua ‘esperienza’ è fatta di questo tipo di relazioni”. 9 Sulla scia di Hume, si colloca esplicitamente Derek Parfit, il quale parla infatti a proposito dell’io non di identità, ma di “continuità psicologica” e, sulla scia di Parfit, troviamo Douglas Hofstadter, il quale sottolinea che “Douglas Hofstadter oggi e Douglas Hofstadter ieri […] non sono identici”: più che di continuità, egli sostiene che si tratta di “similarità psicologica”. 10 Del resto, nell’antichità, Diotima – la sacerdotessa di Mantinea a cui Platone dà l’ultima parola nel Simposio – aveva proposto una originale visione del soggetto individuale in termini di somiglianza, allorché sosteneva che in ciascuno di noi non vi è un restare sempre assolutamente identico, ma un susseguirsi di “copie”, che si somigliano tra loro. 11 Somiglianza vuole sempre anche dire differenza: senza differenza, la somiglianza sarebbe identità. Noi allora siamo fatti di somiglianze e differenze; siamo grumi di somiglianze e differenze. E per ribadire il nesso inscindibile tra queste due componenti, ci è sembrato opportuno raccoglierle e rappresentarle in un’unica parola, anche a costo di doverla inventare. Nella nostra proposta, “SoDif ” è la parola che abbiamo ottenuto mettendo insieme la prima sillaba di “so-miglianza” e la prima sillaba di “dif-ferenza”, così da poter designare il composto o il miscuglio di somiglianze e differenze. 12 Il SoDif non riguarda soltanto l’io o il sé: è il cuore di una visione del mondo alternativa a quella dell’identità. Si tratta di una visione che pone in luce l’intreccio tra le cose in termini di somiglianze e differenze e che, nella filosofia antica, possiamo trovare espressa in maniera icastica e pregnante nella seguente affermazione di Protagora: “Ogni cosa è in qualche modo simile a ogni altra”. 13 Persino i contrari un po’ si somigliano tra loro: infatti “il bianco in un certo qual modo somiglia al nero”. E Protagora aggiunge: “Se tu volessi, potresti provare in questo modo che tutte le cose sono simili tra loro”. Nella visione di Protagora, che Socrate e Platone si impegnano a criticare, esiste davvero un SoDif generalizzato. Tutta la realtà, che noi osserviamo, in cui viviamo, o che noi stessi siamo, è fatta di SoDif, è un groviglio di somiglianze e differenze, un intrico in cui, beninteso, occorre districarsi. Come ci fanno capire assai bene le teorie moderne della complessità, il districarsi implica senza dubbio uno sfrondamento: sono troppo numerose e disorientanti le direzioni in cui si diramano le 9. F. R emotti, “Simili a sé. Critica dell’identità ed elogio della somiglianza”, in P. Cotrufo e R.  Pozzi (cura), Identità e processi di identificazione, Milano 2014, 160. 10.  D. Hofstadter , Anelli nell ’io. Che cosa c’è al cuore della coscienza?, Milano 2008, 373. 11.  Platone , Simposio, Roma-Bari 1996, 85-208 a-b. 12.  F. Remotti, “Simili a sé. Critica dell’identità ed elogio della somiglianza”, in P. Cotrufo e R.  Pozzi (cura), Identità e processi di identificazione, Milano 2014, 167. 13.  Platone , Protagora, Milano 2010, 155 (331 d).

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relazioni di somiglianza e differenza; occorre dunque sfrondare, diminuire la complessità. Ogni gesto e ogni pensiero, ogni proiezione del soggetto – individuale o collettivo – nel reale, presuppone e nello stesso tempo produce un atto di riduzione della complessità, di de-complessificazione. 14 È in questo contesto che si colloca la rappresentazione dell’identità. Potremmo infatti sostenere che l’identità è l’atto estremo – e asintoticamente irraggiungibile – di riduzione della complessità. O meglio, essa non è una de-complessificazione, cioè una riduzione della complessità: è invece un tentativo di abolizione della complessità, un tentativo – illusorio e mai riuscito – di eliminazione del SoDif con tutti i suoi numerosi filamenti. Alla base di queste argomentazioni, vi sono le seguenti tesi, che in forma lievemente diversa abbiamo già esposto in altra sede: 15 1) mentre l’identità è una rappresentazione, il SoDif si riferisce invece a una dimensione ineliminabile del reale, quale si configura nell’esperienza dei soggetti; 2) l’identità è un mito, o fonda una mitologia, che mistifica la realtà, in quanto l’esperienza è strutturalmente diversa da come viene rappresentata dall’ideologia identitaria; 3) se teniamo presente nello stesso tempo la componente ideologica rappresentazionale e la dimensione esperienziale, appare chiaro che l’identità non opera in un vuoto: essa si costruisce ed opera in contrasto con una realtà, che non è fatta di identità e di alterità, ma di SoDif, ossia un groviglio di somiglianze e differenze; 4) l’ideologia identitaria si presenta non come una riduzione, ma come una negazione del SoDif (come se il SoDif non esistesse o non avesse da esistere); 5) ogni altra rappresentazione, che riconosca il SoDif, si configura invece come una qualche forma, modalità e misura di riduzione del SoDif (ogni riconoscimento del SoDif è anche una sua riduzione); 6) l’ideologia identitaria pensa di operare in un mondo composto delle sole categorie dell’identità e dell’alterità. Ma questa è appunto un’illusione; 7) anche se non lo ammette, l’ideologia identitaria opera invece nel groviglio delle somiglianze e delle differenze e lo fa in due modi: assemblando fortemente ciò che andrebbe a comporre l’identità, ossia aumentando a dismisura le somiglianze interne, fino a pensare che siano identità, e separando altrettanto fortemente ciò che andrebbe a comporre l’alterità. Fusioni (o confusioni) da un lato e tagli netti dall’altro sono le due modalità con cui l’ideologia identitaria opera sul SoDif. 14. F. R emotti, Cultura. Dalla complessità all ’impoverimento, Roma-Bari 2011, cap. VI. 15. F. R emotti, “Dall’identità alle somiglianze: un percorso a ritroso”, Bergasse, 19, 9 (2013), 144.

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F. REMOTTI

Abbiamo detto che l’identità non opera nel vuoto: opera invece nell’intrico delle somiglianze e delle differenze. Tenendo conto di questo intrico, possiamo comprendere come l’ideologia identitaria abbia una sua efficacia, un suo modo di agire e di incidere sul SoDif. Poiché però da nessuna parte nel mondo – se non sul piano rappresentazionale – vi sarà mai un’identità e, in opposizione ad essa, una sua alterità (da nessuna parte nel mondo si potrà mai osservare qualcosa che sia identità e qualcos’altro che sia alterità), è inevitabile chiedersi quale tipo di incidenza l’ideologia identitaria venga ad esercitare sul piano dell’esperienza reale (sociale, culturale, politica e così via). Noi riteniamo che ciò che si determina siano su un lato tentativi di forzare certe somiglianze (quelle dell’io o del noi identitario) e sul lato opposto tentativi di forzare alterità e separazioni (quelle degli altri). Se l’ideologia identitaria, per quanto estrema possa essere, non sarà mai in grado di produrre identità da un lato e alterità dall’altro, ma solo aborti di identità e alterità, ciò significa che occorre riconoscere una qualità decisiva del SoDif, ossia la sua resilienza. Per quanto manipolato e manomesso dalle operazioni che scaturiscono dall’ideologia identitaria, il SoDif oppone alle mistificazioni e alle forzature di questa ideologia la sua capacità di riemergere in vari modi e gradi. La resilienza del SoDif fa sì che gli io e i noi (i soggetti che ci interessano in questo momento) non raggiungano mai l’identità, ma presentino sempre differenze al loro interno. Allo stesso modo, sul lato opposto, non vi sarà mai una perfetta e totale alterità: per quanto sospinti nella più profonda alterità, gli altri non saranno mai sempre e soltanto altri, totalmente diversi da noi, ma rispetto a noi saranno sempre anche simili. La realtà esperienziale, in cui vivono pure i soggetti identitari, ossia il groviglio del SoDif, si incarica puntualmente di smentire il mito dell’identità e dell’alterità. Non si tratta dunque di buttare a mare il tema dell’identità. Tutt’altro. Si tratta però di trasformarlo in una tematica più articolata e consapevole, e di elaborare un’attrezzatura più adeguata sul piano epistemologico. Una volta riconosciuto che vi possono essere dei soggetti (individuali e collettivi) che intendono perseguire l’obiettivo dell’identità, si potrebbero proporre in sintesi – e come metodo – i seguenti passi: 1) analisi dei modi in cui l’ideologia identitaria prende forma, in termini di rappresentazioni e di programmi, di concezioni e di progettazioni, da parte dei soggetti interessati; 2) analisi dei modi in cui l’ideologia identitaria incide sul SoDif, ovvero delle operazioni con cui, sul piano della praxis, il SoDif viene manipolato e manomesso; 3) analisi dei risultati concreti, degli effetti e delle conseguenze che tali operazioni manipolatorie producono, ponendoli a confronto con gli obiettivi esplicitamente perseguiti dall’ideologia identitaria; 4) analisi delle contro-azioni, e relativi effetti, che i soggetti identitari sviluppano come reazione ai fenomeni di resilienza da parte del SoDif

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(ovvero, come reagiscono i soggetti identitari, allorché la loro impostazione identitaria viene smentita da parte del groviglio delle somiglianze e delle differenze?).

Il riconoscimento del SoDif apporta dunque un grande e indispensabile contributo allo studio dell’identità come ideologia e rappresentazione. Riconoscere però che il groviglio delle somiglianze e delle differenze (SoDif) viene prima di ogni velleità e di ogni programma di ordine identitario, e che esso persiste sotto forma di resilienza a ogni forzatura a cui viene sottoposto, significa aprire il campo a temi e campi di ricerca che possono prescindere del tutto dall’identità e dall’ossessione dell’identità. Il SoDif è ricco di potenzialità euristiche che vanno ben oltre la problematica dell’identità e dell’alterità. Sarebbe un’operazione molto riduttiva ricondurlo soltanto a questa problematica. 3. A n t ropo - poi e si

r i v i si tata

Nel 1996 chi scrive aveva intrapreso il suo percorso critico nei confronti dell’identità, ma aveva pure avviato le sue riflessioni sull’antropo-poiesi in connessione con il paradigma identitario. Più in particolare, egli scorgeva nella ricerca dell’identità il senso fondante del compito antropo-poietico, a cui gli esseri umani non avrebbero potuto sottrarsi. L’idea dell’antropopoiesi nasce dalla teoria dell’uomo come animale biologicamente incompleto e quindi dalla convinzione che “buona parte” dell’essere umano (pensieri, emozioni, sentimenti) “viene costruita socialmente”. 16 In Contro l ’identità, tutto ciò si traduceva nella tesi dell’identità come un obiettivo e una dimensione irrinunciabile: “nel momento in cui l’essere umano ha da uscire dalla precarietà e dall’incompletezza affronta il problema dell’identità”; “sullo sfondo della teoria dell’incompletezza si comprende come per gli esseri umani il tema dell’identità divenga non solo irrinunciabile, ma pure centrale e decisivo”. 17 Beninteso, a sua volta l’identità – in connessione con la teoria dell’antropo-poiesi – non è affatto da intendersi come “garantita da una base solida preventivamente determinata” (come può essere la natura umana), ma come “di volta in volta costruita per sopperire alle lacune” che caratterizzano la biologia umana. 18 La scoperta del SoDif obbliga chi scrive a rivedere buona parte di questa versione dell’antropo-poiesi (quella che potremmo chiamare un’antropo-poiesi identitaria). La prima operazione di questa revisione consiste nello sciogliere il nesso tra antropo-poiesi e identità, quale è stato affer16. F. R emotti, Contro l ’identità, Roma-Bari 1996, 16. 17.  Ivi, 17. 18.  Ivi, 18.

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mato nel testo del 1996. E lo scioglimento non ha soltanto il significato di separare e tenere distinte le due problematiche, ma nell’assegnare il carattere di irrinunciabilità all’antropo-poiesi, negandolo per contro all’ identità. Gli esseri umani non possono sottrarsi al compito di inventare sé stessi, di elaborare immagini e modelli di umanità, di porre in atto procedure e tecniche di costruzione di umanità, ma non è detto che tutto ciò debba avvenire all’insegna dell’identità. Si può procedere alle operazioni antropo-poietiche ponendosi in prospettive non identitarie. Qui si determina la seconda operazione, ossia il collegamento dell’antropo-poiesi al SoDif. Persino quando l’antropo-poiesi venga pensata secondo obiettivi e principi identitari, il SoDif è ineliminabile, dal momento che – come già abbiamo argomentato nel paragrafo 2 – esso viene prima e persiste rispetto a ogni manipolazione ispirata dall’identità. A pensarci bene, il SoDif è prioritario rispetto non solo all’identità, ma a qualsiasi intervento di tipo antropo-poietico (identitario o meno che sia), se è vero quanto afferma Protagora, ossia che ogni cosa è per un verso o per un altro somigliante a qualsiasi altra cosa (§ 2). Ogni intervento antropo-poietico non avviene dunque nel vuoto, ma si cala o affiora, e comunque si determina, in un SoDif originario, pre-poietico, ossia in quel groviglio di somiglianze e differenze che pre-esiste a qualunque cultura umana. Poi, certo, antropo-poiesi è costruzione: anzi, costruzione che, in maniera consapevole o inconsapevole, dà forma agli esseri umani. Ma dare forma che cosa significa? Significa che per lo più, da qualche parte, vi sono dei modelli, rispetto a cui il dare forma si ispira, e poco importa, in questo momento, se si tratta di modelli statistici (che si impongono statisticamente in un dato contesto) o se si tratta invece di modelli prescrittivi ed elettivi (a cui si conferisce un valore esplicito). Ciò che importa è il fatto che tali modelli svolgono una funzione attrattiva, essendo oggetti di imitazione. E qui siamo arrivati probabilmente al cuore dell’operare antropo-poietico: l’antropo-poiesi è fatta non di identità, ma di imitazione. È un “fare umanità”, 19 ossia un modellare, che di necessità si riferisce a modelli (statistici o prescrittivi), i quali vengono assunti come forme da riprodurre o, quanto meno, come punti di riferimento che guidano l’azione del modellare. Qui ovviamente si apre la vasta e intricata questione dell’imitare, ovvero della funzione del comportamento mimetico nell’organizzazione dell’essere umano. In questa sede, potremmo limitarci ad alcune suggestioni di ordine generale, partendo da quanto affermato da Aristotele nella sua Poetica (48 b): “l’imitare è connaturato agli uomini fin dalla puerizia (e in ciò l’uomo si differenzia dagli altri animali, nell’essere il più portato ad imitare e nel procurarsi per mezzo dell’imitazione le nozioni fondamentali)”. 20 19. Cfr. F. R emotti, Fare umanità. I drammi dell ’antropo-poiesi, Roma-Bari 2013. 20.  A ristotele , Poetica, Milano 1987, 125.

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Sotto il profilo antropo-poietico, è molto importante questa notazione di Aristotele, il quale – come si vede – non manca di differenziare gli esseri umani dagli altri animali proprio per la loro “capacità di imitare”, grazie alla quale i primi si procurano i fondamenti del loro vivere, che – come sappiamo – per Aristotele è prioritariamente un vivere sociale. Da Aristotele balziamo a Walter Benjamin e al suo saggio del 1933 sulla facoltà mimetica dell’uomo. Egli inizia affermando che “la natura produce somiglianze”, come è dato vedere dal mimetismo animale. 21 “Ma la più alta capacità di produrre somiglianze è propria dell’uomo”. Anche in Benjamin, come già in Aristotele, la facoltà mimetica è ciò che contraddistingue l’uomo nei confronti degli altri animali, i quali – per Benjamin – sono sì mimetici, ma non in grado tanto elevato come gli esseri umani. Pure in Benjamin troviamo un nesso essenziale tra il mimetismo umano e il suo essere sociale, là dove sottolinea l’obbligo originario di “assimilarsi” reciprocamente e di comportarsi in maniera conforme. Vi è dunque un modellamento profondo dell’essere umano, generato o reso possibile dal suo comportamento mimetico, a tal punto che “il dono di scorgere somiglianze” nel mondo o nella natura sembra essere un derivato di questo mimetismo, e che ogni funzione superiore appare “condizionata in modo decisivo dalla facoltà mimetica”. Benjamin pone in luce un altro aspetto ancora, su cui avremo modo di ritornare tra poco. Egli si sofferma sul gioco infantile, come un’attività tutta pervasa da comportamenti mimetici, il cui “campo tuttavia non è affatto limitato a ciò che un uomo imita dall’altro” uomo: ovvero il bambino gioca a imitare non soltanto gli esseri umani dell’ambiente sociale in cui vive (“non gioca solo a ‘fare’ il commerciante o il maestro”), ma anche oggetti di altra natura, come potrebbe essere un mulino a vento o una ferrovia. La mimesis umana – facoltà sociale e socio-poietica per eccellenza – si protende ben oltre i confini dell’ambiente sociale in cui l’uomo vive. Affronteremo adesso questo inoltrarsi del mimetismo oltre la sfera di ciò che possiamo chiamare il “noi” attuale. Ma per concludere questa parte introduttiva al ruolo antropo-poietico dell’imitazione citiamo un filosofo assai vicino a Benjamin, ossia Theodor W. Adorno, il quale nei Minima Moralia afferma: “l’umano è nell’imitazione: un uomo diventa uomo solo imitando altri uomini”. 22 In fondo Adorno ci offre una definizione molto pregnante dell’antropo-poiesi: essa è imitazione, produzione di somiglianze; l’umanità, quale viene fabbricata dagli esseri umani nelle sue diverse forme, dipende dalla loro reciproca imitazione. In una visione antropo-poietica – che certamente trova in Adorno un ispiratore autorevole – la facoltà mimetica prende il posto della natura umana. Messo in 21.  Cfr. W. B enjamin, Angelus novus. Saggi e frammenti, Torino 1962, 68. 22.  T. W. Adorno, Minima moralia. Meditazioni della vita offesa, Torino 1979, 182.

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crisi quest’ultimo concetto, sottolineata la dimensione di incompletezza biologica dell’essere umano, l’imitare diventa non già una facoltà aggiuntiva (un “in più” rispetto agli altri animali o rispetto alla stessa natura umana), bensì un’attività fondamentale per “fare umanità”. Ma, prima che ci dimentichiamo, occorre avvertire che le somiglianze, le quali si vengono a produrre grazie alla facoltà mimetica, non sono soltanto somiglianze: sono anche differenze. Ovviamente, vi sono modalità e gradi diversi dell’imitare, ma persino l’imitazione più fedele si trascina dietro una qualche dose di differenza. Anzi, ci conviene sostenere che nei processi antropopoietici la differenza è altrettanto essenziale della somiglianza, e l’imitazione, per essere correttamente intesa, dovrebbe essere concepita come una combinazione di assomigliamento e di differenziamento (AsDif), produzione di somiglianze e di differenze nello stesso tempo, ovvero, pure qui, produzione di SoDif. In altre parole, vi è un SoDif esterno, che precede l’antropo-poiesi e a cui l’antropo-poiesi si può ispirare, e vi è un SoDif interno, che è prodotto dalle attività antropo-poietiche, non importa quanto consapevoli e programmate esse siano e a prescindere, per ora, dai diversi dosaggi combinatori AsDif che le caratterizzano. Quali sono allora gli ambiti dell’imitazione antropo-poietica, o meglio quali sono gli orizzonti entro i quali essa opera e in relazione ai quali essa ricerca modelli di ispirazione? Potremmo partire da quello che sopra abbiamo chiamato il “Noi” attuale, la sfera delle relazioni sociali caratterizzate dall’hic et nunc, e sostenere – in linea con le tesi di Gabriel Tarde, un sociologo francese dell’Ottocento, oscurato dalla fama di Émile Durkheim e rivalutato solo di recente – che “l’imitazione costituisce un legame sociale” e che anzi “il vero rapporto sociale consiste nell’imitarsi”. 23 Tarde precisa a questo punto che “l’imitazione è […] l’azione propriamente sociale da cui tutto consegue”, in quanto “la somiglianza delle idee” – ossia “delle idee di cui la società ha bisogno” – “è sempre acquisita, mai innata”. Anche per Tarde (come per Aristotele) l’uomo è un essere sociale: ha quindi da costruire una società, un “noi”. Il “noi” a sua volta si fonda sulla condivisione di un patrimonio di idee, che sono tra loro somiglianti, ma queste idee non si trovano in un deposito innato, bensì vengono acquisite socialmente, ossia attraverso i rapporti sociali dell’imitazione. Il contributo di Tarde non si limita però a sostenere l’importanza fondamentale dell’imitazione nella costruzione del noi, della società. Egli pone anche in luce la costante tensione tra imitazione da un lato e invenzione dall’altro, tra la ripetizione e la riproduzione per un verso e l’innovazione e la differenziazione per l’altro. 24 Anzi, la stessa imitazione si sdoppia in due atteggiamenti: l’imitare puro e semplice e il contro-imitare. 23. G. Tarde , Le leggi dell ’imitazione. Studio sociologico, Torino 2012, 40 e 302, n. 32. 24.  Ivi, 38.

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“Ci sono, in effetti, due modi di imitare: fare esattamente come il proprio modello, oppure fare esattamente il contrario”. 25 Si tratta di una notazione assai preziosa, la quale consente a Tarde di fornire la seguente definizione: “una società è un gruppo di persone che presentano tra loro molte somiglianze prodotte per imitazione o per contro-imitazione”. A ben vedere, Tarde prospetta il seguente quadro: a1) imitazione, a2) contro-imitazione, b) invenzione. La vera alternativa all’imitazione è ovviamente l’invenzione, la quale esige una particolare “forza” innovativa, una capacità più o meno accentuata non solo di differenziazione, ma di modellazione, di uscita dunque, per quanto parziale, da ciò che Tarde definisce il “grande fiume della consuetudine [coutume]”. 26 Non c’è bisogno di caricare l’invenzione di particolare genialità per condividere la seguente intuizione di Tarde, ossia che l’invenzione non è alla sua origine “un fatto puramente sociale”. 27 Potremmo dire che esistono anche le micro-invenzioni, non particolarmente eclatanti e sovversive, e sono soprattutto queste che vanno ad alimentare la vita sociale, in quanto si proporranno come oggetto di imitazione. In fondo, l’imitazione è pur sempre, all’origine, imitazione di un’invenzione, ed è per questo che, secondo Tarde, “l’invenzione e l’imitazione costituiscono l’atto sociale elementare”. 28 Tenendo conto di questa duplice dimensione – quella ripetitiva e quella innovativa –, diventa importante osservare, sempre sulla scia di Tarde, come vi siano società che maggiormente privilegiano la stabilizzazione dei costumi e delle consuetudini, dunque la ripetizione, e altre società in cui si dà maggiore spazio all’innovazione e in cui la novità assume un particolare prestigio. 29 Come egli afferma, ci sono epoche di consuetudine ed epoche di moda. 30 Ma è altrettanto importante osservare come l’innovazione assuma spesso anch’essa la veste di imitazione, sotto forma di imitazione di ciò che si verifica al di là della cerchia del “noi” attuale, in particolare presso gli stranieri. C’è, a questo proposito, una notazione di Tarde molto significativa: “anche nelle religioni più chiuse, si fa sentire, molto più di quanto non si creda, il bisogno di imitazione dello straniero”. 31 Tarde parla espressamente di “bisogno”: un tentativo di approfondimento di questo concetto aprirebbe forse la strada a un tema che potremmo esprimere in termini di senso di incompletezza del Noi 32 e di impossibilità fisiologica di una continua e ininterrotta auto-imitazione del 25.  Ivi, 40. 26.  Ivi, 249. 27.  Ivi, 44. 28.  Ivi, 167. 29.  Ivi, 251. 30.  Ivi, 257. 31.  Ivi, 267 n. 10. 32.  Cfr. F. R emotti, Cultura. Dalla complessità all ’impoverimento, Roma-Bari 2011, cap. V.

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Noi. Si potrebbe condurre un’analisi più sistematica delle indicazioni contenute nel testo di Tarde per quanto riguarda ciò che potremmo chiamare le molteplici vie di imitazione che conducono fuori dalla cerchia ristretta del Noi attuale. Qui ci limitiamo a riprendere uno schema, già proposto in un saggio dedicato alle antropologie degli altri 33 e riproposto in uno scritto più recente, dedicato all’antropologia della persona,  3 4 uno schema che illustra le direzioni di uscita dal Noi attuale. spiriti, divinità (2) ↕

morti, antenati (1) ↔ NOI ↔

(3) altri “noi”

↕

(4) animali, piante, cose

Come si vede, al centro poniamo ciò che abbiamo chiamato il “Noi” attuale: è questa la vera e propria fucina antropo-poietica; è qui che prendono forma i soggetti individuali e collettivi. È qui che si producono gli intrecci di somiglianze e differenze (il SoDif sociale), attraverso la miriade infinita di assomigliamenti e differenziamenti (AsDif), di imitazione e di innovazione, non importa quanto consapevoli o meno. Possiamo però affermare che nessuna società basta a sé stessa, 35 nessuna società coincide in maniera perfetta ed esclusiva con il proprio Noi attuale: tutte le società prolungano i propri tentacoli imitativi in una pluralità di direzioni, che qui abbiamo provato a sintetizzare in quattro direzioni possibili. Se il Noi attuale è il punto di partenza, il suo passato, là dove affonda la sua memoria, là dove si collocano i suoi antenati (dir. 1), è una insopprimibile fonte di ispirazione per il lavoro antropo-poietico che ha luogo nel centro dello schema. Molto spesso è di lì, dal passato, che le società traggono i loro modelli antropo-poietici. Ma verso il passato non vi è soltanto continuità, imitazione, somiglianza: riscontriamo invece anche disconti-

33.  Cfr. F. Remotti, “Etno-antropologia. Un tentativo di messa a fuoco”, Introduzione a F. R emotti (cura), Le antropologie degli altri. Studi di etno-antropologia, Torino 1997, 34. 34.  Cfr. F. Remotti, Noi, primitivi. Lo specchio dell ’antropologia, Torino 2009, 332. 35.  Cfr. E. Sapir , Il linguaggio, Torino 1969, 192.

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nuità, differenziazione, allontanamento, in modo talvolta consapevole e spesso in modo inconsapevole. I nostri antenati fanno parte, anzi sono gli esponenti più significativi, del passato, e per dirigersi verso di loro i contemporanei escono dai confini cronologici del Noi attuale. C’è un altro modo tuttavia per uscire dai confini del Noi attuale, ed è quello di dirigersi verso entità extra-umane, che qui abbiamo chiamato “spiriti” e “divinità” (dir. 2). La differenza rispetto a noi umani può essere più o meno accentuata. In ogni caso, con la loro presenza, così come con la loro vicinanza-lontananza rispetto alla sfera del Noi attuale, spiriti e divinità possono svolgere un significativo ruolo di ispirazione antropo-poietica. Proprio su questo punto – il ruolo antropopoietico della teologia (in particolare della teologia cristiana) – concentreremo la nostra attenzione nei prossimi paragrafi. Lo schema prevede però un’altra linea di imitazione, un altro orizzonte da cui trarre ispirazione: si tratta degli “altri” (dir. 3), che qui abbiamo voluto denominare come “altri noi” per sottolineare la compresenza – nell’orizzonte della contemporaneità – di diversi “noi”, gruppi, società, comunità, che attorniano il “noi” di partenza e con cui il nostro “noi” ha a che fare. L’antropologia è in grado di dimostrare l’importanza di questa dimensione, ovvero l’ineliminabilità degli “altri” nell’orizzonte di qualsivoglia “noi”, e la funzione degli altri in termini di imitazione, di contro-imitazione, di diversificazione. Vorremmo però integrare questo punto degli “altri”, facendo presente che gli altri potrebbero essere gli stessi Noi attuali che immaginano di trasformarsi in “altri”, in uomini nuovi, frutto di utopie o di rivoluzioni. Aggiungiamo che gli altri potrebbero essere non solo gli altri attuali, le società, le genti, i gruppi nostri contemporanei: potrebbero essere anche società o civiltà ormai tramontate, lontane nello spazio e nel tempo, a cui il Noi attuale dirige la propria curiosità e il proprio interesse. Gli “altri” umani appartengono dunque al presente, al passato (il passato di altre società), al futuro (il futuro immaginato dal “noi” attuale). Infine, la direzione di una ultima linea di imitazione-ispirazione è data dal mondo naturale (4): animali, vegetali, cose, che vengono assunti dal Noi attuale come entità o processi significativi per il lavoro antropopoietico in cui esso è impegnato. Philippe Descola ha fornito una summa preziosa dei diversi modi di coinvolgimento degli esseri naturali da parte delle società umane, fino al punto di dimostrare che la stessa distinzione tra natura e cultura – considerata sovente come ovvia e indiscutibile – appare inadeguata nelle visioni del mondo di molte società, che non hanno esitazione a imparentare in modo stretto esseri umani ed esseri animali e vegetali. 36 36.  Cfr. Ph. Descola, Oltre natura e cultura, Firenze 2014.

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Come si vede, c’è un profondo “bisogno” di confronto, di imitazione e di contro-imitazione (per riprendere la terminologia di Tarde) nel “fare umanità” da parte degli esseri umani, e sono molte e diverse le strade che essi percorrono alla ricerca di modelli di riferimento (modelli “di” e modelli “per” 37): praticamente non esiste tipo di realtà, di esperienza, di vita, di organizzazione verso cui gli esseri umani, così bisognosi di istruzione, non dirigano la propria curiosità e le proprie indagini. 4. A  i mmagi n e

di

D io :

u na som igl i a n z a bloccata

Come è già stato indicato sopra, è Clifford Geertz ad avere proposto la distinzione tra modelli “di” e modelli “per”. Tale distinzione torna utile in una prospettiva antropo-poietica, in quanto, se i primi si riferiscono soprattutto al versante conoscitivo (modelli “di” umanità), i secondi hanno a che fare con il versante operativo, pratico, eminentemente costruttivo (modelli “per” fare umanità). Sul versante conoscitivo, l’attenzione e l’interesse – sia dei soggetti direttamente coinvolti, sia degli antropologi e in generale degli studiosi – si rivolgono in maniera statica e per così dire contemplativa alle “immagini”, alle “teorie” di umanità ritenute più significative, suggestive, incisive, convincenti, mentre sul versante pratico la domanda fondamentale riguarda il “chi” costruisce e “come” costruisce – o si presume che costruisca – umanità ed esseri umani. Concentrandosi sul “chi” costruisce, si apre un’ulteriore questione. Poiché il lavoro antropo-poietico non è quasi mai solitario, affidato a un solo soggetto, vi è da chiedersi chi sono i soggetti che “con-costruiscono”. La questione non sembri cervellotica. È sufficiente pensare al grado e all’intensità della partecipazione dei soggetti nei rituali di iniziazione: i capi o i responsabili delle procedure rituali agiscono non soltanto in collaborazione tra loro, ma coinvolgendo e richiedendo la partecipazione attiva dei giovani iniziandi. La partecipazione ai processi antropo-poietici può essere del resto ricercata persino al di là dei confini del “noi”, del proprio gruppo, comunità, etnia. Può sorprendere che, per esempio, i BaKonjo dell’Uganda portassero i loro giovani presso i vicini Amba, al fine di sottoporli al rituale della circoncisione: “per diventare veri uomini konjo ci si metteva letteralmente nelle mani degli Amba”, ci si affidava dunque agli “altri”. 38 E che dire della fitta trama di alleanze che si venivano a creare tra diversi gruppi della foresta del Congo settentrionale, allorché si praticavano riti di circoncisione intertribale. 39 37. C. Geertz , Interpretazione di culture, Bologna 1987, 144. 38.  F. Remotti, Contro l ’identità, Roma-Bari 1996, 23. 39.  S. A llovio, La foresta di alleanze. Popoli e riti in Africa equatoriale, RomaBari 1999.

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Seguendo lo schema proposto nel paragrafo precedente, noi abbiamo appena visto gruppi che cercano partner per “con-costruire” umanità, sfruttando somiglianze e differenze che intrattengono con altri (direzione 3 dello schema): una specie di condivisione delle responsabilità antropopoietiche in un’area ben più estesa del Noi attuale. In effetti, non è da sottovalutare il senso di responsabilità annesso ai progetti o ai programmi di costruzione dell’umanità. Sotto questo profilo, si consideri anche l’appello agli antenati (direzione 1, opposta alla direzione 3), perché partecipino in un modo o nell’altro ai momenti più salienti dell’antropo-poiesi. Qui ci vogliamo concentrare però su un’altra direzione di coinvolgimento e di corresponsabilizzazione, quella che conduce alla divinità (direzione 2). Ebraismo e cristianesimo si prestano assai bene per illustrare questo punto, in quanto il tema della fabbricazione dell’essere umano è esattamente alle origini di entrambe queste religioni. Lo troviamo infatti in modo del tutto esplicito nei versetti della Genesi dedicati alla nascita dell’uomo ad opera della divinità, là dove in un primo tempo la divinità stabilisce di fare l’uomo tenendo la propria stessa “immagine” come modello (modello “per”), così che l’uomo venga fatto “come nostra somiglianza” (Gen 1, 26). Per nessun altro ente del creato la Genesi indica una somiglianza con la divinità: per cui è soltanto l’uomo a detenere questa prerogativa, che infatti viene ribadita poco oltre (Gen 1, 27), dove si legge che “Dio creò gli uomini a norma della sua immagine; a norma dell’immagine di Dio li creò”. In un secondo momento, assistiamo alla vera e propria fabbricazione dell’uomo da parte di Dio, il quale, come un vasaio, utilizza la terra: “il Signore Dio modellò l’uomo con la polvere del terreno e soffiò nelle sue narici un alito di vita”; dopo di che, “collocò l’uomo che aveva modellato” nel giardino dell’Eden, affinché ne prendesse cura, lo “lavorasse” e lo irrigasse (Gen 2, 5-8). Come abbiamo già fatto notare altrove, è un tratto antropologicamente rilevante – e non così frequente – che il processo antropo-poietico venga posto nelle mani di Dio: “È Dio che ‘fa’ gli uomini, non sono gli uomini che ‘fabbricano’ sé stessi o altri uomini”.  4 0 Non solo, ma altrettanto rilevante sotto il profilo antropologico – e dunque in una prospettiva vastamente comparativa – è che Dio faccia l’uomo avendo come modello la sua stessa “immagine” divina: “Dio è dunque presente sia nel fabbricare, sia in ciò che viene fabbricato” (2013, 172). Il che significa che Dio non è soltanto un generico ispiratore di un modello antropo-poietico utilizzabile da parte del “noi”, né soltanto un fabbricatore il cui prodotto potrebbe essere assai diverso ed eterogeneo rispetto a Dio stesso. La somiglianza con Dio, voluta espressamente dalla divinità, è invece talmente impressa nella natura umana, da esonerare gli esseri umani da una ricerca di modelli di 40.  F. Remotti, “Dall’identità alle somiglianze: un percorso a ritroso”, Bergasse, 19, 9, 2013, 171.

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umanità altrove: verso un passato di antenati (direzione 1), verso altri noi (direzione 3), tanto meno verso altri tipi di creature (direzione 4). Il fatto che sia Dio ad avere modellato l’essere umano a sua immagine determina una dipendenza stretta e irrevocabile di questo essere dalla divinità che l’ha fabbricato. In Isaia troviamo espresso in modo chiaro questo punto. Se è vero che “noi siamo l’argilla, tu colui che ci hai plasmato”, se è vero che “noi tutti siamo opera della tua mano” (Is 64, 7), l’antropo-poiesi voluta dalla divinità è insindacabile: gli uomini non hanno né meriti né responsabilità in questa operazione. Non solo, ma si attira guai “chi contende con chi l’ha formato”, proprio come il vaso, il quale non può certo discutere con il suo plasmatore: “forse che l’argilla dice al vasaio ‘Che fai?’ oppure: ‘la tua opera non ha manichi’?” (Is 45, 9). A sua volta Geremia viene invitato dal Signore a recarsi dal vasaio per vedere come egli opera: “Ecco: come la creta nelle mani del vasaio, così siete voi nella mia mano” (Ger 18, 1-6). Infine, nel momento storico di invenzione del Cristianesimo, Paolo riprende tal quale questo concetto di totale dipendenza antropo-poietica da Dio, “cosicché l’iniziativa non è dell’uomo […], ma di Dio”: “chi sei mai tu, o uomo, che ti metti in contraddittorio con Dio? Dirà forse l’oggetto plasmato a colui che lo plasmò: perché mi facesti così? O non ha forse il vasaio piena disponibilità sull’argilla?” (Rm 9, 16-21). L’altro aspetto della faccenda – ossia la presenza della divinità non solo nel fare antropo-poietico, ma anche nel prodotto, fatto a “immagine” e “somiglianza” della divinità – determina una seconda impossibilità morale, quella di modificare il proprio essere, il proprio sembiante. Nella Bibbia si fa menzione degli interventi modificatori del corpo praticati da altri gruppi, come incidere le mani o il volto (1Re 18, 28; Ger 16, 6; 41, 5; 47, 5; 48, 37). Ma Israele, il quale appartiene solo a Dio, non deve fare proprie queste usanze (Lv 19, 27-28; Dt 14, 1-2). Soltanto la circoncisione ha da essere praticata, in quanto imposta da Dio come segno dell’alleanza (Gen 17, 9-14). Nella tradizione cristiana quanti “moralisti e religiosi”, quanti missionari in tutte le parti del mondo, a contatto con tatuaggi, scarificazioni e altri interventi modificatori del corpo, sono insorti a condannare “queste modificazioni dell’opera di Dio”. 41 In particolare, un medico inglese del Seicento, John Bulwer, autore di Anthropometamorphosis, un libro straordinario, dal titolo oltre modo rivelatore, comprende assai bene che questi interventi hanno un significato nettamente antropo-poietico, essendo la manifestazione di un Horrid, Transformed self-made Man, di un uomo – come si legge nel frontespizio – che orrendamente vuole trasformarsi e farsi da sé stesso, andando contro così all’opera di Dio, all’immagine di sé che Dio ha impresso nella natura, e quindi anche nel corpo, dell’uomo. 42 Occorre dunque riconoscere, salvare e preservare, nello stesso 41.  F. Borel , Le vêtement incarné. Les métamorphoses du corps, Paris 1992, 37. 42.  J. Bulwer , Anthropometamorphosis, London 1650.

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corpo umano, quale ci viene consegnato dalla natura, la somiglianza con Dio. È infatti questa una faccenda in cui si rischia di deragliare: se si perde la somiglianza con Dio, si stravolge il senso dell’antropo-poiesi come opera divina, si dà luogo a una fallimentare antropo-poiesi umana e si finisce in una “orrenda” disumanizzazione. L’umanità, per essere tale, non può scostarsi dall’essere “immagine” di Dio: un’immagine trasmessa dalla natura (a cui Dio l’aveva consegnata), non già forgiata dalla cultura. La somiglianza con Dio si presenta però come una faccenda molto più complicata. In termini generali, la somiglianza ha infatti la caratteristica dell’instabilità: essa dà luogo a scivolamenti che la conducono ora ad aumentare ora a diminuire, ora ad approssimarsi al modello, ora ad allontanarsene. Nella Genesi è proprio di questo che si parla. Tanto per cominciare vi è una sorta di squilibrio o di sbilanciamento a favore dell’essere umano rispetto agli altri esseri del creato: solo a proposito dell’uomo si dice che è stato fatto da Dio a sua immagine e somiglianza. La divinità conosce il carattere dinamico, attrattivo, quindi anche scivoloso e pericoloso, della somiglianza dell’uomo con Dio: perciò essa pone un freno, un ostacolo, un divieto, un vero e proprio tabu. Non si può somigliare troppo a Dio. L’uomo, collocato nell’Eden “perché lo lavorasse e lo custodisse”, non deve cibarsi dell’albero della conoscenza del bene e del male, che insieme all’albero della vita, si trova “nella parte più interna del giardino”: mangiarne significherebbe andare incontro alla morte, trasformare la propria condizione di ingenua e inconsapevole a-mortalità in una condizione in cui la morte diviene un destino certo (Gen 2, 9-16). Come si sa, è il serpente che, negando l’ammonizione di Dio, fa balenare una possibilità strabiliante, quella appunto di aumentare vertiginosamente la somiglianza e la vicinanza rispetto a Dio: “Voi non morirete affatto! Anzi! Dio sa che nel giorno in cui voi ne mangerete, si apriranno i vostri occhi e diventerete come Dio, conoscitori del bene e del male” (Gen 3, 4-5 – corsivo nostro). Non si tratta del gusto della trasgressione. La motivazione è assai più profonda e positiva: “allora la donna vide che l’albero era buono da mangiare, seducente per gli occhi e attraente per avere successo”, il successo che consiste nel diventare “come Dio” (Ger 3, 6 – corsivo nostro), una sorta di scalata alla divinità. Se la Genesi ha il significato – per la cultura che l’ha prodotta – di un racconto antropo-genetico, essa afferma che nell’uomo, fin dalle origini, vi era (vi è) la possibilità di diventare come la divinità. È vero che questa possibilità viene bloccata da Dio, ma la somiglianza originaria con Dio funge da attrazione e seduzione: basta poco, basta cibarsi dell’albero della conoscenza per trasformarsi in qualcosa di ancora più simile a Dio. È qui ben delineato che cosa significhi il modello divino, ossia di quali elementi o aspetti sia composto il modello a cui si è ispirata la creazione dell’uomo: l’immortalità e il potere della conoscenza. Dio ha creato a sua

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immagine l’essere umano, conferendogli una sorta di amortalità edenica, ma privandolo del potere della conoscenza del bene e del male: dunque, sì simile a Dio, ma non identico, simile soltanto in maniera limitata. Il serpente fa balenare invece la possibilità di acquisire, oltre all’immortalità, anche la conoscenza del bene e del male. Così gli esseri umani colmerebbero quella mancanza originaria e diventerebbero “come Dio”, collocandosi sul suo stesso piano e, in aggiunta, privando Dio della sua unicità. Si tratterebbe dunque di un incremento di somiglianza che addirittura sfocia nell’uguaglianza, se non proprio nell’identità. E questo, per una divinità monoteistica è ovviamente insopportabile: una smentita cocente del suo essere unico, da parte delle sue stesse creature. Ecco perché Dio pone il divieto di cibarsi dell’albero della conoscenza. Ma – come racconta la Genesi – non si tratta di uno sbarramento assoluto e insuperabile. La possibilità di infrangere questo limite e di avvicinarsi a Dio da parte degli uomini fino a identificarvisi è concreta, a portata di mano; solo un divieto verbale, per quanto divino e minaccioso, vi si frappone. L’albero è lì, al centro dell’Eden, ed è troppo attraente il risultato agognato, perché esseri già simili a Dio non agognino a un’ulteriore somiglianza. E infatti il tentativo viene compiuto, l’operazione viene eseguita. Con le conseguenze che sappiamo e che Dio aveva già del resto prefigurato (Gen 2, 17). Qui la divinità svela di sé qualcosa di più, oltre l’immortalità e la conoscenza di tutte le cose, ossia il potere: si tratta da un lato di un potere creativo (creazione del mondo e dell’umanità), ma anche di un potere vendicativo e distruttivo. Così come dapprima Dio “rapì l’uomo” per collocarlo nell’Eden (Gen 2, 15), ora lo scaccia in maniera brutale e definitiva, imponendogli la morte come destino ineluttabile, e, oltre alla morte, la sequela di dolori, sofferenze, fatiche che ormai contrassegnano la vita umana: il dolore del parto per la donna e il dominio che ella dovrà subire da parte dell’uomo; la fatica con cui l’uomo dovrà lavorare “tutti i giorni” della sua vita una terra resa maledetta, dura e ostile; una terra, duplicemente maledetta, perché faticosamente lavorata per tutta la vita, e perché con la morte l’essere umano vi farà ritorno, ridiventando nient’altro che “polvere”, quale era all’inizio (Gen 3, 16-19). È questo il punto di allontanamento massimo, di massima differenziazione dalla natura e dall’immagine divina: l’abiezione dell’uomo ricondotto a polvere rispetto all’immenso potere vivifico di Dio. Eppure, l’uomo non viene del tutto annichilito. Nel momento stesso in cui Dio caccia l’uomo dall’Eden, compie un gesto di pietà nei suoi confronti: “E il Signore Dio fece all’uomo e a sua moglie delle tuniche di pelli e li vestì” (Gen 3, 21). Non certo per proteggerli dal freddo, ma per pudore, per una questione di moralità, a cui ormai l’uomo e la donna hanno avuto accesso. Com’è noto, la vita nell’Eden veniva condotta senza alcuna preoccupazione, né economica, né morale: “ambedue erano nudi,

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l’uomo e la sua donna, ma non sentivano mutua vergogna” (Gen 2, 25). Una volta cibatisi dell’albero della conoscenza del bene e del male, “si aprirono allora gli occhi di ambedue e conobbero che erano nudi” (Gen 3, 7). La conoscenza di cui entrano in possesso è quindi di ordine morale, la cui prima (e, per il momento, unica) manifestazione è il senso di vergogna per la propria nudità. Infatti il gesto che l’uomo e la donna compiono è subito quello di cucirsi addosso delle foglie di fico. Anche la fuga nell’Eden, il tentativo di porsi al riparo tra gli alberi, così da sfuggire allo sguardo di Dio, viene motivata da Adamo in relazione alla sua nudità: egli fugge e cerca di nascondersi, perché prova “paura”, non però per avere infranto il divieto, ma “perché io sono nudo” (Gen 3, 10). E anche nelle parole di Dio la nudità, o meglio la coscienza della nudità, viene posta al centro della conoscenza del bene e del male ormai acquisita da Adamo ed Eva: “Chi ti ha indicato che eri nudo? Hai dunque mangiato dell’albero del quale ti avevo comandato di non mangiarne?” (Gen 3, 11). Ebbene, questa conoscenza è acquisita una volta per tutte; per sempre essa contraddistingue la condizione nuova e maledetta in cui l’umanità è venuta a trovarsi. La maledizione da parte di Dio e la cacciata dall’Eden privano certo l’uomo della sua precedente condizione di amortalità edenica, ma non aboliscono la conoscenza del bene e del male, ossia la facoltà che per altra via avvicina l’uomo a Dio. Con quel gesto di pietà (la fabbricazione delle tuniche di pelli per l’uomo e per la donna) Dio è come se prendesse atto di questa acquisizione definitiva da parte dell’essere umano. Infatti, subito dopo, “Il Signore Dio disse allora: ‘Ecco che l’uomo è diventato come uno di noi, conoscendo il bene e il male!’” (Gen 3, 22). L’uomo è ormai stato cacciato dall’Eden e privato della sua condizione di innocenza e di a-mortalità edenica, e tuttavia lo stesso Dio riconosce che egli, pur condannato a una condizione di mortalità certa (oltre che alla miseria e al dolore), è ormai diventato “come uno di noi”. Come è possibile questa sorta di contraddizione? Potremmo dire che qui è avvenuto uno scambio di condizioni di somiglianza. Prima dell’infrazione del divieto, gli esseri umani godevano di una condizione di somiglianza rispetto alla divinità, a causa della loro a-mortalità edenica e del fatto di poter fruire senza fatica di ciò che la terra in abbondanza offriva loro. Ciò che loro mancava – e che quindi rendeva impossibile un’identificazione con la divinità – era la conoscenza del bene e del male. Dopo la cacciata dall’Eden, gli esseri umani continuano a essere simili a Dio, ma a causa di una sostituzione dei fattori di somiglianza: essi sono “come” Dio, avendo acquisito la conoscenza del bene e del male, ma nello stesso tempo sono stati confinati in una posizione di estrema lontananza da Dio per il fatto di essere ormai divenuti mortali. Prima dell’infrazione del divieto, essi si sarebbero posti sullo stesso piano di Dio, se avessero acquisito il potere della conoscenza. Dopo la cacciata dall’Eden, ottenuto questo

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potere conoscitivo, si prospetta per l’uomo una scelta: accettare lo stato di essere mortale e quindi mantenere una condizione di somiglianza limitata con la divinità, oppure proporsi il compito di conquistare l’immortalità. Con la conoscenza l’uomo infatti sa di essere mortale, ma sa anche che vi è una condizione di immortalità, che è effettivamente quella di Dio e che potrebbe essere acquisita nutrendosi dell’albero della vita. Gli estensori della Genesi attribuiscono alla divinità la previsione che gli uomini abbiano animo di tentare davvero questo recupero dell’immortalità. Questo punto della Genesi è espresso in maniera del tutto chiara e, nel contempo, si configura come uno snodo decisivo nella nostra ricostruzione. Dopo avere cacciato “l’uomo” dall’Eden, la divinità pone a guardia dell’entrata i cherubini e, con essi, “la fiamma della spada folgorante per custodire l ’accesso all ’albero della vita” (Gen 3, 24 – corsivo nostro), quell’albero che insieme all’albero della conoscenza si trova nella parte interna del giardino. Riprendiamo la citazione di prima per completarla con l’ammonizione divina circa la volontà di conquistare l’immortalità da parte dell’uomo: “Il Signore Dio disse allora: ‘Ecco che l’uomo è diventato come uno di noi, conoscendo il bene e il male!’ Ed ora ch’egli non stenda la sua mano e non prenda l ’albero della vita, sì che ne mangi e viva in eterno” (Gen 3, 22 – corsivo nostro). L’uomo è ormai diventato “come” uno di noi; Dio non vuole che, sommando conoscenza e immortalità, diventi “uno di noi”. Somiglianza dunque sì, ma limitata, non tale da accrescersi e da trasformarsi in una condizione di uguaglianza, di parità, se non addirittura di identità, con Dio. Del resto, il principio della somiglianza limitata con la divinità aveva già guidato l’azione di Dio fin dalle origini: l’uomo, creato a immagine e somiglianza di Dio, era dotato sì dell’a-mortalità edenica, ma non della conoscenza del bene e del male. Ora, acquisita la conoscenza del bene e del male, non può, non deve volere anche l’immortalità. Occorre dissuaderlo, occorre impedirglielo. Ed è bene che l’uomo accetti questa sua condizione. In Siracide troviamo espressa chiaramente l’idea dell’accettazione della morte da parte dell’essere umano: “Non temere la sentenza della morte, / pensa a quanti sono stati e a quanti seguiranno; / se questa è la sentenza del Signore per ogni carne, / perché rifiutare ciò che piace all’Altissimo?” (Sir 41, 3-4). In effetti, “Il Signore ha creato l’uomo dalla terra, / e ad essa lo fa di nuovo tornare. / Gli ha concesso giorni contati e tempo definito” (Sir 17, 1-2). In Qohèlet la consapevolezza dell’ineluttabilità della morte è ancora più profonda. Gli uomini hanno infatti la stessa sorte degli animali: “come muoiono questi così muoiono quelli”, e l’uomo non ha “nulla in più” rispetto agli animali, dato che “gli uni e gli altri sono vento vano”, gli uni e gli altri “tornano ad essere polvere” (Qo 3, 19-20). E tuttavia la morte – inflitta da Dio all’uomo – è pur sempre nella disponibilità della volontà divina: Dio l’ha imposta alla creatura a lui più simile, allon-

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tanando l’uomo dall’Eden e dalla condizione divina, ma potrebbe anche decidere di togliere la morte dal destino dell’uomo, riavvicinandolo di nuovo alla divinità. Non è quindi impossibile prevedere – come succede in effetti nel profeta Isaia – che alla fine Dio “distruggerà per sempre la morte” (Is 25, 8). 5. I l

r ecu pe ro de l l a som igl i a n z a or igi na r i a e la

“ de i f icat io ”

com e proce s so

Il Cristianesimo si innesta in questo preciso nodo della somiglianza dialettica uomo / Dio, ossia la mortalità imposta come condanna e la possibilità, prima o poi, di uscire fuori da questa condizione e di riguadagnare l’immortalità. Ovviamente, dipende da Dio. Infatti, l’idea di fondo è che il recupero dell’immortalità non può certo essere dovuto a un’azione di forza da parte dell’uomo: non è possibile forzare l’entrata nell’Eden e cibarsi di nascosto dell’albero della vita. È Dio che – se vorrà – potrà consentire un riavvicinamento dell’essere umano alla condizione divina, un ri-accrescimento della somiglianza con Dio stesso. Se l’uomo è stato fatto da Dio a sua immagine e somiglianza, la mortalità – sia pure come punizione divina – appare in effetti come uno stravolgimento dell’antropo-poiesi originaria, un’anomalia, un fallimento della stessa impresa divina, a cui soltanto Dio potrebbe eventualmente porre rimedio. Il recupero dell’immortalità – consentito e voluto da Dio – non solo incrementerebbe in maniera decisiva la somiglianza con il creatore, ma determinerebbe anche una restaurazione della condizione umana originaria. Questa possibilità, prospettata – come si è visto – dal profeta Isaia, viene assunta esplicitamente dal Cristianesimo, il quale predica infatti la nuova e definitiva alleanza con Dio. Proviamo a enucleare i punti decisivi della nuova alleanza, e dunque di un nuovo rapporto con Dio, che riconfigura in termini innovativi il compito antropo-poietico. Si tratta infatti non soltanto di una nuova alleanza, ma – con essa e grazie ad essa – di instaurare un “uomo nuovo” (ne parla Paolo di Tarso in Ef 2, 15; 3, 24: gr. kainos anthropos, lt. novus homo), di inventarsi una nuova e inedita impresa antropo-poietica, di cui solo Dio è l’iniziatore e il garante. Poiché per i primi cristiani si tratta dello stesso Dio della Genesi – il Dio di Abramo, di Isacco e di Giacobbe – è come se, con l’uomo nuovo, Dio rifacesse, in modo un po’ diverso, la creatura umana. L’apostolo Paolo lo dice espressamente: “In realtà, noi siamo sua opera [poiema, factura], creati in Cristo Gesù” (Ef 2, 10). Con la venuta di Gesù, l’umanità è stata rifatta: non siamo più l’uomo vecchio, siamo l’uomo nuovo. Beninteso, come abbiamo già sottolineato, è Dio che prende l’iniziativa, facendo nascere suo figlio, Gesù, tra gli uomini. Secondo quanto afferma Paolo, Gesù si trova in una posizione intermedia: egli è

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“mediatore” (gr. mesites, lt. mediator) “fra Dio e gli uomini” (1Tm 2, 5), nel senso che partecipa di entrambe le nature, ossia è compiutamente sia uomo sia Dio. In quanto figlio di Dio, egli è fornito di natura divina; in quanto figlio dell’uomo, in tutto è stato reso simile agli uomini, eccetto che per il peccato (Eb 4, 15). La missione di Gesù è quella di immedesimarsi nella condizione umana, di conoscere e provare soprattutto ciò a cui essa è stata ridotta con la cacciata dall’Eden e con l’allontanamento da Dio, ossia la morte. Egli si rende così simile all’uomo da assumere su di sé la sofferenza e la morte. Ma Gesù risorge, e questo evento, che soltanto un essere divino poteva compiere, segna la liberazione dell’uomo dalla morte. Seguendo e unendosi a Gesù, gli esseri umani possono passare dalla “corruzione” alla “incorruttibilità”, dallo “squallore” in cui prima vivevano allo “splendore”, dalla “infermità” alla “potenza”, dal “corpo naturale” al “corpo spirituale” (1Cor 15, 42-44). La morte, a cui l’uomo era stato condannato, è ora “ingoiata nella vittoria […] Dov’è, o morte, il tuo pungiglione?” (1Cor 15, 54-55). Con l’invio di suo figlio, Dio si è avvicinato agli uomini: nella figura di suo figlio, si è perfino mescolato con gli uomini, tanto da esserne apparentemente indistinguibile. Con il ritorno di Gesù al padre, sono ora gli uomini che possono – anzi, debbono – avvicinarsi a Dio, rendersi sempre più simili alla divinità. Reinventata da Dio mediante il passaggio dall’uomo vecchio all’uomo nuovo, l’antropo-poiesi che conduce dalla condizione umana a quella divina è ora affidata alle mani dell’uomo. Gesù con la sua venuta e poi con il suo ritorno, ha indicato la strada: occorre seguirlo, imitarlo in questo progressivo avvicinamento a Dio. Ora che, grazie a Cristo Gesù, “abbiamo pace con Dio”, ora che siamo stati “riconciliati con Dio in virtù della morte del Figlio suo” (Rm 5, 1; 5, 10), “abbiamo libero accesso al Padre” (Ef 2, 18). Per una creatura confinata in una condizione di corruzione, di squallore, di impotenza e di morte, si apre ora una strada maestra, che consente di trascendere i limiti entro cui era stata a lungo imprigionata e di acquisire ciò che maggiormente l’avvicina a Dio. Non si tratta più di una somiglianza statica, ridotta, limitata, bloccata dall’ineluttabilità della morte. Si tratta invece ora della possibilità di un processo di assomigliamento, di una sempre più accentuata “assimilazione a Dio”, che i padri della Chiesa non hanno avuto esitazione a descrivere in termini di vera e propria deificatio, di “farsi dio”. 43 Nel Vangelo di Giovanni troviamo espresso molto bene questo punto, là dove Gesù afferma “Io e il Padre siamo uno” (Gv 10, 30). Gesù sta in mezzo tra Dio e gli uomini: è Gesù colui che apre 43.  Cfr. W. Jaeger , Cristianesimo primitivo e paideia greca, Firenze 1966, 116, 126 n. 29; F. R emotti, Fare umanità. I drammi dell ’antropo-poiesi, Roma-Bari 2013, 175-177.

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la strada alla antropo-poiesi deificante. Come si ricorderà, all’udire quella frase “i Giudei raccolsero di nuovo delle pietre per lapidarlo” (Gv 10, 31). In effetti, stiamo assistendo qui allo scontro tra due visioni antropo-poietiche: la prima, quella dei Giudei, fermi all’idea secondo cui l’essere umano, dopo il tentativo fallito di farsi dio, ha subito – per sua colpa – un allontanamento irrecuperabile dalla condizione divina; la seconda, quella incarnata da Gesù, secondo la quale sarebbe giunto il momento di riavvicinarsi a Dio, non più per suggerimento del serpente, ma grazie alla misericordia della stessa divinità. Gesù chiede ai Giudei per quale motivo vorrebbero lapidarlo e la risposta è oltre modo significativa: “Non ti lapidiamo per un’opera buona, ma per una bestemmia: perché tu che sei uomo, ti fai Dio [gr. poieis seauton Theon; lt. facis teipsum Deum]” (Gv 10, 33). Nella cultura ebraica non è il caso di ripetere il tentativo originario della deificatio: quel gesto è già stato condannato ed ha segnato per sempre il destino dell’umanità. Nel rispondere ai suoi accusatori Gesù va a scovare nella Scrittura un passo in cui la stessa divinità afferma la natura divina degli esseri umani. Anche se non citato direttamente, si tratta senza dubbio del seguente passo dei Salmi, riferito ai giudici: “Siete dèi [elohîm], tutti figli dell’Altissimo!” (Sal 82, 6). Ma il Salmo prosegue: “Eppure morrete come ogni uomo”. La natura divina dell’essere giudice o della funzione giudicante è inesorabilmente bloccata dalla morte. Gesù al contrario afferma di essere “figlio di Dio”, come è dimostrato dalle opere che compie. Si tratta di un rapporto di intrinseca consustanzialità, fino a indurre Gesù a esprimersi in questo modo: “il Padre è in me ed io nel Padre”, prima di riuscire a sfuggire alle mani dei Giudei che volevano arrestarlo (Gv 10, 36-39). Il contrasto tra la visione secondo cui la strada di avvicinamento antropopoietico a Dio è sbarrata, così da fruire soltanto di una somiglianza limitata con la divinità, e la visione secondo cui invece è stato riaperto un canale di comunicazione con Dio, in modo tale da consentire agli uomini di diventare “partecipi della natura divina” (2Pt 1, 4), appare infine con tutta evidenza nel processo di fronte a Pilato. Qui, infatti, i Giudei affermano: “Noi abbiamo una legge e secondo la legge deve morire, perché si è fatto Figlio di Dio [gr. huion Theou heauton epoiesen; lt. filium Dei se fecit]” (Gv 19, 7). Secondo i Giudei, è inconcepibile che un uomo voglia farsi Dio: questa hybris di deificazione è già stata oggetto di condanna esattamente alle origini dell’umanità. Per i Cristiani è invece lo stesso Dio che, inviando tra gli uomini il proprio figlio, apre la strada alla deificatio, il cui risultato più importante è l’ottenimento della “vita eterna”. Come in Paolo, così nel vangelo di Giovanni questo tema è assolutamente centrale. Seguendo il testo di Adriana Destro e Mauro Pesce dedicato a Giovanni, possiamo vedere molto bene in questo vangelo l’intento e la promessa di una nuova, rinnovata antropo-poiesi: scopo della missione di Gesù è infatti quello di “imprimere una nuova condizione al genere umano”, che

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consiste nell’ottenimento della “vita eterna” (Gv 5, 24).  4 4 Questo scopo – “far nascere individui nuovi”, ovvero “far diventare figli di Dio” coloro che accolgono il nuovo messaggio – viene assunto dagli stessi discepoli di Gesù. 45 Importante qui è cogliere due aspetti: come già in Paolo, la missione è rivolta al mondo, a tutti gli uomini; inoltre, ciò che si prospetta è un procedere, un diventare, un portare “a compimento”. Un conto è infatti il figlio di Dio e un altro conto sono coloro che, accogliendo il figlio di Dio, hanno ricevuto “il potere di diventare figli di Dio” (Gv 1, 12 – corsivo nostro) e quindi di ricevere “la vita eterna” (Gv 5, 24  4 6); Ciò che dunque si prospetta è un processo, un cammino: non una condizione già data, ma un’antropo-poiesi a cui porre mano e che si svolge lungo un divenire, che vede impegnati singoli esseri umani, comunità e società, nonché, come vedremo tra breve, intere civiltà. I padri della Chiesa hanno chiamato questa nuova antropo-poiesi deificatio, farsi e quindi diventare dèi. Quale forma può rivestire l’antropo-poiesi deificante? Qui ci limitiamo a indicare tre forme. La prima è molto ben specificata nei vangeli di Matteo, Marco, Luca e nella prima lettera ai Corinzi di Paolo, là dove Gesù invita i discepoli a mangiare il pane e bere il vino da lui consacrati: “Prendete e mangiate: questo è il mio corpo” […] Bevetene tutti: questo è infatti il mio sangue dell’alleanza” (Mt 26, 26-29). A proposito del corpo mangiato e del sangue bevuto Paolo usa il termine koinonía, comunione (1Cor 10, 16). Si tratta del corpo e del sangue del figlio di Dio, e dunque è una vera e propria teofagia, grazie alla quale l’unione con la vita divina viene realizzata nella più profonda intimità dell’essere umano. 47 Nel vangelo di Giovanni, il tema della teofagia viene anticipato nella predicazione avvenuta nella sinagoga di Cafarnao, dove Gesù afferma: “se non mangiate la carne del Figlio dell’uomo e non bevete il suo sangue, non avete la vita in voi. Chi si ciba della mia carne e beve il mio sangue, ha la vita eterna” (Gv 6, 53-54). Ottenere la vita eterna è il momento decisivo e culminante della deificatio dell’essere umano, del suo divenire figlio di Dio, della sua partecipazione e anzi comunione alla natura divina. E per diventare così simili a Dio da godere, come la divinità, della vita eterna, occorre “mangiare” la carne del figlio di Dio e “bere” il suo sangue: la teofagia è al centro di questa antropo-poiesi divinizzante. Come è noto, sia il Concilio di Trento sia il più recente Concilio Vaticano II hanno sostenuto che non si tratta di metafore: ciò che nell’Eucarestia si mangia e si beve è esattamente il corpo e il sangue di Cristo, figlio di Dio e figlio dell’uomo. E non si tratta di un 44.  Cfr. A. Destro -M. Pesce , Come nasce una religione. Antropologia ed esegesi del Vangelo di Giovanni, Roma-Bari 2000, 25. 45.  Ivi, 95. 46.  Ivi, 128. 47.  Cfr. F. Remotti, Contro natura. Una lettera al Papa, Roma-Bari 2008, 242247.

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unico gesto solitario, compiuto una sola volta, ma di un gesto che viene di continuo ripetuto, così che l’essere umano abbia da incorporare e assimilare ripetutamente la sostanza divina, per alimentarsene, fortificarsi e trasformarsi. Il Cristianesimo compie qui una scelta molto significativa, proponendosi come esempio macroscopico di religione teofagica. 48 James G. Frazer aveva dedicato un capitolo del suo The Golden Bough alla teofagia, intitolandolo “Del mangiare gli dèi”, ma nella sua trattazione il Cristianesimo – a differenza degli Aztechi pre-ispanici – rimane decisamente sullo sfondo. 49 È molto probabile che l’antropo-poiesi teofagica continui a essere uno scandalo. L’invito, anzi l’ordine di Gesù a mangiare il suo corpo e a bere il suo sangue suona sconcertante, scandaloso e persino repellente: “questo discorso è duro. Chi lo può ascoltare?”, si chiedono i suoi discepoli (Gv 6, 60). Eppure, fin dalle origini il Cristianesimo colloca la teofagia alla base e al centro del proprio messaggio. Si diventa “figli di Dio”, si diventa come Dio, mangiando – e non solo per metafora – la sua carne e bevendo il suo sangue: così si guadagna la vita eterna e si riconquista la vera e originaria condizione umana. Se la teofagia è l’introduzione e l’assimilazione della sostanza divina nel corpo umano, la figura di Origene di Alessandria (185-253 d.C.) può essere assunta come esemplificazione di una seconda forma di deificatio, quella che consiste non nell’incorporare la divinità, ma nel liberarsi progressivamente dei condizionamenti del corpo per andare verso la divinità. Come è noto, Origene provvide a evirarsi allo scopo di essere adatto al “Regno dei cieli”, seguendo alla lettera l’indicazione alquanto enigmatica di Gesù (Mt 19, 12). Più in generale, Origene intende la vita spirituale come una “scalata magnifica e sofferta”, fatta di rinunce, di purificazione e di ascesi, verso la “mistica unione con Dio”. 50 A illuminare la strada è “l’imitazione di Cristo”. Rinunciando al mondo e alle passioni del corpo, l’anima dell’uomo viene a tal punto purificata che infine “Dio abita in lei”. 51 Si tratta di un avvicinamento costante e progressivo, così che la contemplazione di Dio “realizza per gradi la divinizzazione dell’uomo”. Ciò che si prospetta è un processo lungo e faticoso, in virtù del quale il cristiano diviene per Origene “amico di Dio”, “figlio di Dio”, “fratello di Cristo”, “ed anche ‘dio’”. È un percorso infatti che eleva l’uomo “al di sopra della pura natura umana”: tra uomo e Dio si realizza una compenetrazione profonda, una unione intima, quale quella dello sposo con la sposa. Come non ricordare che fu appunto Origene a interpretare l’erotismo del Cantico dei 48.  Cfr. P. Smith, A  Short History of Christian Theophagy, Chicago 1922. 49.  Cfr. J. G. Frazer , Il ramo d ’oro. Studio sulla magia e la religione, Torino 1965, 753-770. 50.  G. M. Colombás , Il monachesimo delle origini, t. 2 (Spiritualità), Milano 1990, 45. 51.  Ivi, 46.

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cantici come aspirazione all’unione con Dio? Se la deificatio eucaristica fa ricorso al processo fisiologico dell’alimentazione e dell’assimilazione organica, l’avvicinamento e la fusione con Dio immaginati da Origene trovano invece nell’eros e nell’unione sessuale la loro base metaforica, e l’amore – come il cibo – è anch’esso desiderio profondo di assimilazione. 52 Nel 543 l’opera di Origene fu condannata dal concilio ecumenico di Costantinopoli, e tuttavia – come sostiene García Colombás – essa è a fondamento di tutta la vita monastica del Cristianesimo antico. Vogliamo ora soffermarci su una terza forma di deificatio, che dal Cristianesimo più primitivo ci conduce fino ai nostri giorni. Per illustrare, sia pure in termini estremamente sintetici, questo percorso, occorre tornare all’origine di questo discorso, cioè al momento in cui nella Genesi assistiamo alla creazione e modellazione dell’essere umano da parte della divinità. Nel paragrafo 4 avevamo citato Gn 1, 26 (“Facciamo l’uomo a norma della nostra immagine, come nostra somiglianza”), espungendo però ciò che viene immediatamente dopo: “affinché possa dominare sui pesci del mare e sui volatili del cielo, sul bestiame e sulle fiere della terra e su tutti i rettili che strisciano sulla terra”. Com’è noto, questo duplice argomento (somiglianza con Dio e dominio sulla terra) viene ribadito nei versetti successivi (27-28): “Dio creò gli uomini a norma della sua immagine”, per poi dire loro “Siate fecondi e moltiplicativi, riempite la terra e soggiogatela, ed abbiate dominio sui pesci del mare, sui volatili del cielo, sul bestiame e su ogni essere vivente che striscia sulla terra”. È del tutto evidente il nesso, espresso nel v. 26, tra la somiglianza con Dio e il dominio sulla terra: Dio foggia l’uomo a sua immagine “affinché” possa dominare e soggiogare la natura; in quanto creatura più simile a Dio, l’uomo è legittimato a esercitare il proprio dominio sugli altri esseri del creato. Come si è già fatto notare altrove, 53 vi è chi ha visto nella Genesi una sorta di manifesto di una società che ha ormai incorporato le pratiche e l’ideologia della rivoluzione agricola. 54 Qui vogliamo fare notare che, con l’invenzione dell’uomo nuovo – l’uomo cioè che vede riaprirsi la strada dell’assomigliamento progressivo a Dio – il dominio sulla natura assume un nuovo significato, quello cioè di un compito antropo-poietico che si realizza nella sfera profana, economica e tecnologica: “quanto più l’uomo domina la terra, tanto più egli si rende simile a Dio”. 55 Certo, con la cacciata dall’Eden l’uomo era stato condannato alla mortalità e a lavorare la 52.  Origene e Gregorio di Nissa, Sul Cantico dei cantici. Testo greco e latino a fronte, a cura di V. Limone e C. Moreschini, Milano 2016. 53. Cfr. F. Remotti, Fare umanità. I drammi dell ’antropo-poiesi, Roma-Bari 2013, 173. 54. Cfr. N. E ldredge , Dominion. Can Nature and Culture Co-Exists?, New York 1995 e I. Tattersal , Il cammino dell ’uomo, Milano 2004. 55. F. Remotti, Fare umanità. I drammi dell ’antropo-poiesi, Roma-Bari 2013, 173.

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terra con fatica e sudore: era stato un gesto con cui la divinità aveva allontanato l’essere umano da sé. Ora, grazie alla riconciliazione con Dio e alla nuova alleanza, si tratta di riavvicinarsi a Dio anche per quanto riguarda il dominio sulla terra. Non si tratta più di accettare la condizione umiliante del lavoro faticoso della terra; al contrario, occorre ora partire da questa condizione di inferiorità e con la tecnologia progredire verso una condizione di sempre maggiore somiglianza alla divinità. Lo storico David Noble ha avuto il grande merito di farci vedere come, a cominciare dal Medio Evo e fino alla modernità attuale, affiori di continuo la convinzione che progressi e miglioramenti tecnologici siano fattori e prova di una somiglianza sempre più ravvicinata a Dio. Per Scoto Eriugena (810-877), le arti pratiche costituivano “un mezzo di recupero della perfezione dell’umanità e dell’originaria immagine divina”, e per Ugo di San Vittore (1096-1141) ciò di cui si preoccupano le arti meccaniche è “restituire a noi la divina somiglianza”. 56 Ovviamente, non sono sufficienti queste semplici citazioni per dimostrare come la deificatio cristiana si sia tradotta anche in un progressivo incremento tecnologico tutto motivato dalla convinzione di poterci rendere sempre più simili a Dio. Non c’è più spazio per approfondire questo tema. Qui ci limitiamo a sottolineare, sulla scorta di Noble, la continuità tra Medio Evo e Modernità e a indicare i tre principali ambiti in cui si esprime la deificatio in campo tecnologico: a) lo sfruttamento e il dominio sulla terra (non solo sull’ambiente naturale, ma anche sulle altre società umane); b) la sconfitta della morte e il prolungamento della vita umana; c) l’assunzione del ruolo di creatori, in campo biologico e genetico, così come in quello dell’intelligenza artificiale. L’aspetto su cui Noble insiste molto è la persistenza – non solo nella modernità, ma anche nell’ultra-modernità – del carattere religioso a fondamento del progresso tecnologico, concepito come un’impresa illimitata: “la tradizione della religione della tecnologia è ancora con noi, con tutti noi”. 57 È il Cristianesimo, con la sua fede nel recupero dell’immortalità e di una sempre più pronunciata somiglianza con Dio, ad avere ispirato la civiltà tecnologica in cui viviamo. Oggi, sono molti a chiedersi se questa aspirazione a farci noi stessi dèi grazie alla tecnologia non sia il punto su cui soffermarsi con spirito critico. Ne abbiamo già parlato a proposito dell’antropo-poiesi moderna. 58 Qui ci piace concludere con due riferimenti ulteriori. Da una parte lo storico israeliano Yuval Noah Harari, il quale fa notare come Homo sapiens, all’origine un animale insignificante, si sia trasformato ormai “nel signore 56.  D. Noble , La religione della tecnologia. Divinità dell ’uomo e spirito d ’invenzione, Torino 2000, 25. 57.  Ivi, 6. 58.  F. Remotti, Fare umanità. I drammi dell ’antropo-poiesi, Roma-Bari 2013, 56-59, 171-195.

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dell’intero pianeta e nel terrore dell’ecosistema”. 59 “Oggi” – prosegue Harari – “è sul punto di diventare un dio, pronto ad acquisire non solo l’eterna giovinezza, ma anche le capacità divine di creare e di distruggere”. E conclude le sue riflessioni con questa domanda: “Può esserci qualcosa di più pericoloso di una massa di dèi insoddisfatti e irresponsabili che non sanno neppure ciò che vogliono?”. Non sarà fuori luogo far notare come nella prima metà del Novecento un altro pensatore di origine ebraica, Sigmund Freud, si fosse dimostrato molto sensibile al tema dell’uomo-dio: “Oggi” questo animale indifeso “è diventato lui stesso quasi un dio” e “le età future” vedranno accrescere ancor più “la somiglianza dell’uomo con Dio”, anche se questo non sarà fonte di felicità. 60 Secondo Noble, è il Cristianesimo ad avere indicato la via antropopoietica dell’avvicinamento progressivo a Dio, ad avere ispirato la deificatio moderna. È quindi oltre modo significativo (ecco il secondo riferimento) che proprio dai vertici della Chiesa cattolica provenga ora un messaggio, che sembra interrompere questo cammino e quasi invertire il senso della sua marcia. Nell’Enciclica Laudato si’ papa Francesco, in linea con alcuni pronunciamenti del suo predecessore Benedetto XVI, provvede in primo luogo ad attenuare, anzi addirittura a negare la propensione antropo-poietica dell’essere umano. Citando Benedetto XVI, egli afferma: “L’uomo non crea se stesso. Egli è spirito e volontà, ma è anche natura”. 61 Nell’Enciclica è esplicita la condanna della pretesa da parte degli uomini di “prendere il posto di Dio”. 62 “Noi non siamo Dio” e – aggiunge Francesco – “la terra ci precede”. C’è nell’Enciclica un senso di appartenenza dell’uomo alla natura, da cui discende l’esigenza di “porre fine al mito moderno del progresso materiale illimitato” e l’impossibilità di interpretare il racconto della Genesi come un invito a soggiogare la terra. 63 È significativo che nell’Enciclica venga ricordata la creazione dell’uomo ad “immagine e somiglianza” di Dio soltanto come gesto di “amore” da parte della divinità.  6 4 In questo scritto abbiamo visto invece che l’imago Dèi, la quale secondo il Cristianesimo contrassegna l’essere umano, è qualcosa di molto più problematico: è un nodo, rispetto a cui sono state operate scelte difformi, che hanno avuto conseguenze culturalmente profonde e antropologicamente rilevanti, come la scelta tra una somiglianza finita, bloccata (§ 4) e, invece, una deificatio sempre più spinta e alla fine rovinosa (§ 5).

59.  Y. N. Harari, Da animali a dèi. Breve storia dell ’umanità, Milano 2014, 506. 60.  Cfr. S. Freud, Il disagio della civiltà e altri saggi, Torino 1971, 227-228. 61.  Papa Francesco, Laudato si’ (Lettera Enciclica), Segrate 2015, 60. 62.  Ivi, 98. 63.  Ivi, 105. 64.  Ivi, 97.

SILENCE AND WORDS Monastic Soundscapes∗ F. Sbardella Space and sonority, to be intended as a (sound) quality of space itself, are two fundamental aspects of people’s corporality as individual subjects but also, and inevitably, as members of a societal group. Through their own bodies, individuals can construct environments, control situations and emotions, and locate objects and knowledge. At the same time, they can experiment and incorporate specific environmental structures, while receiving inputs and impressions. These environments shall be called soundscapes, i.e. auditory landscapes. 1 The world is full of sounds and any subject acts in a context that is acoustically characterized in one way or another. In this sense, sound can be considered as «both an ordered and ordering force». 2 Everyone performs gestures and actions more or less intentionally and in compliance with variable sound modalities on a daily basis. These gestures greatly contribute to defining the surrounding space and, as a consequence, they characterize the individual’s persona. The body memorizes auditory representations determining behavioural choices and habits, which tend to generate and maintain precise spatiality conditions – spatiality being the characteristic of being located in space 3 – as they are reified through time. The present work is based on observant participation in an ethnographic study, during which the researcher lived the life of a postulant within two French monastic groups of Carmelite Nuns. 4 The main aim is to analyse the relation between sound (auditory sensation) – here intended as the absence of sound, i.e. silence – and cloistered space, with a view to * This article is a reworking of “Inhabited silence. Sound constructions of monastic spatiality”, Etnográfica 17 (2013), 515-534. 1. B. Blesser , Spaces Speak: Are You Listening? (Cambridge, 2007),15. 2. R. Atkinson, “Ears Have Walls. Thoughts on the Listening Body in Urban Space”, Journal of Media Geography 7 (2011) 20-28; 24. 3. F. R emotti, Luoghi e corpi. Antropologia dello spazio, del tempo e del potere (Torino, 1993), 31. 4.  Due to confidentiality reasons, the names of the convents shall not be specified. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 45-64.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117935

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appreciating to what extent the monastic silent soundscape may influence one’s self perception and religious behaviour while structuring and favouring the group’s activity as a whole. The context under examination is an extreme condition of sound reduction, affecting both sound-speech (i.e. verbal communication) and sound-noise (i.e. any other acoustic event). Indeed the same context is particularly interesting when analysing how auditory representations, and the resulting acoustic norms, form and de-form dwelling spatiality which, in turn, contributes to constructing the religious subject. The construction and de-construction of monastic spaces, their management and use are designed and experienced primarily on a sound basis, as concerns a quest for silence. As explained herein, this means suspension, regulation and canalization of both speech and noise. According to Tim Ingold, 5 the construction of space coincides with dwelling. It is in the very process of dwelling that individuals can shape the surrounding world as well as themselves. The direct relation between the interpretation of sound – or absence thereof as analysed herein – and daily life experience, where space plays a central role, should also be acknowledged. An attempt was made in this study to understand how a choice of seclusion, i.e. a choice of silence, may become a routine and how it can shape the processes of real life and the modelling of space along with the individuals living within that space. According to the Carmelite Rule, day after day the nuns create their system of everyday life, which is reiterated through time and transmitted through the mimesis of their gestures. Due to its secluded nature, studying a monastic context means, first and foremost, coming face to face with a concrete limitation on access and then, once this limitation has been overcome, dealing with the forms of structured silence. Going beyond the grating and, consequently, beyond what is reported by those who choose to live behind it means being allowed to take part in real life situations that are normally inaccessible to lay people. Thus researchers find themselves having to play a completely new role in a context where they have to learn everything anew. At this stage, some more precise information about the role of the researcher who conducted this study is in order. Although every monastery retains a certain degree of operational autonomy, their political-spiritual orientation still falls under the Bishop’s control and authorisations. Therefore, it is clear that the possibility of participating in cloistered life must be voted and approved of by the nuns’ council, but it must also be endorsed by the ecclesiastic authorities. Being admitted to cloistered life for research 5. T. I ngold, The Perception Of The Environment: Essays On Livelihood, Dwelling And Skill (London-New York, 2000), 172.

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purposes entailed the researcher to enter the convent as if she were a postulant, i.e. she who, as described in canon law, after expressing the desire to enter a religious order is admitted for a trial period, called postulancy. During this first step, before deciding whether to serve her novitiate or not, the person involved begins her living experiences inside the convent, lasting for one or two months. This enabled the researcher, during her stay, 6 to take on the rights/obligations that are normally applied to the postulants, and to personally follow the learning stages through which these women, acting upon themselves, construe their religious being. The first learning stage consists in deconstructing the social representation of the female person to progressively replace her with another one. In order to fully take part in everyday life, both in praying and in working, the researcher was assigned to a cell, as is the case with any other postulant, in contact with the other nuns, and was assisted by the so-called ange gardien, i.e. a nun in charge of explaining appropriate behaviour and helping her. In fact the possibility of entering the convent as a scientific investigator had already been discarded by the nuns themselves, since they rightly pointed out that such a presence, with its excessive number of questions and investigations, would have altered the ordinary course of life in the convent. Similarly, it would have put the researcher in the position of a mere observer, preventing her from concretely experiencing movements, efforts, and habits. In fact, many gestures in cloistered life are invisible and can only be observed by experimenting them on one’s own body. The main research focus was not to address the issue of choosing to isolate oneself from the rest of the world, as a unique and unrepeatable moment marking the beginning of a new life for the person involved; instead an attempt was made to understand how such a choice, considered a specific event, 7 may become one’s daily life and contribute to shaping the persona and processes of one’s concrete life. Interestingly, although the researcher aimed to study such a Catholic otherness from a lay perspective, as if it were something external and distant, she found that her background had been influenced much more than she would expect and admit, as a result of her education as a western scholar.

6.  The researcher spent two months and a half in each convent as she was the only postulant at that time. Subsequently, she also had the opportunity to pay further visits for a short time. 7. A. D’H aenens , “Quotidianità e vive contesto. Per un modello di interpretazione della realtà monastica medievale nei secoli XI e XII”, in Monachesimo e Ordini Religiosi nel Medioevo subalpino (Bibliografia degli Studi 1945-1984) (Torino, 1985) 17-56; 17.

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1. Th e Voice

of

S i l e nce

Silence is usually analyzed from a number of different perspectives, i.e. technical, speculative, mystic or literary ones. Technically speaking, silence is a necessary condition for speech to materialize in its sound form and meaning. In this sense, silence surrounds and regulates the speech process, and it is an integral part of any communicative interaction. The pace of speech, or speech rate, is based on words and pauses. This perspective thus includes linguistic or ethnolinguistic analyses, mostly focused on questions concerning language in terms of grammar or interdependence between languages. 8 The second perspective mentioned above frames silence as that which cannot be expressed by theoretical research, i.e. beyond what can be said and described, thus marking the boundary of human knowledge and understanding, which are considered to be incomplete and relative. 9 Thirdly, the mystic perspective tends to interpret silence on the basis of ecclesiastical, normative or doctrinal texts. 10 Finally, further contributions pertain to studies in literature, 11 and in the history of philosophical-religious thoughts. 12 All the research areas mentioned so far seem to have only a theoretical-interpretative scope, offering analyses that do not hinge on real situations and practices. On the other hand, some contributions from sociolinguistics, 13 or more specifically from anthropology, 14 together with recent works on sound in urban contexts 15 and on music/sound in monastic contexts 16 have paved the way to investigations based on field work, 8.  G. R. Cardona , Introduzione all ’etnolinguistica (Bologna, 1976). 9. L.  Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus: Tagebucher 1914-1916, Suhrkamp, Frankfurt Am Main [English Translation, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (London, Routledge & Kegan 1955)]. 10. J.-C. Petit, “Garder Le Silence”, Théologiques 7 (1999), 3-10; F. Blée , “Aux frontières du silence”, Théologiques 7 (1999), 79-94. 11. P. Valesio, Ascoltare il silenzio. La retorica come teoria (Bologna, 1986); G.  Steiner , Language and Silence. Essays on Language, Literature and Inhuman (London, 1967). 12. J.-L. Chrétien, L’arche de la Parole (Paris, 1998); A. Nesti, Il silenzio come altrove. Paradigmi di un fenomeno religioso (Roma, 1989); I. I llich, “The Eloquence Of Silence”, in I d., Celebration Of Awareness, Harmondsworth (Penguin, 1984), 39-46. 13. D. Tanner-S. T.  Muriel , eds, Perspectives on Silence (Norwood, 1985). 14. W. J. Samarin, “Language Of Silence”, Practical Anthropology 12 (1965), 115-119; J. Jamin, Les lois du silence. Essai sur la fonction sociale du secret (Paris, 1977); D. L e Breton, Du silence (Paris, 1997); D. L e Breton, “Anthropologie du silence”, Théologiques 7 (1999), 11-28. 15. R. Atkinson, “Ears Have Walls. Thoughts on the Listening Body in Urban Space”, Journal of Media Geography 7 (2011), 20-28; 24. 16. A. J. H aste , “Prayerful Silence And Creative Response In Twenty-FirstCentury Monasticism”, Journal Of Culture And Religion 13 (2013) 268-288.

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where sound and silence are seen as social practices through the analysis of concrete situations. However, the present work went even beyond that, being a study based on observant participation in which the researcher played a protagonist and active role – as Jeanne Favret-Saada put it, it is a form of non-represented involvement. 17 This is a kind of active and non-simulated involvement, through which the anthropologist steps in as an actual actor in the dynamics of the group under examination and is forced, sometimes due to external and contextual factors, to leave her institutional role aside. In particular, the present paper aims to give a new phenomenological interpretation of monastic silence, focusing on what the interested subjects do, hear and say, with the researcher being directly engaged in the field as a protagonist social actor. In this sense, it is worth highlighting the relationship between one’s interpretation of silence and one’s daily life experience. By having access to concrete situations, which are linked to local and everyday contexts, it is possible to illustrate the strength and the role attached to the lack of speech production in practice. This provides the social actors with a valuable means of both context creation and identity definition. Cloistered life implies right from the beginning that a person has to face an extreme sound dimension, having a total impact on the individual and space, namely silence. Globalisation and social mobility in terms of sound can be used at an emic level to define the identity of the monastic group in a negative sense. The monastic daily life is characterised by the tendency to annihilate sound coming from individuals and the environment and is designed to be in contrast to external sound flow. Spatiality is a fundamental practical means to achieve such an aspiration. As explained below, the construction of the nun-woman takes place through her reduction to essentials, eliminating all that is superfluous both on a material level and on an emotional and linguistic one. For the sake of clarity, a standard monastic day is briefly taken into consideration. Time is organised on the basis of the Liturgy of the Hours, i.e. a number of moments dedicated to prayer throughout the day. In addition, there are other types of meetings or gatherings of a religious-devotional nature (Mass, recitation of the Angelus and silent individual prayer) as well as for recreation and work activities. Going into greater detail, the following table shows the exact schedule of an ordinary Carmelite day. 18

17. J. Favret-Saada, “Être Affecté”, Gradiva 8 (1992) 3-9; 4. 18. On occasion of religious events, the time for praying and silence may be extended, detracting time from periods of work and recreation. Each convent may vary its times and/or time intervals between activities, but the structure remains basically unchanged.

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Table 1. Time flow of a typical Carmelite day. Time

Event

5:45

Rise

6:25

Angelus and silent individual prayer

7:30

Lauds

8:00

Breakfast

8:20

Spiritual silent reading in one’s cell

9:15

Prayer of the third hour

9:30

Work

11:45

Mass and prayer of the sixth hour

12:40

Angelus and lunch

13:45

Recreation

14:15

Prayer of the ninth hour

14:40

Free time in silence

15:30

Work

16:55

Silent individual prayer

18:00

Vespers

18:40

Angelus and dinner

19:30

Recreation

20:15

Compline or last evening prayers, office of Readings

21:45

Retire into one’s cell, silence

22:30

Rest

Excluding the two moments of recreation (30 and 45 minutes each), no verbal exchange is allowed apart from reciting prayers and chanting within the Liturgy of the Hours; all the activities, including lunch and working, are carried out in silence. In order to quantify the actual time, some specific figures must be considered: a cloistered day lasts 16 hours and 45 minutes (from 5:45 am to 10:30 pm), i.e. 1005 minutes in total. Throughout the entire day, there are 75 minutes available for any possible free sound verbalisation, i.e. approximately 7.5 percent of the time when the nuns are awake. However, this freedom of speech is channelled into precise moments (the two recreations), without any alternative choice. The use of voice is cancelled and speech is authoritatively permitted according to a pre-established time schedule. These observations inevitably lead to a consideration of the notion of constraint. Indeed, at a cognitive level, there is a sort of twofold burden due to the duration of abstention and to the obligation to comply with that behaviour, which is perceived as a moral obligation. Lack of compliance would entail the condition of ‘sin’, which must be confessed as an act of infringement against a shared reli-

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gious norm. Being able to control one’s emission of vocal sounds, and consequently of speech, is a long and demanding personal endeavour, which is part and parcel of a novice’s spiritual apprenticeship and which is to be faced for the rest of her life. As Christoph Wulf put it, being silent can also be learnt. 19 From a Catholic perspective, the condition of silence can favour the act of establishing communication with the assumed divinity, perceived as inexpressible or, as Rudolf Otto put it, as a «non-rational, non-sensory experience or feeling whose primary and immediate object is outside the self». 20 It is interesting to note that the medium (i.e. silence) used by the nuns to reach what is considered unspeakable and total ‘otherness’ belongs to the same perception level of the objective to be achieved. Thus, a kind of homeopathic process is implemented. Saint Jean de la Croix nous dit que Dieu parle dans le silence et que le silence lui-même est parole de Dieu. De toute manière, Dieu ne nous parle pas avec des mots. Les mots sont une chose qui appartient à l’humain. On dit que Dieu parle dans un silence éternel, mais c’est un silence qui est une parole (Sister C. M. 19/04/2006). 21

The cloistered experience of silence, as is perceived and lived in a Carmelite context, makes it possible to address the issue of silence attributed to the (assumed) divinity itself. While this aspect can be found in many other religious traditions, it is a prominent feature of the context taken into account in the present study. The nuns ascribe the practice of silence to their divinity too. Just like them, this divinity is also considered to be silent: it does not respond, speak, or utter words, but it does exist. An active quietness with a communicative function, indicating however a presence of company, help and support, is created. From a mystic perspective, silence is interpreted and experienced as a means to activate a communicative sharing, within which it is possible to generate a condition of closeness and contact with the supposed afterlife presence and, as a consequence, with the rest of the group. Hence, a strong symbolic construction clearly emerges: on the one hand, the possibility to speak and establish a dialogue with an abstract entity is envisaged; on the other hand, silence becomes the linguistic tool attributed to an absent subject.

19. C. Wulf, “Silenzio”, in C. Wulf, ed., Cosmo, Corpo, Cultura. Enciclopedia Antropologica (Milano, 2002), 1148-1156; 1149. 20. R. Otto, Das Heilige (München, 1917), 40. 21.  Saint John of the Cross tells us that God speaks in silence and that silence is the word of God. In any case, God does not speak with words. Words are something that belongs to human beings. It is believed that God speaks in eternal silence, but this silence is a kind of word [my translation].

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Dans un monastère, le silence est voulu pour l’union à Dieu, pour cette vie d’amour avec Dieu et avec les autres, car ça ne va jamais l’un sans l’autre (Sister J. M. 19/04/2006). 22 Et le silence n’a pas de valeur en lui-même. C’est une aide pour être présent à Dieu qui nous aime, dans le cadre de notre vie offerte à tous les hommes qui n’ont pas de temps pour Lui. […] ce n’est pas l’absence de bruit qu’il faut rechercher, c’est la présence à Dieu. D’ailleurs, le fait que nous recherchions le silence est pour nous aider à nous approcher de Dieu, pas pour exalter le silence en tant que tel (Sister M. 30/06/2009). 23

Clearly, this condition of silence is difficult to manage, in that it implies the symbolic acknowledgment of somebody/something not visible that can hardly be conceptualised and concretely expressed. The gap between what is real and what is symbolic can actually be found in silence, i.e. the most representative practice of cloistered life, but also the most extreme and problematic one. Every activity in this community is justified and experienced by the nuns in function of possibly activating this dialogue. From this viewpoint, eventually each moment and meeting during the day is perceived as a moral and/or personal obligation. Whenever a nun finds it difficult to translate, into a concrete form, her relationship with someone who is not physically present – evidence of this kind was reported in numerous instances – it is possible to resort to the help coming from the presence of others. The nun’s uncertainty is quickly recovered and reintegrated thanks to the group, and it is worth pointing out that the group is often created by sharing one space, i.e. creating and living a silent space the nuns define the identity of the group itself. By sharing emotions and space, it is possible both to give meaning to an individual’s behaviour and to keep the group united while preserving its internal balance. This common determination becomes a unifying factor and reifies the model. Each nun can see the other nuns around her acting in the same way in the same place, presumably believing in what they are doing and managing to continue to do so. This will increase self-assurance and foster community sharing. Taking part in symbolic actions is a way to shape one’s perceptions and, in this case, sound meanings. Whenever a communicative situation occurs, it is always going to take place within a certain context and this must be taken into account, regard22.  In a monastery, silence is sought because of the union with God, because of this life of love with God and others, as one shall never be without the other [my translation]. 23.  Silence has no value in itself. It is an aid to be present before God who loves us, as a part of our lives offered to all men and women who do not have time for Him. […] one shall not seek the absence of noise, but the presence of God. Then, we are seeking silence to be able to get closer to God and not to exalt silence as such [my translation].

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less of the nature of the communicative situation in question, including those situations entirely based on silence. Silence, just like speech as well as any other human behaviour, is regulated by social norms and rules. It is necessary to respect relational attitudes, habits and customs. There are implicit rules which enable two persons engaging in a conversation to understand each other. 24 This is not just a question of subject matters, but it involves relationships and shared conventions. As philosopher Herbert Paul Grice pointed out, conversation is possible because collaboration and willingness to fulfil a request can be considered basic assumptions. In order to talk together, interlocutors must be open to each other and collaborate effectively to achieve a fruitful exchange of information. These are the precise behavioural norms which allow individuals to interact in an efficient way and to reach their goal. 25 Similarly, the action of silence also presupposes an implicit context of reference and ‘functions’ as long as there is a basic agreement on its regulatory principles. In other words, there must be a consensus on what individuals are doing and an agreement on the rules of the game. Any form of silence, as much as speech, is «partagé», 26 i.e. shared. It necessarily entails a co-presence of individuals who, from the very moment that they decide to maintain their silence, perform a dialogic situation. Sharing is no secondary aspect. In seclusion it is a sort of extended sharing, involving the entire community and playing a cohesive function. It makes it possible to collectively believe in what one is doing and to better manage possible moments of disorientation and fracture. When a nun is alone, for example during her work time or spiritual reading, the shared choice prevails and is successful both in giving meaning to the individual’s behaviour and in keeping the group together as well as preserving its internal balance. This common determination is the unifying framework which allows this model to be repeated for an entire life. Each nun sees the other sisters around her who believe in what they are doing and are successful in perpetuating it. This provides personal confidence and feeds the sense of sharing in the community itself. This aspect was revealed clearly by some events that occurred during the researcher’s stay. At the end of her stays within the cloister, the nuns thanked the researcher a number of times for her presence, particularly for her steady participation, as if she were one of them, in all the community activities, including those considered most demanding such as the two hours in silent prayer. They admitted that the researcher’s presence gave them strength. This was interpreted as evidence of the fact that another person, especially a non-religious person, man24. A. Duranti, Etnografia del parlare quotidiano (Roma, 1992), 61. 25.  H. P. Grice , “Meaning”, Philosophical Review 66 (1957), 377-388; 378. 26. J.-L. Chrétien, L’arche de la Parole (Paris, 1998); A. Nesti, Il silenzio come altrove. Paradigmi di un fenomeno religioso (Roma, 1989), 83.

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aged to share some precise forms of life (or at least attempted to do so), thus she was able to act following their same direction. Such a coercive strength of the group itself imposes adherence, with more or less awareness, to behaviours and orientations. On a performative level, the group exists first and foremost as a concrete monastic group in that it shares the same silent spatiality. The monastic day is structured around the relationship between words for communication, words for praying and the absence of words. The first type, used daily by everyone, enables individuals to establish an interactive relationship and to communicate among each other. Their aim is to exchange information, let other people know and disclose mental or spiritual contents, as well as feelings. The second type is linked to acts of devotion and those who use it direct it towards the assumed divinity, with the intent to praise it, thank it, request help or forgiveness. From a relational point of view, within this community individuals are framed by an altered communicative pattern – altered at least in comparison with ordinary patterns found in the world outside – where the aim is to cancel the dialogic exchange or to take on the role of speaker with an absent and invisible interlocutor. On an emotional and/or mental level, every nun tries to establish a dialogue in absentia. Except for recreation time, what could be considered as a sort of horizontal communication among nuns seems to disappear to the benefit of a sort of vertical communication (controlled and repetitive) directed towards the assumed divinity (prayers and psalms, hymns and chants, silent prayers). A closer look reveals that silence is however a carrier of active communication between the nuns: by sharing the different forms of silence they tacitly agree to believe in the same creed, thus they express their desire to belong to that particular group. As Wulf argued, the sense of hearing is the social sense par excellence. 27 Indeed, people may feel they are part of a situation or a group, or feel excluded, depending on the words they may or may not hear, as well as the noise they may or may not perceive. At the same time, hearing is the acoustic means that can convey the three-dimensionality of space. Sight enables individuals to perceive objects only when they are in front of them, but hearing allows them to grasp what cannot be seen, what is far away, and to perceive the presence of others. This aspect acquires a very particular meaning within a monastic context. From a functional perspective, the very structure of silence allows for the idea and the sensation of contact with ‘other’ presences, although they might appear to be illusory to a certain extent. Through language, the cultural subject is able to channel the words into a range of possible meanings and then to establish a correspondence between sign and meaning. 27. C. Wulf, “Orecchio”, in C. Wulf, ed., Cosmo, Corpo, Cultura. Enciclopedia Antropologica (Milano, 2002), 448-467; 463.

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This leads to processes of semantic control and regulated usage, aimed at specific fields of relevance. With speech, individuals use a set of intersubjective signs that are able to convey, preserve and process information, which at least apparently seems to be controllable and usefully manageable for communication purposes. As Giorgio Raimondo Cardona advanced, information can be codified thanks to the correspondence between noetic nuclei and individual signs or their sequences. 28 On the other hand, Pier Aldo Rovatti found a completely different situation in silence, as there is no denomination of things and there is no semantic correspondence with the sign. Silence allows a sort of oscillation of meanings, whereby names and objects no longer match. 29 Mismatches and semantic shifts become visible: the word is not subject to the conceptual organisational structure and is led to manifest its own metaphoric halo. This way it is possible to have a greater visualization of metaphoric effects and of the unsaid. Reference is made here to visualization in that a modelling of the unsaid is produced, taking mental shape and reality in an image or sensation. Even in everyday life, ordinary people may activate such a process, attaching more meanings to the symbolic level of their silence or other people’s silence. As Wulf pointed out, the experience of the language of love, for example, is also often performed along these lines. Just consider when somebody wants to express their feeling of love to someone else and is not able to verbalize it: some forms of silence can make other people understand unspoken words and hidden feelings. 30 Similarly, Illich refers to «silence beyond words», including all those situations in which silence fulfils a communicative function without any explicit verbal exchange, as is the case with a definitive, unquestionable no, an assertive, final yes, or the silence accompanying a meaningful gesture. 31 In these cases, the linguistic capacity of words, spoken or written, seems to be insufficient and one prefers to use silence as a carrier of meaning. This kind of behaviour acts to all effects on the space-gap of the unsaid. Rovatti’s hypothesis can be helpful in better understanding cloistered silence and its related spatiality. This symbolic space may be defined as supra-linguistic and becomes the key to fulfilling one’s perception of the assumed divinity, justifying the intimate perception itself that is created during the practice of silence. The nuns attribute a mystic sense to this space, implementing a process of meaning creation in its own right. As David Le Breton put it, silence 28.  G. R. Cardona, I  sei lati del mondo. Linguaggio ed esperienza (Roma-Bari, 2006), 8. 29.  P. A. Rovatti, L’esercizio del silenzio (Milano 1992), 130. 30. C. Wulf. “Silenzio”, in C. Wulf, ed., Cosmo, Corpo, Cultura. Enciclopedia Antropologica (Milano, 2002), 1148-1156, 1153. 31. I. I llich, “The Eloquence Of Silence”, in I. I llich, Celebration of Awareness (Harmondsworth, 1984) 39-46; 43-44.

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«n’est pas seulement une certaine modalité du son, il est d’abord une certaine modalité du sens». 32 The resulting relational system is particularly strong, in managing and practising speech, where being silent is clearly not sufficient. As is the case in any other societal context, the nuns have constructed and make use of a precise code of meaning, which creates both reward and blame and, as a consequence, guides their lives. 2 . S pace G e s t u r e s The various activities, carried out one after the other, represent a fixed and repetitive framework of reference for the community, resulting in a dense and fast-paced daily pattern. The day is intense and rigidly structured, with no real possibility of making any choice of occupation or individual action: time is divided into regular slots following one after the other, with no interruptions or pauses. During her field work, the researcher had the impression that she did not have any time left for herself: she was moving quickly from one place to another in the convent in order to be on time for the various gatherings; as soon as she started to get familiar with an activity or even enjoy doing it she was forced to interrupt it and move on to the next one. Between one activity and the other it is impossible to ‘have some time for oneself ’, in its literal sense, i.e. managing to stop and think for a few minutes, reading a couple of pages of a book or simply lying down in bed to rest. Indeed, anecdotes of the tiredness and fatigue typical of Carmelite cloistered nuns have been reported frequently. Dans un autre carmel, la prieure, qui n’était pas très âgée, est décédée d’un cancer il y a deux ans. Quand elle a commencé à sentir qu’elle était fatiguée, elle a consulté un médecin et elle en a parlé avec une autre religieuse, qui avait été prieure. Les choses ont été très rapides, elle est morte très vite. J’ai eu l’occasion de parler au téléphone avec l’autre sœur, celle qui avait été longtemps prieure et même présidente de la fédération, et elle m’a dit: «Quand sœur Marie-Odile a dit qu’elle se sentait fatiguée, on ne s’est pas inquiétées: une carmélite est toujours fatiguée!» (Sister X, 17/11/2011). 33 32. Silence is not just a sound mode, it is above all a mode of meaning [my translation]. D.  L e Breton, Du silence (Paris, 1997), 144. 33.  In another convent, the prioress, who was not very old, died of cancer. When she started to feel exhausted, she spoke to a doctor and to another sister who was a prioress. Things went pretty fast and she died very rapidly. I had the chance to talk on the phone with the other sister, who had been prioress for a long time and also president of our federation, and she said: “When Sister Marie-Odile admitted that she was feeling tired, there was no worry: a Carmelite is always tired!” [my translation].

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The nuns tend to emphasise the need not to waste time, e.g. enjoying some leisure time or carrying out activities not scheduled in their daily plan. Having a break, relaxing, amusing oneself are all attitudes that are not functional for the established target, thus they are perceived as useless and should be avoided. The need to respect the timetable during the day is particularly important. Il y a une attention continuelle. On est toujours en train de faire quelque chose et, si ça sonne, on interrompt immédiatement ce qu’on est en train de faire (Sister X, 17/11/2011).  3 4

The sound of the bell marks the time, organising it into moments of sound and non-sound, and reminds the nuns of their various commitments. It is interesting to consider how the nuns interpret this particular sound indication. The tolling of the bell does not represent time per se, rather it represents a conventual space, the identification of a precise liturgical-devotional moment. The sound is interpreted and communicated on the basis of its spatial representation and not of the different liturgicaldevotional moments – something that might be expected in a cloistered context. During her field work, the researcher happened to forget or misunderstand the correspondence between the tolls of the bells and the relevant moment, so her ange gardien would name the relevant location (e.g. kitchen, choir, refectory) and the other nuns would point at the direction she should take. Both expressions, one verbal and the other kinetic, are of a spatial type. This way, a link is established not so much between sound and religious moments, characterised by a certain typology of prayer, but rather between sound and space, shifting the interpretation from a typologic-semantic level to a strictly spatial one. In the nuns’ mental representation, the tolling of the bell seems to be linked first and foremost to a localised situation. Similarly, when the nuns talk about their conversations with external persons or their moments of prayer, they prefer to use spatial phrases, such as «I am going to the parlour» or «I have been to the choir» rather than qualifying their actions with action-based terms such as conversation, meeting, appointment on the one hand, or silent personal prayer, prayer and vespers on the other. In these situations, space is defined and delimited in terms of sound, according to the number of tolls which provide a spatial indication and a connotation of meaning at the same time. Achieving the condition of silence in a monastic context is so important for the life of a nun that the relation between body and sound and the relation between body and physical space eventually overlap: sound is interpreted on a spatial basis and space, in turn, acquires meaning in relation to sound. 34.  There is constant attention. We are always doing something and, if it rings, we immediately stop what we are doing [my translation].

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The different parts making up the monastic space are often very similar to each other and might appear repetitive at first glance. Apart from strictly religious observations, there is no clear-cut distinction, in conventual spatiality, between the place of prayer, the choir, where the community performs all its liturgical-devotional activities (e.g. Mass, prayer, meditation), and the rest of the convent, i.e. the rooms where the other activities are carried out (e.g. meals, recreation and work time). This is due to the fact that the entire convent seems to reproduce the choir itself, both at an emotional and at an architectural level. In the Carmelite rule, the expression ora et labora translates into the idea of continuous prayer and work as a bodily need such as eating. 35 Different situations can be considered in detail. The choir, located at the end of the nave, is part of the church. In a cloistered convent it is reserved only for the nuns. Spatiality is exclusively marked by the choir stalls, i.e. large wooden seats, mostly equipped with armrests and a back. They are aligned to form a mirror-like architectural structure, so that the nuns of the community can sit one in front of the other. The images of the divinity are the only characteristic elements to all effects. This is a static spatiality, which favours the visibility of each woman in the group, with a consequent mutual control. During the day, every time the choir is entered, a bow must be made – i.e. the act of leaning over, bending one’s body forward as a sign of obedience – before the image of Saint Teresa of Ávila, the holy water is touched lightly and the sign of the cross is made; on some occasions, which are linked to specific devotional events, the entrance to the choir is performed as a procession, where the nuns, wearing the white Carmelite habit used during festivities, form two parallel lines. The other rooms of the convent, though with different types of spatiality, also reproduce the two characteristic elements of the choir: the silence of the place of worship, extended to the entire premises, and the frontal, almost circular layout of the subjects. While in the refectory and in the recreation room this spatiality is usually predetermined and fixed, in the other rooms the nuns tend to repropose it when necessary. For instance, whenever a number of people gather in a room, which was not previously designated, for any possible reason, the nuns would move the chairs and armchairs around to recreate the situation as closely as possible. The frontal and/or circular arrangement is clearly preferred due to the sound choice for silence, which can be preserved more easily. Moreover, frontal visibility allows for a tacit mutual control, which is not bound to vocal warnings. Behaviours and habits performed in the choir also tend to be reproduced externally. When entering the recreation room or the refectory to have their meals, the nuns make the sign of the cross and kneel down 35.  “Primitive” rule of the Order of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mount Carmel, 8 and 17.

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before an image or a statue representing the divinity, which is present in each room. This is repeated each time the nuns are in front of a statue or an image while moving around in the convent. Silence is absence of tones, and thus of speech, but more generally it is absence of noises. In this sense the nuns put their bodies and movements under forms of motor control. Movements are limited to the bare minimum and performed with great awareness. The nun learns to control her movements, perform them quickly and, above all, weaken them. During the first week of field work, the researcher happened to make noise all the time, thus disturbing the usual quietness: the nuns could hear when the researcher would open and close the doors, go to the bathroom, go upstairs, walk through the corridors, move from one room to another one, enter her cell and leave it. Very soon the researcher decided not to wear her shoes anymore and to use slippers instead. She even considered walking barefoot if she had been allowed to. She spent the rest of her stay wondering how the nuns could walk without making any noise, even wearing their shoes, whilst she was still recognisable even using slippers. It is a matter of body techniques and control skills. As Marcel Mauss 36 recalled, the body is the main technical device available to an individual. In order to achieve a physical goal, adaptation, training and practice are needed. In order to act and pray without making any noise, it is necessary to acquire specific techniques. Due to distraction or habit, often individuals do not control the small movements they perform in daily life and are not aware of the actual noise produced when they act. In fact, the very movements and noises establish and characterise their space. In cloistered life, besides gaining control over one’s movements, one also acquires the capacity of listening. By remaining all day in silence, every minimal sound can be heard; even sounds that are so feeble that they cannot be heard outside monastic life because they are covered by other sounds. It is only when these sounds are actually perceived that one can avoid making them, thus contributing positively to achieving the desired condition of silence. In time, the sensation of silence becomes fragmented and is split into minimal sequences. This leads to a dilation, which refines the perception of increasingly shorter time intervals and allows for the interpretation of the surrounding physical environment mostly on an acoustic basis. Objects are considered not only in terms of their functionality, but also in terms of their sound potential. It is worth emphasising that the control developed by the nuns over their body should not be considered just in a passive sense, i.e. as abstinence of most movements that are made in an individual’s everyday life; it should also be considered in an active sense, i.e. as the ability to produce 36. M. M auss , “Les techniques du corps”, Journal De Psychologie 32 (1936), 27-45.

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other gestures, have specific postures and, in some cases, to maintain these postures for a long time. Individuals can become part of their environment by using a set of specific skills, to be intended as an implicit and embodied know-how. 37 For the sake of clarity, one of the very numerous situations of this kind will be taken into account and explained on the basis of the researcher’s personal experience. During the moments of silent personal prayer the nuns kneel down and sit on a low wooden seat, which is internally empty (with a length of 40 cm and height of 20 cm approximately). Basically the nun would kneel down, take the small seat, place it on top of her calves (these remain inside the legs of the seat itself) and then sit back on it. During the entire stay in the convent, the researcher would get to the end of the hour of silent personal prayer (when she did manage to do so) with her legs aching and numb; she would stand up again clumsily and always make some noise with the small seat. Therefore, performing these actions and postures requires the acquisition of specific techniques, mental determination to implement them silently, control over one’s body and, if not training, surely practice. It is clear that there exists an incorporation process at the basis of these practices, which eventually becomes part of the movement itself. In certain circumstances, the social actor or actress develops a form of incorporation not just of the object-tool, 38 but «of the ‘dynamics’ s/he has ‘interiorized’ on the tool itself». 39 In a similar way, the nuns may incorporate the dynamics of movements and sequences of actions. Sometimes these small gestures, essential and reduced to the bare minimum, are merged so well with the body techniques of the nuns that they cannot be perceived individually and it is hard to distinguish them both visually and acoustically. Rather than devotional actions and gestures, they become conducts of movement that are so integrated into the nuns’ presence in the convent, as well as in their way of moving and walking that they tend to be unperceived by an external observer. They disappear when looking at the harmony of the nuns’ movements. However, they reappear with all their power of devotional practice to be learnt whenever an attempt is made to directly face the effort needed to reproduce these gestures.

37. T. I ngold, “Technology, Language, Intelligence: A Reconsideration Of Basic Concepts”, in K.  R.  Gibson-T, I ngold, eds, Tools, Language And Cognition In Human Evolution (Cambridge 1993), 449-472; 461. 38. J.-P. Warnier , Construire la culture materielle. L’homme qui pensait avec es doigts (Paris, 1999), 27. 39. F. L ai, “Trasmissione e innovazione dei saperi locali”, in F. L ai, Fare e saper fare. I saperi locali in una prospettiva antropologica (Cagliari, 2004), 17-30; 21.

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Living silently in a family environment requires and, at the same time, produces a fluid spatiality. Generally, in a cloistered context the venues, both those for gatherings (e.g. chapels, rooms for recreational activities and prayer) and those for transitions (e.g. corridors, staircases, halls) appear to be wide and easily accessible. This is due not so much to the actual size of the rooms, but to their essential aspect or to the scarcity of furniture and furnishings: objects are arranged in a way to prevent relational situations that may cause noises. The rooms in use include few pieces of furniture, tables and chairs, which are often located close to the walls and with little attention to their aesthetic-decorative aspect. Note that this almost empty or bare environment, with not much furnishing, determines an amplified perception of sound, as it is reflected to a greater extent, so much so that even a tiny tinkling can be isolated clearly and that the overlapping of more than one sound may be very irritating. Therefore, the slightest noise and tone can be clearly perceived, so this makes it possible to control them and not to reproduce them. Even during recreational moments the nuns maintain their controlled movement schemes and talk softly, in turn, without overlapping. At a social level, silence is a form of behaviour that is transmitted, learnt and acquired as an attitude to be implemented in specific circumstances, and individuals must know how to make use of it in order to achieve their objectives. For instance, in political or job-related contexts, silence is often a means of power or role recognition. When it prevails over a speaking subject or a main sound, hierarchical or regulating situations occur. Silence control is a sign of one’s self-control and of submission at the same time. With reference to contemporary Western society, Le Breton studied the absence of silence and analysed this issue from the point of view of noise. The issue is addressed in terms of identity structure. He pointed out that identity affirmation is achieved through shouting and noise, which are often imposed and sought at all costs.  4 0 Making oneself heard provides a tangible sign of one’s presence in the world and establishes communication channels that can be easily implemented. Similarly, for the cloistered nuns silence and the conducts of movement implemented to obtain it are modes of subjectification, i.e. fundamental elements in the construction of oneself as a subject. Giving shape to one’s role of a nun and highlighting one’s own spiritual aptitude could be based on the ability to use silence. As opposed to what happens in the external world, the nun restates and communicates her own presence (almost shouting at times) stretching her choice to the limit, through the creation of a situation of speech and sound emptiness. As Georges Didi-Huberman 41 put it, with a 40. D.  L e Breton, “Anthropologie du silence”, Théologiques 7 (1999) 11-28; 24. 41. G. Didi-Huberman, Gesti d ’aria e di Pietra. Corpo, Parole, Soffio, Immagine (Reggio Emilia, 2006), 13.

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poetic touch, the right word – incisive and performative – is not the one claiming that it ‘always tells the truth’, but the one that the social actor can construct by stressing it. The mystical-intimist learning process that postulants must follow during their first moments of community life is based, among other things, on the knowledge of spatiality. The sisters learn, by imitation, a number of strategies to localize themselves and the elements around them, i.e. where they should position themselves during the various activities, how to arrange objects and place or angle the furniture. After considering how the furniture is arranged, it is worth focusing on the types of furnishings (both for artistic-decorative purposes and standard use) and their positioning. From an external observer’s point of view, apparently in a convent there are very few objects, and decorations normally found in everybody’s house seem to disappear. It is not by chance or because of aesthetic reasons that the objects in a convent are almost always positioned on top of doilies, embroideries, clothes and mats: the fabric under the objects muffle any noise in case they are moved. Even micro-spatiality seems to be affected by the sound issue. 3. Th e S pace

of

E mot ion

These proxemic attitudes bring with them emotional and behavioural inclinations which are linked to the construction of the religious woman. Behaviours such as one’s attention towards details, meticulousness, order of objects and cleanliness must belong to being a nun, in that they are all relevant to self-control. This skill takes a long time to be acquired and is achieved through the management of silent spatiality. Not speaking entails not only control over one’s vocal and motor articulation and its channelling into pre-established timeframes, but also a normative imposition on oneself, i.e. a control over one’s own emotionality and one’s own human and psychological inclinations. The words spoken by an individual carry information of a colloquial nature and information about the individual him/her-self, as a mirror of the person s/he really is. Therefore, the decision not to speak becomes a means to analyse and model oneself. An example of this was seen during an event that took place during the researcher’s stay in the convent. One day the researcher noticed that a computer pen drive had been left on top of the towel closet located in one of the bathrooms, as if somebody had placed it there and then forgotten it. Instinctively, the researcher took the pen drive, but then she decided to put it back where she had found it. However, while the researcher was sitting and talking to the other nuns during recreation, she decided to inform them about her discovery. Her intent was only to inform the oth-

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ers, at a moment when apparently speech was permitted, about the place where she found the lost object, so that the owner could go and recover it. None of the sisters replied to her statement. At the end of recreation, the ange gardien took the researcher aside to inform her that with her statement, on the one hand, she had been showing off and committed the sin of vainglory and, on the other hand, she had embarrassed and indirectly criticised the sister who had lost the object and left it in the wrong place. This event can be interesting from two different perspectives. Firstly, it is not entirely correct to say that during recreation one is free to speak. In the light of what happened, one is not allowed to say everything she would like to. Thus the question is: which are the words that should not be spoken? When should one keep quiet and when can one speak freely? It could be advanced that communicating using those words otherwise forbidden at other moments is permitted; however, should such relational words exalt the person who utters them or form any kind of judgment on oneself or on the others, then they are prohibited and one must keep silent. It is interesting to note that, despite being what would be accepted as an ordinary reaction, this is not a matter of bad intentions or speech interpretation: rather, it is a matter of speech per se: words of judgement must not be spoken, even if in good faith or for simple and practical reasons. One’s sensibility must be controlled and stifled. Secondly, self-control is also created through one’s awareness of places: every object belongs to its specific place, and the spatial structure of each room, as well as that of the convent overall, must be respected. The sisters act on the sonority of spatiality (preserving quiet environments) acting on the actual structure of spatiality (i.e. the arrangement of objects). And it is by constructing a silent spatiality that the nuns are able to build up their own selves. In this sense, spatiality, positioning and impassability play a central role. Just consider that the nuns are not allowed free access to the cells of other nuns. This prohibition limits the possibility of establishing strong emotional relationships, creating privileged friendships and taking off some time to chat. One’s self, under every form, is levelled and silenced. Only secluded places allow individuals to exert control over sound and themselves. Each group is the product of a social ‘construction’, 42 thus of choices and actions at a community level (in relation with the group) and at a personal level (in relation with oneself and another single individual). The construction process entails both an effective action, in terms of production and modelling, and a return, in a passive sense, of that activity. In other words, once the structure of a group has been shaped, it is bound to all the social actors that devised and created it, as well as to the context in which it is formed. This means that the pressure it makes, through its 42. F. R emotti, Contro natura. Una lettera al Papa (Roma, 2008), 71.

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words and actions, both outwards and inwards, should be acknowledged, as it plays a pivotal role in the dynamics of preservation and self-reproduction. This seems to be one more form of «symbolic domination», which is sustained – as is often the case – by the same social actors who produce it. As was commented by Bourdieu in his seminal work, every symbolic domination presupposes a sort of complicity by those who sustain it, 43 and this should be seen as neither a passive submission to an external obligation, nor as a free adherence to certain values. This mechanism is prompted by its very practice and responds, often in an unconscious way, to the set of acquisitions, norms and representations which are incorporated by individual subjects. Dealing with the ‘construction’ of a group implies the acknowledgment of a ‘concrete situation’, located in a historical period and part of a defined cultural and economic background. Knowing a group means dealing with its life experience and interpretations, i.e. its practice and patterning. On the one hand, any form of life and experience derives from or is based, more or less explicitly, on interpretations; on the other hand, the latter are continuously shaped by the former. The group is an interpretive pattern of reality. Once this has been adopted, it is experienced and transmitted. Transmission involves not only passing down the family model in its entirety to the next generations, but also all the individual elements which can be found in its constituent parts and in its implementation in everyday life. Every day the nuns build up their personae and the monastic group through the absence of speech. Once the habitus has been chosen and implemented, it might no longer entail either further knowledge or imposition in its daily reiteration, but it is sustained by virtue of trends which are the result of social determinism. In cloistered life, much more than in other contexts, the sound element (i.e. producing sounds and noise) and the acoustic element (i.e. hearing / listening to sounds and noise) play a fundamental role. At an individual level, they coincide with a person’s way of being, her role, habits but also with her creed. The nun is a silent woman, always – a woman who decides not to speak for her entire life in order to gain access to the assumed divinity. Silence becomes an integral part of her way of being in the world, it is introjected in her body and in her mind. At a practical level, the group enables the long introjection process to unfold: one’s individuality is exposed to and fed by other individualities day after day. With the support of the group, these define and control, though involuntarily, the actions of each nun. In the monastery, the individual-group relation is vital and stringent. It is thanks to this relation that it is possible to maintain the symbolic level within which the divinity exists.

43. P. Bourdieu, Raisons pratiques (Paris, 1994), 151.

L ES PAROLES ET LES ACTIONS DE JÉSUS DE NAZARETH DANS LE JUDAÏSME DE SON TEMPS Quelques remarques et réflexions d’un historien S. C. Mimouni Ces quelques remarques et réflexions sont développées à partir des notes de deux séminaires de recherche sur les paroles et les actions de Jésus de Nazareth, qui ont été donnés en 2012-2013 et en 2013-2014 à la Section des sciences religieuses de l’École pratique des Hautes études 1. L’approche proposée se veut épistémologique et méthodologique, d’autant que la question des paroles et des actions de Jésus divise beaucoup les théologiens, mais aussi les historiens – sans doute plus les théologiens que les historiens. Elle ne se veut pas introspective ou descriptive, le volume imparti à cette contribution ne le permettant aucunement 2 . Cette question concerne la personne de Jésus de Nazareth et les représentations que l’on peut en avoir à partir de la documentation. Le caractère exclusivement christianisé et diversifié de cette documentation, quasiment pour ne pas dire exclusivement littéraire, complexifie à l’extrême la tâche du chercheur historien comme théologien, du fait même qu’il lui est impossible de la croiser avec des sources extérieures – sauf à tenir compte de la littérature rabbinique la plus ancienne, qui lui est cependant largement postérieure et extérieure. Quoi qu’il en soit, c’est exclusivement par ses paroles et ses actions, transmises par la mémoire des premières communautés chrétiennes, que l’on peut essayer d’atteindre la personne de 1. Voir S. C.  M imouni, « Origines du christianisme » (« Recherche historique sur Jésus de Nazareth : éléments historiographiques et épistémologiques » et « Paroles de Jésus dans le judaïsme de son temps »), dans École Pratique des Hautes Études. Section des Sciences Religieuses, Annuaire. Résumés des conférences et travaux, t. CXXI, 2012-2013, Paris, 2014, p. 189-204 ; S. C.  M imouni, « Origines du christianisme » (« Recherche historique sur Jésus de Nazareth : éléments historiographiques et épistémologiques (II) » et « Actions de Jésus dans le judaïsme de son temps »), dans École Pratique des Hautes Études. Section des Sciences Religieuses, Annuaire. Résumés des conférences et travaux, t. CXXII, 2013-2014, Paris, 2015, p. 221-234. 2.  Pour une première approche plus complète, voir S. C.  M imouni-P.  M araval , Le christianisme des origines à Constantin, Paris, 2006, p. XLIX-LXXII et p. 41-154. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 65-100.

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DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117936

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Jésus et reconstituer de manière tout aussi fragmentaire qu’approximative son existence publique, ce que les théologiens désignent comme son ministère – une expression que, par commodité langagière, l’on va reprendre ici, même si elle a une signification idéologique cherchant surtout à mettre les ministres cultuels chrétiens dans l’orbite de leur Maître. Observons que la « vie » de Jésus, si tant est qu’on puisse s’exprimer ainsi, est constituée par trois grandes étapes dont l’une concerne son enfance, la deuxième son ministère et la troisième sa passion. Comme son enfance est marquée d’un point de vue légendaire tandis que sa passion l’est d’un point de vue liturgique, il ne reste que le ministère pour tenter une reconstitution du personnage dans le contexte historique de son époque – sans compter quelques éléments de sa passion qu’il convient aussi de retenir, si tant est qu’on puisse les extraire de la gangue textuelle parmi laquelle ils figurent. Observons encore qu’on ne sait rien de la « vie » de Jésus entre son enfance et son ministère, rien sur sa formation, ni sur son activité. Jésus est un personnage difficile à cerner avec précision, même si les informations le concernant sont relativement abondantes. La provenance communautaire de ces informations explique la multiplicité et la diversité de ces informations qui varient en fonction de chaque groupe chrétien, selon qu’il soit palestinien ou diasporique, selon qu’il soit d’origine judéenne ou d’origine grecque, selon qu’il soit de telle ou telle appartenance doctrinale (le considérant comme un être humain, comme un être divin ou comme un être à la fois humain et divin), etc. Raison principale pour laquelle ses représentations sont tout aussi multiples que diverses, variant en fonction de chaque groupe et de plus évoluant en fonction des espaces et des époques. Sans compter qu’à partir du IVe siècle et sa reconnaissance officielle dans l’Empire romain, une mise aux normes, par les phénomènes du canon et du dogme, ont dû transformer un tant soit peu ces informations. Tous les personnages considérés comme fondateurs de religion ont été lotis, si l’on peut dire, à la même enseigne. Leur histoire a été souvent reconstruite progressivement et successivement par leurs fidèles au fur et à mesure de l’évolution de leur religion, les conduisant souvent entre eux à des conflits irrémédiables. Jésus n’a évidemment pas échappé à cette règle : c’est pourquoi retrouver et reconstruire sa figure réelle est chose difficile, pour ne pas dire impossible – l’abondance de la documentation ne permettant pas pour autant de résoudre un tel problème. Les paroles et les actions de Jésus autorisent de se faire une certaine idée des multiples et diverses représentations que les groupes chrétiens s’en sont fait, pas nécessairement de retrouver sa figure réelle qui risque fort bien d’avoir disparu à jamais en dehors de quelques éléments chronologiques plus ou moins approximatifs concernant sa naissance, son ministère et sa mort.

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Avant de donner quelques remarques et réflexions sur cette question, on va fournir en guise d’introduction et en guise de conclusion des aperçus succincts sur une approche historique de Jésus. Soulignons qu’il s’agit d’une approche qui est celle d’un historien et non celle d’un théologien, lesquelles ne sont surtout pas à confondre – même si le théologien se déclare aussi historien. Un historien ne peut aborder Jésus que de manière fragmentaire, sans aucune autre prétention, ce n’est généralement pas le cas du théologien : ainsi que le montrent les « Vies de Jésus » qui, depuis le XVIIe et le XVIIIe siècle, sont des œuvres littéraires à orientation théologique, voire philosophique 3. Un historien ne peut pas écrire une « Vie de Jésus » qui retrace les aspects chronologiques que proposent habituellement les biographies, il ne peut que présenter une étude fragmentaire des multiples et diverses représentations de ce personnage. Une étude dans laquelle les « trous noirs » ne doivent surtout pas être comblés, au risque sinon de tomber dans la reconstitution imaginative. De toute façon, les « Vies de Jésus » sont pour la plupart des œuvres littéraires qui dérangent aussi bien les historiens que les théologiens, car proposant une reconstitution ne respectant pas suffisamment ce que l’on sait du personnage d’un point de vue historique ou d’un point de vue théologique – c’est pourquoi, elles sont souvent objets de polémique, surtout de la part des théologiens 4 . Il est évident qu’une œuvre littéraire doit présenter un récit cohérent et lisible de la biographie d’un personnage, un récit séduisant au possible et comblant éventuellement les désirs des lecteurs instruits mais non spécialistes 5. Ce ne doit pas être nécessairement le cas d’une œuvre historique qui n’a cure de cohérence et de lisibilité, car ne pouvant se fonder que sur des documents qui eux présentent des objectifs orientés vers un discours théologique ou liturgique satisfaisant des fidèles convaincus – ce qui doit conduire à y pratiquer une critique historique et technique afin d’essayer de les dégager de ces orientations qui ne sont nullement historiographiques. 1. Q u e lqu e s

é l é m e n ts i n t roduct i fs

L’historien des religions travaille sur l’imaginaire religieux ou plutôt à partir de l’imaginaire religieux : il s’agit là d’une évidence dont il faut 3. Voir M.  Pesce , « Per une ricerca storica sur Gesù nei secoli XVI-XVIII: prima di H. S. Reimarus », dans Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 28 (2011), p. 433-464. 4. Voir A.  Schweitzer , Geschichte der Leben-Jesu-Forschung, Tübingen, 19132 , 19516 (= The Quest of Historical Jesus, Oxford, 1968). 5. Voir pour la France, les cas récents des ouvrages de J.-C.  Petitfils , Jésus, Paris, 2011 et de E. Carrère , Le Royaume, Paris, 2014 qui sont des œuvres littéraires, voire selon certains des chefs d’œuvres littéraires, mais aucunement, malgré la prétention de leurs auteurs, des ouvrages historiques.

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prendre conscience, surtout lorsqu’on aborde un sujet de recherche comme Jésus de Nazareth. À ce propos, il convient de rappeler une réflexion que l’on doit au grand penseur Hermann Samuel Reimarus, l’auteur, au XVIIIe siècle, de la première recherche historique sur Jésus de Nazareth digne de ce nom, à cause notamment de son caractère critique : « Combien la crédibilité ne doit-elle pas diminuer en autant de siècles ! Quand quelqu’un qui, jadis, tenait pour vrai quelque chose de ce genre, racontait cela à ses enfants, les enfants à ses petits-enfants, les petits-enfants à ses arrières petitsenfants, et ainsi de suite, alors la plus grande crédibilité devient une probabilité, ensuite un conte et enfin un conte de fée » 6.

Ce passage, dont le caractère polémique est tellement outrecuidant pour son époque qu’on peut le considérer comme avant-gardiste, illustre remarquablement un processus spécifique de fabrication des mythes, à savoir la manière dont certains événements évidents à la conscience contemporaine changent de statut épistémologique et par conséquent rhétorique à travers une triple médiation, qui est temporelle, communautaire et idéologique, et deviennent ainsi graduellement, à la mesure de l’impossibilité croissante de leur vérification empirique, une construction mythique, surtout dans un monde devenu chrétien de manière totalitaire entre le IVe et le XVIIe siècle. Pour Lucian Boia (né en 1944), auteur d’une histoire remarquable de l’imaginaire, il convient de concevoir « le mythe comme une construction imaginaire : récit, représentation ou idée, visant à saisir l’essence des phénomènes cosmiques et sociaux, en fonction des valeurs intrinsèques à la communauté et dans le but d’assurer la cohésion de celle-ci » 7. Rappelons que le mythe est censé reproduire une histoire vraie, mais dont la vérité se veut plus essentielle que la vérité superficielle des choses. Les théologiens chrétiens, pour des raisons spécifiques tenant pour l’essentiel à la rhétorique, ont longtemps travaillé à partir de la distinction entre histoire et légende, considérant que la religion chrétienne se situe du côté de l’histoire et non pas du côté de la légende. C’est ainsi que des distinctions ont été refusées par eux, notamment celles entre savoir et croyance ou entre raison et croyance. L’objectif étant alors, pour eux, de brouiller ces distinctions qui, en régime théologique, doivent nécessairement s’accorder entre elles et ce jusqu’à nos jours comme le montre un discours récent de Benoît XVI (né en 1927) tenu à Paris. Parmi ces raisons spécifiques, il y a celle qui a consisté à renvoyer les croyances traditionnelles de l’Empire romain du côté de la légende et du mensonge et la religion chrétienne du côté de l’histoire et de la vérité – 6. Voir G. E. L essing, Lessings Zerke VII, Munich, 1979, p. 348. 7.  L.  Boia, Pour une histoire de l ’imaginaire, Paris, 1998, p. 40-41.

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surtout à partir des termes latins superstitio et religio et de leur renversement de sens (voir Tertullien dès le début du IIIe siècle). Quoi qu’il en soit de ces questions abondamment traitées, il est à craindre que de telles distinctions soient à rétablir, du moins si la théologie chrétienne, comme d’ailleurs toute théologie religieuse, veut survivre comme entité croyante. La foi ne peut pas reposer sur l’histoire : en tout cas pas sur l’histoire dite scientifique et agnostique comme elle tente de se définir depuis plusieurs décennies. Les religions vivantes, d’un point de vue épistémologique, voire méthodologique, doivent être traitées de la même façon que les religions mortes : les enjeux des unes et des autres sont identiques sur le plan historique même si elles ne le sont nullement sur le plan théologique – on entend par là pour des théologiens engagés dans leur foi. Contrairement à ce que l’on affirme, l’intelligence de la foi aujourd’hui ne passe pas par la compréhension de l’histoire des faits rapportés dans des écrits vieux de 2 000 ans ! Ce n’est d’ailleurs pas inutilement que Rudolf Bultmann (1884-1976), un des plus grands théologiens protestants du XXe siècle, a développé ses recherches théologiques ou exégétiques résolument hors de tout intérêt historique, de tout objet historique comme tel. Certains théologiens se sont interrogés, et s’interrogent régulièrement, sur l’utilité pratique de la démarche historico-critique : voir par exemple, Hugues Garcia qui, dans un article, a cherché à réintégrer la mariologie dans la théologie protestante – l’illusion fait vivre, car le temps et ses fractures ne s’effacent pas d’un trait, même intellectuellement. Quoi qu’il en soit de cette observation, il s’agit là d’un travail intéressant à maints égards mais qui aurait demandé à être mieux cerné d’un point de vue épistémologique : les remarques de cet auteur, docteur de l’EPHE, n’en sont pas moins importantes, même si leur validité n’est que théologique 8. Quand on aborde la question de Jésus, quelques observations sur le rapport entre le mythe et l’histoire ne sont pas inutiles car la documentation qui permet de l’instruire est plus proche du mythe que de l’histoire. L’historien est l’héritier d’une longue tradition de défiance envers le mythe qu’il a longtemps réduit à une production de l’imagination et sans aucune valeur historique. Ainsi, déjà au IVe siècle avant notre ère, Thucydide a exclu le mythe du savoir historien parce qu’en lui confluent les rumeurs, les bruits confus, les idées toutes faites, les faits non contrôlés, le merveilleux porté par la crédulité. L’histoire écrite, soucieuse d’établir l’exactitude des événements par la confrontation des témoignages et la critique des sources, s’est alors démarquée du récit mythique. Pourtant, la séparation entre histoire et mythe 8.  H.  Garcia, « Remarques critiques sur la promotion de la Mère de Jésus dans le christianisme ancien et sur son traitement œcuménique récent », dans Études théologiques et religieuses 77 (2002), p. 193-216.

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ne paraît pas plus aussi tranchée aujourd’hui qu’il y a quelques décennies. C’est ainsi que la place reconnue au mythe dans la production historiographique n’est plus un obstacle à l’investigation historique. Les récits des hauts faits attribués aux ancêtres mythiques, chantés dans les traditions épiques, sont devenus un véritable gisement documentaire pour l’historien. En effet, dans toutes les cultures, la conscience de soi d’un peuple, d’une communauté de croyants ou d’une ascendance prestigieuse se nourrit de récits mettant en scène des événements et des personnages fondateurs. À ce titre, non seulement le mythe, comme le dit Jacques le Goff (1924-2014), « est objet d’histoire, mais allonge vers les origines les temps de l’histoire, enrichit les méthodes de l’historien et alimente un nouveau niveau d’histoire, l’histoire lente » 9. Donner sa place au mythe dans l’historiographie implique cependant de le définir, en se souvenant qu’en grec ancien, le sens premier de muthos n’est pas fable, conte ou rumeur, mais bien parole ou récit. Dès qu’un événement ou une personne devient source de création littéraire et artistique, qu’il soit attesté historiquement ou non, il prend rang parmi les mythes. Ainsi, dans la culture chrétienne, Jésus a donné lieu à d’innombrables récits qui sont devenus des supports de croyances : en ce sens, ce personnage historique est devenu alors un héros au sens premier du terme, c’est-à-dire l’acteur exemplaire d’un récit littéraire à orientation mythologique. Il en a été de même pour les figures d’Abraham, de Moïse, d’Esdras ou de Mahomet. De telles figures, réelles (= historiques) ou virtuelles (= mythiques), et les récits amplifiés qui s’y rapportent, sont donc devenus pour l’historien des gisements documentaires de première importance 10. Le mythe historique (c’est-à-dire pouvant contenir des informations historiques) pose des modèles, soutient des prétentions de toutes natures. Il contient, dans son symbolisme, des identités et des systèmes de représentations d’un peuple, tout en le nourrissant. Au cours des siècles, les figures mythiques se sont perpétuées, se sont réinterprétées, se sont renouvelées, et, à travers ce mouvement, les modèles et les valeurs se renforcent ou évoluent de manière continuelle ou infinie. Non sans paradoxes : la réinterprétation d’une grande figure peut servir à diffuser des valeurs nouvelles, tandis que l’apparition d’une figure nouvelle peut revivifier un modèle ancien 11.

9.  J. L e Goff, Histoire et mémoire, Paris, 1988, p. 230. 10. A ce sujet, voir D. Fabre , « L’atelier des héros », dans P.  CentlivresD. Favre-F. Z onabend (Éd.), La fabrique des héros, Paris, 1998, p. 237-318. 11.  A ce sujet, voir P. Centlivres-D. Favre-F. Z onabend (Éd.), La fabrique des héros, Paris, 1998.

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Étudier les émergences et les évolutions des mythes historiques est donc riche d’enseignement pour l’historien des religions ou des cultures en général. Dans une telle recherche, il n’est pas question de postuler un quelconque Jésus mythique à la manière du XIXe ou du XXe siècle, mais seulement de considérer que les récits sur Jésus ont un fonctionnement mythique, ce qui ne les empêche pas de pouvoir apporter des informations historiques, non sans les inévitables déformations dues à la transformation et à la conservation. Pour l’historien, Jésus a un statut ordinaire à l’égal de n’importe quel personnage historique de son temps (Auguste ou Tibère, par exemple). En revanche, pour le théologien chrétien, Jésus a un statut d’unicité et de transcendance, à l’inverse de n’importe quel personnage historique – la perception de Jésus, dans ce cas, engage ses fidèles d’un point de vue spirituel, car elle conditionne leur propre transformation spirituelle. Quoi qu’il fasse, quoi qu’il pense, il est à craindre que la perception du Jésus historique par le théologien chrétien soit conditionnée par sa foi – comment peut-il en être autrement au regard de l’engagement confessionnel ? Ce n’est pas là une question d’honnêteté intellectuelle ou scientifique : c’est tout simplement une question de foi – autrement dit, une question qui engage la personne même dans son for intérieur, dans son imaginaire au sens large de ses représentations réelles ou virtuelles. Il faut par conséquent éviter de poser ce genre de questions en termes d’honnêteté ou de malhonnêteté. Les historiens comme les théologiens sont, par définition ou par principe, des gens honnêtes… Ils sont, les uns et les autres compétents dans leur champ respectif, dans leur domaine respectif. Il ne s’agit pas là de dénigrement à des fins partisanes ou polémiques. L’historien, à l’inverse du théologien, n’est pas conditionné par une quelconque considération reposant sur sa foi : du moins en principe ! La réalité est parfois bien autre, mais que faire d’autre si ce n’est que poser des principes de type épistémologique… Le temps faisant, ou ne faisant pas, le reste… Bart D. Ehrman (né en 1955) a récemment publié un livre où il focalise son attention sur la manière dont les premiers chrétiens ont fait mémoire de Jésus et notamment sur la manière dont ils ont rapportés ses paroles et ses actions 12 . À partir de la mémoire construite et déformée, il montre comment les premiers chrétiens ont raconté des histoires sur Jésus et sur12.  B. D. Ehrman, Jesus before the Gospels. How the Earliest Christians Remembered, Changed, and Invented their Stories of the Savior, New York, 2016 (= Jésus avant les évangiles. Comment les premiers chrétiens se sont rappelé, ont transformé et inventé leurs histoires du Sauveur, Paris, 2017).

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tout comment ces histoires ont été inventées ou altérées au cours de ce processus. Ainsi, selon lui, constatant qu’il est impossible d’avoir un accès direct à Jésus, à ses paroles et à ses actions, à cause de la nature de la documentation (contenant de nombreuses contradictions et discordances), il considère qu’il n’est envisageable que d’étudier comment des souvenirs sur Jésus ont pu être présentés – de diverses façons et à des époques comme à des endroits variables – à des auditoires différents, des souvenirs qui ne proviennent que de témoins oculaires. Une perspective intéressante à divers titres, mais, contrairement à ce que Bart D. Ehrman affirme, il n’est nullement le premier à aborder cette approche 13. Travailler un objet de recherche comme Jésus de Nazareth n’est pas si évident : comment ne pas le constater ! Pourquoi alors doit-on entreprendre une telle recherche après tant d’autres ? La réponse à cette question est simple : il est théoriquement dans le cahier des charges de tout détenteur de la chaire sur les origines du christianisme dans cette institution de se lancer sur le dossier Jésus. C’est donc une affaire de devoir moral… En ces temps de resserrement des maillages intellectuels, il est possible pour l’historien non engagé d’un quelconque point de confessionnel de revenir sur l’objet Jésus. 2 . Les

pa rol e s de

J é sus  14

Les paroles de Jésus ont été conservées par oral et transmises par écrit après sa disparition. Toute la difficulté de cette question réside dans cet énoncé car comment remonter à l’oral à partir de l’écrit et comment distinguer les paroles qui sont authentiques de celles qui ne le sont pas. Elles se répartissent entre celles qui sont canoniques et celles qui sont extracanoniques. Mais qu’elles soient canoniques ou extra-canoniques, elles sont le produit des communautés chrétiennes aux Ier et IIe siècles et ne doivent nullement être qualifiées en fonction de cette distinction qui est postérieure. Pour des raisons évidentes, les paroles canoniques ont reçu plus d’attention que les paroles extra-canoniques. Ce peu d’attention tient surtout à l’usage quasi exclusif du critère d’authenticité avancé par les chercheurs pour juger de leur valeur, lesquels ont eu tendance à considérer comme authentiques les paroles canoniques et comme non-authentiques les paroles extra-canoniques. Toutefois, il convient de souligner qu’il est rarement possible de faire la démonstration de l’authenticité ou de la non-authen13.  Voir par exemple R.  Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses. The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony, Grand Rapids/Michigan-Cambridge, 2006. 14.  Pour une première approche, voir B. Chilton-C.  A. Evans (éd.), Authenticating the Worlds of Jesus, Leyde, 1999.

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ticité des paroles de Jésus. De même qu’il est rare que les paroles extracanoniques, authentiques ou non-authentiques, apportent des informations vraiment nouvelles à la connaissance de la prédication de Jésus principalement connue par les paroles canoniques. Quoi qu’il en soit, l’utilisation du critère d’authenticité dans l’appréciation de la valeur des paroles de Jésus n’est nullement probante, et on peut se demander s’il est nécessaire de continuer à l’utiliser ou s’il ne vaudrait pas mieux poser autrement les questions et les problèmes. Les travaux effectués par la critique des formes, dans le champ des Évangiles synoptiques, ont largement démontré qu’on ne peut pas examiner la tradition des paroles de Jésus à partir du seul critère d’authenticité : il n’est pas légitime, en effet, de limiter le label « historiquement intéressant », mis au point par les chercheurs spécialisés dans la recherche sur les agrapha (notamment Alfred Resch, James Hardy Ropes et Joachim Jeremias), aux seules paroles de Jésus pouvant être considérées comme authentiques et canoniques car il peut s’appliquer à celles qui sont non-authentiques et extra-canoniques. Dans tous les cas, ce n’est pas nécessairement la voix du Jésus historique qui se fait entendre dans une parole, mais plutôt une voix créée, forgée, par une communauté chrétienne spécifique – laquelle voix sera ensuite décrétée comme authentique ou comme non-authentiques, pas avant la fin du IIe siècle. Ainsi, si l’on adopte ce point de vue pour examiner toutes les paroles de Jésus, canoniques ou extra-canoniques, authentiques ou non-authentiques, elles méritent toutes cependant le label « historiquement intéressant ». Puisque ces paroles témoignent toutes de la recherche spirituelle conduite par les communautés chrétiennes sur ce que Jésus a dit, elles représentent des témoignages sur la perception de la pensée de leur Maître. Chaque parole, qu’elle soit canonique ou extra-canonique, authentique ou non-authentique, doit être replacée dans son contexte d’origine, celui d’où elle tient son Sitz im Leben, que ce soit celui du Jésus historique ou celui des communautés chrétiennes (ou Jésus traditionnel). C’est seulement quand elles sont replacées dans leur véritable Sitz im Leben que ces paroles recouvrent leur valeur historique et échappent ainsi à l’étiquette de « faux », et ce même si elles relèvent des communautés chrétiennes (ou Jésus traditionnel) et non du Jésus historique. Si l’on admet l’importance du Sitz im Leben, que ce soit pour les paroles canoniques ou pour les paroles extra-canoniques, on ne doit plus faire alors de différences qualitatives arbitraires entre ces deux types de paroles. Pour l’historien, un « faux » logion extra-canonique aura donc foncièrement la même valeur qu’un « faux » logion canonique, et à l’inverse des logia extra-canoniques « authentiques » auront la même valeur que des

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logia canoniques « authentiques ». Evidemment, pour l’historien, dans les deux premiers siècles du mouvement chrétien, paroles canoniques et paroles extra-canoniques ne sont pas encore différenciées : l’élimination progressive de ces dernières n’a commencé que vers la fin du IIe siècle. Ce qui a conduit à faire que les paroles canoniques sont bien mieux attestées que les paroles extra-canoniques : ces dernières ayant été pourchassées et abandonnées, donc brûlées. Les conflits entre les communautés chrétiennes ont conduit à la formulation ou à la création de paroles de Jésus qui s’appuient généralement sur des paroles déjà existantes et plus anciennes. Les transformations des paroles de Jésus au cours des conflits ont pris des formes diverses. Un exemple permet de prendre conscience de la liberté que manifestent les communautés qui ont fabriqué, transformé et recréé des paroles de Jésus. Dans le traité des Pirqé Avot (un texte tardif de la littérature rabbinique), en III, 2, il est annoncé : « Mais si deux hommes sont assis ensemble et qu’ils échangent des paroles de la Torah alors la Shekhinah vient se loger entre eux » – ce qui signifie que la divinité est présente partout où la Torah est étudiée. Dans l’Évangile selon Matthieu (un texte des années 80), en 18, 20, une parole de Jésus est annoncée : « Car là où deux ou trois se trouvent réunis en mon nom, je suis au milieu d’eux », ce qui signifie que la présence de Jésus est garantie dans la communauté grâce à l’invocation de son nom. Dans le papyrus Oxyrhynchus 1 (un passage de datation incertaine mais peut-être du IIe siècle), au verset 5, cette parole de Jésus est transformée de la manière suivante : « Partout où ils sont deux, ils ne sont pas sans Dieu, et là où quelqu’un est seul, je dis ‘Je suis auprès de lui’. Soulève la pierre, et tu me trouveras. Fends le bois et je suis là » – ce qui ajoute une perspective mystique en précisant que Jésus est partout. Pour apprécier la production des paroles de Jésus au cours des deux premiers siècles, il convient donc, en résumé, de relever les deux points suivants : (1) Limiter l’histoire des paroles de Jésus seulement aux canoniques ne présente plus aucun sens. Cependant limiter l’examen des paroles de Jésus seulement à ceux d’entre eux pouvant être considérés comme compatibles avec les canoniques n’est guère plus acceptable : cette méthode ne permet pas non plus d’estimer à leur juste valeur une grande partie des paroles extra-canoniques. Les rares paroles de Jésus que le chercheur retient alors se trouvent arbitrairement intégrées dans une analyse qui, pour les comprendre, se trouve contraint de les replacer, bon gré, mal gré, dans le contexte du Jésus historique, et de rejeter toutes les autres en les considérant comme tendancieuses. Il ne faut pas oublier que l’importance effective des paroles extra-canoniques de Jésus ne se mesure pas en fonction de

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la pauvreté des matériaux qui ont été préservés. Au début du mouvement chrétien, toutes les paroles de Jésus ont eu la même valeur, ce n’est que plus tard qu’elles ont été jugées soit « orthodoxes » soit « hétérodoxes ». (2) Seuls quelques fragments des paroles de Jésus extra-canoniques ont été conservés. C’est pourquoi, la méthode qui consiste à aller chercher parmi elles les quelques paroles qui semblent pouvoir correspondre aux idées, déjà toutes faites, de ce qu’auraient été le Jésus historique et la première communauté, ne permet pas de faire progresser la recherche. Comment le mouvement chrétien des deux premiers siècles s’est-il compris ? Quelle a été la place du Jésus considéré comme ressuscité dans cette auto-compréhension des premières communautés ? Comment le Jésus considéré comme vivant par les premières communautés s’est-il manifesté dans ces premières communautés ? Autant de questions auxquelles l’historien doit répondre, sans nécessairement entrer dans la croyance des premiers chrétiens mais en essayant de la comprendre, notamment en se fondant à la fois sur les paroles canoniques que sur les paroles extra-canoniques, sur les paroles authentiques que sur les paroles non-authentiques. Il faut donc accepter de laisser entrer dans le dossier des paroles de Jésus autant les traditions extra-canoniques que les traditions canoniques, et ne pas valoriser les unes aux dépens des autres. La question de la transmission des paroles de Jésus, qui est considérée comme importante, va être abordée à partir de la sociologie de la littérature religieuse. Une approche qui, associée à la méthode de l’histoire des formes (la Formgeschichte), est, dans le cas présent, relativement performante. Il a été question dans un premier temps du comportement typique des porteurs de traditions des paroles de Jésus et dans un second temps du comportement conditionné des porteurs de traditions des paroles de Jésus. Il s’agit de comprendre dans quel milieu de vie, Sitz im Leben, les paroles de Jésus ont été rédigées et transmises. Auparavant, on a donné quelques éléments épistémologiques et méthodologiques sur la sociologie de la littérature religieuse. 2.1. Éléments épistémologiques et méthodologiques sur la sociologie de la littérature religieuse La sociologie de la littérature en général examine les relations entre des textes et des comportements humains. Elle envisage le comportement inter­humain de ceux qui créent, transmettent, interprètent et reçoivent des textes. Elle analyse ce comportement selon deux aspects : (1) en tant que comportement typique ; (2) en tant que comportement conditionné.

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En ce qui concerne la littérature biblique, le premier aspect a été développé par la méthode de l’histoire des formes (laquelle, partant des traits spécifiques des textes, débouche sur les traits tout aussi typiques du comportement humain, à un Sitz im Leben, un milieu d’utilisation des textes qui présente à son tour des répercussions sur le texte par l’utilisation dans la mission ou le culte), contrairement au second aspect qui s’intéresse aux intentions des porteurs des traditions et de ses destinataires. Étudier la littérature chrétienne ancienne sur le plan de la sociologie signifie s’interroger sur les intentions et les conditions des comportements interhumains typiques des auteurs des textes chrétiens, de ceux qui ont transmis ces textes et de ceux à qui ils s’adressent. Le thème de cette approche sociologique n’est pas la genèse d’une tradition intellectuelle mais sa propagation, sa transmission et sa conservation. Les paroles de Jésus constituent un réel problème sociologique surtout car Jésus n’a pas fixé ses paroles par écrit, comme on le sait il n’a rien écrit. C’est pourquoi en la matière, on a recourt à la distinction entre tradition écrite et tradition orale. La tradition écrite peut se conserver pendant un certain temps, même si elle est sans importance pour le comportement humain ou si ses intentions vont à l’encontre de ce comportement. La tradition orale est, en revanche, livrée aux intérêts de ses créateurs, de ses porteurs et de ses destinataires car sa conservation est liée à des conditions sociales spécifiques, notamment parce que ses porteurs doivent s’identifier d’une manière ou d’une autre à une des communautés existantes. Autant l’écrit peut se distancer de la communauté de production, autant l’oral ne peut pas le faire et doit rester en relation étroite avec sa communauté de production, au risque sinon de disparaître. Les circonstances sociales de la transmission orale du matériau à propos de Jésus sont plus ou moins les suivantes : (1) un ancrage des traditions sur Jésus dans un comportement interhumain de ses porteurs, qui est répétitif, typique et relativement indépendant des contingences individuelles, en ce sens que pour perdurer, les orientations intellectuelles doivent être ancrées dans les nécessités permanentes de l’existence et dans les caractéristiques constantes d’un style de vie ; (2) un intérêt de la part des destinataires, des « gardiens passifs » des traditions, car la transmission des traditions se fait uniquement tant qu’il y a des gens prêts à écouter – les éléments qui s’opposent à l’intérêt et à l’opinion des porteurs sont éliminés ou modifiés et deviennent ainsi la proie de la « censure préventive de la communauté » ; (3) une continuité sociologique entre Jésus et les porteurs de ses paroles – il est évident que les tentatives de l’exégèse scandinave (Harald Riesenfeld, Birger Gerhardsson) qui a tenté de prouver une telle continuité afin de surmonter le scepticisme de l’histoire des formes à l’égard de l’authenticité des paroles de Jésus se sont soldées par un échec. En ce qui concerne les instructions éthiques données par Jésus, il convient de souligner que si personne ne les avait pris au sérieux et si per-

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sonne n’avait entrepris de les mettre en pratique, il très probable qu’elles n’auraient pas été transmises. C’est pourquoi, mettre en question une parole comme celle de Lc 14, 26, « Si quelqu’un vient vers moi, et s’il ne hait pas son père, sa mère, sa femme, ses enfants, ses frères, ses sœurs et même sa propre vie, il ne peut être mon disciple », n’est pas sérieux, même si son radicalisme paraît la rendre inapte à régler le comportement quotidien des chrétiens d’aujourd’hui. Le problème principal qui se pose est de savoir comment et pourquoi des paroles orales ont pu être conservées et transmises durant 30 ans et plus, jusqu’à leur mise par écrit. De fait, le comportement interhumain qui s’est jadis réalisé dans et avec ces textes ne peut être saisi directement de nulle part, mais il peut être reconstitué notamment avec la méthode exégétique de l’histoire des formes qui dispose de trois procédés déductifs : (1) la déduction analytique qui conclut de la forme et du contenu d’une tradition à son Sitz im Leben ; (2) la déduction constructive qui conclut à des énoncés directs concernant le Sitz im Leben supposé d’une tradition ancrée à cet endroit ; (3) la déduction analogique qui est conduite à partir de phénomènes parallèles de la même époque 15. En ce qui concerne la déduction analytique, les paroles de Jésus offrent un matériel particulièrement abondant car elle permet de nombreux exemples de comportements : on y réfléchit dans des sentences d’ordre général, et on les présente à travers des images dans des paraboles et dans des apophtegmes. Quoi qu’il en soit, il est certain que les paroles de Jésus ont dû être prises au sérieux et qu’elles ont dû être comprises littéralement. D’autant qu’elles correspondent fort bien aux exigences en vigueur dans des groupes interstitiels aux tendances mystiques. L’une de ces paroles de Jésus ne ditelle pas : « Et pourquoi m’appelez-vous ‘Seigneur, Seigneur’ et ne faitesvous pas ce que je dis ? » (Lc 6, 46). 2.2. Le comportement typique des porteurs de traditions des paroles de Jésus Cette première approche s’exprime dans la forme et le contenu des logia pour déduire le comportement qui est à leur fondement et dont le résultat doit être assuré par des procédés constructif et analogique. Les paroles de Jésus sont marquées par un radicalisme éthique qui apparaît surtout dans le renoncement au domicile, à la famille et à toute possession. Comme on va le voir, en analysant les instructions à ce sujet, il est possible de tirer des

15. À ce sujet, voir R.  Bultmann, L’histoire de la tradition synoptique, Paris, 1973, p. 19-22.

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conclusions sur le style de vie caractéristique des porteurs de traditions et même de remonter à celui de Jésus. Des paroles de Jésus défendent un ethos qui veut que l’on n’ait pas de domicile. L’appel à la suivance signifie l’abandon du mode de vie sédentaire pour le mode de vie itinérant : ceux qui sont appelés doivent quitter bateau, champs, douane, maison. C’est ainsi que Jésus dit à ceux qui le suivent : « Les renards ont des terriers et les oiseaux du ciel des nids, le Fils de l’Homme, lui, n’a pas où poser la tête » (Mt 8, 20). Cette vie sans foyer dans la suivance de Jésus n’a pas été pratiquée uniquement de son vivant : on la retrouve dans la Didaché, par exemple, qui connaît des charismatiques itinérants chrétiens pratiquant le même mode de vie (11, 8). Des paroles de Jésus défendent aussi un ethos qui veut que l’on n’ait pas de famille. L’abandon de l’existence sédentaire implique la rupture des relations familiales. Outre Lc 14, 26, où il est demandé à ceux qui suivent Jésus de haïr leur père et leur mère, leur femme et leurs enfants, leur frère et leur sœur et Mc 10, 29, où il est affirmé que ceux qui suivent Jésus ont quitté des maisons, des champs et des familles, en Mt 8, 22, à un homme suivant Jésus qui veut enterrer son père qui vient de mourir il lui est dit : « Laisse les morts enterrer leurs morts ! ». Certaines paroles présentent la dislocation de la famille comme un phénomène nécessaire du temps de la fin (Lc 12, 52 ; 10, 21), actualisant ainsi une tradition prophético-apocalyptique bien connue que l’on retrouve dans divers milieux judéens (Mi 7, 6 ; Za 13, 3 ; I  Hénoch 100, 2 ; Jubilés 23, 16 ; II Baruch 70, 6 ; IV Esdras 6, 24). D’autres paroles modifient la notion de famille : les frères, les sœurs et les parents véritables sont ceux qui font la volonté divine (Mc 3, 25). L’abandon des biens est une des conditions de la suivance de Jésus comme le montre le récit du jeune homme riche (Mc 10, 17-31). Il y a aussi l’obligation de vivre en pauvreté : on ne doit emporter ni argent ni sac, une seule tunique, ni chaussures ni bâton (Mt 10, 10). Toutes ces paroles de Jésus renvoient à un certain radicalisme éthique, qui est de l’ordre du radicalisme itinérant. Il peut être pratiqué et transmis uniquement dans des conditions de vie extrêmes. Ce radicalisme itinérant a été sans doute celui de Jésus, il a été aussi celui de ses disciples immédiats et des charismatiques itinérants que l’on voit à l’œuvre par exemple dans la Didachè. Le comportement ordonné par certaines paroles de Jésus a donc été pratiqué par ses disciples et d’autres qui ont été sans doute les porteurs des traditions de ces paroles. Dans le discours d’envoi en mission des apôtres dans Matthieu (Mt 10, 5-15), il est mentionné expressément les « paroles » des charismatiques itinérants, mais cela ne signifie pas qu’elles sont de Jésus. La seule parole que Matthieu cite directement comme le contenu de la proclamation des charismatiques itinérants qui est probablement de Jésus est la suivante : « Le Règne des Cieux s’est approché » (Mt 10, 7 ; Lc 10, 9) – dans ce cas, leur parole est donc au moins partiellement identique à celle de Jésus.

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Dans le discours d’envoi en mission des apôtres dans Luc (Lc 10, 3-12), il est ajouté la parole suivante : « Qui vous écoute m’écoute et qui vous repousse me repousse » (Lc 10, 16 ; Mt 10, 40). Dans les paroles des charismatiques itinérants, c’est Jésus lui-même qui est présent : cette présence ne doit pas être comprise nécessairement comme une identité mystique, mais comme la voix de Jésus dont la parole est transmise par son messager. La forme des logia confirme cette hypothèse, notamment parce qu’elles sont formulées à la première personne du singulier et sont en partie caractérisées par l’expression amen qui renvoie à une vérité révélée. Deux remarques s’imposent de deux points de vue méthodologiques différents. (1) Une première remarque du point de vue de la déduction constructive : il paraît possible de reconstituer, à partir des règles pour les charismatiques itinérants que ceux-ci pratiquent un ethos correspondant aux paroles de Jésus dont ils en ont repris, dans leur proclamation, le propos eschatologique, qu’ils ont un comportement sociétal qui correspond au contenu des paroles de Jésus. Ces charismatiques itinérants ont été vraisemblablement les porteurs des traditions des paroles de Jésus et ce encore au début du IIe siècle comme on le sait par Papias de Hiéropolis qui affirme recevoir des traditions sur Jésus de la part des disciples itinérants passant chez lui (Eusèbe de Césarée, Histoire ecclésiastique III, 39, 4). (2) Une seconde remarque du point de vue de la déduction analogique : aux Ier et IIe siècles, on connaît non seulement des charismatiques itinérants chrétiens mais un grand nombre de philosophes itinérants cyniques – les uns et les autres étant des prédicateurs itinérants vivant en marge de la société. L’ethos des charismatiques itinérants chrétiens et celui des philosophes itinérants cyniques sont comparables dans leurs trois traits distinctifs : l’absence de domicile, de famille, de possession. Les porteurs des paroles de Jésus font partie d’un type sociologique comparable. Le cas de Pérégrinus, dont Lucien de Samosate s’est moqué au IIe siècle, est des plus instructifs : après avoir été un charismatique itinérant chrétien, il est devenu un philosophe itinérant cynique. Autant les charismatiques itinérants chrétiens que les philosophes itinérants cyniques sont en dehors de la vie normale poursuivant une vie itinérante, même si les raisons spirituelles sont différentes de part et d’autres. Si les paroles de Jésus ont été transmises par les charismatiques itinérants qu’en résulte-t-il quant à leur authenticité ? Autrement dit, peuventelles ou non, ces paroles, remonter à Jésus ? Le scepticisme de l’histoire des formes a reposé sur l’idée que les paroles de Jésus sont marquées par les institutions et les exigences des communautés chrétiennes qui les ont transmises peut-être en les adaptant à leur sédentarisation. De fait, il est possible de penser que la situation sociale de Jésus et celle des charismatiques itinérants sont comparables : Jésus

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ayant été le premier charismatique itinérant de son mouvement. Autrement exprimé, le radicalisme itinérant des disciples de Jésus remonte à leur Maître dont ils suivent le mode de vie. Beaucoup de paroles transmises par les charismatiques itinérants sont probablement authentiques. Les porteurs des paroles de Jésus ont pu reprendre ainsi les dits de leur Maître selon l’adage bien connu : « Le ciel et la terre passeront, mes paroles ne passeront pas » (Mc 13, 31). 2.3. Le comportement conditionné des porteurs de traditions des paroles de Jésus Les conditions dont il va être question peuvent être classées principalement en trois groupes. (1) Des facteurs socio-économiques tels la question du travail, du métier et de l’appartenance à une couche sociale. La question du gagne-pain est traitée de manière claire dans les paroles de Jésus. Le discours d’envoi contient une déclaration négative et une déclaration positive de Jésus portant sur la manière précise dont doivent se comporter les charismatiques itinérants. – La consigne négative concerne l’attitude sur les routes, elle est édictée en Lc 9, 3 et en Lc 10, 4 : « ‘Ne prenez rien pour la route, ni bâton, ni sac, ni pain, ni argent, N’ayez pas chacun deux tuniques’ » et « ‘N’emportez pas de bourse, pas de sac, pas de sandales, et n’échangez de salutations avec personne en chemin’ ». Le manteau, le sac et le bâton sont les caractéristiques des philosophes itinérants cyniques, des « moines mendiants de l’Antiquité » comme on les a appelés. L’interdiction d’avoir sac et bâton a probablement pour but d’éviter la moindre apparence qui classerait les charismatiques itinérants dans la catégorie des mendiants en tous genres. L’interdiction d’échanger des salutations en chemin signifie l’urgence du message à apporter, d’autant qu’elles peuvent être longues.

– La consigne positive concerne l’attitude dans les maisons et dans les villes, elle est édictée en Lc 10, 5-7 et en Lc 10, 8-11. Pour les premières : « Dans quelque maison que vous entriez dites d’abord : ‘Paix à cette maison’. Et s’il s’y trouve un homme de paix, votre paix ira reposer sur lui ; sinon, elle reviendra sur vous. Demeurez dans cette maison, mangeant et buvant ce qu’on vous donnera, car le travailleur mérite son salaire. Ne passez pas de maison en maison ». Pour les secondes : « ‘Dans quelque ville que vous entriez et où l’on vous accueillera, mangez ce qu’on vous offrira […]’. ‘Mais dans quelque ville que vous entriez et où l’on ne vous accueillera pas, sortez sur les places et dites : ‘Même la poussière de votre ville qui s’est collée à nos pieds, nous l’essuyons pour vous la rendre […]’ ».

(2) Des facteurs socio-écologiques qui peuvent renvoyer soit à des milieux ruraux, soit à des milieux urbains, soit aux deux. Les paroles de

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Jésus font référence plus à un monde rural qu’à un monde urbain. Les images évoquées dans les paraboles mentionnent des paysans, des fermiers, des bergers et des vignerons qui occupent le devant de la scène. On y parle aussi de semailles, de récoltes, de champs, de troupeaux et de pêche. Cette origine rurale des charismatiques itinérants doit être prise en compte si l’on veut comprendre leur revendication à l’entretien dont il est question dans certains textes. Les artisans sont sur ce point dans une autre situation, car les outils peuvent être emportés, contrairement aux champs et aux lacs. La Didachè considère par conséquent que le cas d’artisans itinérants qui veulent s’installer auprès d’une communauté pose peu de problèmes si ces derniers acceptent de travailler (12, 4). Paul, un artisan, peut ainsi renoncer à son droit à l’entretien, tandis que Pierre, le pêcheur, continue de revendiquer ce droit (1 Co 9, 5). Contrairement aux membres des communautés urbaines, qui nécessitent très tôt la création de formes d’organisation et de gouvernance, les charismatiques itinérants peuvent maintenir leur autorité uniquement aux endroits où ils ne se trouvent pas confrontés, dans ces communautés, à des gouvernances trop fortes. Ernst Käsemann (1905-1998) a localisé des prophètes qu’il suppose être des porteurs des paroles de Jésus dans « les petites communautés palestino-syriennes où le nombre réduit des membres rendait impossible une autre forme d’organisation que la direction par un charismatique » 16. L’ancrage des paroles de Jésus dans le milieu rural est intéressant parce que le mouvement chrétien a été largement un phénomène urbain. Pline le Jeune, dans sa lettre à Trajan, rapporte que « l’épidémie de la nouvelle superstition » s’est répandue « non seulement dans les villes mais également dans les villages et le plat pays » (Lettre 10, 96). Clément de Rome, dans sa lettre aux Corinthiens, affirme que les apôtres ont proclamé la « Royauté de Dieu » dans les campagnes et dans les villes (Épître 42, 3) – une expression que l’on trouve dans les paroles de Jésus et les apôtres qui sont aussi des charismatiques itinérants. Les paroles de Jésus, celles du vivant du Maître, sont marquées par le milieu rural. Ce n’est sans doute pas nécessairement le cas ensuite alors que le mouvement chrétien se développe surtout en milieu urbain. (3) Des facteurs socio-culturels comme la langue que l’on parle dans les campagnes syro-palestiniennes, qui est l’araméen et non le grec comme dans les cités. Il n’empêche que les paroles de Jésus sont transmises en grec et non en araméen et qu’il n’est pas si évident de penser que les porteurs de traditions ont été plutôt araméophones qu’hellénophones – ils ont pu être aussi bilingues. 16.  E. K äsemann, « Les débuts de la théologie chrétienne », dans Essais exégétiques, Neuchâtel, 1972, p. 174-198, spécialement p. 183.

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(4) Les facteurs économiques, écologiques et culturels esquissés constituent les conditions sociales des paroles de Jésus. Sans eux, elles n’auraient pas été conservées et transmises dans la forme sous laquelle elles se présentent maintenant. Les trois facteurs ont pu jouer pour les charismatiques itinérants, mais pas nécessairement en ce qui concerne Jésus. 2.4. Récapitulatif On peut émettre quelques hypothèses concernant les paroles de Jésus : au moins trois. (1) On rencontre rarement des paroles de Jésus dans la littérature chrétienne du genre épistolaire. Il est possible de supposer que c’est à cause du caractère hellénistique de ces lettres qui sont originaires de milieux plutôt urbains que ruraux, à tout le moins pour la transmission si ce n’est pour la rédaction. (2) Les paroles de Jésus peuvent dépasser leur Sitz im Leben, notamment là où elles changent de caractère. Il est possible de supposer que leur radicalisme éthique se soit transformé en radicalisme gnostique. Autrement exprimé, un radicalisme de l’action se serait transformé en un radicalisme de la connaissance qui n’a pas dû forcément avoir des conséquences sur le comportement. L’Évangile selon Thomas, une collection des paroles de Jésus, a sans doute été une modification en ce sens. C’est peut-être aussi le cas des écrits, apocryphes et gnostiques, qui ont été attribués à la figure de Jacques le Juste (notamment l’Épître apocryphe de Jacques). (3) On doit une conservation des paroles de Jésus relativement fidèle à l’esprit l’ayant animé à leur fixation par écrit dans les Évangiles canoniques et non-canoniques. La question de l’authenticité ou de la non authenticité de ces paroles de Jésus se pose en permanence, sans qu’il soit possible de lui donner une réponse claire. Les paroles de Jésus ont été portées par le radicalisme itinérant des charismatiques qui ont choisi l’itinérance comme mode de vie, tout comme leur Maître. La contextualisation historique de ces paroles donne un éclairage plus contrasté de Jésus, que ce soit l’homme ou la figure. Il a été marqué par cette itinérance qui touche tous les prophètes charismatiques du monde judéen de son époque. 3. L e s

act ions de

J é sus  17

Les actions de Jésus peuvent être réparties d’un point de vue topographique entre la Galilée et Jérusalem.

17.  Pour une première approche, voir B. Chilton-C.  A. Evans (Éd.), Authenticating the Activities of Jesus, Leyde, 1999.

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C’est pourquoi après (A) une introduction et (B) un prolégomène, on traite (C) les actions de Jésus à Jérusalem avec la question de son entrée et de son séjour et on laisse de côté, par manque de place les actions de Jésus en Galilée avec la question des miracles. 3.1. Introduction Les actions de Jésus, les ipsissima facta, sont des gestes destinés à mettre en valeur un enseignement déterminé. Les évangiles qu’ils aient été canonisés ou apocryphisés ont conservé le souvenir de quelques actions significatives de Jésus. Certaines d’entre elles, par exemple l’action qui a été posée lors de son dernier repas avec ses proches disciples, ont pris une importance considérable pour ses fidèles qui ont continué à la faire en mémoire de leur maître. Il n’est pas possible de donner un aperçu complet des actions de Jésus, aussi va-t-on se limiter à quelques traditions rapportées dans la documentation chrétienne, lesquelles sont importantes pour comprendre l’impact qu’a eu la démarche de Jésus auprès des populations de Galilée et des autorités de Jérusalem. Parmi les premières actions de Jésus, il faut considérer ses miracles qui ont ponctué ses déplacements tant en Galilée qu’en Judée. Parmi les autres actions de Jésus, il faut considérer son entrée et son séjour à Jérusalem, notamment de son attitude envers le Temple. Il conviendrait aussi de se pencher sur les aspects charismatiques des actions et des paroles de Jésus qui permettent de mieux les comprendre et surtout de mieux les contextualiser : on se permet en la matière de renvoyer à une autre contribution 18. Observons encore dans le cadre de cette introduction que, contrairement à l’image figée des douze disciples groupés autour de leur maître, que montrent les Évangiles synoptiques, l’entourage de Jésus semble avoir été composé de trois cercles concentriques : (1) le cercle des Douze, tous hommes originaires de la Galilée, dont la liste varie quelque peu mais qui comprend toujours Pierre, André, Jacques et Jean, Judas ; (2) le cercle des hommes et des femmes qui suivent Jésus : Marie de Magdala, Jeanne femme de Chouza l’intendant d’Hérode, Suzanne, Salomé et beaucoup d’autres ; (3) le cercle des sympathisants, comme Joseph d’Arimathie, Nicodème, Lazare, Marthe et Marie.

18.  À ce sujet, voir S. C. M imouni, « L’aspect charismatique des actions et des paroles de Jésus », dans G. Filoramo (Éd.), Carisma profetico. Fattore di innovazione religiosa, Brescia, 2003, p. 65-85 (= Le judaïsme ancien et les origines du christianisme. Études épistémologiques et méthodologiques, Paris, 2017, p. 343-365).

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3.2. Prolégomène Dans ce prolégomène, on va traiter de plusieurs dossiers qui portent sur la Torah, sur le Temple, sur les griefs retenus contre Jésus par les autorités religieuses et les autorités politiques. Auparavant, on présente la question controversée du caractère violent des actions de Jésus (entre eschatologie et idéologie).

3.2.1. Au sujet du caractère violent des actions de Jésus (entre eschatologie et idéologie) L’idée de la fin proche des temps et de l’arrivée imminente du Royaume de Dieu est présente dans tous les mouvements judéens zélés du Ier siècle de notre ère. Le mouvement de Jésus et ses disciples est également empreint d’une vision eschatologique du monde. Jésus annonce l’arrivée imminente du Royaume de Dieu par exemple dans l’Évangile selon Marc : « Le temps est accompli, et le Règne de Dieu s’est approché » (Mc 1, 15). Il est donc naturel que, dans cette perspective de la fin des temps et de l’avènement du Royaume de Dieu, Jésus de Nazareth agisse pour sauver son peuple. Mais, a-t-il réellement agi comme un judéen zélé dans l’ambition de sauver son peuple ? S’est-il révolté contre la domination étrangère qui souille son peuple et sa terre ? Une des questions importantes qui est à poser pour savoir si le mouvement de Jésus de Nazareth et ses disciples a été ou non un mouvement de Judéens révoltés est celle de son armement. Deux passages suggèrent que certains membres du mouvement sont toujours armés. Ces passages de l’Évangiles selon Luc et de l’Évangile selon Matthieu sont largement utilisés par des historiens comme Robert Eisler (1882-1949) 19 et Samuel G. F. Brandon (1907-1971)  20 pour démontrer que Jésus et ses disciples ont constitué un mouvement judéen identifiable à celui des sicaires ou des zélotes. Selon Luc, Jésus demande à ses disciples de s’armer : « Celui qui n’a pas d’épée, qu’il vende son manteau pour en acheter une » (Lc 22, 35-38). Pour Samuel G. F. Brandon 21, cette demande de Jésus montre sa volonté d’organiser un mouvement judéen armé pour combattre les autorités judéennes et romaines à Jérusalem. Ainsi, selon ce critique, tel que Simon 19. R. Eisler , Ἰησοῦς βασιλεὺς οὐ βασιλεύσας Die messianische Unabhängigkeitsbewegung vom Auftreten Johannes des Täufers bis zum Untergang Jakobs des Gerechten nach der neuerschlossenen Eroberung von Jerusalem des Flavius Josephus und christlichen Quellen, I-II, Heidelberg, 1929-1930 (recension de M.  Goguel , « Jésus et le messianisme politique », dans Revue historique 162 (1929), p. 217-267). 20.  S. G. F. Brandon, Jésus et les Zélotes, recherche sur le facteur politique dans le christianisme primitif, Paris, 1975. 21.  S. G. F. Brandon, Jésus et les Zélotes, recherche sur le facteur politique dans le christianisme primitif, Paris, 1975.

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en Pérée, Jésus a décidé d’organiser et d’armer ses troupes avant de marcher sur Jérusalem. Cependant, une interprétation plus pacifique peut être faite de ce passage et elle a été proposée par Martin Hengel (1906-2009) 22  : les disciples étant des Judéens itinérants, porter une épée est un moyen naturel de se protéger sur les routes de campagnes de l’Empire hantées de brigands au Ier siècle de notre ère – ainsi la parole de Jésus sur le port de l’épée peut être une recommandation sage de sa part à ses disciples. Un autre passage suggère directement la violence de Jésus de Nazareth : « N’allez pas croire que je sois venu apporter la paix sur terre ; je ne suis pas venu apporter la paix mais bien le glaive » (Mt 10, 34 ; Lc 12, 51). Certains historiens, comme Robert Eisler, qui font de Jésus de Nazareth un révolté, utilisent cet extrait littéralement afin de prouver la violence du mouvement de Jésus de Nazareth et ses disciples. Cependant, toujours selon Martin Hengel 23, cette parabole peut également évoquer la division causée par l’appel de Jésus au sein des Judéens – un changement dans les pratiques et les coutumes judéennes amène forcément, pour les partisans de Jésus de Nazareth, une opposition avec les autres Judéens. Jésus de Nazareth est un observant pieux et zélé des croyances et des pratiques judéennes comme le sont les Galiléens 24 . Il est par conséquent en désaccord avec les croyances et les pratiques judéennes des villes hellénisées et romanisées de la Galilée. Sa présence et celle de ses disciples constitués en mouvement ont sans doute provoqué des troubles de l’ordre public. Il est possible que Jésus a éprouvé le désir de prendre le pouvoir à Jérusalem, cependant son exécution rapide a mis fin à ses prétentions.

3.2.2. Jésus et la Torah Jésus ne paraît pas s’être opposé à la Torah, il le déclare d’ailleurs luimême : « N’allez pas croire que je sois venu abroger la Loi ou les Prophètes : je ne suis pas venu abroger mais accomplir » (Mt 5, 17). En s’inspirant de la tradition prophétique classique, il intériorise et personnalise l’éthique des Judéens de son époque : « Vous donc, vous serez parfait comme votre Père céleste est parfait » (Mt 5, 58). Il est difficile de considérer que Jésus ait refondé la Torah sur l’exigence inconditionnelle de l’amour du prochain, comme cela est souvent affirmé par certains critiques – ce qui n’empêche nullement de penser qu’il ait professé le principe de l’amour. En d’autres termes, Jésus ne paraît pas avoir été un refondateur de la Torah à la suite de la proclamation du Règne de Dieu. Contrairement à Paul, du moins dans les apparences, il est difficile de considérer que Jésus ait été un adversaire de la Loi. D’ailleurs, l’antino22. M. H engel , Jésus et la violence révolutionnaire, Paris, 1973. 23. M. H engel , Jésus et la violence révolutionnaire, Paris, 1973, p. 35. 24.  Voir (É. Nodet), « Galiléens », dans Revue biblique 120 (2013), p. 267-276.

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misme est une des conséquences de la croyance messianique : or, il n’est pas certain que Jésus ait eu conscience d’être un personnage messianique. Plusieurs paramètres sont à considérer dans la question de Jésus et la Loi : (1) l’enseignement de Jésus sur la Loi est à comprendre comme une composante du débat interne au judaïsme palestinien de son époque ; (2) Jésus n’a aucunement désavoué l’autorité de la Loi et s’est encore moins substitué à elle ; (3) l’originalité de l’enseignement de Jésus réside moins dans les décisions pratiques qu’il édicte que dans la source se son autorité qu’il interprète.

3.2.3. Jésus et le Temple Certaines attitudes de Jésus ont dû être ressenties comme particulièrement provocantes par les milieux sacerdotaux de Jérusalem : ainsi l’hostilité envers les vendeurs du Temple ou l’annonce de la destruction du Temple (Mc 13, 1-4 ; Mt 13, 1-3 ; Lc 21, 5-7). Des propos de Jésus contre le Temple ont été rapportés pendant son procès, au cours duquel les milieux sacerdotaux ont cherché à mettre un terme à la menace que représente pour eux la prédication du Galiléen (Mc 15, 3). En contestant l’institution du Temple de Jérusalem par ses actions et ses paroles, Jésus retrouve d’une certaine manière la ligne des altercations des prophètes avec le sacerdoce du sanctuaire. La réprobation des sacrifices représente sans doute pour Jésus une sorte de conséquence du fait qu’avec la proclamation du Règne de Dieu quelque chose d’important survient, conduisant à relativiser les autres formes cultuelles comme source du salut. Pour certains critiques, Jésus aurait parfaitement respecté le Temple, et les chrétiens à sa suite : une position difficile au regard de la documentation, et ce même si on la renvoie du côté de la tradition et non pas de l’histoire.

3.2.4. Les griefs retenus contre Jésus par les autorités religieuses et les autorités politiques Ce sont autant les paroles que les actions de Jésus qui ont été retenues contre lui lors de son procès. Sa contestation de l’institution du Temple de Jérusalem ont conduit les autorités religieuses judéennes et les autorités politiques romaines a exercé leur droit à son encontre. La prédication de Jésus de Nazareth contre le Temple (Mc 14, 58) est une de ces principales actions qui a pu le faire considérer comme le chef d’un mouvement judéen tout aussi pieux que zélé. Trois raisons, selon Gerd Theissen (né en 1943)  25, expliquent l’opposition au Temple des mouve25.  G. Theissen, « L’annonce de la ruine du temple. La prophétie en tension entre ville et campagne », dans Histoire sociale du christianisme primitif. Jésus-PaulJean, Genève, 1996, p. 47-69.

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ments judéens pieux et zélés qu’il appelle des mouvements radicaux-théocratiques 26. D’abord, l’opposition au Temple peut résulter de son bâtisseur : Hérode de par son origine iduméenne et à cause de son rapport étroit avec Rome n’est pas le bâtisseur ou restaurateur idéal pour le lieu de culte majeur des Judéens. Ensuite, l’opposition peut venir de l’architecture de style hellénistique du Temple : les Judéens n’apprécient pas, par exemple, l’aigle doré, symbole de l’empereur, placé au-dessus de la porte principale (Antiquités judéennes XVII, § 149-167). Enfin, l’opposition au Temple peut marquer l’opposition à l’aristocratie sacerdotale. D’autres personnages ont prophétisé contre le Temple comme un paysan du nom de Jésus fils d’Ananus qui a été également emprisonné par l’aristocratie judéenne puis livré aux Romains mais relaxé comme simple d’esprit (Guerre des Judéens VI, § 300). Les griefs permettent de savoir pourquoi Jésus a été condamné et exécuté, notamment comme blasphémateur. C’est ce que l’on va tenter de savoir à partir de ses actions à l’égard du Temple. 3.3. Les actions de Jésus à Jérusalem : la question de son entrée et de son séjour 27 Comme on le sait, vers l’an 30, Jésus et ses disciples, venant de Galilée, arrivent à Jérusalem pour célébrer la fête de Pâques ou pour d’autres raisons qui sont inconnues. Les informations sont fournies uniquement par les évangiles canoniques – c’est dire leurs caractères partiels et partiales. De fait, quand on aborde les traditions de l’entrée et du séjour de Jésus à Jérusalem, on ne peut manquer d’éprouver, avec Charles Guignebert (1867-1939), une certaine « impression de vide extrême », et cela malgré le « bourrage » opéré par les nombreux discours 28. Quoi qu’il en soit, étudier les traditions relatives à l’entrée et au séjour de Jésus à Jérusalem, c’est toucher essentiellement à ce que l’on appelle le « Jésus de l’histoire ». En ce sens que la plupart de ces traditions sont plutôt d’ordre historique, même si elles ont subi au cours du temps les aléas de la transmission, notamment sur le plan de leurs transformations successives au gré des nécessités spatiales et temporelles auxquelles ont été confrontées les communautés chrétiennes du fait de leur dispersion. Il n’empêche cependant que d’une façon ou d’une autre, difficile à déterminer précisément, ces traditions ont été le produit d’une certaine historicisa26.  G. Theissen, « L’annonce de la ruine du temple. La prophétie en tension entre ville et campagne », dans Histoire sociale du christianisme primitif. Jésus-PaulJean, Genève, 1996, p. 60. 27.  À ce sujet, voir M.  Goguel , Jésus, Paris, 19502 , p. 318-341 ; C.  Guignebert, Jésus, Paris, 1933, p. 499-522. 28.  C.  Guignebert, Jésus, Paris, 1933, p. 522.

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tion, d’une construction historique. C’est pourquoi, de ce point de vue, il demeurera toujours délicat de distinguer entre ce qui relève de l’historique et ce qui relève du traditionnel : entre ce qui s’est réellement passé et ce qu’on a imaginé qu’il s’est passé. La transmission de ces traditions est d’ordre littéraire : c’est pourquoi, il paraît délicat, la plupart du temps, de passer à l’ordre historique. Autrement dit, même si ces traditions permettent dans une certaine mesure d’atteindre le Jésus de l’histoire (ce que certains appellent le « Jésus réel »), il demeure toujours difficile d’évaluer la part de la narration littéraire et de la distinguer clairement des événements historiques. La tradition de la présentation de Jésus au Temple et celle de l’enseignement de Jésus toujours au Temple, rapportées exclusivement par Luc dans son évangile, ne relèvent pas de ce dossier. D’une part, parce qu’elles appartiennent à l’ensemble se rapportant à l’enfance de Jésus. D’autre part, parce qu’elles ne présentent aucun caractère historique – à l’évidence, la plupart des exégètes et des historiens conviennent qu’elles ne sont, dans le meilleur des cas, que des créations tardives de la fin du Ier siècle : en bref et en clair, ce sont des motifs littéraires à des fins théologiques, mais sans fondement historique aucun. L’auteur de ces traditions, Luc en l’occurrence, semble toutefois bien informé sur le Temple et, de ce point de vue, mérite toute l’attention : leurs reprises dans son œuvre ne sauraient être négligées, d’autant qu’elles pourraient bien être destinées à un public judéen, lui-même non étranger en ce qui concerne tout ce qui touche au sanctuaire. En revanche, doit être considérée la question de la tradition du dernier repas de Jésus avec ses disciples qui pourrait constituer, semble-t-il, l’acte fondateur de la communauté de Jérusalem, précédant l’arrestation et l’exécution de Jésus. Les enseignements d’ordre apocalyptique et eschatologique de Jésus à Jérusalem autour de son annonce de la destruction du Temple, notamment à partir de la tradition marcienne qui est « avant-événement » et non pas des traditions matthéenne ou lucanienne qui sont, vraisemblablement, « après-événement », relèvent de ce dossier et en constituent un axe essentiellement, car elles permettent de mettre en évidence certaines caractéristiques saillantes du personnage. L’entrée et le séjour de Jésus à Jérusalem posent des problèmes particulièrement délicats, car on est en présence de deux traditions impossibles à harmoniser et dont aucune ne peut être comprise comme dérivant de l’autre. Les Évangiles synoptiques ont regroupé à la fin de la vie de Jésus tout ce qu’ils ont retenu de son ministère à Jérusalem : ils ne mentionnent donc qu’une seule entrée et un seul séjour dans la Ville Sainte qu’ils présentent comme ayant été court, et ne rapportent aucun miracle. L’Évangile selon Jean, au contraire, organise la vie de Jésus dans le cadre d’une organisation plus complexe, qui comporte plusieurs séjours à Jérusalem. Par

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conséquent, il est impossible d’harmoniser les deux présentations, synoptique et johannique, du ministère de Jésus à Jérusalem. C’est la raison pour laquelle il faut examiner successivement les récits sur l’entrée et le séjour de Jésus à Jérusalem d’abord dans les Évangiles synoptiques, notamment à partir du récit rapporté dans l’Évangile selon Marc, et ensuite dans l’Évangile selon Jean. Contrairement à la tradition de l’entrée qui est assez homogène, tout ce qui a trait au séjour est assez hétéroclite et diffère selon les auteurs des évangiles canoniques. Rappelons brièvement que Marc, Matthieu et Luc présentent leurs évangiles en deux parties distinctes : la première traite de l’activité de Jésus en Galilée, la seconde de son conflit à Jérusalem. Pour sa part, l’Évangile selon Jean est disposé de telle manière que Jérusalem prend dans cette œuvre une place fondamentale. À cette fin, son auteur mentionne, comme on l’a déjà précisé, plusieurs voyages de Jésus qui le mènent de la Galilée à Jérusalem, pas moins de trois en tout dont le premier pourrait remonter à l’an 28 au moment de la fête de Pâque (Jn 2, 13), le deuxième à l’an 29 au moment de la fête de Sukkot (Jn 7, 10) et le dernier à l’an 30 encore lors de la fête de Pâque (Jn 11, 55). Jean décrit ainsi Jésus se rendant à Jérusalem en pèlerinage à l’occasion d’une fête, comme la plupart des Judéens de son temps : Jésus est, pour ainsi dire, un étranger à Jérusalem, il ne s’y déplace que pour les fêtes. De ce point de vue, l’auteur de l’Évangile selon Jean insiste sur un point important : Jésus est un Judéen de la Galilée, et non pas de la Judée. On doit relever encore deux traditions qui sont transmises par le récit lucanien : (1) d’après Lc 9, 51-53, Jésus et ses disciples, pour rejoindre Jérusalem, auraient emprunté une route passant par la Samarie ; d’après Lc 13, 31-32, sur les conseils de pharisiens, Jésus aurait quitté la Galilée parce qu’Hérode Antipas veut le faire exécuter. L’opposition d’Hérode Antipas à Jésus et la menace qu’il fait peser sur son existence ne sont nullement à négliger, car c’est lui qui est à l’origine de la mise à mort de Jean le Baptiste et ce même s’il n’a pas voulu être mêlé à l’arrestation et à l’exécution de Jésus, alors qu’il est aussi présent à Jérusalem pour célébrer la fête de Pâques – du moins d’après les évangiles canoniques car d’après un évangile apocryphe, l’Évangile selon Pierre, c’est lui qui aurait condamné Jésus avec « ses juges » et « ses soldats » (v. 1-2). Pour Hérode Antipas, Jésus, tout comme d’ailleurs Jean le Baptiste, sont des fauteurs de troubles à l’ordre public, qui doivent être éliminés s’ils deviennent gênants pour le pouvoir établi et soutenu par l’autorité romaine.

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3.4. Récapitulatif On va donner maintenant quelques éléments sur les déplacements de Jésus au cours de son ministère tant en Galilée qu’à Jérusalem. Un grand nombre d’historiens, racontant la vie de Jésus, adoptent le schéma qui ressort apparemment de Marc (suivi en gros par Matthieu et Luc), selon lequel trois temps scandent le ministère de Jésus : la Galilée, la montée et l’entrée à Jérusalem et le séjour et la mort à Jérusalem. Il est difficile d’accepter un tel schéma sans le confronter avec les renseignements fournis par Jean, pour lequel il existe plusieurs montées et séjours à Jérusalem, et donc plusieurs voyages de Jésus entre la Galilée et la Judée (pas moins de trois). Quoi qu’il en soit, l’historien doit se montrer assez réservé devant toute tentative visant à reconstruire de façon précise les déplacements de Jésus. Sans nécessairement refaire l’exercice dont le caractère vain n’est que trop évident, en la matière, trois points paraissent toutefois solidement acquis : (1) la plupart du temps les sources ne permettent pas de reconstituer exactement les déplacements de Jésus au cours de son ministère, mais permettent cependant de constater qu’il a été un prédicateur itinérant qui s’est beaucoup déplacé seul ou avec ses disciples ; (2) certaines consignes de Jésus à ses disciples, conservées dans les évangiles, concernant les provisions, les bagages, l’argent, les chaussures, rappellent d’ailleurs directement cet aspect important de son activité (Mt 7, 7-11 // Lc 11, 9-13) ; (3) d’autres consignes laissent entrevoir que Jésus a invité ses disciples à ne pas se soucier du lendemain : il s’est fondé pour cela sur l’exemple des oiseaux du ciel et des lis des champs aux besoins desquels Dieu pourvoit avec magnificence (Mt 6, 25-34 // Lc 12, 22, 31). Au cours de ses déplacements, Jésus semble avoir manifesté quelque solidarité à l’égard de certaines des marginalités sociales du monde judéen : ses repas avec les exclus et les femmes moralement ou physiquement réprouvées offrent le signe le plus cinglant de son refus de tout particularisme relevant des règles de pureté qu’il tend à relativiser et non à supprimer. C’est aussi un indice du fait qu’il n’a été d’une relevance ni pharisienne ni essénienne.

3.4.1. Jésus s’est souvent déplacé Jésus est un prédicateur itinérant, sans cesse en chemin. Il a parcouru non seulement la Galilée, mais aussi des territoires situés au Nord et à

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l’Est de cette région (dans des zones géographiques réputées grecques) : il s’est rendu, par exemple, de l’autre côté du lac de Tibériade, au pays des Géraséniens (selon Mc 5, 1), des Gadaréniens (selon Mt 8, 28), dont la localisation n’est pas aisée à établir. On le trouve aussi sur les chemins de Transjordanie, en Décapole. S’il reste difficile de reconstituer de manière précise de tels voyages, on peut constater cependant que la tradition a gardé le souvenir de plusieurs voyages en Galilée et hors de la Galilée.

3.4.2. Jésus s’est souvent retiré dans des lieux déserts Dans l’Évangile selon Marc, il y a plusieurs allusions au fait que Jésus s’est retiré dans un lieu désert seul (Mc 1, 35-45) ou avec ses disciples (Mc 6, 31) à des fins de méditation spirituelle, et il est indiqué que parfois la foule les y a rejoints (Mc 6, 33-44). C’est au cours d’une de ses périodes au désert que Jésus est décrit comme tenté par Satan (Mc 1, 12). Ces sortes de retraites laissent toutefois entrevoir de fréquentes allées et venues de la part de Jésus.

3.4.3. Jésus a fait plusieurs séjours en Judée et donc à Jérusalem Contrairement à ce que laissent entendre les Évangiles synoptiques selon lesquels Jésus n’est arrivé à Jérusalem que quelques jours avant sa mort, il paraît plus vraisemblable de penser que Jésus a fait plusieurs séjours en Judée et donc à Jérusalem – comme l’indique d’ailleurs l’Évangile selon Jean. Toutefois, à l’itinéraire géographique de Jésus décrit par Jean, qui comporte trois montées à Jérusalem lors de la fête de Pâque (Jn 2, 13 ; 6, 4 ; 11, 55), est préféré par la plupart des exégètes celui donné par Marc et les autres synoptiques qui ne rapportent qu’une seule montée dont le caractère liturgique plus que narratif est pourtant évident – sans doute pour des raisons de simplification. Jésus, qui est né et a vécu à Nazareth, a voyagé dans toute la Galilée. D’après l’Évangile selon Marc, qui est le plus utile pour les déplacements de Jésus en Galilée et dans les régions alentours, Jésus aurait fait trois voyages : le premier en Mc 4, 35-5, 24 ; le deuxième en Mc 6, 31-8, 10 ; le troisième en Mc 8, 13-9, 3. Dans cet inventaire, on laisse à part le voyage de Jésus auprès de Jean le Baptiste qui le conduit de Nazareth au Jourdain (Mc 1, 9). La tradition estime que Jean baptise au bord d’un affluent du Jourdain, situé au nord-est du pays, dans la région de Bashan ou de Batanée. 4. Q u e lqu e s

é l é m e n ts conclusi fs

L’ensemble, paroles et actions, constitue ce que l’on appelle le ministère de Jésus. Il est évident que cette distinction est des plus artificielles, car on ne peut pas séparer les paroles et les actions d’un homme. D’autant que

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c’est par les paroles qu’on peut comprendre les actions d’un homme – les distinguer, c’est peut-être vouloir renvoyer les paroles du côté du divin et les actions du côté de l’humain, une distinction apparemment paradoxale. Ici, si l’on a distingué les paroles des actions de Jésus, c’est surtout par souci pédagogique et aucunement par souci théologique. De quelque manière que l’on travaille sur Jésus de Nazareth – d’un point de vue historique ou d’un point de vue théologique –, il apparaît nécessaire de s’interroger sur sa propre vision de cet homme qui a tant marqué le monde occidental et sa culture depuis 2000 ans. Une question notamment se pose : le Jésus historique peut-il être séparé du Jésus traditionnel et du Jésus de la piété chrétienne ? La quête du Jésus historique a pour objectif le Jésus humanisé : elle présente la tendance à retenir le christianisme dans son penchant récurent pour la divinisation du Christ – une tendance qui remonte aux origines du mouvement chrétien et qui n’est pas originaire du paganisme comme on le dit souvent mais aussi du judaïsme, ce qui paraît plus logique étant donné que toute manifestation religieuse tend à la divinisation de son Maître. C’est dire le caractère théologien de cette quête du Jésus historique qui diffère évidemment de la quête du Jésus traditionnel qui lui est plus axé sur la dogmatique et notamment la christologie. Peut-on, dans l’étude des sources du Nouveau Testament, qui ont façonné le Jésus de la théologie chrétienne, découvrir ou redécouvrir l’homme Jésus ou mieux encore l’homme Jésus dans son milieu judéen et dans sa judaïcité d’origine ? De fait, il faut bien dire que le Jésus que le monde occidental s’est construit, à savoir un personnage ayant vocation de résoudre les problèmes de l’univers en témoignant d’un attachement inconditionnel au divin et d’un amour sans limite pour l’autrui devenu chrétien et non pour l’autrui en général, ne correspond pas nécessairement au Jésus de l’histoire, celui que reconstruisent les historiens. En effet, une dichotomie presque infranchissable sépare le personnage quasi mythique élaboré au cours des siècles dans la culture occidentale et le personnage réel que l’on peut discerner avec peine à partir des sources utilisées et critiquées en histoire. Quoi qu’il en soit de ces épineuses et délicates questions, tout historien, spécialisé en ce domaine, doit s’interroger sur sa propre vision de Jésus et sur les perspectives qui conduisent ses recherches. On peut imaginer le caractère pharisien de Jésus, ou bien son caractère essénien. On peut aussi l’imaginer en fonction de son caractère prophétique, ou bien en fonction de son caractère messianique. On peut encore l’imaginer en pieux, ou bien en zélé, voire en révolté contre tous les pouvoirs établis (le Romain comme le Judéen). Car Jésus a suscité une variété d’opinions parmi les historiens confessionnellement engagés ou non, également parmi les théologiens de tout bord.

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Il est certain que les évangiles, les principales et premières sources, ont été écrits quelques décennies et même plus après l’époque de Jésus. Il est certain aussi qu’ils sont le produit de la méditation spirituelle des premières communautés chrétiennes. Sans compter que ces évangiles ne traitent pas de l’homme que les chercheurs essaient de discerner, mais plutôt de la carrière humaine de l’être plus ou moins divin – médiateur entre le divin et l’humain – portant le nom de Jésus et identifié au Logos selon le grec ou à la Memrah selon l’araméen. C’est pourquoi des recherches qui ne seraient axées que sur la quête du Jésus historique seraient en antagonisme avec les sources mêmes sur lesquelles elles s’appuient. On ne peut donc prétendre trouver Jésus, le Judéen de Galilée, dans des sources qui traitent de cet homme en en faisant un être quasi divin, différent en tout cas de celui qu’il a été de son vivant dans son milieu d’existence. On sait combien il est difficile de trier de manière indéniable les matériaux issus des évangiles, que ce soit les paroles ou les actions de Jésus. On sait aussi combien il est difficile de savoir de manière tranchée et précise à quelle tendance de son temps Jésus a appartenu, encore moins comment le ranger dans une catégorie spécifique. Comment se résoudre alors à accepter que les évangiles ne fournissent pas suffisamment d’éléments fiables sur l’homme Jésus ancré dans son temps. Le personnage de Jésus est lié à la culture occidentale : c’est une certitude – les représentations artistiques et littéraires en témoignent largement. La manière dont les hommes appartenant à cette culture occidentale reçoivent Jésus n’est d’ailleurs pas de l’ordre du conscient. Les vingt siècles du monde occidental, surtout à partir des IVe-Ve siècles, ont été tellement façonnés par la figure de Jésus qu’il est difficile de réaliser à quel point cela a été le cas. Or, cette figure, fondée sur l’amour du prochain, du moins en théorie, ne correspond nullement au personnage authentique de Jésus, tout au plus et encore dans ses grands traits. Il est indéniable qu’on ne peut aujourd’hui libérer la prise en considération du personnage Jésus des schémas mentaux occidentaux et de leurs multiples mécanismes de réflexion. Chaque homme ancré dans son époque est peu ou prou le réceptacle de la culture qui l’a vu naître et lui confère ses modalités de réflexion intellectuelle. Dans cette perspective, la figure ahistorique de Jésus fait partie du bagage culturel de tout homme occidental, consciemment ou inconsciemment. Un théologien exégète comme Rudolph Bultmann est un cas exemplaire pour comprendre comment on a pu couper Jésus de ses racines humaines (pré-pascales) pour ne s’intéresser qu’à ses attaches divines (post-pascales). Après ces réflexions tout aussi radicales que pessimistes comment peuton aborder alors la démarche historique, la fonder autrement ?

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Les théologiens, surtout les exégètes, réclament le droit épistémologique à la subjectivité du chercheur – un droit qui a été mis en avant pour se démarquer d’engagements idéologiques considérés ensuite comme vains ou erronés, pour ne pas dire honteux. Ce droit, qui implique le droit à l’erreur, peut pourtant difficilement être mis en avant par les théologiens car il faudrait alors se demander s’ils peuvent aussi se tromper sur une matière aussi délicate par ses conséquences que « la foi et les mœurs ». Les travaux théologiens peuvent-ils se réclamer des reconstructions historiographiques du passé, lesquelles reposent essentiellement sur des hypothèses qui peuvent être modulables en fonction des questions posées ? C’est une question à laquelle les théologiens répondent rarement, préférant les contourner en se fondant sur telle ou telle méthode littéraire (la sémiotique ou la narratologie) ou sur tel ou tel auteur de prou (Rudolph Bultmann ou Ernst Käsemann). 4.1. Jésus est une figure sui generis Jésus est une figure sui generis et il serait vain, comme on le fait parfois, de vouloir le rattacher à tel ou tel groupe judéen de la Palestine de son temps. Selon la documentation chrétienne, Jésus ne se réfère effectivement jamais à une quelconque autorité qui lui servirait d’inspiration pour son interprétation de la Torah. On le considère dans cette documentation comme l’interprète du texte révélé, l’Écriture Sainte, et aucun maître n’est mentionné comme autorité de référence. Il est donc difficile de dire si Jésus a appartenu à une forme d’une quelconque tradition judéenne dont il aurait constitué un des maillons de la chaîne. De ce point de vue, Jésus est assez semblable aux hassidim de son époque qui ne s’inscrivent dans aucune lignée, même si les pharisiens puis les rabbiniques ont voulu les englober, notamment pour mieux les décrier, aussi pour mieux les contester 29.

29. Au sujet des hassidim, voir A.  Büchler , Types of Jewish-Palestine Piety from 70 bce . to 70 ce : The Ancient Pious Men, Londres, 1922. Voir aussi S. Safrai, « Teaching of Pietists in Mishnaic Literature », dans Journal of Jewish Studies 16 (1965), p. 15-33 (= « L’enseignement des hassidim dans la littérature tannaïtique », dans Et voici il n’y avait pas Joseph. En mémoire de Joseph Amoraï, Tel-Aviv, 1973, p. 136-152 [en hébreu] = « L’enseignement des hassidim dans la littérature tannaïtique », dans À l ’époque du Temple et de la Mishna, Jérusalem, II, 1994, p. 501-517 [en hébreu]. Voir aussi S. Safrai, « Les hassidim et les hommes d’action », dans Zion 50 (1983), p. 133-154 [en hébreu] (= « Les hassidim et les hommes d’action », dans À l ’époque du Temple et de la Mishna, Jérusalem, II, 1994, p. 518-539 [en hébreu].

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On va illustrer ce propos général par la lecture d’un article de David Rokeah (né en 1930) publié en 2005 en hébreu 30 à partir d’un résumé proposé par Dan Jaffé (né en 1970) publié, lui, en 2009 en français 31. Dans cet article, David Rokeah reprend la question de la relation de Jésus avec le mouvement des hassidim travaillée par Shmuel Safrai (1919-2003) dans un article publié en 1996 également en hébreu 32 . David Rokeah s’intéresse tout particulièrement à une expression rabbinique spécifique ‫( חסידים ואנשי מעשה‬hassidim ve-anshe m`asseh), qui littéralement signifie « pieux et hommes d’action ». Selon Shmuel Safrai, cette expression qualifie ceux qui réalisent de bonnes actions, des actes de bienfaisance, et elle doit être comprise avec le passage de M Soukkah V, 4 (« Les pieux et hommes d’action dansaient devant le peuple avec en main des torches allumées »), qui présente une description des pratiques propres aux hassidim et aux hommes d’action, durant la fête de Soukkot, où les deux termes n’en font qu’un : ils signifient que les hassidim sont l’équivalent des hommes d’action. Observons que pour Geza Vermes (1924-2013), l’expression « pieux et hommes d’action » désigne précisément Hanina ben Dosa dans l’accomplissement d’actes thaumaturgiques et dans sa qualité de guérisseurs charismatiques 33. Pour David Rokeah, cette dernière explication ne s’impose pas, car l’expression « pieux et hommes d’action » ne renvoie pas nécessairement à des actes thaumaturgiques. Ainsi, selon lui, le terme ‫( מעשה‬m`asseh), signifiant « action », désigne non pas un acte miraculeux ou charismatique, mais simplement un acte bienfaisant. On peut se demander si David Rokeah, qui évoque pour soutenir son objection un passage de M Abot  III, 9 (où il est question de sagesse qui conditionne les actes de bonté), ne joue pas sur les mots, car un acte de thaumaturgie est aussi un acte de bienfaisance, en ce sens qu’en guérissant une maladie il apporte du bien-être au malade. Concernant Jésus, David Rokeah, dans sa contribution, procède à une étude des références évangéliques pour savoir comment il est possible de 30.  D. Rokeah, « Les amei ha-aretz, les premiers hassidim, Jésus et les chrétiens », dans Y. Sussmann-D. Rosenthal (éd.), Mehqerei Talmud. Recueils d ’essais talmudiques et de domaines connexes offerts en souvenir du professeur Ephraim E. Urbach, Jérusalem, 2005, Partie 2, Tome III, p. 876-903 [en hébreu]. 31.  D. Jaffé , Jésus sous la plume des historiens juifs du XXe siècle : approche historique, perspectives historiographiques, analyses méthodologiques, Paris, 2009, p. 233-236. 32.  S. Safrai, « Jésus et le mouvement des hassidim », dans I.  M.  Gafni-A. Op penheimer-D. R. S chwartz (éd.), Les Juifs dans le monde hellénistique et romain. Etudes à la mémoire de Menahem Stern, Jérusalem, 1996, p. 413-436 [en hébreu]. 33.  G. Vermes , Jésus le Juif. Les documents évangéliques à l ’épreuve de l ’historien, Paris, 1978, p. 119-120.

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le situer par rapport notamment au sabbat. Il parvient à la conclusion que Jésus s’est montré laxiste sur nombre de règles concernant le sabbat et il souligne que cela n’a pas été généralement le cas des hassidim qui ont accompli de manière rigoureuse les préceptes mosaïques – on peut d’ailleurs se demander par rapport à quelles règles Jésus se serait montré laxiste, car on ne connait pas précisément les siennes ou celles de son milieu d’appartenance. David Rokeah est toutefois d’accord avec Shmuel Safraï pour discerner chez Jésus certaines caractéristiques qui sont conformes aux règles des hassidim. Il en distingue au moins quatre qu’il convient de relever : (1) la pauvreté et l’existence démunie ; (2) la prédominance accordée aux actes de bonté sur l’étude de la Torah ; (3) la capacité de soigner les malades par des moyens surnaturels ; (4) la faculté d’accomplir des actions miraculeuses. David Rokeah pense trouver chez Jésus une opposition ouverte à certaines règles de la halakhah pharisienne puis rabbinique comme les pratiques de la pureté et le paiement des dîmes – des obligations que les hassidim considèrent comme primordiales, même s’ils ne leur donnent pas la même signification qu’elles ont pour les pharisiens ou rabbins. En réalité, contrairement aux affirmations de David Rokeah, sans entrer plus avant dans la question, on peut dire que les hassidim ne semblent pas avoir été très scrupuleux à l’égard des pratiques de la pureté et du paiement des dîmes, étant donné notamment qu’ils ne forment pas un groupe organisé ayant besoin de pureté pour tracer leurs limites et de dîmes pour subsister. David Rokeah estime que Jésus a reconsidéré plusieurs commandements bibliques, mais pas halakhiques : (1) en Mt 5, 38-48 et en Lc 6, 27-30, il remet en question la loi du talion de Ex 21, 23-25 ; (2) en Mt 5, 43-48, il enjoint d’aimer son ennemi et de prier pour lui, remettant en question la relation des Judéens avec les Ammonites et les Moabites de Dt 23, 46-47 et l’amour du prochain de Lv 19, 18 ; (3) en Mc 12, 28-34, en Mt 22, 34-40 et en Lc 10, 25-28, il enjoint d’aimer l’Éternel et d’aimer son prochain comme soi-même selon Dt 6, 5 et Lv 19, 18, remettant en question le principe que Hillel l’Ancien déclare être le principe fondamental de la Torah, à savoir : « Ce que tu hais, ne l’inflige pas à ton prochain », qui est une paraphrase négative du commandement de Lv 19, 18. Des reconsidérations qui empêchent, selon David Rokeah, de placer Jésus parmi le groupe des hassidim. Bref, pour David Rokeah, contrairement à Shmuel Safrai, il est problématique d’englober Jésus dans la catégorie des hassidim, même si on y trouve des parallèles à une partie de ses

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actions et de ses paroles. Il préfère alors considérer Jésus comme une figure sui generis, ce en quoi il n’a pas totalement tort, même si cela ne résout pas les problèmes que pose sa personne dans une recherche toujours nécessaire de contextualisation. Il n’en demeure pas moins que Jésus a été un homme pieux même s’il n’est pas entièrement prouvé qu’il soit issu de la catégorie des hassidim mise en évidence de manière parfaite par Shmuel Safrai. De toute façon, les hassidim ont sans doute constitué une catégorie informelle beaucoup moins stricte quant à la halakhah que le mouvement des pharisiens et plus tard celui des rabbiniques – cependant un groupe aux frontières bien peu définies. C’est pourquoi, les arguments soulevés par David Rokeah sont trop insuffisants pour penser que Jésus n’aurait pas été un des leurs. 4.2. Quelques hypothèses pour une étude de Jésus de Nazareth Toutes ces hypothèses sont envisageables et ne s’excluent nullement. Correspondent-elles au Jésus réel ou non ? Difficile à dire, étant donné que les premiers chrétiens, témoins oculaires ou auriculaires de Jésus, l’ont compris de diverses manières et ont transmis sur lui des témoignages divers qui peuvent même être contradictoires. Il n’est donc pas étonnant qu’on ait pu comprendre la figure de Jésus de manières aussi paradoxales en la considérant positivement comme négativement. Toute étude de Jésus de Nazareth ne peut pas être unilatérale, non seulement à cause du caractère spécifique de la documentation, mais aussi peut-être que le personnage a dû avoir plusieurs facettes, comme c’est le cas pour tout individu – il ne faut donc exclure aucune éventualité, du moins si on veut le comprendre, tout au moins historiquement, dans toute sa complexité.

4.2.1. Jésus aurait été un pieux, mais aussi un zélé Ce sont deux caractéristiques essentielles de la personnalité de Jésus qu’il convient peut-être de développer, même si elles peuvent déranger parfois les théologiens exégètes. Quoi qu’il en soit, observons pour l’instant que Jésus a pu être à son époque tout autant un « pieux » qu’un « zélé », dont les aspects religieux de ses paroles et de ses actions sont très liés aux aspects politiques de la Palestine du Ier siècle de notre ère – prendre en considération son éventuelle appartenance à la tribu des prêtres et des lévites renforce indéniablement cette idée.

4.2.2. Jésus aurait été surtout un membre de la tribu ou de la classe des prêtres et des lévites C’est une hypothèse sur laquelle il faut travailler, car sans être vraiment nouvelle elle a été peu retenue par les chercheurs qui ont tendance à consi-

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dérer qu’on est dans le domaine des représentations bibliques et non dans le domaine des réalités historiques  3 4 . Pourtant à la lecture de certains documents, comme l’Évangile selon Jean ou l’Épître aux Hébreux, cette caractéristique apparaît comme des plus évidentes. Il en va de même pour Jacques le Juste, le frère de Jésus, qui est souvent décrit comme un prêtre, voire symbolisé comme un grand prêtre. Ainsi de l’application à Jésus du Ps 110, 4, « Tu es prêtre pour l’éternité à la manière de Melkisédeq », par l’auteur de l’Épître aux Hébreux (He 5, 6), on peut déduire les trois remarques suivantes : (1) Jésus ne semble pas s’être arrogé le sacerdoce, comme tout prêtre, mais il l’a reçue d’une vocation divine (He 5, 6) ; (2) ce sacerdoce est bien supérieur à celui des fils de Lévi, il ne dépend pas de l’appartenance génétique, il provient d’un choix divin et a été confirmé par un serment (He 7, 21) ; (3) du fait que le sacerdoce de Jésus est sur le type de celui de Melkisédeq (Gn 14, 17-20), il est donc supérieur à celui de Lévi et il semble appelé à le remplacer dans son aspect unique et définitif, notamment avec une efficacité salutaire (He 7, 3.16-17.24). Jésus unit ainsi en sa personne une double prérogative : celle du sacerdoce et celle de la royauté – cette dernière n’étant pas présente dans l’Épître aux Hébreux. Pour décrire l’œuvre rédemptrice du grand prêtre de la nouvelle alliance, l’auteur de l’Épître aux Hébreux, grâce à l’argument de l’analogie et à celui de la typologie, exploite et transpose les rites de la fête du Jour des Expiations (Yom ha-kippourim) (He 4, 14 ; 6, 19). Jésus, en grand prêtre, intercède ainsi devant le Dieu d’Israël en faveur du peuple des chrétiens, comme les grands prêtres judéens en fonction au temple de Jérusalem, mais de manière différente car le sacrifice qui précède l’entrée dans la Saint des Saints est le sien et non celui d’un bouc ou d’un taurillon. Il est évident que Jésus n’a jamais été grand prêtre – il ne figure pas dans les listes connues –, mais dans certains milieux chrétiens il a été considéré comme tel, tout au moins de manière symbolique. Jésus a-t-il appartenu à la classe des prêtres ? La question peut se poser, ce qui ne signifie pas qu’il a été un desservant du temple de Jérusalem. 34.  S. C. M imouni, « Jésus de Nazareth et sa famille ont-ils appartenus à la tribu des prêtres ? Quelques remarques et réflexions pour une recherche nouvelle », dans Studia Patristica XCI, Papers presented at the Seventeenth International Conference on Patristic Studies held in Oxford, 2015, 17, Leuven, 2017, p. 19-46.

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Appartenir à la tribu de Lévi ne donne pas l’accès au service du sanctuaire, ni aux membres habitant la Palestine ni aux membres habitant la Diaspora.

4.2.3. Récapitulatif Jésus en prêtre et en zélé (ou en révolté contre sa classe et son monde) : l’hypothèse n’est pas à négliger d’autant que le dossier de textes à l’appui n’est pas négligeable, même s’il l’a été car ces réalités cadrent assez mal avec la figure fondée sur l’amour du prochain que certains chrétiens ont forgée de toutes pièces au cours des siècles. Pour répondre ou consoler ceux qui trouveraient cette perspective difficile à comprendre, voire non crédible, on peut dire, sans se placer évidemment du point de vue de la foi, qu’il est tout à fait normal qu’une figure comme celle de Jésus puisse changer au cours des siècles. On ne trouve rien à redire que le monde ait changé en 2000 ans, alors pourquoi la figure de Jésus n’aurait-elle aussi pas changé : c’est cela qui est non crédible et pas l’inverse. 5. E xcu r sus Il n’a pas été tenu compte dans ces quelques remarques et réflexions du document Q qui a pourtant été l’objet de nombreux travaux au cours de ces dernières décennies. C’est pourquoi dans ce succinct excursus, il paraît nécessaire de de positionner par rapport à ce document. C’est au XIXe siècle, avec Friedrich Schleiermarcher en 1832, que l’hypothèse de l’existence d’une « source de paroles » de Jésus (= Q de l’allemand Quelle) ayant servi à la composition de l’Évangiles selon Matthieu et de l’Évangile selon Luc, en plus de l’Évangile selon Marc, a été avancée, en Allemagne, par des exégètes-théologiens protestants, avec des motivations relevant plus de l’ordre théologique que de l’ordre historique. Depuis, les travaux se sont multipliés et, en 1983, The International Q Project a été mis sur pied à l’initiative de James M. Robinson (1924-2016), lequel projet a été à l’origine de la publication d’une édition critique de Q 35. Cette édition critique de Q est présentée comme une synopse à huit colonnes, déployée chaque fois sur une double page où sont reportés de gauche à droite : « 1) tout parallèle marcien de Matthieu ; 2) tout doublet matthéen ; 3) le texte matthéen dépendant de Q ; 4) le texte critique de Q ; 5) le texte lucanien dépendant de Q ; 6) tout doublet matthéen ; 7) tout parallèle marcien de Luc ; 8) tout parallèle de l’Évangile de Thomas [reproduit en copte] » (p. xv-xvi) – le texte critique de Q qui apparaît sur 35.  J. M. Robinson-P. Hoffmann-J. S. K loppenborg (éd.), The Critical Edition of Q. Synopsis including the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, Marl and Thomas with English, German, and French Translations of Q and Thomas, Leuven, 2000.

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un fond grisé se distingue immédiatement des autres. De plus, en bas de page, le texte retenu pour Q est reproduit, toujours sur un fond grisé, suivi de sa traduction en anglais, en allemand et en français. Dans le cas où le parallèle existe dans l’Évangile selon Thomas, il fait l’objet d’une rétroversion en grec et d’une traduction dans chacune des trois langues précitées – ainsi est facilitée la prise en considération de ce document dont est encore reproduit le texte grec quand il est attesté dans les papyrus retrouvés à Oxyrhynque au Fayoum en Égypte. Il n’est pas certain toutefois qu’il faille souscrire aux propos des éditeurs qui considèrent dans leur préface que « le texte de Q ne mérite plus […] de n’être qu’une boîte noire imaginaire sous-jacente à certains versets de Matthieu et de Luc qui l’auraient pour source, mais […] peut désormais apparaître de plein droit comme un texte à part entière » (p. xv). En tout état de cause, il faut reconnaître que le document Q n’est qu’une reconstitution fondée sur des présupposés d’ordre littéraire, mais aucunement sur des réalités d’ordre historique. On doit se demander dans ces conditions s’il est légitime comme le font certains exégètes, au nombre desquels il faut compter John S. Kloppenborg (né en 1951) et James M. Robinson, d’estimer que Q fournit un accès plus direct et surtout plus ancien au Jésus historique que les autres documents réellement disponibles. Surtout que maintenant les partisans du document Q, qui est généralement daté des années 40 (antérieur aux épîtres de Paul de Tarse), proposent de le localiser, en Galilée 36 , de l’utiliser dans la question du Parting of the Ways 37, et même d’identifier l’école ou le village de scribes qui pourrait en être à l’origine 38. Le document Q est à l’origine de nombreuses publications scientifiques, de nombreuses carrières académiques : prouvant ainsi que l’on peut vraiment construire sur du sable. Mais est-ce de l’histoire ?

36. Voir J. S. K loppenborg, « Q, Bethsaida, Khorazin and Capharnaum », dans M. Tiwald (éd.), Q in Context II. Social Setting and Archaeological Background of the Sayings Source, Göttingen, 2015, p. 61-90. 37. Voir J. S. K loppenborg, « A ‘Parting of the Ways’ in Q ? », dans M. Tiwald (éd.), Q in Context I. The Separation between the Just and the Unjust in Early Judaism and in the Sayings Sources-A New Look at the ‘Parting of the Ways, Göttingen, 2015, p. 123-143. 38. Voir G.  B.  Bazzana, Kingdom and Bureaucracy. The Political Theology of Village Scribes in the Sayings Gospel Q, Leuven-Paris-Walpole/Massachusetts, 2015.

“A LETHURGIC” DISCOURSES ON JESUS The Gospel-Narrations as “True Discourses” L.  A rcari 1. I n t roduct ion What many scholars define as the “third quest,” despite authoritative exceptions (see M. J. Borg, J. D. Crossan, P. Friedriksen), 1 believes that it is very difficult (or really impossible) to write a “history,” or even a “life” of Jesus. 2 According to such a perspective, it seems most preferable to offer a presentation of the various aspects of Jesus’s “personality”, or also stances about different elements of the culture of his time, without trying to assume, in a diachronic sense, further “developments” in Jesus’s action and/or preaching. For this, I believe that the research about the “historical” Jesus seems to have set out for an horizon in which “events” in themselves have not mainly relevance (considering the ambiguity of the concept of “event” itself), above all emphasizing the perception that the recollection of some discourses, also transmitted as biographical “events”, creates in more or less wide group contexts and their subsequent reactions. 3 1.  Respectively, see Jesus – A New Vision. Spirit, Culture and the Life of Discipleship (New York, 1991); The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (New York, 1992); Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews: A Jewish Life and the Emergence of Christianity (New York, 1999). 2.  About the issue of the possibility of reconstructing the life or Jesus or not, especially for what concerns the 1800s and the 1900s’ theology, see the accurate status quaestionis by C. E. Evans , Life of Jesus Research. An Annotated Bibliography (Leiden-New York-Köln, 1996). See also the more recent work by S. E. Porter , Criteria for Authenticity in Historical-Jesus Research. Previous Discussion and New Proposals (London-New York, 2004) and the comprehensive assessment by T. HolménS. E.  Porter , eds, Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus. 1-4. (LeidenBoston, 2010-2011). Starting from Harnack on and having been definitively (re-) affirmed the kerygmatic feature of the gospels, scholars are not inclined to associate the concept of “life” of Jesus with that of “historical significance.” We also have to say that the gospels (even though not entirely) are less liable to be considered as a biography of Jesus during his “mundane” life (the earthly Jesus of the gospel genre represents one single aspect of a more complex parable with a “double dimension,” i.e. Jesus is represented like a figure which cannot be examined only in a merely “earthly” dimension). 3.  See the Part One (“Contemporary Methodological Approach”) in T. HolménS. E. Porter , eds, Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus. 1. (Leiden-Boston, 2010). From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 101-111.

© F  H  G

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The main focus I intend to clarify in this essay concerns the also of the last sentence. If we postulate a real difficulty in reconstructing the history of/about Jesus without bypassing the kerygmatic perspective of the gospel sources, it seems legit to question ourselves about whether the modern and contemporary historical discourse on Jesus often reproduces, in reconstructing some “historical” paradigms concerning Jesus’ activity, the evangelical perspective about Jesus’ mundane life as a starting point for the development of the faith of his followers which, for this, have preserved and transmitted their discourses on/of Jesus also, and from a particular time onwards almost exclusively, according to the evangelical-biographical form of narration. Is it legit to associate terms such as “history,” “historicization” and “historian” exclusively to what we consider as modernity? As it is known, already in ancient times discussions about historical narration and other forms of past narrative are attested. Starting from the Aristotelian distinction, many ancient authors have questioned themselves about the truthful statute of historical narration. Aristotle (see Poetics 1451 a-b) has observed how the poet describes what is possible to describe according to the laws of verisimilitude; therefore, the difference between an historian and a poet doesn’t lie in the fact that the first writes in prose and the latter in verses; rather, it lies in the content which distinguishes respective works: actual facts for history writings, possible facts for poetic writings. 4 As Arnaldo Momigliano has argued, the ancient and the modern ways to understand narrations concerning the past are certainly different. But if a deep discontinuity of meaning between history and historia undeniably exists (since historiography first emerges in Gibbon’s work and includes the intellectual traditions of history/philosophy à la Voltaire), 5 I want to measure the distance of ancient historiography from the “modern” views of history especially in the light of John L. Austin’s speech acts theory, 6 and especially as this was reviewed and re-adapted by Michel Foucault in order to clarify the different functions of “telling the truth” in Greek and Roman societies, and therefore in Late-Antiquity. 7 4.  The Aristotelian approach to the problem of “historicity” is often recalled with the intent to resolve the question of the genre-related classification of crucial texts in ancient literary reflection, as for instance Virgil’s opus maximum or Lucan’s poem about Bellum civile (see Servius’ Commentary on the Aeneid 1.382 and 7.678, or also Isidorus’ Origins 8.7.10). 5.  See A. Momigliano, “Ancient History and the Antiquarian,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 13 (1950) 285-315, now in I d., Contributo alla storia degli studi classici (Rome, 1955; rist. 1979) 67-106. Momigliano’s argument is discussed in a wider perspective in C. Ginzburg, Rapporti di forza. Storia, retorica, prova (Milan, 2001) 63-64. 6. See How to Do Things with Words (2nd edition; Oxford, 1987). 7. Apart from the fundamental lessons held in Berkeley in 1983 recollected in Discourse and Truth. The Problematization of Parrhesia, Edited by J. Pearson

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In his lecture about Sophocles’ Oedipus the King contained in the lessons which took place on 28 April 1981 in Louvain, 8 following G. Deleuze and F. Guattari’s analysis, 9 Foucault interprets narration concerning Oedipus’ life as a history of a power, of a political power; in Foucault’s opinion, there is a certain relationship between power and knowledge, between political power and discourse, a kind of relationship from which our society has not freed itself yet and that the tragedy of Oedipus has contributed to establish. In many cases Foucault uses the term “alethurgy” (or technique of true-telling) to indicate the “manifestations of truth” or the “veridictions” as forms of discourse subjected to a kind of “historical” or “historicized” truth. 10 It seems that Foucault separates – based on M. Detienne’s arguments – the “historicized” veridiction from magical-religious words, which “realize” and “accomplish” and which do not represent the reflection of a previous event, but one of the elements of its realization, and which, once uttered, becomes a power, a force, an action. 11 In this way, Foucault emphasizes the functions of representations and language, trying to establish their illocutionary and per-locutionary dimensions in the attempt to define the intrinsic political value of their pragmatics in a performative and alethurgic key. 2 . Th e G ospe l

as a

“V e r i dict ion -N a r r at ion ”

In this section I do not want to re-open the debate as regards the Gospel narration in light of the genre perspective. As it is well-known, several New Testament scholars have compared Gospel narrations with ancient novels, 12 including Michael Vines, who has also compared the Gospel of (Berkeley, 1985), see also Wrong-Doing, Truth-Telling: The Function of Avowal in Justice, Edited by F. Brion, B. E. H arcourt, Translated by S.  W. Sawyer (Chicago, 2014); this book, the fruit of the lessons held by Foucault in Louvain in 1981, analyzes the dispositif of penitential practices in early Christianity up to the procedures of veridiction of the self in late-antique monasticism. On some coincidences between Momigliano’s methodological reflection on history and Foucault’s distinction between archaeology and genealogy, see R. Gould, “Antiquarianism as Genealogy: Arnaldo Momigliano’s Method,” History and Theory 53 (2014) 212-233. 8. See Wrong-Doing, Truth-Telling: The Function of Avowal in Justice, Edited by F. Brion, B. E. H arcourt, Translated by S.  W. Sawyer (Chicago, 2014) 56-89. 9. See Anti-Oedipus. Capitalism and Schizophrenia, Preface by M. Foucault, Translated by R. Hurley, M. Seem, H. R. L ane (Reprinted Edition; London-New York, 2000). 10.  On the term/concept of “alethurgy,” see M. D. Jordan, Convulsing Bodies: Religion and Resistance in Foucault (Stanford, 2015) 133-135. 11.  See M. Detienne , Les maîtres de vérité dans la Grèce archaïque (2nd Edition; Paris, 1981) 47 and 101-102. 12. See R. F. Hock-J.  Bradley Chance-J.  Perkins , eds, Ancient Fiction and Early Christian Narrative (Atlanta, 1998); J.  A.  Brant-C.  W. H edrick-C. Shea,

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Mark specifically with the genre of the Jewish novel. 13 It is also widely known that the genre discussion has often contrasted such a comparison with that to Greco-Roman biographies; 14 in this regard, it should also be noted that there is a great diversity of biographical literature in antiquity, which means that not all Greco-Roman biographies are similar in terms of their style and methodology. 15 For this reason, I do not dispute the comparison of the Gospels to Greco-Roman biographies, also for the fact that there are many novelistic biographies in antiquity – such as the Alexander Romance and the Life of Aesop – which overlap with the ancient novel, the Greco-Roman bios and, lato sensu, a particular aspect in ancient historical narration. For the purposes of this essay, I maintain that the Gospels can still be categorized as ancient novelistic writing while still having both “biographical” and “historical” elements. 16 As far as I am concerned, I want to emphasize that for the Gospels, as they was presumably read and/or listen in their definitve form, it is not always possible to identify and rigidly categorize biographical or historicizing words/actions, and therefore what I call historicizing veridiction certainly represents one of the main elements justifying the existence of the evangelical genre itself, as it is authoritatively proven by Luke’s preface (see Luke 1:1-4). 17 Although eds, Ancient Fiction: The Matrix of Early Christian and Jewish Narrative (Atlanta, 2005); M.  P. Futre P inheiro -J.  Perkins-R.  Pervo, eds, The Ancient Novel and Early Christian and Jewish Narrative: Fictional Intersections (Groningen, 2012). 13.  See M. E. Vines , The Problem of Markan Genre: The Gospel of Mark and the Jewish Novel (Leiden, 2002). 14.  See R. Burridge , What are the Gospels? A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biography (Cambridge, 1992); D. Frickenschmidt, Evangelium als Biographie: Die vier Evangelien im Rahmen antiker Erzählkunst (Tübingen, 1997). 15.  As T. Hägg, regarding R. Burridge’s study (which compares the Gospels to a canon of ten ancient biographical texts), has observed: “There is a great diversity within each of the two groups, the four gospels and the ten ancient biographies; and it is this very diversity, we should note, that makes it possible always to find a parallel in one or several of the ten Lives for each feature occurring in one or more of the gospels. What is proven is that the investigated features of the gospels are not unique in ancient biographical literature; but no control group is established to show which features may be regarded as significantly typical of this literature:” T. H ägg, The Art of Biography in Antiquity (Cambridge, 2012) 155. 16.  The genre of the Gospels has been compared to the novelistic Life of Aesop by L. Wills , The Quest of the Historical Gospel: Mark, John and the Origins of the Gospel Genre (London-New York, 1997), as well as by W. Shiner , “Creating Plot in Episodic Narratives: The Life of Aesop and the Gospel of Mark,” in R. F. HockJ.  Bradley Chance-J.  Perkins , eds, Ancient Fiction and Early Christian Narrative (Atlanta, 1998) 155-176. 17.  I am here overlooking the problem concerning the use by early Christ’s followers of the term euaggelion and whether this could be tout court associated with the Gospel genre. From the evidence in our possession, I could say the answer is negative. As mentioned by H. Koester , Ancient Christian Gospels. Their History and Development (London, 1990) 4-7 (also see I d., “Written Gospels or Oral Tradi-

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with notorious discussions and distinguo, the recent research considers this text as the most accomplished instance of conciliation between a classical historiographical account and the faith in Jesus, considering it as a kind of acknowledgement of the historicizing process of Jesus’ life events (already recognizable in the gospel genre itself since the text considered as its traditional protos heuretes, the Gospel of Mark), in which these events are dramatized and theologized in a discursive dispositif focusing, to say it in Aristotle’s words, on “what [Jesus] did or what happened to him” (Poet. 1451 b 11: Aristotle’s phrase alludes to Alcibiades). As it is obvious in these cases, the research has vastly discussed the question of relationships between the third Gospel and the Greek historiographical tradition and there are not shared conclusions yet. 18 First of all, there is no agreement about the definition of genres as well as about tion?,” Journal of Biblical Literature 113, 1994, especially 293-295), the most ancient use of the term can be found in Paul’s letters where it is a “technical term […] for the Christian message and its proclamation,” probably to be included in an ancient context of missionary preaching. Moreover, in some proto-Christian texts, the sentence en to euaggelio is often an introduction to Jesus’ words which concide with the synoptic ones (for instance, see 2 Clem. 8.5; Did. 8.2; 15.3, 4), but this does not mean that the term exclusively refers to evangelical “texts.” On the contrary, this term alludes to the dynamism and the immediacy of the oral proclamation of Jesus’ message (we could say hic et nunc, without considering whether that message was attributable to the “historical” or earthly Jesus): see H. Koester , Ancient Christian Gospels. Their History and Development (London, 1990) 15, 17-18 and 22-23. One of the most ancient uses of the term euaggelion in reference to a written text seems to be Justin’s one (see 1 Apol. 66.3; Dial. 10.2 and 100.1), but – apart from the ambiguity which the term brings along at least in two cases out of three (the clearest instance seems to be 1 Apol. 66.3) – it is interesting to notice that, when explicitly referring to Jesus’ life and preaching accounts, Justin himself prefers to use propositional phrases such as ta apomnemoneumata ton apostolon or, more simply, ta apomnemoneumata (see Dial. 100.4. 5; 101.3.7; 102.5.9; 103.6.4; 104.1.10; 106.1.11; 106.4.6; 1 Apol. 66.3.2; 67.3.3; 103.8.1; 105.1.9; 105.5.6; 105.6.4; 106.3.3; 107.1.2). The term ta apomnemoneumata also appears in imperial Greek historiography to indicate the account written as a historicizing veridiction: see Diodorus Siculus, Bibl. 1.14, Plutarch, Pomp. 2. More generally about the issue, see A.  Yoshiko R eed, “ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ: Orality, Textuality, and the Christian Truth in Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses,” Vigiliae Christianae 56 (2002) 11-46. On the term euaggelion as a “book title”, see L.  A rcari, “‘Vangelo’ o ‘parole’? La subscriptio del Vangelo di Tommaso (NHC II, 51, 27-28) nel quadro dei flussi di trasmissione protocristiani delle parole di Gesù,” Segno e testo 15 (2017) 281-312. 18.  About Luke’s preface, see the bibliography and the discussion in L. A lex­ ander , The Preface to Luke’s Gospel. Literary Convention and Social Context in Luke 1.1-4 and Acts 1.1 (2nd Edition; Cambridge, 2005). The discussion mainly focuses on the Acts of the Apostles, read in line with the third gospel: see G. E. Sterling, Historiography & Self-Definition. Josephos, Luke-Acts & Apologetic Historiography (Leiden, 1992). Also see D. L. Balch, “Acts as Hellenistic Historiography,” in K. H. R ichards , ed., Society of Biblical Literature 1985 Seminar Papers (Atlanta, 1985) 429-432; I d., “Comments on the Genre and a Political Theme of Luke-Acts:

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the most suitable terminology to define relationships between the Gospel genre and the historiographical narration in a broader sense. Moreover, another aspect to be taken into consideration concerns the scholars’ research of parallel terms or their effort to establish “to what extent” it is possible to separate Luke’s apologetic narration from the historicizing Fachprosa. Therefore, in my opinion it is difficult to question the fact that the prologue of the third Gospel presents all the typical functional traits of a historicizing (or truth-telling) discourse. It could be stated that at the time during which the third evangelist composed his account, the historicized or historicizing discourse included a remarkable range of formal features to the extent that both Xenophon’s Memorabilia and Diodorus’ Universal History as well as Lucian’s eulogistic stories in his essay on How to Write History 19 and Plutarch’s as well as Suetonius’ biographies were included in this macro-genre of narration which covers, as recent studies are emphasizing, many different and varied narrative declinations, in which different contents and styles of narration are combined (often in prose) going beyond what moderns consider as history; also biography has to be included in this narration and the gospels (not only the canonical ones), in various ways and in different cases, seem to fall under the same “alethurgic” function. 20 3. Th e G ospe l G e n r e i n t h e C on t e x t of P roto -C h r i s t i a n S t r e am s of Tr a nsm i s sion abou t J e sus Generally speaking, I believe that the question presupposed in the title of this paragraph implies that the supremacy towards the veridiction-reconstruction of Jesus’s biographical events probably appears in a more or less advanced phase of proto-Christian group dynamics. 21 However, for a more A Preliminary Comparison of Two Hellenistic Historians,” in D. J. Lull , ed., Society of Biblical Literature 1989 Seminar Papers (Atlanta, 1989) 343-361. 19.  See Lucian, How to Write History 9-10. 20. See the works quoted at footnote 14. For a recent close examination of the question, see also A. Winn, The Purpose of Mark’s Gospel. An Early Christian Response to Roman Imperial Propaganda (Tübingen, 2008) 3-4. 21.  About the different modalities of transmission of Jesus’s words in the protoChristian groups, see M. Pesce , Le parole dimenticate di Gesù (Milan, 2004) xixxxi. See also I d., “I detti extracanonici di Gesù e la loro rilevanza per la ricerca sul Gesù storico,” Ricerche storico-bibliche 10/2 (2005) 105-132. A comprehensive assessment about the use of Jesus’ words in Paul can be found in L. Walt, Paolo e le parole di Gesù. Frammenti di un insegnamento orale (Brescia, 2013). About Jesus’ “fragments,” which often trigger the production of historicizing discourses, see E. Norelli, “Gesù in frammenti. Testi apocrifi di tipo evangelico conservati in modo frammentario,” in A.  Guida–M. Vitelli, eds, Un altro Gesù? Il Gesù storico e il cristianesimo delle origini (Trapani, 2009) 39-88. On the concept of “streams

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or less period of time this procedure seems to coexist with other transmitting forms concerning Jesus’s sayings until its pervasive affirmation for a series of historical factors, among which the abatement of a oral memory of transmission, the overlap of transmitting streams in various groups and the necessity to stigmatize competitive authorities who present themselves as such by selecting the “same” memories about/from Jesus. However, in order to prove that historicizing transmitting streams did not monopolize – at least for all the first and the second centuries – memories about/from Jesus, we shall consider that for a rather extended period of time groups of Jesus’ followers, as in Paul’s case or the Nag Hammadi writings, continued to gather streams of transmission which were not verifiable through historicizing alethurgic/veridiction procedures. For this reason, the “truth” carried out by such documents does not have to be validated through its projection in a near past since it has to be taken into consideration hic et nunc and it does not derive from direct observation of that Jesus who lived and operated on earth in a particular past. When reading Paul’s letters as well as John’s Revelation (as well as other many proto-Christian texts, like the Gospel of Thomas or the Ascension of Isaiah), we are confronted with mainly functional documents where the transmitting streams from/about Jesus are used effectively, as veritable speech acts that do not “convey” the result of a “pre-existent event” but rather “one of the elements of their realization.” 22 Certainly, the gospels often confront us, with this kind of speech acts but it is undeniable that the process of reconstruction by way of historicizing veridiction represents the main structure which channels and orients the same rereading of that effective speech acts, thanks to the gathering of traditional streams of information coming from different materials and streams of transmission. At the basis of effective speech acts in documents such as John’s Revelation, Paul’s letters, the Gospel of Thomas and the Ascension of Isaiah, is it possible to identify the alethurgic re-proposal of memories concerning Jesus’s life events which uses a truthful discourse functionally and effectively in a hic et nunc perspective? In many cases, the use of different streams of transmission (also found in the gospels) is demonstrable whereas in other cases this element can be hypothesized but not easily showed. In some other cases, the inference is due to the explicit or implicit use of argumenta e silentio. Although it was fully affirmed during a rather advanced phase of the history of proto-Christian groups, the Gospel-line will prevail when a peculiar “Christian” doctrine will be fully developed, of transmission” among early-Christian groups, see M.  Pesce–M.  R escio, eds, La trasmissione delle parole di Gesù nei primi tre secoli (Brescia, 2011). 22.  These expressions are taken from M. Detienne , Les maîtres de vérité dans la Grèce archaïque (2nd Edition; Paris, 1981), 48-52.

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probably in reaction to the excessive proliferation of narrations concerning Jesus’s life events through which his “true” message had to be deduced. 4. H i s tor ici z i ng A l et h u rgi e s

and

M ode r n V i sions

of

J e sus

Despite the enormous distance which separates Bultmann or Käsemann’s or even Strauss or Reimarus’s considerations from proto-Christian texts, I believe it is possible to support the idea that these modern authors’ stances continues to bear a resemblance with Luke’s or, more generally, with the evangelists idea about the “history” of what Jesus would have actually said/done. E. Käsemann’s position on the matter, which according to many scholars represents a fundamental turning point as for the quest concerning the “historical” Jesus, can be considered as an emblematic one. This is not a suitable place to remember the complex debate created by Bultmann’s pupil. 23 What is relevant to my argument is to notice how the impasse of the modern research about the historical Jesus reveals itself (almost self-evidently) during the open debate in 1953 exactly through Käsemann’s conference titled Das Problem des historischen Jesus. 24 The theological evidence concerning the problem lies in the statement that it is fundamental to pose the question about whether it is demonstrable that the announcement of the glorified Lord promulgated by Jesus’s followers is somehow a continuation of the message of the historical Jesus. It is probably an obvious thing to state that every historical research cannot be neutral, in the sense that it cannot be separated from the context in which it is produced; for this reason, I believe that the thread what links ancient and modern historiography about Jesus is much more resistant than many would to like to think. Both the complex question concerning the research 23.  On the querelle between Käsemann and Bultmann, see the seminal work by J. M. Robinson, A  New Quest of the Historical Jesus (Naperville, 1959; German Edition: Kerygma und historischer Jesus [Zürich, 1960]), and the critical discussion on Robinson’s analysis carried out by V.  A. H arvey-S.  M. Ogden, “How ‘New’ Is the New Quest of the Historical Jesus’?,” in C. E. Braaten-R. A. H arrisville , eds, The Historical Jesus and the Kerygmatic Christ (Nashville, 1964) 197-242 (German Edition: “Wie neu ist die ‘neue Frage nach dem historischen Jesus’?,” Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 59, 1962, 46-87). See also the more recent works by G. Jossa, La verità dei Vangeli. Gesù di Nazaret tra storia e fede (Rome, 1998) 56-65, G. W. Dawes , The Historical Jesus Question: The Challenge of History to Religious Authority (Louisville, 2001) 298-313 and G. Gaeta, Il Gesù moderno (Turin, 2009) 50-63. 24.  For what concerns the English translation here used, see E. K äsemann, “The Problem of the Historical Jesus (1953),” in Essays on the New Testament, Transl. by W. J. Montague (London, 1964), now in C. E. Evans , ed., The Historical Jesus. Critical Concepts in Religious Studies. 1. The History of the Quest: Classical Studies and Critical Questions (London-New York, 2004) 133-158.

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of an historical Jesus in Germany during the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries and the systematization of a German- and Protestant- centered history about the research of an historical Jesus by A. Schweitzer – a linear and selective history meant to consecrate the centrality of German nation 25 – do not have to be considered as an exception with respect to the wider and more general ideological use of antiquity carried out in the Altertumswissenschaft of nineteenth and twentieth centuries. 26 If the main problem scholars had in the research about the historical Jesus between the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries is the same that the authors of the gospels had (although different in forms and contexts), I believe it is legit to ask ourselves: when the “modern” research about the historical Jesus begins? Schweitzer’s work certainly is an attempt to retrace à rebours the outcome of his exegetic position and perhaps, also an attempt to consecrate the German supremacy in a specific field of studies. For this reason, if the position of those who stress the fact that the research about the historical Jesus begins with Reimarus is not legitimate (why not with Giordano Bruno, who spoke about Jesus as a magician, or Abraham ben Troki, who acknowledged Jesus in the Jewish background?), 27 it is probably not entirely persuasive to reduce the association between the Jesus of the gospels and the historical Jesus, also considering the ambiguity that such association implies (which gospels? Or which parts of the gospels? Which words belong to the historical Jesus and which ones were attributed to him by his followers?). In one of his recent contributions, based on the research by the Italian philosopher and historian T. Gregory (1929-2019), M. Pesce stresses how one of the elements which determines the distance and the difference between medieval and modern thinking lies in the conception of nature. 28 25.  See A. Schweitzer , From Reimarus zu Wrede. Geschichte der Leben-JesuForschung (Tübingen, 1906). On the “nationalistic” aspects of the German research on the historical Jesus during the nineteenth century, see H. Moxnes , Jesus and the Rise of Nationalism. A New Quest for the Nineteenth Century Historical Jesus (London-New York, 2012) 61-120. 26.  On the “use” of antiquity in nineteenth century nationalisms, see T. FögenR.  Warren, eds, Graeco-Roman Antiquity and the Idea of Nationalism in the 19th Century: Case Studies (Berlin-Boston, 2016). 27.  Cf. M. Pesce , “The Beginning of Historical Research on Jesus in the Modern Age,” in C. Johnson Hodge-S.  M. Olyan-D. Ullucci-E.  Wasserman, eds, “The One Who Sows Bountifully:” Essays in Honor of Stanley K. Stowers (Providence RI, 2014) 77-88; see also I d., “Per una ricerca storica su Gesù nei secoli XVI-XVIII: prima di H. S. Reimarus,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 28 (2011) 433-464. See also I. A dinolfi-G. Goisis , eds, I volti moderni di Gesù. Arte, filosofia, storia (Macerata, 2013). 28.  Cf. M. Pesce , “L’esame scientifico della natura e la caduta del sacro. L’importanza del cristianesimo per il pensiero filosofico nel libro di Tullio Gregory Speculum naturale,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 28 (2011) 416-424; see also I d.,

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In Pesce’s (as well as in Gregory’s) analysis, this new way to observe nature seems to imply a substantial difference between medieval and modern “reality.” This implies, almost inevitably, the affirmation of an idea of truth capable of re-formulating this conception also from a theological point of view, offering to theology itself a double-sided interpretation which could both question its premises and, in a way, confirm and enrich them. The achievements of philological and literary humanism do not merely appear as an anti-traditional and anti-theological instrument: the use of textual criticism by those prominent intellectuals of various churches and the importance of the philological methods in the development of both anticatholic and anti-protestant movements during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are all elements which prove the double-sided nature of the “truth” that “scientific” methods want to achieve. If the “new” factual truth of the “scientific” philological method feeds the renovated historical narration carried out by Paolo Sarpi (1552-1623) since the beginning, 29 this truth has also allowed the writing of works such as Cesare Baronio’s (1538-1607) ones, where the possibility to achieve a “factual” truth is inserted in a totally opposite ideological system to Sarpi’s one. 30 5. C onclusions Although recent methodological conquests have pointed out the impossibility, in a rigorous historical research, to keep canonical divisions about textual materials, 31 there are still some difficulties in integrating the historical (i.e. the veridiction and alethurgic vision about the life of Jesus) background of the gospels with that of various documents that, for dif“‘Illuminismo’ inteso come negazione della fede dogmatica, categoria applicabile alla ricerca sul Gesù storico?,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 29 (2012) 171-189. Pesce quotes the following books by T. Gregory: La polemica antimetafisica di Gassendi (Florence, 1959); Scetticismo ed empirismo. Studio su Gassendi (Bari, 1961); Etica e religione nella critica libertina (Naples, 1979); Origini della terminologia filosofica moderna. Linee di ricerca (Florence, 2006); Speculum naturale. Percorsi del pensiero medievale (Rome, 2007). 29. On Paolo Sarpi, see the seminal work by B. Ulianich, ed., Paolo Sarpi. Lettere ai Gallicani (Wiesbaden, 1961). See also the book by D. Wootton, Paolo Sarpi. Between Reinassance and Enlightenment (2nd Edition; Cambridge, 2002). 30.  On Cesare Baronio, see G.  A.  Guazzelli-R.  M ichetti-F. Scorza Barcellona , eds, Casare Baronio tra santità e scrittura storica (Rome, 2012). 31. On this topic, further discussion and bibliography in E. Norelli, “Considerazioni di metodo sull’uso delle fonti per la ricostruzione della figura storica di Gesù,” in E. P rinzivalli, ed., L’enigma Gesù. Fonti e metodi della ricerca storica (Rome, 2008) 19-67, and M. Pesce , “Lo studio storico della trasmissione delle parole di Gesù,” in I d.-M. R escio, eds, La trasmissione delle parole di Gesù nei primi tre secoli (Brescia, 2011) 9-31.

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ferent reasons (mainly for the gaps in our documentation), seem to be un-comparable with them. Such a reticence is also due to the idea of the essential importance of the gospels as for the reconstruction of the “historical” Jesus. Such a modality of reconstruction puts aside the evidence that concentrating on what Jesus said and did in his (earthly) past life appear only as one of the typical practices of transmission of Jesus’ words in different proto-Christian groups. For instance, let us think about the fascinating background of the visionary Jesus, that is, that Jesus who promulgates revelations, and, therefore, words or facts connected to groups of believers who claimed to have had non-ordinary contacts with him, i.e. a quite different Jesus from the “historical” one. 32 If it is dangerous to make an indiscriminate use of Paul to shed light on that Jesus as he was re-functionalized by the followers behind the synoptic gospels – not accidentally such a methodology has often been charged with the accusation to flatten the internal differences characterizing the various group contexts of believers in Jesus –, it is also problematic to think that the “historical” Jesus emerging from the gospel genre can be understood without taking into account streams of transmission which do not provide any historicizing alethurgy of what Jesus said and did during his human existence.

32.  On this topic, see the following essays by A.  Destro -M.  P esce: “Continuità o discontinuità tra Gesù e i gruppi dei suoi seguaci nelle pratiche culturali di contatto con il soprannaturale?,” in L. Padovese , ed., Paolo tra Tarso e Antiochia. Archeologia, storia, religione. Atti del IX Simposio Paolino (Rome, 2006) 21-43; “Continuity or Discontinuity between Jesus and the Groups of his Followers? Practices of Contact with the Supernatural,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 24 (2007) 37-58. See also L. A rcari, Visioni del figlio dell ’uomo nel Libro delle Parabole e nell ’Apocalisse (Brescia, 2012).

CONTRA FONTES Una via d’uscita dalla crisi per la Storia del cristianesimo R.  A lciati Gli storici tendono a manifestare irritazione nei confronti della teoria, talvolta addirittura nei confronti di ogni tipo di teoria, dal momento che spesso la vocazione di storico paga il diritto all’entrata con la rinuncia a ogni ambizione di generalizzazione che viene lasciata, con un certo sdegno – fortemente ambivalente –, ai sociologi. 1 Av v e rt e n z a

pr e l i m i na r e

Scopo di questo saggio è indicare una via che, una volta intrapresa, potrebbe portare alla smentita di quanto detto nella citazione in epigrafe. Chi scrive è consapevole di quanto alta sia la posta in gioco, e tale altezza è così elevata proprio perché lassù sta la risposta a un bisogno che dovrebbe essere primario per chiunque fa della scrittura il suo cimento (quasi) quotidiano: la rappresentazione perspicua ovvero ciò che rende possibile la comprensione. Nelle Ricerche filosofiche, Ludwig Wittgenstein sostiene che « una delle fonti principali della nostra incomprensione è il fatto che non vediamo chiaramente l’uso delle nostre parole. La nostra grammatica manca di perspicuità  ». 2 Siamo spesso vittime inconsapevoli di fraintendimenti che riguardano l’uso delle parole. Alcuni di questi fraintendimenti, tuttavia, si possono eliminare sostituendo una forma d’espressione con un’altra. È ciò che Wittgenstein chiama « un’‘analisi’ delle nostre forme d’espressione » 3 e che Pierre Bourdieu (l’accusatore degli storici, e autore della citazione posta in epigrafe) chiama autosocioanalisi, vale a dire la riflessività epistemica, « la necessità di impiegare i propri strumenti di ricerca per oggettivare il ricercatore e il suo lavoro »; 4 1.  P. Bourdieu, Sullo Stato, Milano, 2013, p. 15 (ed. or. Paris, 2012). 2.  L.  Wittgenstein, Ricerche filosofiche, Torino, 1967, p. 120 (ed. or. Oxford, 1953). 3.  L.  Wittgenstein, Ricerche filosofiche, Torino, 1967, p. 90 (ed. or. Oxford, 1953). 4.  G.  Paolucci, Introduzione a Bourdieu, Roma-Bari, 2011, p. 116. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 113-132.

© F  H  G

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in altre parole ancora, la necessità di oggettivare noi stessi e i nostri strumenti di ricerca. Tutto questo non può non avere ricadute sensibili sui nostri oggetti di ricerca, a partire dalla loro individuazione e definizione. Poiché ogni agente sociale aspira a quest’azione di nominazione – taluni anche al monopolio di quest’azione –, si tratta di capire come, al contrario, sia avvenuta « l’abdicazione generale e progressiva delle pretese individuali a vantaggio di un luogo centrale che, a poco a poco, ha concentrato nelle proprie mani il potere di nominazione ». 5 Un modo per comprendere questa abdicazione è procedere contra fontes. Tale proposta non si fonda su assunti del tipo « le fonti non esistono » e « il metodo storico-critico è fallace », bensì sulla convinzione dello stato di crisi delle discipline religionistiche (e in particolare della Storia del cristianesimo). 6 Scagliarsi contro le fonti significa imboccare una via di uscita che prevede una trasformazione preliminare delle strutture oggettive, di cui anche quelle che chiamiamo comunemente “fonti” sono il prodotto. In altre parole, si potrebbe dire che il contra fontes è il modo di interrompere il flusso continuo delle nascite, cioè quella pratica che sta alla base della perpetua riproduzione dei rapporti di forza vigenti. Questo sforzo è però immane – e anche sovversivo, – e può facilmente schiantarsi contro il solido muro delle « regolarità immanenti », e quindi delle sanzioni, delle censure e delle repressioni. 7 Una porzione rilevante di questo muro è proprio lo stock di fonti, il materiale cosiddetto primario sul quale si basa lo studio dello storico. Solitamente, infatti, si tende a ignorare il fatto che una parte molto importante delle fonti degli storici è il prodotto di un lavoro di costruzione; procedere contra fontes vuole dire imporre questa consapevolezza agli storici. Qualora il presente esercizio si rivelasse valido, allora si potrebbero intravedere nuovi criteri di organizzazione della materia e quindi, nello specifico, una terapia per superare la crisi della Storia del cristianesimo come disciplina accademica. Per compiere questo esercizio si farà ricorso principalmente al lessico (e al metodo) elaborato da Pierre Bourdieu. Quando si parla di Bourdieu non si ci dimentica mai di sottolineare la difficoltà della sua prosa: una precisazione è pertanto doverosa. Le citazioni impiegate sin qui dovrebbero essere 5.  P.  Bourdieu, Sullo Stato, Milano, 2013, p. 113 (ed. or. Paris, 2012). 6.  La letteratura è ingente e dispersa, tuttavia, limitando il fuoco alla Storia del cristianesimo, si vedano, a titolo esemplificativo: G. L ettieri, « L’ora di religione come questione aporetica », Studi e materiali di storia delle religioni, 75 (2009), p. 535-564; A.  M elloni, « La miope decisione che dà l’addio alla Storia del cristianesimo », Corriere della Sera, 1 dicembre 2009, p. 10; G. Filoramo, Fare storia del cristianesimo. Quale futuro?, a cura di R. M. Parrinello, Brescia, 2016; M.  P esce , « Dieci anni dopo la morte di Giuseppe Alberigo », Annali di storia dell ’esegesi, 34 (2017), p. 297-300. 7. Cfr. P. Bourdieu-R. Chartier , Il sociologo e lo storico. Dialogo sull ’uomo e la società, Bari, 2011, p. 100 (ed. or. Marseille, 2010).

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sufficienti per comprendere come il lessico bourdieusiano non può essere usato con leggerezza, tanto meno con intenti cosmetici. La frequentazione assidua dei suoi scritti consente infatti di notare quanto, al contrario, si tratti di un lessico affilato e che produce tagli difficilmente rimarginabili. Questo però si può riconoscere solamente se concordiamo con lo stesso Bourdieu sul fatto che « gli scambi linguistici sono rapporti di potere simbolico in seno ai quali si attualizzano i rapporti di forza tra i locutori e i loro gruppi ». 8 In questo senso, risulta inesatto affermare che la prosa di Bourdieu è un limite del suo pensiero; al contrario, essa dimostra di avere un grado di sorveglianza sugli enunciati difficilmente eguagliabile e che consente di capire quanto la mescolanza fra lingua “colta” e lingua “ordinaria” generi falsa conoscenza e finisca per mancare il bersaglio, perché incapace di darsi come oggetto la struttura stessa del sistema esplicativo. Il discorso scientifico, invece, richiede una lettura scientifica, capace di riprodurre le operazioni di cui esso stesso è il prodotto. Questo però presuppone un agire innaturale, contropelo, che non può esimersi dal porre proprio quegli interrogativi percepiti dal discorso ordinario (e dunque non scientifico) come brutali, perché tagliano il ramo su cui si è seduti, facendo apparire questo ramo per quello che è, ossia uno dei molti luoghi possibili nel quale agiamo (e da cui siamo agiti). Poiché il ramo su cui sedeva Bourdieu era l’università, nel 1984 pubblica Homo academicus, una meticolosa analisi sociologica dell’università francese a cavallo del maggio 1968. Questo libro è la migliore risposta a chi si domanda quale sia il guadagno conoscitivo del suo metodo sociologico. Per chi accorda alla sociologia una funzione profetica, escatologica o, peggio ancora, moralistica, Homo academicus non può che essere un lavoro inutile, un esercizio autorefenziale, anche compiaciuto. Ma per Bourdieu la sociologia è anzitutto uno strumento di autoanalisi che permette a ciascuno di comprendere quello che fa, e quindi quello che è. La citazione scelta per aprire Homo academicus è la risposta a quella che apre questo saggio: « E non vogliono che si faccia la storia degli storici. Si dedicano volentieri a trattare molto a fondo l’indefinitezza del dettaglio storico. Ma non vogliono, loro, essere considerati come parte di questa indefinitezza del dettaglio storico. Non vogliono essere parte dell’ordine storico. È come se i medici non volessero ammalarsi e morire ». 9 Con queste parole Charles Péguy si scaglia contro gli storici francesi di fine Ottocento, ridicolizzando la loro presunta obiettività metodologica. 10 Anche decontestualizzate, queste parole non mancano il bersaglio. Lo storico è disposto a farsi oggetto della propria ricerca, ma servendosi di strumenti e fonti che diffi8.  P. Bourdieu, La parola e il potere. L’economia degli scambi linguistici, Napoli, 1988, p. 11 (ed. or. Paris, 1982). 9.  P.  Bourdieu, Homo academicus, Bari, 2013, p. 35 (ed. or. Paris, 1984). 10.  C.  P éguy, L’argent, suite, Paris, 1913, p. 63.

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cilmente riterrebbe attendibili per l’oggetto abituale d’indagine; in questo senso, la richiesta di storicizzare il proprio « esserci » fa attivare immediatamente un filtro che rende il risultato di tale azione opaco. Che uno storico faccia la storia degli storici sulla base del proprio “vissuto”, vale a dire attingendo alla propria esperienza, facendo esempi e aneddotica, comporta restare nell’ambito della conoscenza e del linguaggio ordinari, rendendo così impossibile la conoscenza scientifica, ottenibile solo contro quella conoscenza ordinaria. Applicare, per una volta, l’analisi sociologica a un oggetto non lontano dall’agente sociale comporta uno sforzo non comune, perché il trespolo sul quale lo storico solitamente siede per osservare il mondo sottostante, questa volta, è alzato nel recinto dove anch’egli si muove quotidianamente e dove quotidianamente cerca la soddisfazione dell’amor proprio attraverso il riconoscimento dei pari. Il suo obiettivo non è però quello di puntare il dito (chiamandosi al contempo fuori), ma svelare la totalità del tavolo da gioco e restituire il movimento sincronico – per quanto la parola scritta possa consentirlo – del meccanismo di riproduzione del campo accademico, che, come ogni altro campo, produce anzitutto per riprodursi. 11 Chiunque voglia fare di questo approccio il nomos del proprio operare non potrà pertanto non convenire sul fatto che, in generale, tutti siamo esseri agenti e al contempo essere agiti, ossia condizionati nei movimenti del campo in cui ci troviamo. Preso atto di questo, una (e una sola) postura metodologica si impone: quella che ha come presupposto la messa in discussione della presunta oggettività della tassonomia che usiamo correntemente. Questo comporta considerare questa tassonomia non più come un temenos invalicabile. Compiere una tale degradazione della sacralità dello spazio nel quale si agisce implica però il dissotterramento dell’indicibile, della credenza che dà senso al senso. I fraintendimenti ai quali allude Wittgenstein sono esattamente le infinite definizioni dei temene all’interno dei quali si officiano i riti, anche quelllo della Storia, e della Storia del cristianesimo.

11.  Per una definizione di campo cfr. P. Bourdieu, Questions de sociologie, Paris, 1980, p. 113-114: « Un campo si definisce […] definendo poste in gioco e interessi specifici, che sono irriducibili alle poste e agli interessi propri ad altri campi (un filosofo è indifferente a questioni che per un geografo sono invece essenziali) e che non sono percepiti da chi non è costruito per entrare in quel campo. Ogni categoria di interessi implica l’indifferenza ad altri interessi, altri investimenti, votati così a essere percepiti come assurdi, insensati, o sublimi, disinteressati. Perché un campo funzioni, bisogna che ci siano poste in gioco e persone disposte a giocare, dotate dell’habitus che è necessario per conoscere e riconoscere le leggi immanenti del gioco, le sue poste, ecc. ». Questa traduzione italiana si trova in: A. Boschetti, « Introduzione all’edizione italiana », in P. Bourdieu, Le regole dell ’arte. Genesi e struttura del campo letterario, Milano, 2005, p. 12 (ed. or. Paris, 1992).

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Scopo di queste pagine è dunque mostrare che lo storico, quando agisce, è nel contempo anche agito o, se si preferisce, osservare quel principio epistemologico secondo il quale il linguaggio non nomina semplicemente le cose, esprimendo un contenuto o un senso, ma fa le cose, ovvero, come hanno mostrato, tra gli altri, Wittgenstein e Bourdieu, dà forma alla nostra percezione e rappresentazione del mondo. Se dunque fosse solo il discorso ordinario a muovere lo storico, ecco che sarebbe il senso comune (e non il metodo scientifico) il complice involontario del suo lavoro intellettuale. Rompere questa relazione, sottoponendo a scrutinio lo stesso linguaggio con cui abitualmente nominiamo e ordiniamo le cose, vuol dire ripensare radicalmente il contesto in cui ci troviamo e vedere la possibilità di una Storia del cristianesimo diversa. Presa consapevolezza di questa duplicità del linguaggio (1), la rottura col senso comune si articola in due fasi (2) la de-metafisicizzazione della Storia del cristianesimo intesa come disciplina universitaria; (3) la critica del concetto di “fonte”. Una volta compiuti questi due movimenti (che sono sempre sincronici), (4) la storia della Storia del cristianesimo si presenterà come l’ultimo passo necessario per guardare alla disciplina con categorie nuove. Se questo processo può essere ritenuto plausibile, allora ecco che almeno una via d’uscita è possibile. È però una via d’uscita che richiede il pagamento di un prezzo. 1. L a sorv egl i a n z a su l l i nguaggio (de l lo s tor ico e de l suo ogg et to) Dall’ingente letteratura circa la sorveglianza sul linguaggio, qui basta menzionare la tendenza novecentesca a guardare al linguaggio come a un oggetto storico. Quest’azione, apparentemente innocua, ha invece conseguenze pesanti: chi intende studiare proposizioni discorsive, mentre ne scrive, è infatti egli stesso costretto a servirsi di proposizioni discorsive, a volte persino delle stesse proposizioni discorsive. Ciò che si dice e ciò che si descrive, a questo punto, non sono più così separati o separabili; il linguaggio come oggetto storico e il linguaggio dello storico che studia quell’oggetto storico sono la stessa cosa. « L’uomo progressivamente perisce a misura che più forte brilla al nostro orizzonte l’essere del linguaggio ». 12 Così scrive Michel Foucault, il quale considera il linguaggio come « non semplicemente ciò che traduce le lotte o i sistemi di dominazione, ma ciò per cui, attraverso cui, si lotta, il potere di cui si cerca di impadronirsi ». 13 12.  M. Foucault, Le parole e le cose. Un’archeologia delle scienze umane, Milano, 1967, p. 421 (ed. or. Paris, 1966). 13.  M. Foucault, L’ordine del discorso, Torino, 1972, p. 10 (ed. or. Paris, 1971). Così è letto e incorporato, ad esempio, dalla storiografia anglosassone, ben rappre-

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« Nel XVII secolo si forma un linguaggio che, liberandosi dalla simbologia medievale e rinascimentale, si costituisce come specchio autonomo della realtà. […] Il linguaggio non viene più confuso con la realtà, con le potenze evocatrici dell’analogia, della somiglianza tra microcosmo e macrocosmo. Esso ha imparato a classificare, a rappresentare la realtà. […] sulla base di un ottimismo crescente, le scienze, che avevano cominciato a rappresentare modellisticamente il mondo, ora rivolgono l’attenzione all’uomo. La ragione, con l’illuminismo, diventa riflettente. La coscienza cartesiana diviene autocoscienza con Kant, Fichte, Hegel. Il linguaggio romantico inizia a rompere con la rappresentazione e a vivere di vita propria. Si crede talmente tanto nel linguaggio che non lo si riconosce come strumento, ma essenza stessa dell’uomo […]. […] Questo ripiegamento del linguaggio non sarà un ritorno alla serena rappresentazione razionalistica settecentesca e nemmeno alla simbologia rinascimentale. Piuttosto, il linguaggio dell’Ottocento si disperde e con esso l’uomo. Dopo appena duecento anni di vita il linguaggio contemporaneo decreterebbe la scomparsa del soggetto. Le parole non rappresentano più le cose ». 14

Questa breve storia del linguaggio interessa qui solo nel suo esito: la trasformazione della percezione del linguaggio porta alla scomparsa del soggetto. Un tale cambiamento chiarisce il senso del linguaggio inteso come potere ovvero come qualcosa attraverso cui si lotta. Il potere qui non è un atto esterno all’agente, ma è il fare uso di un linguaggio che è incarnato negli agenti sociali, che è dunque interno. Perciò, « il potere non è neanche consenso perché esso presuppone una coscienza che verrebbe prima del linguaggio ». 15 Il potere è invece l’atto illocutorio, appunto ogni enunciato che si prefigge di realizzare l’azione in esso citata. È in questo senso che il linguaggio non nomina le cose ma fa le cose, “convince” l’uditore a comportarsi in un certo modo: l’uditore interno (il parlante) attraverso le tecniche del sé, l’uditore esterno (l’ascoltatore) attraverso le tecniche del potere. Ma se noi siamo dunque linguaggio, è il linguaggio lo strumento con cui si esercita ogni atto di inculcamento, che si pianta nella carne e che, per funzionare, non può che essere riconosciuto e quindi misconosciuto. 16 In questa ontologia linguistica dell’esistenza, parlare di sé stessi significa prendere coscienza dell’essere collocati in un campo e di agire per ed essere agiti da un bene simbolico. L’autocoscienza e la conseguente denuncia dell’ordine, della regola, della norma come principio di visione e divisione del mondo porta anche alla necessità di un nuovo linguaggio, che non ha in sé nessuna illusione di un ritorno a una supposta originalità o sentata, per restare all’ambito cristianistico, da A. Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse, Berkeley, 1991. 14.  S.  Berni, Nietzsche e Foucault. Corporeità e potere in una critica radicale della modernità, Milano, 2005, p. 84-85. 15.  S.  Berni, Nietzsche e Foucault. Corporeità e potere in una critica radicale della modernità, Milano, 2005, p. 87. 16.  Sul misconoscimento cfr. il § 3.

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naturalità, ma che “semplicemente” vuole dare un nuovo nome e un nuovo ordine alle cose. E tutto questo ha una finalità precisa: muovere contro la normalizzazione. Come la sovversione “ereticale” sfrutta la possibilità di cambiare il mondo in cui viviamo cambiando la rappresentazione di questo mondo che contribuisce alla sua realtà, così anche la postura eterodossa rispetto ai tradizionali codici di una qualsiasi disciplina, del suo modus operandi, del suo nomos, costituisce un autentico attacco alla gerarchia degli oggetti scientifici legittimi e, simultaneamente, al modo di descriverli attraverso il linguaggio proprio di ogni disciplina scientifica consacrata e riconosciuta. Come un paradigma, il linguaggio determina le domande che possono essere poste e quelle escluse, addirittura neppure pensabili. La crisi del linguaggio ordinario non può che reclamare e autorizzare un nuovo linguaggio capace di criticare quello ordinario, ossia capace di dire ciò che sino ad ora era indicibile e impensabile. 2. La

de - m eta fi sici z z a z ion e de l l a

S tor i a

de l cr i s t i a n e si mo

L’adozione di un nuovo linguaggio non-ordinario ha come effetto sensibile la de-metafisicizzazione della ricerca storica, e in modo particolare della ricerca storica sulla religione. 17 Essa vorrebbe essere la terapia migliore e rispondente a un requisito preliminare: rendere possibile la ricostruzione e la spiegazione delle dinamiche di formazione dei sistemi simbolici (e quindi anche di quelli religiosi) e la creazione di uno spazio trans-disciplinare per la conduzione di una nuova politica scientifica. Negli ultimi anni, nel più ampio ambito disciplinare della Storia delle religioni, si è aperta una discussione serrata e aspra sul presunto fallimento nel raggiungimento degli obiettivi scientifici propri di questo sapere. Paladini di questa critica sono Luther H. Martin e Donald Wiebe, i quali ritengono che la Storia delle religioni abbia di fatto fallito la sua missione in quanto animata da un orientamento « criptoreligioso » che vede non nella conoscenza scientifica dei sistemi simbolici, ma nell’educazione civica e nella pedagogia della tolleranza e della convivenza il suo fine ultimo. 18 Tale valutazione intende 17. Quanto segue prende le mosse da R.  A lciati, « Libri per una de-metafisicizzazione della storia del cristianesimo antico », Annali di storia dell ’esegesi, 32 (2015), p. 89-98. 18.  Cfr, L.  H.  M artin-D.  Wiebe , « Religious Studies as a Scientific Discipline: The Persistence of a Delusion », Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 80 (2012), p. 587-597; D.  Wiebe-L.  H.  M artin, « Documenting the Delusion: A Case Study », Method and Theory in the Study of Religion, 27 (2015), p. 279-291. Lo stesso problema, ma da una prospettiva non cognitivsta (propria dei due autori menzionati sopra), si ritrova additato da R.T. McCutcheon nei suoi due libri: Critic Not Caretakers: Redescribing the Public Study of Religion, Albany (NY), 2001; Manufacturing Religion: The Discourse on ‘sui generis’ Religion and the Politics of

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evitare che la Religionswissenschaft assuma lentamente le sembianze di una Glaubenswisseschaft, inevitabilmente connotata da scopi legittimi, ma extra-scientifici e non epistemologici. Il rischio è antico e risale alla nascita, in Italia, della disciplina denominata Storia del cristianesimo all’indomani della soppressione delle facoltà teologiche statali (1873). Si prenda, a titolo esemplificativo, quanto sostenuto da Cesare Correnti, ministro della Pubblica istruzione nel governo Lanza (1869-1872). Da abolizionista convinto, Correnti vede nella Storia del cristianesimo il sostituto più valido alla teologia dogmatica, perché capace di « abbracciare non solo gli avvenimenti esterni, ma l’esposizione della forma intima della religione ». 19 Lo stesso tema vede confrontarsi anche pensatori del calibro di Adolf von Harnack, Alfred Loisy ed Ernst Troeltsch. Quando Harnack, nel 1900, pubblica l’Essenza del cristianesimo, Loisy risponde due anni dopo con Il vangelo e la Chiesa, libro di cui Troeltsch, nel 1903, scrive una recensione sulla rivista Die christliche Welt. Nonostante la grande differenza che separa i due autori, l’obiezione a Harnack è la stessa: costui, a detta di Loisy e Troeltsch, muove da una chiara opzione teologica volta a riscoprire l’“originalità” e la “verità” del “cristianesimo delle origini”. Quanto distorcente dei fatti sia l’ipoteca teologica lo nota per primo Troeltsch, 20 ma è altrettanto efficace il giudizio più recente di Pier Cesare Bori: « l’opera, nonostante le dichiarazioni iniziali di Harnack, è un’apologia, una difesa del protestantesimo liberale e delle sue relazioni prolungate con lo Stato prussiano, che gli avvenimenti della Prima guerra mondiale si incaricarono di distruggere ». 21 La lucidità con cui molti hanno smascherato il linguaggio harnackiano dovrebbe essere applicata anche alle istanze extra-scientifiche presenti in studi più recenti. Tutto questo però è difficile, perché operano in noi, sempre e inesorabilmente, le parole di Agostino: « Quid est ergo tempus? Si nemo ex me quaerat scio; si quaerenti explicare velim nescio ». 22 Se ci chiedessimo infatti quid est ergo religio, cosa risponderemmo o ci sentiremmo rispondere? La stessa risposta di Agostino: io lo so – che significa “lo Nolstalgia, New York-Oxford, 1997. Un’ottima messa a punto del problema si può leggere ora in L. A mbasciano, An Unnatural History of Religions: Academia, PostTruth and the Quest for Scientific Knowledge, London, 2019. 19.  La citazione si trova in B. L abanca, « Difficoltà antiche e nuove degli studi religiosi in Italia », Rivista di filosofia scientifica, 9 (1890), p. 129-171, qui p. 167. 20.  H.-G. Drescher , Ernst Troeltsch. Leben und Werk, Göttingen, 1991, p. 283295. 21. P.  C.  Bori, « Réforme religieuse, herméneutique des origines et rationalité », in P. C.  Bori-M. H addad -A.  M elloni (ed.), Réformes. Comprendre et comparer les religions, Berlin, 2007, p. 5-13, qui p. 7. Per un quadro generale vedi anche R.  A lciati, « Salvatore Minocchi e gli studi storico-religiosi », in M.  M azzaN. Spineto (ed.), La storiografia storico-religiosa italiana tra la fine dell ’800 e la seconda guerra mondiale, Alessandria, 2014, p. 27-44. 22. Agostino, Confessioni, XI,XIV,17.

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sento” – che cos’è la religione, ma se qualcuno mi chiedesse di spiegarlo sarei in difficoltà. Che lo si ammetta o meno, infatti, l’oggetto religione (così come l’oggetto cristianesimo) è perlopiù un contenitore, riempito di volta in volta da possibili contenuti storico-empirici, ma al quale si riconosce sempre una qualche autonomia e particolarità: « lo storico delle religioni percepisce la differenza sussistente fra un contesto come quello cristiano, con la sua nozione di un Dio unico e creatore, garante dei valori etici che devono regolare la vita umana e oggetto di un culto istituzionalizzato e un fenomeno riscontrabile presso molte popolazioni illetterate, consistenti nella credenza in una molteplicità di entità sovraumane, piuttosto evanescenti quanto a identità personale, […]. […] spesso queste entità abitano in luoghi marginali e pericolosi […] con esse pertanto egli cerca di mettersi in contatto con comportamenti di vario tipo (invocazioni, offerte, riti vari) ». 23

Da un punto di vista scientifico, non è chiaro perché le identità degli enti sovrannaturali (al plurale) debbano essere meno definite di quelle dell’ente sovrannaturale cristiano (al singolare); è necessario, per comprendere, un punto di vista suppletivo, che renda tutto, contemporaneamente, perspicuo. Tale punto di vista è perfettamente spiegato da un aneddoto raccontato da Pascal Boyer. Tra i Fang, una popolazione della Guinea equatoriale, è diffusa una credenza secondo la quale gli stregoni possiedono un organo interno a forma di animale, il quale, durante la notte, può prendere il volo e danneggiare i raccolti altrui. Boyer scrive di avere riferito tale credenza durante una cena con colleghi dell’Università di Cambridge e aggiunge che uno degli ospiti, definito « eminente teologo cattolico », sentendo queste parole, avrebbe esclamato: « Ecco cosa rende l’antropologia così affascinante e complessa. Dovete spiegare come la gente possa credere a sciocchezze del genere ». 24 Richard Dawkins riprende il racconto qualche anno dopo, elencando una serie di credenze del sistema religioso cristiano (nascita di Gesù da una vergine, assunzione in cielo di Maria, risurrezione di Lazzaro, transustanziazione eucaristica…) e chiedendosi: « Che cosa penserebbe un antropologo obiettivo se, durante le sue ricerche sul campo a Cambridge, si imbattesse all’improvviso in questa serie di credenze? ». 25 Se volessimo essere almeno equanimi, dovremmo rispondere che, in Guinea equatoriale come nel Regno Unito, siamo in presenza di

23.  G. Sfameni Gasparro, Oggetto e metodo della storia delle religioni, Milano, 2007, p. 3. 24.  P.  Boyer , E l ’uomo creò gli dei. Come spiegare la religione, Bologna, 2010, p. 349, corsivo originale (ed. or. Paris, 2001). 25. R.  Dawkins , L’illusione di Dio. Le ragioni per non credere, Milano, 2008, p. 179 (ed. or. London, 2006).

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procedure messe in atto per elaborare o rafforzare sistemi simbolici più o meno complessi. 26 È sufficiente fermarsi qui per capire come la de-metafisicizzazione della Storia del cristianesimo (ma il ragionamento è applicabile a molte altre discipline del campo accademico) causa un mutamento del modo di guardare le cose e quindi della percezione che gli agenti del campo hanno. Questo cambiamento dovrebbe far percepire in modo diverso la condizione nella quale si trova il sapere accademicamente disciplinato che risponde al nome di Storia del cristianesimo, ossia la difficoltà del campo a reagire prontamente alle sollecitazioni a cui è sottoposto. Questa difficoltà sta alla base del divario esistente fra le occasioni che si danno e le disposizioni a coglierle; è la condizione – dalla quale è difficile staccarsi – che crea le occasioni mancate, dal momento che l’individuo agisce sempre secondo una lex inscritta nel suo corpo, un habitus, che è soprattutto inerzia, « la traccia del percorso passato, che gli agenti oppongono alle forze immediate del campo ». 27 Individuata questa forza inerziale, la de-metafisicizzazione si offre come il modo di respingere il fuoco di fila degli agenti nel campo, i quali, percependo quello spazio e le sue regole come naturali, stentano ad accettare che altri, soprattutto se agenti dello stesso campo, dicano a loro, e anche a se stessi, che tale presunta naturalità corrisponde in realtà all’insieme delle posizioni, consacrate e inculcate. 28 Si tratta dunque di colpire al cuore la regola costituita e costituente del campo: il moto perpetuo della riproduzione dei rapporti di forza. L’auspicio di Bourdieu a cui si faceva riferimento all’inizio è che gli storici si liberino dalle censure che accettano in quanto immanenti alle strutture del campo della storia. Il conoscere il proprio “mestiere” e tutto ciò che gli è comunemente annesso (le famose fucine, cucine e borse degli attrezzi) è una condizione necessaria, ma non sufficiente, dal momento che « si fa bene il proprio mestiere quanto più lo si padroneggia a livello consapevole, quanto più si è in grado di esplicitare i principi pratici che si applicano e di trasformare in regole i propri schemi, regole che possono divenire collettive ed essere utilizzate anche dagli avversari come richiamo all’ordine. La codificazione riveste un’importanza fondamentale. L’episte26. Cfr. P. Boyer , « Functional Origins of Religious Concepts: Ontological and Strategic Selection in Evolved Minds », The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 6 (2000), p. 195-214. 27. P.  Bourdieu, Le strutture sociali dell ’economia, Trieste, 2004, p. 240 (ed. or. Paris, 2000). 28.  P. Bourdieu, Ragioni pratiche, Bologna, 1995, p. 191: « L’economia dei beni simbolici si fonda sulla credenza, la riproduzione o la crisi di quell’economia sono determinate dalla riproduzione o dalla crisi della credenza, ossia dalla perpetuazione o dalla rottura dell’accordo tra le strutture mentali (categorie di percezione e di valutazione, sistemi di preferenza) e le strutture oggettive ».

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mologia altro non è che la codificazione di un mestiere, che lo sottopone a una trasmutazione. Si passa a un altro livello quando si fa consapevolmente ciò che si fa ». 29

Siamo di fronte a una variante della sorveglianza sul linguaggio invocata da Wittgenstein, che vorrebbe mostrare quanto lo storico è simile al filosofo secondo Platone, ossia a colui che si oppone all’« amico dei begli spettacoli e delle belle voci ». L’obiettivo dello storico (così come del filosofo) non è mostrare o raccontare, bensì « costruire sistemi di relazioni intellegibili in grado di rendere ragione dei dati sensibili ». 30 Questo si oppone de facto a qualsiasi forma di metafisica, alla propensione del lector a identificarsi con l’auctor e partecipare così, per procura, alla sua “creazione”. 31 Questa identificazione è invece generalmente accettata (perché non riconosciuta), con conseguenze di non poco conto: poiché non si può rivivere o far rivivere il vissuto degli altri, l’unica reazione adeguata sembra essere la simpatia, da cui la comprensione; ma se al processo si desse un verso opposto (è la vera comprensione che conduce alla simpatia), allora l’amor intellectualis, fondato sulla rinuncia al narcisismo, accompagnerebbe alla scoperta della necessità e cioè della relazione in cui gli agenti (di qualsiasi campo) sono immersi. 32 3. L a

cr i t ica de l concet to di

“ fon t e ”

Con questo intento è stata scelta l’espressione contra fontes. Andare contro le fonti significa muovere una critica alla regolarità immanente del campo, alla fiducia organizzata ossia alla finzione collettiva riconosciuta come tale proprio grazie alla fiducia che, per questa ragione, diventa reale. 33 Questo secondo movimento è forse più difficile del primo (la de-metafisicizzazione), perché il diritto d’ingresso in un campo è impossibile se si rinuncia all’arbitrio fatto credenza. Si prenda il caso dell’espressione iuxta propria principia. I principi a cui si allude quando si usano queste parole sono quelli secondo i quali una ricerca storica è ritenuta 29.  P.  Bourdieu, Sullo Stato, Milano, 2013, p. 153 (ed. or. Paris, 2012). 30.  P.  Bourdieu, Le regole dell ’arte. Genesi e struttura del campo letterario, Milano, 2005, p. 52 (ed. or. Paris, 1992). 31. Questo approccio ha un medesimo effetto de-metafisicizzante anche laddove gli auctores (che consideriamo sempre nostri) sembrerebbero avere un ruolo indiscusso: la storia della letteratura. Recenti studi sulla letteratura europea – intesa come campo letterario – pongono radicalmente in discussione questa rappresentazione. Cfr. M. Sisto, Traiettorie. Studi sulla letteratura tradotta in Italia, Macerata, 2019, p. 18. 32.  P.  Bourdieu, Le regole dell ’arte. Genesi e struttura del campo letterario, Milano, 2005, p. 389 (ed. or. Paris, 1992). 33.  P.  Bourdieu, Sullo Stato, Milano, 2013, p. 65 (ed. or. Paris, 2012).

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affidabile. Il primo di questi principi è la massa dei dati a disposizione, la materia prima a cui lo storico si applica: ma redigere uno scrupoloso resoconto degli eventi presuppone che lo storico si rende sempre conto dei principi sulla base dei quali compie la scelta e stila la gerarchia di quegli eventi? La risposta corretta sarebbe no, ma abitualmente si risponde affermativamente, in forza del « consenso misconosciuto circa la legittimità della decisione preliminare, la quale ha inizialmente stabilito che si deve credere – e far credere – che le scelte svolte in nome di un principio dato siano, in quanto tali, più ‘giuste’ rispetto a quelle fatte per mere ragioni pratiche. Essendo così interdetti dal risalire all’origine del principio, tutti i contendenti sono spinti a credere – senza crederlo – che la decisione preliminare che ha portato in essere il principio stesso non sia stata presa in nome e in forza di altrettante ragioni pratiche. […] Mentre la ‘decisione preliminare’ punta a stabilire l’‘essere’ (ossia la norma per ciò che concerne statuto, natura e proprietà ontiche) di un oggetto/soggetto/concetto idealtipico, la ‘decisione ordinaria’ verte attorno al riconoscimento reiterativo del ‘dover essere’ (ossia della conformità o meno alla norma) di un oggetto/soggetto/concetto particolare, valutandolo rispetto ai gradi di somiglianza e prossimità con l’idealtipo stabilito ».  3 4

Compaiono qui due parole importanti: riconoscimento e misconoscimento. Il riconoscimento è il prodotto del processo di produzione dell’accordo consensuale sulla legittimità del potere; il misconoscimento è invece la sua denegazione e la mancata conoscenza del fondamento di questo accordo. Riconoscimento e misconoscimento impediscono che venga messo in discussione il fondamento della legittimità del dominio e di chi lo esercita. Il riconoscimento e il misconoscimento dell’arbitrario fatto norma sono perciò la stessa cosa e ammettere questa equazione è l’inizio dello smascheramento del dominio simbolico corrente. Il primo e fondamentale riconoscimento/misconoscimento riguarda proprio le fonti, ciò che rende possibile la ricerca storica e, nella fattispecie, quelle fonti che siamo soliti chiamare patristiche (patres e/o auctores). Le fonti, per lo storico, sono una vera e propria “parola d’ordine”, un principio collettivo di costruzione e definizione della realtà collettiva (appunto, un principium al quale lo storico si conforma) e perciò il loro nome suona per gli storici come un richiamo all’ordine. Il mondo sociale è disseminato di “richiami all’ordine” che funzionano come tali solo per coloro predisposti a percepirli e che, come il semaforo rosso fa sì che il piede destro (e non quello sinistro, uso a ben altro tipo di pressione) schiacci il pedale 34.  F. Squarcini, Forme della norma. Contro l ’eccentricità del discorso normativo sudasiatico, Firenze, 2012, p. 84; 112. La coppia concettuale regresso all’infinito/ decisione preliminare è un riferimento (qui implicito) a P. Virno, E così via all ’infinito. Logica e antropologia, Torino, 2011, p. 110-122.

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del freno, allo stesso modo essi « scatenano disposizioni corporee profondamente sepolte senza passare attraverso le vie della coscienza e del calcolo ». 35 Per questa ragione, l’auspicato sovvertimento radicitus più volte evocato non può non partire da qui e dalla consapevolezza che una parte molto importante delle fonti degli storici è il prodotto di un lavoro di costruzione. Ma che significa dire che lo stock di fonti, il materiale cosiddetto primario sul quale si basa e si giustifica l’indagine dello storico, è lavoro di costruzione? Per rispondere alla domanda è sufficiente partire dall’agire quotidiano: intraprendere una ricerca vuol dire solitamente pensare a un “tema” o a un “autore”. 36 Pensare a un autore vuol dire pensare alle varie raccolte in cui i suoi testi criticamente editi sono contenuti: più recente è l’edizione critica a disposizione, più ci si ritiene “fortunati”. Questa prassi è esattamente il richiamo all’ordine, la frenata davanti al rosso, non certo pensata e calcolata, ma semplicemente agita. I contenitori di queste fonti non datano prima del 1844, quando Jacques-Paul Migne pubblica i suoi due cursus di patrologia, prima quello latino (221 volumi, 1844-1845), poi quello greco (165 volumi, 1857). 37 Il primo ordinamento di questa massa enorme di testi si deve ad Adolf von Harnack e alla sua Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur bis Eusebius, 1. Die Überlieferung und der Bestand (1893), 2. Die Chronologie (1897-1904). 38 Al più tardi nel 1904 ci sono gli autori, c’è una letteratura cristiana antica, c’è un inizio (per quanto 35.  P.  Bourdieu, Meditazioni pascaliane, Milano, 1998, p. 285 (ed. or. Paris, 1997). Le azioni di rottura generano sempre “richiami all’ordine”, il più terribile dei quali è « il discredito, equivalente specifico di una scomunica o di un fallimento » (P. Bourdieu, Le regole dell ’arte. Genesi e struttura del campo letterario, Milano, 2005, p. 127). 36. Cfr. P. Bourdieu, Le regole dell ’arte. Genesi e struttura del campo letterario, Milano, 2005, p. 257: « I ricercatori omettono il più delle volte di analizzare il processo di costruzione degli elenchi (che in realtà sono delle hit parade) su cui lavorano, cioè la storia del processo di canonizzazione e di gerarchizzazione che delimita la popolazione degli autori canonici. Essi si esimono dal ricostruire la genesi dei sistemi di classificazione, nomi di gruppi, di scuole, di generi, di movimenti ecc., che sono strumenti e poste in palio nella lotta di classificazione e che contribuiscono, quindi, a determinare gruppi. Se non si procede a una simile critica storica degli strumenti dell’analisi storica, si rischia di prendere posizione, senza nemmeno accorgersene, su ciò che è in questione e in gioco nella realtà stessa, per esempio la definizione e la delimitazione della popolazione degli scrittori, vale a dire di quelli, e di quelli soltanto che, fra “i tanti che scrivono”, hanno il diritto di definirsi scrittori ». 37.  Sull’impresa di Migne cfr. R.  H.  Bloch, God ’s Plagiarist: Being an Account of the Fabulous Industry and Irregular Commerce of the Abbe Migne, Chicago, 1994; A.  G. H amman, Jacques-Paul Migne. Le retour aux Pères de l ’Église, Paris, 1975. 38. Cfr. K. Nowak , « Theologie, Philologie und Geschichte. Adolf von Harnack als Kirchenhistoriker », in K. Nowak-O.  G. Oexle (ed.), Adolf von Harnack. Theologe, Historiker, Wissenschaftspolitiker, Göttingen, 2001, p. 189-237.

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disputato fra i patres e la letteratura cosiddetta “delle origini”, neotestamentaria…) e c’è una fine, Giovanni Damasceno († 749) per l’oriente e Beda († 735) per l’occidente. Per capire come si è giunti a questa prima suddivisione e alle riorganizzazioni e riedizioni susseguitesi nei decenni, occorre sostituire l’approccio autore-vita-e-opere, che gli artefici di queste raccolta vorrebbero proporre come la chiave di lettura più feconda per comprenderne il contenuto, con un altro in grado di capire le ragioni di coloro che a vario livello – dagli autori stessi che hanno “pubblicato” i propri scritti a coloro che a essi si sono dedicati come attività scientifica – hanno avuto a che fare con questi documenti. Di ognuno di questi agenti andrebbe studiata la genesi, la composizione, la politica ufficiale e quella non ufficiale, attraverso la totalità dei documenti relativi al singolo agente. Siamo di fronte a un compito immane, ma inevitabile se si vuole proseguire sulla via indicata. Inoltre, se lo scopo è comprendere appieno la scelta compiuta da Migne e Harnack – fra i molti –, occorrerà guardare alle caratteristiche del campo letterario, editoriale, accademico, bibliotecario e scolastico ottocentesco in Europa, vale a dire in un momento storico in cui l’elemento economico acquista un peso sempre maggiore fino a diventare schiacciante, al punto da elaborare strumenti di giudizio autonomi e distintivi. Anche la storia della letteratura cristiana ha un suo inizio, essendo anch’essa un prodotto dell’arbitrario culturale dei dominanti in un determinato campo; in questo senso, come le fonti, anche la storia della letteratura non esiste, se non nella misura in cui è costruita all’interno di determinati campi. La storia della letteratura cristiana nasce dunque alla metà dell’Ottocento, non a caso proprio quando diventano rilevanti i contorni del più vasto campo letterario e delle istanze che agiscono per la sua istituzionalizzazione, fra cui certamente l’università e l’editoria. Un solo esempio: Migne, prima di pubblicare le sue raccolte, fonda una tipografia editrice, l’Imprimerie Catholique, ritenendo tale azione necessaria per la riuscita dell’impresa e intervenendo così, prima ancora che nel campo accademico, in quello tipografico-editoriale. 39 Ed è sempre in ambito accademico-editoriale che si inaugura la prima collana di testi criticamente editi. Nel 1866, all’Accademia delle Scienze di Vienna prende avvio un progetto che avrebbe dovuto sostituire le edizioni della Patrologia latina con altre rispondenti alle nuove esigenze della critica testuale: è il Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum (CSEL). Gli autori di lingua greca sono invece campo d’azione dell’Accademia delle Scienze di Berlino, dove nel 1897 Adolf von Harnack dà alle stampe il primo volume della collana Die grieschichen christlichen Schriftsteller (GCS), inizialmente limitata ai primi tre secoli cristiani, ma successiva39. Cfr. M. Sisto, Traiettorie. Studi sulla letteratura tradotta in Italia, Macerata, 2019.

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mente allargata a scrittori di epoca successive. Sempre a Harnack si deve la collana parallela intitolata Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur (TU), inaugurata nel 1883 e, come le altre, ancora attiva. Qui troveranno posto gli atti dei congressi internazionali di studi patristici ospitati a cadenza quadriennale dall’università di Oxford e iniziati nel 1951. Dal 1897 al 1926 viene edita a Parigi la Patrologia Syriaca (PS) e nel 1903 prendono avvio la Patrologia Orientalis (PO) e il Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium (CSCO). Fra il 1914 e il 1938 Eduard Schwartz cura l’edizione degli Acta Conciliorum Oecumenicorum. Nel 1942 i gesuiti Henri de Lubac e Jean Daniélou fondano a Lione la collana Sources Chrétiennes (SC), mentre nel secondo dopoguerra è la volta dei benedettini dell’abbazia belga di Steenbrugge, i quali nel 1954 inaugurano la Series latina del Corpus Christianorum (CCL), presto seguito dalla Series graeca (CCG), dalla Continuatio medievalis, sempre in latino (CCCM), e da una Series apocryphorum (CCSA). Quest’impresa collettiva è suggellata dalla Clavis Patrum Latinorum (CPL) del 1951 a cura del benedettino Eligius Dekkers (dal 1967 abate dell’abbazia di Steenbrugge) e dalla Clavis Patrum Graecorum (CPG) a cura di Maurice Geerard (in cinque volumi, pubblicata dal 1947 al 1987, e con un supplemento apparso nel 1998). Infine, l’ultima in ordine di tempo, è la collezione di testi del Patrologiae Latinae Supplementum curata da Adalbert-Gauthier Hamman, pubblicata in quattro volumi, più uno di indici, dal 1958 al 1974. Il catologo è questo dunque, e considerare tutto ciò il prodotto di un campo che ha, grossomodo, nella Germania della seconda metà dell’Ottocento il suo luogo di nascita, aiuta a chiarirne meglio i contorni, per quanto questi non siano mai perfettamente definiti. Percepire questa molteplicità di piani è possibile seguendo il consiglio di Bourdieu: « In un periodo in cui ero più direttivo, consigliavo insistentemente ai ricercatori di studiare almeno due oggetti: per esempio, agli storici, oltre al loro oggetto principale – il tale editore nel secolo XVIII, i collezionisti nel Secondo Impero –, suggerivo di studiare l’equivalente contemporaneo di tale oggetto – una casa editrice parigina, un gruppo di collezionisti – in modo che lo studio del presente producesse almeno l’effetto di obbligare a oggettivare e a controllare le pre-nozioni che lo storico proietta sempre nel passato, se non altro per nominarlo con parole del presente; come la parola ‘artista’, che fa dimenticare come la nozione corrispettiva sia un’invenzione straordinariamente recente ».  4 0

Ma il superamento delle pre-nozioni è possibile soltanto compiendo il dissotterramento delle radici. L’operazione, così come non è indolore per la pianta, non lo è neppure per gli storici del cristianesimo. Portare alla 40.  P.  Bourdieu, Risposte. Per un’antropologia riflessiva, Torino, 1992, p. 186 (or. or. Paris, 1992).

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luce del sole le radici implica un rischio mortale per la pianta, lo stesso che correrebbe lo storico del cristianesimo, perché, così facendo, le regole di funzionamento a cui è sottoposto apparirebbero in tutta la loro arbitrarietà, rendendo patente quanto, in qualsiasi operazione volta a riprodurre canoni, norme, paradigmi che attengono al funzionamento e alla perpetuazione del campo, includendo in esso, ovviamente, tutti quanti contribuiscono a riprodurlo (professori, associazioni di categoria, amministratori istituzionali, editori, riviste, organizzazioni religiose…), sia proprio la parola “arbitrarietà” a rendere l’intero sistema perfettamente oliato. Muovere contra fontes pare un buon modo per innescare un importante atto di disillusione, che riguarda l’idea di scienza “pura”, perfettamente autonoma e rispondente a una supposta logica interna: in realtà, il gruppo dei ricercatori che agisce in un determinato campo non è per nulla omogeneo, quindi la “comunità scientifica”, intesa come gruppo i cui membri sono uniti da un obiettivo e da una cultura comuni, semplicemente non esiste, o se si vuole, esiste nella misura in cui essa è imposta come sistematizzazione, strutturata e strutturante, dell’ordine sociale all’interno del campo scientifico. Venendo meno la visione comunitaristica, perde di consistenza anche lo spirito irenico che animerebbe tale campo. Ma il campo scientifico non è neppure la terra dell’anomia e del bellum omnium contra omnes, perché « gli scienziati hanno in comune cose che sotto un certo punto di vista li uniscono e sotto un altro li separano. I ricercatori sono uniti dalle lotte che li oppongono e le alleanze stesse che possono unirli hanno sempre qualcosa a che vedere con le posizioni che essi occupano in quelle lotte ». 41 Le alleanze che si creano portano alla nascita delle scuole e delle istituzioni, entrambe deputate alla salvaguardia dei valori ideali dell’habitus scientifico condiviso. In questo modo, colui che rifiuta il sistema delle forze costituite, con manifesto intento di sovvertirlo, sviluppa una propria nuova logica scientifica, il proprio nomos, con la speranza di imporlo. Se si vuole mettere in crisi una qualsiasi economia e la riproduzione di quell’economia occorre dunque metterne in crisi la credenza, che vuol dire convincere gli agenti (o parte di essi) che il loro agire ed essere agiti è frutto di un ciclo riproduttivo continuo, e non l’atto libero e sovrano dell’agente che si considera autonomo. Un buon argomento per innescare questa sovversione si fonda sulla consapevolezza diffusa che questa riproduzione – per quanto misconosciuta come tale – non sembra offrire gli strumenti utili per uscire dalla crisi; pertanto, mettere in atto un’operazione di disvelamento potrebbe portare alcuni a convincersi del fatto che occorre interrompere il ciclo di quella riproduzione e dare nuova forma al bene scambiato. Questo engagement è l’unico praticabile 41.  P.  Bourdieu, Il mestiere di scienziato, Milano, 2003, p. 63 (ed. or. Paris, 2001).

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dagli agenti, all’interno del campo, per il sovvertimento del valore della posta in gioco ovvero del bene simbolico attorno al quale il campo stesso si struttura. 4. L’au tosocioa na l i si com e s tor i a S tor i a de l cr i s t i a n e si mo

de l l a

Giunti a questo punto, resta un ultimo passaggio: una lettura nuova della disciplina in questione. Se le fonti abbagliano la nostra percezione della realtà perché sempre “create” in un particolare contesto, allora anche la storia dei creatori/ordinatori di fonti deve essere messa nuovamente a tema per liberare definitivamente il campo da ulteriori fraintendimenti. Questo sembra possibile grazie all’autosocioanalisi, definibile come riflessività epistemica o « capacità di impiegare i propri strumenti di ricerca per oggettivare il ricercatore e il suo lavoro ». 42 Si potrebbe dire che l’autosocioanalisi è come strapparsi la pelle. La metafora della lacerazione fisica va qui intesa in tutta la sua vividezza e nelle sue dolorosissime conseguenze: senza pelle si muore. Si muore, si licet, al mondo, a quel mondo a cui si crede di appartenere naturaliter. L’atto di strapparsi la pelle non è la riflessività narcisistica dell’autobiografia e del rammemorare le proprie “esperienze”; al contrario, è l’atto che oggettiva il soggetto dell’oggettivazione. Dicendolo con altre parole, l’autosocioanalisi è l’atto di mettersi davanti allo specchio, azione che ci rende improvvisamente pura immagine e che ci fa percepire, finalmente, cosa sia il fuoridi-noi, fuori del nostro corpo e fuori della nostra mente. In questo modo ci facciamo sensibili a noi stessi nel modo più prossimo a come siamo sentiti dagli altri. È l’oggettivazione massima che possiamo percepire. Il vedersi allo specchio, il riflettere sulla relativa auto-oggettivazione e formulare un giudizio vuol dire applicarsi alla sorveglianza sul linguaggio di chi osserva l’oggetto e dell’oggetto stesso, allo svelamento del misconoscimento (de-metafisicizzazione), all’individuazione di un oggetto di ricerca (contra fontes), che ora pare nuovo, perché sino ad allora misconosciuto, ma che in realtà è sempre stato lì a portata di mano (come il vedersi allo specchio), in primo piano e in bella vista. Prendere coscienza di questi tre aspetti significa già intuire la prassi come retroguardia e aprire spazi all’avanguardia. 43 L’uscita dalla crisi dunque non prevede la scoperta di nuovi argomenti di ricerca, ma di vedere quelli già ordinati sul tavolo con lenti diverse. 42.  G.  Paolucci, Introduzione a Bourdieu, Roma-Bari, 2011, p. 116. 43.  P.  Bourdieu, Campo del potere e campo intellettuale, Roma, 2002, p. 39 (ed. or. 1971).

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Se gli agenti del campo dicono che la disciplina Storia del cristianesimo è in crisi, in declino, vive quasi in clandestinità ed è censurata dal regime culturale vigente, allora è necessaria una riscossa, non dimenticando che nelle situazioni di crisi, in particolare, tutti hanno « uguali chance di successo nella contesa per la nominazione e il monopolio della violenza simbolica legittima ».  4 4 Siamo dunque all’oportet ut scandala eveniant: solamente da qui può scaturire l’avvio del cantiere del progetto di ricerca percepito come il più irrealizzabile di tutti per il singolo ricercatore, ma che invece avrebbe « l’effetto di mostrare come i programmi ritenuti scientifici in quanto realizzabili non siano necessariamente scientifici ». 45 Ecco allora che tutte le domande abitualmente poste tornano a essere nuovamente senza risposta: quando nasce la disciplina denominata Storia del cristianesimo? La materia da studiare è ingente e certamente non totalmente incognita, ma le lenti che potremmo porci sul naso non sono mai state provate sino ad ora e i risultati potrebbero essere del tutto imprevedibili. Siamo soliti leggere che, dopo alcuni tentativi di epoca umanistica (Erasmo da Rotterdam, Lorenzo Valla…), la Storia del cristianesimo si costituisce come disciplina rigorosamente storica soltanto nell’età moderna, a partire da Ferdinand Christian Baur (1792-1860), il primo storico della storiografia ecclesiastica.  4 6 Fra gli umanisti e Baur vanno tuttavia annoverate figure importanti che hanno contribuito all’affinamento del metodo, confrontandosi soprattutto sul più ampio e variegato sfondo dello scontro fra protestanti e cattolici. E così, se da parte protestante si ricorda la grande impresa storiografica di Mattia Flacio Illirico (1520-1575), animatore dei cosiddetti centuriatori di Magdeburgo, da quella cattolica c’è Cesare Baronio (1538-1607) con gli Annales ecclesiastici e la revisione del martirologio romano. 47 Segue poi l’altro memorabile confronto tra il benedettino Jean Mabillon (1632-1707), fondatore della diplomatica e della paleografia e curatore degli Acta sanctorum ordinis sancti Benedicti e del Museum italicum seu collectio ueterum scriptorum ex bibliothecis italicis, e il gesuita Daniel Papebroch (1628-1714), membro del cosiddetto gruppo dei Bollandisti e curatore degli Acta sanctorum. 48 Sia pur considerato meno fonda44.  P.  Bourdieu, Sullo Stato, Milano, 2013, p. 112 (ed. or. Paris, 2012). 45.  P.  Bourdieu, Sullo Stato, Milano, 2013, p. 117 (ed. or. Paris, 2012). 46. Cfr. M. Bauspiess-C. L andmesser-D. Lincicum (ed.), Ferdinand Christian Baur und die Geschichte des frühen Christentums, Tübingen, 2014. 47.  Cfr.: A. M entzel-R euters-M. H artmann (ed.), Catalogus und Centurien: Interdisziplinäre Studien zu Matthias Flacius un den Magdeburgen Centurien, Tübingen, 2008; G.  A.  Guazzelli-R.  M ichetti-F. Scorza Barcellona (ed.), Cesare Baronio tra santità e scrittura storica, Roma, 2012. 48.  Cfr.: J. L eclant-A. Vauchez-D.-O. Hurel (ed.), Dom Jean Mabillon figure majeure de l ’Europe des lettres, Actes des deux colloques du tricentenaire de la mort de dom Mabillon, Paris, 2010; M. Schnettger , « Papebroch, Daniel », in Biographisch-Bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon, vol. 18, Herzberg, 2001, c. 1113-1118.

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tivo, e quindi meno ricordata, è infine il contributo dei gesuiti Jacques Sirmond (1559-1651) e Denis Pétau (1583-1652), autori delle prime edizione di fonti cristiane (Ennodio di Pavia e i concili della Gallia il primo, Sinesio di Cirene, Tertulliano ed Epifanio di Salamina il secondo). 49 È sufficiente fermarsi qui, aggiungendo solamente che, a partire dall’Ottocento, l’album di famiglia della Storia del cristianesimo si arricchisce delle sue presunte varianti nazionali. Questa piana e progressiva successione (quasi apostolica) è considerata, in estrema sintesi, la storia della Storia del cristianesimo e risulta generalmente accettabile perché è difficile intravedere il principio su cui si fonda. Guardare a essa con le lenti della de-metafisicizzazione e del movimento contra fontes è come intraprendere un’azione profilattica: al termine della terapia (o della visione) risulterà patente che il principio che guida la serie di nomi e azioni menzionati prima è uno solo: il principio genealogico, adottato dal soggetto/autore che si pone al termine di quella ritiene la sua storia e che dunque anela a legarsi saldamente a essa. Per fare questo, necessita dunque di un diritto successorio ossia di quel principio di distinzione che inserisce il soggetto legittimamente in un ordine di successione. Posto così sotto il nome giuridico-religioso della legge (il metodo) e del padre (i Patres scelti, editi e tradotti dai fondatori), lo storico del cristianesimo si vede non più solamente come un essere senziente, ma come un oggetto simbolicamente istituito. In questo modo, l’ultimo anello della catena contribuisce a far sì che il movimento della macchina continui, poiché si sente a suo agio al suo interno e soprattutto perché vede la macchina come un insieme unitario e coeso. Se filtrata attraverso le due nuove “lenti” proposte in queste pagine, la storia della Storia del cristianesimo appare invece come un campo di forze spazialmente e temporalmente differenziato, in cui agenti (storici, filologi, traduttori…) e istituzioni (università, accademie, ordini religiosi, case editrici, collane, riviste, premi…) sono posizionati sulla base delle loro proprietà specifiche (capitale economico, capitale simbolico, capitale politico, capitale religioso…) e prendono posizione sulla base di strategie più o meno consapevoli (considerare i Patres una parte particolare degli scriptores, suddividerli in greci, latini e orientali o sulla base del genere letterario o fra ortodossi ed eterodossi) 50. Solamente tenendo conto, contemporane49.  Cfr.: B. Joassart, « Jacques Sirmond et les débuts du bollandisme », Analecta Bollandiana, 119 (2001), p. 345-356; L. K arrer , Die historisch-positive Methode des Theologen Dionysius Petavius, München, 1970. 50.  Ricostruire tutto questo vuol dire ricostruire il campo della Storia del cristianesimo: « Ce que je proposerai, avec la notion de champ, c’est quelque chose qui serait à penser par analogie avec une physique de type newtonien ou einsteinien qui analyse des espaces qui ne sont pas visibles, qu’il faut construire pour rendre compte des pratiques et à l’intérieur desquels s’exercent des forces qu’on ne saisit que par la modifications qu’elles font subir aux individus, à leur conduite, etc. »

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amente, di tutti questi elementi si può cogliere la forza detenuta da agenti e istituzioni nella lotta per l’imposizione della visione legittima e sempre proporzionata al loro capitale simbolico, ossia proporzionata al riconoscimento che essi ricevono da un gruppo. L’autorità che legittima l’efficacia performativa del discorso è così più correttamente vista come un percipi, vale a dire « un essere conosciuto e riconosciuto che permette di imporre un percipere, o, meglio, di imporsi imponendo ufficialmente, cioè a tutti, il consenso sul senso del mondo sociale che è alla base del senso comune ». 51 Adottare un approccio del genere vuol dire mettere in discussione quasi tutte le categorie usate con naturalezza e spontaneità, a tal punto che ciò che ciò chiamiamo “le fonti” e i loro organizzatori si ritrovano sullo stesso piano. Questo livellamento è esattamente il modo capace di disvelare quanto le prese di posizione che sembrano le più personali – libertà di scelta, metodo, oggetto di ricerca – siano invece disposizioni prodotte dal campo in cui anche noi siamo immersi. Ricostruirne la storia vuol dire (ri) scrivere la storia della Storia del cristianesimo, permettendoci così a capire come siamo giunti a questo punto, universalmente considerato critico, e da che cosa siamo stati agiti. L’impresa è tutta da fare, ma sarà possibile cominciarla solamente quando sarà chiaro, a quanti siano disposti ad abbracciare questo nuovo modo di guardare le cose, che capire significa capire innanzitutto « il campo con il quale e contro il quale ci si è fatti ». 52 Questo continuo farsi ed essere fatti degli agenti del campo è la storia di ogni disciplina.

(P. Bourdieu, Sociologie générale. Cours au Collège de France, 1981-1983, vol. 1, Paris, 2015, p. 214). 51.  P. Bourdieu, La parola e il potere. L’economia degli scambi linguistici, Napoli, 1988, p. 80 (ed. or. Paris, 1982). 52.  P.  Bourdieu, Questa non è un’autobiografia. Elementi per un’autoanalisi, Milano, 2005, p. 15 (ed. or. Paris, 2004).

SACRIFICE, SUPERSTITION, AND THE PROBLEM OF ‘SPIRITUAL’ OFFERINGS D. Ullucci As Christian ideas and self-described Christians spread through the social network of the Roman Empire, they elicited a range of responses. Most of these early responses are not recoverable, but a few are, and they preserve some indication of the issues at stake in early competitions between Christians and non-Christians. The Roman writers Pliny the Younger, Suetonius, and Tacitus, writing at beginning of the second century, each choose the same Latin term to describe Christians, superstitio. 1 If we can take these three writers as representative in some limited way, their writings suggest that at the beginning of the second century, Romans were framing Christianity within a long-running discourse on ‘correct’ ideas and practices in relationship to non-obvious beings (gods). 2 Specifically, they were associating Christianity with negatively charged concepts in that discourse. Christian writers attempted to reverse this charge by asserting that Christians had ‘correct’ ideas and practices and that it was non-Christians whose behavior was wrong, irrational, and impious. Eusebius of Caesarea, for example, argued that animal sacrifice constituted deisidaimonia, the rough Greek analogue to the Latin superstitio. Pliny and Eusebius represent two sides in a competition to define ‘correct’ ideas and practice in relationship to non-obvious beings. The concept of sacrifice was a key piece of this debate. This essay attempts to redescribe the competition by considering how elites used their literate skills to favorably repackage elements of this discourse and how this repackaging would have affected non-elites. Previous work on the Christian rejection of animal sacrifice has often employed concepts such as ‘spiritualization’ in an overarching model to explain how and why Christianity came to reject a practice that was central to the religious traditions out of which it emerged. Recent

1. Pliny, Ep. 10.96; Tacitus, Annals 15.44; Suetonius, Nero 16.2. 2.  For a discussion of this terminology see S. Stowers , “The Ontology of Religion,” in J. Z. Smith-W.  Braun Russell-T.  McCutcheon, eds, Introducing Religion: Essays in Honor of Jonathan Z. Smith (London, 2008) 434-449. See also W. E.  A rnal-R. T.  McCutcheon, The Sacred Is the Profane: The Political Nature of “Religion” (New York, 2013) 151-152. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 133-150.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117939

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examples include the work of Daly, Finlan, Petropoulou, and Stroumsa. 3 Myself and others have argued that the idea of ‘spiritualization’ is deeply dependent on Christian theological models, and, in fact, does not provide a tenable explanation for the Christian rejection of sacrifice. 4 In this essay, I argue that models that evoke ‘spiritualization’ are faulty for an additional reason: they are far too dependent on the idea of belief. Scholarship on social networks and patterns of ‘conversion’ show that changes in practice are almost never the result of a conscious or reflective change of mind. Rather, changes in social relationships, associations, and practices most often come first – changes in belief are post facto. 5 This means that looking to a spiritual turn in the hearts and minds of individuals to explain the Christian rejection of sacrifice, and indeed the spread of Christianity itself, is looking in the wrong place. Attention to this problem matters because scholars of Religious Studies have often used, and continue to use, under-theorized concepts from the realm of Theology. Continued use of such concepts hampers the ability of Religious Studies to engage in cross-disciplinary dialogue with other fields in the humanities and social sciences which have abandoned such terminology. More importantly, such un-interrogated concepts often bring with them implicit models for how humans behave and interact that may be misleading or outright false. This essay argues that ‘belief ’ and ‘spiritualization’ are two such concepts. 1. Te r ms

and

L i m i ts

I begin with the ancient nexus of competition over ideas and practice in relationship to non-obvious beings. The main challenge in describing such a nexus of debate is that naming the categories and issues at stake in a neutral manner is challenging. The edges of the debate, what is in and 3.  R. J.  Daly, Sacrifice Unveiled: the True Meaning of Christian Sacrifice (New York, 2009); S. Finlan, “Spiritualization of Sacrifice in Paul and Hebrews,” in C. E berhart, ed., Ritual and Metaphor: Sacrifice in the Bible (Atlanta, 2011) 83-98; M.-Z.  P etropoulou, Animal Sacrifice in Ancient Greek Religion, Judaism, and Christianity, 100 bc to ad 200 (New York, 2008); G. Stroumsa, The End of Sacrifice: Religious Transformations in Late Antiquity, trans. Susan Emanuel (Chicago, 2009). 4. J. K lawans , Purity, Sacrifice, and the Temple: Symbolism and Supersessionism in the Study of Ancient Judaism (New York, 2006); D. Ullucci, The Christian Rejection of Animal Sacrifice (New York, 2012). 5. See R.  Stark-W. Sims Bainbridge , “Networks of Faith: Interpersonal Bonds and Recruitment to Cults and Sects,” American Journal of Sociology 85 (1980) 1376-1395; R. Sosis , “Why Aren’t We All Hutterites? Costly Signaling Theory and Religious Behavior,” Human Nature 14 (2003) 91-127.

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what is out, are precisely what is being contested. This is the main thrust of the sociological models of Bourdieu and Latour, who inform the argument below. 6 This problem is made worse by the fact that a number of concepts in this ancient debate are as highly contested today as they were in the ancient Mediterranean, namely ‘religion’ and ‘sacrifice.’ The scholarly realization that ‘religion’ is a created category, not an ontological ‘thing,’ is relatively recent. 7 However, outside the reified scholarly world, the question of what is or is not ‘religion’ has been part of various public discourses for centuries. What the term ‘religion’ might mean to any particular contemporary individual is the product of their exposure and response to these discourses. 8 The current trend of many contemporary individuals, particularly in the United States, to self-identity as “spiritual but not religious” is one example of the way such ongoing competitive discourses affect individuals, their emic categories, and their actions. 9 The same competition is apparent in the case of the term ‘sacrifice,’ as Kathryn McClymond has shown. Writing in his Boston hotel room on September 10, 2001, hijacker Muhammad Atta described his impending death as an act of self-sacrifice; few of his victims would agree. 10 In 2006, Saddam Hussein also chose the term ‘sacrifice’ to describe his imminent execution; again, not all would agree. 11 At present, ‘religion’ and ‘sacrifice’ are floating signifiers that can be deployed strategically in an array of competitive situations. The same was true in the ancient Mediterranean. What ‘sacrifice’ (and the range of Greek and Latin words associated with the practice) meant to any ancient Mediterranean would have been informed by their exposure and response to an array of public discourses, only a few of which are recoverable to modern scholarship. 6. P. Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (New York, 1977); B. L atour , Reassembling the Social an Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory (New York, 2005). 7.  See R.T McCutcheon, Manufacturing Religion: The Discourse on Sui Generis Religion and the Politics of Nostalgia (New York, 1997); A rnal-McCutcheon, Sacred is the Profane; and B. Nongbri, Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept (New Haven, 2013). 8.  This framing builds on Latour’s actor-network theory. See L atour , Reassembling. 9.  See C. M artin, Capitalizing Religion: Ideology and the Opiate of the Bourgeoisie (New York, 2014). 10. K. McClymond, “Sacrifice and Violence,” in A. R. Murphy, ed., The Blackwell Companion to Religion and Violence (Malden, Mass., 2011) 320-330. 11.  See K. McClymond, “Saddam’s Execution as Sacrifice,” in W. Schweidler ,  ed., Opfer in Leben Und Tod: Ergebnisse Und Beiträge Des Internationalen Symposiums Der Hermann Und Marianne Straniak Stiftung, Weingarten 2008 (Sankt Augustin, 2009) 246-270. For an ancient example of this competition to define sacrifice see Z. Várhelyi, “Political Murder and Sacrifice: From Roman Republic to Empire,” in J.  W. K nust-Z. Várhelyi, eds, Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice (New York, 2011) 124-141.

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P rope r Wor sh i p ? A s soci at ions

and

D i sa s soci at ions

Competitive discourse about the proper worship of non-obvious beings involved a range of concepts including, but not limited to: civic and ethnic identity, local traditions, the nature of the universe, the nature of the gods, sacrifice, gender, foreignness, and rationality. This essay focuses specifically on the concept of sacrifice. Early Christians were participants in this competitive discourse and attempted to redefine and repackage some of its elements. Their positions on sacrifice reflect this repackaging. The short-hand way to say this might be to say that Christians redefine religion and therefore redefine sacrifice in the process. The problem is that these words, even in their sophisticated and informed scholarly usage, obscure exactly the distinctions I believe are important. It has often been noted that, in the ancient Mediterranean, there was no word that corresponds to the common usage of the English word religion. As Brent Nongbri has shown, this was not because religion was “embedded” in ancient society rather than separated out. 12 It is because there was no concept of ‘religion’ as a category – no notion that ideas and practices having to do with non-obvious beings were separate from things like politics, physics, or ethnicity. All of these things were debated, but not under a single umbrella category. Our academic short-hand ‘ancient Mediterranean religion’ really stands for a range of intertwining practices and discourses that do not appear to have been conceptualized as a single category by ancient thinkers. There was, however, broad similarity in practices involving these things. Sacrifice was a subset of these practices, with a broad similarity throughout the ancient Mediterranean. But despite similarity of practices, the discourse on sacrifice was wide ranging, heterogeneous, and contested. Thus, sacrifice was not a set category or thing in the ancient Mediterranean; it was a contested nexus of practices and/or discourses. For example, Epicurean philosophers argued that the physics of atoms was of critical importance in understanding appropriate sacrifice. 13 A Roman pontifex, on the other hand, would probably have argued that atoms had nothing to do with sacrifice. Similarly, the emperor Decius, via his policies, argued that membership in, and loyalty to, the Roman Empire was demonstrated by the practice of sacrifice. 14 The Christian author Tertullian argued, on the other hand, that Roman-ness and loyalty 12.  Nongbri, Before Religion, 151-152, 158. 13. See Ullucci, Christian Rejection of Animal Sacrifice, 37­-38. 14.  See J. R ives , “The Decree of Decius and the Religion of Empire,” Journal of Roman Studies 89 (1999) 135-154.

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to the empire had nothing to do with whether one sacrificed or did not sacrifice. 15 In both of these examples, the parties do not simply disagree over interpretations; they disagree over what elements are even germane to the debate. When Christian authors entered the debate over appropriate worship they were trying to do the same thing as their non-Christian predecessors – legitimate their practices and positions. It is exactly when we try to understand Christian involvement in this nexus of competition that it becomes critical not to use our scholarly short-hand categories. It would be incorrect and misleading to argue that Christians redefine ‘religion,’ since there was no such category to redefine (and they make no conscious effort to create one). Rather, they rearrange the connections and associations between an array of ideas and practices. That is, they repackage the discourse by associating some concepts that were previously disassociated and disassociating others that were previously associated. It is important to point out that this competitive repackaging was going on long before Christianity. Like many contested categories, the idea of sacrifice and proper worship was not governed by a formal definition, but by an ever-changing sense of what was in and what was out, what was right and what was wrong. ‘Correct’ ideas and practices were given a range of labels such as religio and eusebia. Ideas and practices deemed incorrect were labeled with terms like deisidaimonia and superstitio. In other words, any particular person’s sense of what was correct or true was a set of associations, constantly reinforced via practices and discourse. We could compare this to the way neural networks such as the human brain ‘learn’ via constantly strengthening or weakening connections between individual neurons. In fact, one could argue that the whole process of learning and enculturation, of which the present discourse is one small part, is a process of creating similar patterns of neural connections within brains of multiple people. Numerous groups went through an historical process of repositioning in relationship to notions of correct and incorrect ideas and practices. For example, in Rome, the worship of various ‘foreign’ gods such as Magna Mater and Isis went through a process of repositioning from strange and suspicious to accepted and ‘Roman.’ 16 As the ideas and practices associated with these gods spread through the Empire, various aspects of these ideas and practices were modified. It is important to stress that this process is dialectical. It is wrong to simply say that non-Roman elements were stripped away (what is a non-Roman element? Who gets to say?). Rather, the spread of ideas and practices associated with these cults rearranged 15. Turtullian, Apollogy, 30.1-6, 32.1. 16. See M.  Beard -J. North-S. R. F.  P rice , Religions of Rome, 2 vols (Cambridge, 1998).

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a number of associations, redefining concepts such as proper worship, superstitio, and Roman-ness. Worshiping Isis might have seemed strange and un-Roman to many in the second century bce , but not in the second century ce . 17 The castrated galloi of Magna Mater might have been seen as excessive and un-Roman, but not the worship of Magna Mater generally. 18 Christianity went through a similar process of repositioning, from the superstitio condemned by Pliny, Suetonius, and Tacitus to the group exonerated and aided by Constantine. Christian experts played a key role in shaping and encouraging this repackaging. To illustrate this, it will help to quickly lay out some of the main contours of the typical Roman discourse on proper worship and sacrifice. As Dale Martin’s work has shown, the Latin term superstitio and the Greek term deisidaimonia both went through a similar semantic evolution. Early on, both of these terms had a neutral meaning, but increasingly were used by intellectual elites such as philosophers to castigate practices and beliefs deemed inappropriate, particularly those associated with the non-elite masses. Moderation and rationality were key elements of this discourse. The uneducated masses were seen as prone to irrational fear of the gods, irrationally lavish sacrifices, and impious attempts to buy the gods’ goodwill. 19 Lucian of Samosata’s satire On Sacrifices is a good example of this. Lucian invites his readers to scoff at people who, he claims, lack proper education and intelligence and are therefore given to irrational and excessive worship practices. He writes: In view of what the dolts do at their sacrifices and their feasts and processions in honor of the gods, what they pray for and vow, and what opinions they hold about the gods, I doubt if anyone is so gloomy and woebegone that he will not laugh to see the idiocy of their actions. 20

It is important to frame Lucian’s statements here as competitive and polemical, not descriptive. Reading this passage as reflective of real deficiencies in the worship practice of ‘the masses’ would be simply repeating Lucian’s elitist rhetoric. Rather, Lucian is attempting a competitive redefinition: the worship and sacrifice of the masses are not correct. Correct and proper worship and sacrifice are done by educated elites like Lucian and his readers. Stanley Stowers, building on the work of Harvey Whitehouse, has provided a theoretical framework for understanding the competitive 17.  See S.A Takács , Isis and Sarapis in the Roman World (New York, 1995), and J. R ives , “Graeco-Roman Religion in the Roman Empire: Old Assumptions and New Approaches,” Currents in Biblical Research 8 (2010) 240-299. 18. See E. Orlin, “Urban Religion in the Middle and Late Republic,” in J.  Rüpke , ed., A  Companion to Roman Religion (Malden, Mass., 2007). 19.  D. B. M artin, Inventing Superstition from the Hippocratics to the Christians (Cambridge, Mass., 2004) 131. 20.  On Sacrifices 1.1 [Harmon, LCL].

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practices of literate elites in comparison to non-literate persons. 21 Lucian’s elitist rhetoric is just one example, of one element, of the ongoing competitive process Stowers illustrates. Another revolved around not an elite/ common dichotomy, but a civic/private one. Under the Roman Empire, the terms superstitio and deisidaimonia took on particularly anti-civic connotations, as Martin has shown. 22 Proper worship was conceived as communal and aimed at communal good, not personal or individual goals. Practices that attempted to advance private ends were superstitio. 23 The discourse over ‘magic’ was part of this competition. ‘Magic’ was widely conceived of as an example of superstitio because it supposedly focused on individual and covert ends, not the common good. 24 Martin also shows that proper worship came increasingly to mean specifically ‘Roman’ worship. 25 As the Empire expanded, the definition of ‘Roman’ and the definition of ‘superstitio’ evolved along connected paths. As the empire encompassed and subsumed more and more cultural and ethnic groups once deemed ‘other,’ a new model of the ‘other’ needed to develop as a foil to the expanded meaning of ‘Roman.’ 26 Superstitio was part of this discourse, denoting both the external ‘other’ (barbarians) and the internal ‘other’ (magicians, Christians, etc.). Lucian’s On Sacrifices serves as an example here, too. Lucian particularly associates incorrect ritual practices with ethnic groups that Romans deemed strange and foreign: The Scythians, indeed, reject all sacrificial animals, and think them too mean; they actually offer men to Artemis and by so doing gratify the goddess! These practices are all very well, no doubt, and also those of the Assyrians and those of the Phrygians and Lydians; but if you go to Egypt, then, ah! 27

Here again, Lucian is involved in a project of competitive redefinition. The problem with foreigners like Scythians and Egyptians, he claims, is that they consider all manner of absurd practices to be correct worship. 21. S. Stowers , “The Religion of Plant and Animal Offerings Versus the Religion of Meanings, Essences, and Textual Mysteries,” in J.  W. K nust-Z. Várhelyi, eds, Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice (New York, 2011) 35-56. 22.  M artin, Inventing Superstition, 124-139. 23.  See, for example, the charges made against the Emperor Julian by Ammianus who saw his practices as both excessive and not civically motivated (Ammianus 25.4.17). 24.  See S. I. Johnston, “Magic,” in S. I. Johnston, ed., Ancient Religions (Cambridge, Mass., 2007) 139-152; F.  Graf, Magic in the Ancient World (Cambridge, Mass., 1997). 25.  M artin, Inventing Superstition,125-159. 26. See Orlin, “Urban Religion.” 27.  On Sacrifices 13-14 [Harmon, LCL].

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Lucian and his readers, of course, believe that they are wrong – comically and horribly wrong. 28 Animal sacrifice was a key part of the competition over correct and incorrect practice, and this is not surprising given how important sacrifice was to civic and ethnic ideology in the ancient Mediterranean. Key constituents of communal ideology are always prime elements for othering. We could compare this to the way American discourses of the ‘other’ often include the vague and incoherent charge that America’s enemies hate ‘Freedom’ (even when their actions show that freedom, from America, is exactly what they want). Roman writers almost invariably included charges of incorrect sacrifice when discussing groups they deemed deviant. These range from small idiosyncrasies like the Judean refusal to sacrifice to any god but their own, to more damning charges of impiety and secret rites, to the worst charge, human sacrifice – the H-bomb of ancient polemic – which Lucian drops on the Scythians in the text above. 29 Given the entwining of Roman identity and proper worship against the ‘other’ of superstitio, it is not surprising that emperors often championed animal sacrifice as a key ritual. Starting with Augustus, imperial art, architecture, and literature highlighted sacrifice and particularly associated it with Roman identity and the person of the emperor, as Zanker and others have shown. 30 The Ara Pacis is a perfect example of this intertwining of pious sacrifice with imperial ideology. The high point of this packaging of sacrifice, empire, and Romanitas is Decius’ decree of 249 ce . As Rives has shown, Decius’ decree is much more about furthering an ideal of Roman imperial identity than it is a targeted attack on Christians. 31 3. C h r i s t i a n E ngage m e n t : R e pack agi ng Christian experts emerged in a world where the predominant discourse on proper worship and superstitio was stacked against them. They rejected the gods of the Empire and refused to sacrifice to them, they had an, at 28.  For further discussion of Lucian’s comedic approach to religious critique see F.  Graf, “The Satirist’s Sacrifices: Lucian’s On Sacrifices and the Contestation of Religious Traditions,” in J. W. K nust-Z. Várhelyi, eds, Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice (New York, 2011) 203-213. 29.  For further discussion of the centrality of sacrifice to Roman identity, see R ives , “The Decree of Decius and the Religion of Empire”; J. R ives , “Human Sacrifice Among Pagans and Christians,” Journal of Roman Studies 85 (1995) 65-85. 30.  S. R.F P rice , Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (New York, 1984); P. Z anker , The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Ann Arbor, 1990). I’m thankful to Jessica Pesce for these references. See also the significant presence of sacrifice in Vergil’s Aeneid. 31.  R ives , “The Decree of Decius and the Religion of Empire.”

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best, tenuous claim to antiquity, and they were a small fringe group. All of these elements made them a sure target of the charge of superstitio, and Pliny’s letter of 111/12 shows that it was attached to them almost immediately. No one would have enjoyed being stuck with this label, especially early Christian literate experts who certainly thought of themselves as rational and pious, and who had a set of intellectual skills and credentials that should have placed them well above being grouped in with the uneducated masses. The charge of superstitio must have been particularly galling for such men as it carried with it explicit charges of ignorance, irrationality, and general hoi polloi status. However, these experts had the power to do something about it. The illiterate victims of Lucian’s elitist barbs had neither the financial or cultural capital, nor literary skills to play the game Lucian was playing. 32 Christian elites like Clement of Alexandria, Tertullian, Augustine, and Eusebius did. They immediately set about using their skills in textual production to rearrange the elements of the discourse in a way that would reposition them in a better light. This started as early as Paul (and probably earlier), who argued that Greek and Roman gods were daimones. 33 By calling the Roman gods daimones, Paul simply meant that they were low-level powers in the cosmic hierarchy, unworthy of much attention.  3 4 In contrast, Paul claimed, the Judean god was the creator of the universe and the only being worthy of worship. Furthermore, Paul claimed that this truth was obvious, or should have been, from the simple observation of nature. The gentiles, in his view, willingly ignored the truth and knowingly worshiped daimones in place of the real god. 35 Paul is involved here in a project of competitive redefinition very similar to that of Lucian. By claiming that he worshiped the single high god of the universe, Paul reversed the Roman discourse on superstitio. Instead of worshipers of Yahweh being an idiosyncratic fringe group, Paul recast them as the universal norm and center. For Paul, it was the Romans who worshiped insignificant low-level beings and impiously ignored the true universal high god (as is often the case, Paul’s claim to universality is actually a strategy of exclusion). 32.  There were of course other games they could play. Non-elites could counter such polemic by claiming that elites were pedantic frauds engaged in asinine and pointless speculations. See Stowers , “Religion of Plant and Animal Offerings.” 33.  1 Cor 10:20. 34.  Dale Martin points out that the meaning of this term changes from the first to third centuries. The use of daimonion to mean a malevolent spirit is not unheard of but would have been uncommon in Paul’s time. M artin, Inventing Superstition 187-206. 35.  Rom 1:19-22.

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Paul’s rearrangement is just one example. There was no single way to play this game, and different Christian experts developed different strategies. Clement of Alexandria and Tertullian provide two illustrative examples that are mutually illuminating because they contrast so sharply. Clement and Tertullian disagreed on the status of the Greco-Roman intellectual and philosophical tradition. Clement embraced it. Tertullian rejected it with the famous quip, “What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?” 36 This difference led them to make very different arguments for why Christian practices were superior to Roman practices. Clement (ca. 145-214 ce) developed a supersessionist strategy grounded in an extended metaphor of advancing education. He argued that all of human history was a process of education from elementary principles to advanced truth. For Clement, the entire philosophical tradition was valuable, but it was only an introductory course – not wrong, just intellectually sophomoric. The full truth was available exclusively in Christianity (specifically, Clement’s form of Christianity). He argued that Christians did not sacrifice because sacrifice belonged to the intellectual infancy of the human race – a mistake resulting from ignorance. Clement repackaged elements of the discourse around proper worship by placing actual physical offerings on the side of irrationality and impiety and placing Christian non-sacrificial practices like prayer on the side of true worship. His supersessionist strategy also appropriated the philosophical tradition for Christianity. Clement thus associated rational worship with the philosophical tradition (fulfilled in Christianity) and disassociated it from sacrifice, which he cast as relic of a bygone ignorant age, associated with unintellectual hoi polloi. 37 Tertullian took a different approach by rejecting the philosophical tradition completely. He argued that Greek and Roman philosophers were self-important logic choppers childishly squabbling with each other over whose vacuous speculations were the best. He also argued that the Roman gods were simply not real. In the Apology, addressed to “the magistrates of the Roman Empire,” he states that Christians “stopped worshiping your [Roman] gods when we discovered that they did not exist.” 38 In contrast to quibbling philosophers and Romans who worship non-entities, Tertullian asserted that Christians perform real worship to the real god. This is not just good for Christians, it is good for the Empire, he claims, because Christians pray for the well-being of the Empire to a god that actually 36.  De Praescriptione Haereticorum 7. 37.  Stromateis 5.11.67; 7.6.30-1. For a discussion of Clement’s philosophy, see E.  Osborn, Clement of Alexandria (New York, 2005). For a full discussion of Clements’s positions on sacrifice, see D. Ullucci, The Christian Rejection of Animal Sacrifice (New York, 2012) 107-110. 38.  Apology 10.2.

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exists and can help. 39 Tertullian’s repackaging thus puts rational worship and interest in the well-being of the empire squarely on the side of the Christians. He dissociates proper worship from philosophical discourse, which he casts as petty and ignorant, and from the practice of animal sacrifice. Clement and Tertullian thus represent two opposing vectors – or contrasting creative possibilities – in repackaging the elements of the discourse on correct ideas and practices in relationship to non-obvious beings in a way that favors Christianity. Both of these two possibilities draw on elements present in the existing Roman discourse. Clement draws on the philosophical critique of ‘popular’ religion. Tertullian draws on the popular critique of philosophers.  4 0 We could expand this discussion to include many more examples of creative repackaging by Christian writers, but I will instead jump ahead to one particularly critical moment in the competition. 4. E use bi us

in the

Wa k e

of

C ons ta n t i n e

Constantine’s support of Christianity was surely shocking to many Romans, particularly because he was backing a group that had for centuries been labeled a superstitio. Christians had, of course, always rejected this label, but Constantine did more to make this argument tenable than anything a Christian apologist could hope. Superstitio was associated with anti-Roman forces, irrationality, and foreignness. The emperor’s backing cast a wrench into this discourse. To say the emperor backed a superstitio was an oxymoron. If the Roman emperor backed it, how could it be antiRoman or foreign? (Unless, of course, the emperor himself was illegitimate – see below.) In Bourdieu’s terms, this is the power of “consecration.” 41 Network theorists, drawing on a different but compatible model, call this phenomenon “network centrality.” 42 Some people have so much social capital, and are so well connected, that they have the power to immediately shift the perceptions and norms of large portions of the social network. A modern example would be a man like Warren Buffett. Calling a Warren Buffett investment ‘risky’ is an oxymoron. His financial gravitas and influ39.  Apology 30.1-6. For a full discussion see Ullucci, Christian Rejection, 110113. 40. See Stowers , “Religion Plant and Animal Offerings,” 43-45. 41.  See P. Bourdieu, Language and Symbolic Power (Cambridge, Mass., 1991) 118-119, 125-126, 209-214. 42. See C. P rell , Social Network Analysis: History, Theory & Methodology (London, 2012), 24-25, 96-116.

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ence defy the very notion of risky investments. In short, if Buffett thinks something is a good investment, the vast majority of the financial world is compelled to agree. This phenomenon was dramatically illustrated during the 2008 financial crisis when US investment banks Lehman Brothers and Goldman Sachs desperately courted investments from Buffett, not primarily for his financial capital but because his massive social capital would shift perceptions about the stability of these institutions, restore investor confidence, and prevent a run on the failing banks. 43 Constantine held the same network centrality. If Constantine backed a group, it could not be a superstitio; dissenting voices are immediately marginalized by the consecrating power of such an individual. The only alternative for dissenting parties is to attack the social capital of the consecrating figure. For example, the Roman historian Zosimus (fl. 490-510) lambasted Constantine as a mentally unstable criminal and murderer. Rather than lending any legitimacy to Christianity, Zosimus argued that Constantine’s support simply showed that Christianity was just as depraved as Constantine.  4 4 Zosimus and like-minded persons excepted, Constantine’s support gave sudden and immediate credibility to the Christian argument that they were not a superstitio. It is not surprising, therefore, that some of the most explicit rearranging of the discourse on sacrifice happened under Constantine. The clearest example is Eusebius. Throughout his writings Eusebius repeatedly uses elements of the discourse on superstitio to castigate Roman sacrifice. Notice that there is a divide here. Constantine, by his support, problematized the charge that Christianity was a superstitio. He did not, however, reverse the charge back onto Roman practice, but Eusebius does. This is an example of exaggerated network effect, like the investor who makes a $10m investment in a company on word that Buffett made a $1m investment in it. Eusebius’ rearrangement can be seen in many of his works, but I will focus here on Preparatio Evangelica, begun in 313 in the glow of Constantine’s sudden support. His points in this work are largely re-combinations of arguments made by earlier Christian and non-Christian writers. From Paul and Justin Martyr, Eusebius picked up the argument that Roman sacrifices are directed at daimones. From Origen and Porphyry, he picked up the argument that these daimones are not simply low-level cosmic pow43. See A. R. Sorkin, Too Big to Fail: The Inside Story of How Wall Street and Washington Fought to Save the Financial System, and Themselves (New York, 2011); United States and Financial Crisis Inquiry Commission, The Financial Crisis Inquiry Report: Final Report of the National Commission on the Causes of the Financial and Economic Crisis in the United States, Authorized Edition. (New York, 2011). 44. Zosimus, New History, 2.29-34.

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ers, but are in fact evil and dangerous. Daimones feed off sacrifices and lead humans away from the real god. 45 Most importantly, Eusebius also consistently associates sacrifice with ignorance, impiety, excess, violence, and the H-bomb – human sacrifice – all of the established elements of incorrect ideas and practices in relationship to non-obvious beings.  4 6 He even goes beyond this to argue that, not only is Christianity rational and pious, Christians actually introduced correct ideas and practices about God to the world for the first time: […]the benefit which visibly proceeds from [Jesus’] doctrines you may see a clear proof, if you consider, that at no other time from the beginning until now, nor by any of the illustrious men of old, but only from his utterances, and from his teaching diffused throughout the whole world, the customs of all nations are now set aright, even those customs which before were savage and barbarous; so that Persians who have become his disciples no longer marry their mothers, nor Scythians feed on human flesh, because of Christ’s word which has come even unto them…nor, strangle the aged, as they did formerly, nor do they feast according to their ancient custom on the flesh of their dearest friends when dead, nor like the ancients offer human sacrifices to the daemons as to gods, nor slaughter their dearest friends, and think it piety. 47

He proceeds to conclude: You have therefore the date of the overthrow of the daemons, of which there was no record at any other time; just as you had the abolition of human sacrifice among the Gentiles as not having occurred until after the preaching of the doctrine of the Gospel had reached all mankind. 48

Eusebius is attempting a competitive redefinition which puts proper worship, moderation, and rationality on the side of Christianity and firmly places Roman practice, especially animal sacrifice, on the side of deisidaimonia, irrationality, and human sacrifice. This redefinition is also a repackaging, which involves both new associations and also disassociations. For example, he argues that the truth of Christianity is universal, superseding the local deisidaimonia that was Roman tradition. He further argues that Christianity represents a new universal ethnos. As James Francis has argued, the idea of a ‘universal ethnos’ is oxymoronic – like a universal dialect. 49 If the essence of ethnicity 45.  M artin, Inventing Superstition, 178-179. See also H. M arx-Wolf, Spiritual Taxonomies and Ritual Authority: Platonists, Priests, and Gnostics in the Third Century ce (Philadelphia, 2016). 46.  M artin, Inventing Superstition, 210. 47.  Praep. ev. 1.4 [Gifford]. 48.  Praep. ev. 5.17 [Gifford]. 49. J.A Francis , Subversive Virtue: Asceticism and Authority in the Second-Century Pagan World (University Park, Pa., 1995).

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is difference and distinction, a universal ethnos defies the very notion of distinction between peoples. Eusebius himself must have been aware of how strange his argument was. For ancient Mediterraneans, proper worship was tied to ethnic identity. Each group of people had its own traditions, stories, and gods. Although there were broad similarities in mythology, prosopography, and particularly in practice (e.g. sacrifice), differences were important in discourses of identity. Eusebius’ rearrangement breaks the link between proper practice and ethnic identity. Ethnic differences, he claims, are meaningless to the question of proper worship, as all people are subsumed under the umbrella of the Christian ethnos. Eusebius’ oxymoronic claim of a universal ethnos is really a claim that ethnic distinctions are not pertinent to matters of worship; it is a disassociation of this concept from the discourse. 50 This dissociative move had obvious benefits for a group like Christianity that had no ethnic cohesion. 5. C h r i s t i a n O ffe r i ngs

a r e not

‘S pi r i t ua l’

At the same time that he is rearranging the elements of proper worship, ethnicity, and sacrifice, Eusebius is claiming that certain Christian practices constitute real sacrifice in a more than metaphorical way. By Eusebius’ time, this discourse had been well established by Christian writers going all the way back to the second century (the Letter to the Hebrews is the earliest example). He reflects the belief that Christian practices like prayer and worship are ‘true’ sacrifices. Physical offerings on the other hand, like animal sacrifice, libations, food offerings, etc., are not proper worship. They are the worship of demons and the height of deisidaimonia. Previous scholarship has framed this in terms of spiritualization and a competition between Christians and Romans. 51 I want to suggest that there is another party to this competition: other Christians. I do not mean here the kinds of other Christianity represented by non-canonical texts and often grouped under unfortunate scholarly short-hands like ‘gnostic;’ rather, I mean the forms of Christianity that are rarely mentioned in our texts but for which we have significant archaeological evidence. These Christians did not share Eusebius’ view of proper Christian worship. We find evidence for these Christians concentrated around martyr shrines, tombs, and graveyards. The archaeological evidence shows clearly that Christians were making physical offerings, such as wine, honey, vegetables, and animals, to Christian saints and the dead, well into the fourth and 50.  M artin, Invention Superstition, 215. Martin interprets this differently, arguing that Eusebius’ argument is a real argument for Christianity as an ethnos. See also Nongbri, Before Religion, 53-57. 51.  See note 3.

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fifth centuries and beyond. It is not possible to lay out all of this evidence here, but it is demonstrated clearly and strongly by MacMullen, Jensen, Snyder, and others, thought it has never been properly integrated into a macro-scale model of Christian origins. 52 Rather than see these practices as evidence of ‘pagan’ influences or incomplete Christianization, I think it is critical to see them simply as a different mode of Christianity, according to the model Stowers has laid out. 53 These Christians had their own practices at their own religious sites, as MacMullen shows, outside the realm of church buildings and the ecclesiastical hierarchy that ran them. 54 This form of Christianity was not based on textual production, and, as a result, our evidence for them is slight. However, given what we know about traditional Mediterranean practices, we can confidently extrapolate at least the rough outlines of what they were doing. 55 For these Christians, devotion to a range of local cults was important. They imagined martyrs and other honored dead as powerful beings with whom humans could carry on relationships of reciprocity. Their offerings are the practices of this reciprocity, carried on just as they had been with local Greek and Roman gods, heroes, and ancestors for millennia. 56 We have no direct evidence for how these other Christians would respond to the particular arrangement of ‘proper’ worship and sacrifice put forth by Eusebius, but we can imagine. Eusebius constantly associates all physical offerings with the worship of demons. Certainly, they would reject this. For these Christians, physical offerings were correct and proper worship. Would these people even identify with Eusebius’ claim that Christianity was a universal ethnos? Might they not identify more locally, as devotees of a particular local martyr or saint? It is important to see that Eusebius’ redefinition of proper worship and his repackaging of concepts like deisidaimonia, ethnicity, and sacrifice do not simply put Christians 52. R. M acMullen, The Second Church: Popular Christianity ad 200-400 (Atlanta, 2009); G.F Snyder , Ante Pacem: Archaeological Evidence of Church Life Before Constantine (Macon, Ga., 1985); R. Jensen, “Dining with the Dead: From the Mensa to the Altar in Christian Late Antiquity,” in L. Brink-D. A. Green, eds, Commemorating the Dead Texts and Artifacts in Context: Studies of Roman, Jewish, and Christian Burials (New York, 2008) 107-144. See also D. L. E astman, Paul the Martyr the Cult of the Apostle in the Latin West (Atlanta, 2011). 53.  Stowers has theorized this as two different modes of religion that he calls the «religion of every day social exchange» and the «religion of the literate cultural producer». See Stowers , “Religion of Plant and Animal Offerings.” 54.  M acMullen, Second Church. 55.  See D. Ullucci, “Towards a Typology of Religious Experts in the Ancient Mediterranean,” in C. E.  Johnson Hodge et al., ed., “The One Who Sows Bountifully”: Essays in Honor of Stanley K. Stowers (Providence, 2013) 89-103. 56. In Stowers’ terms, they are practicing the «religion of everyday social exchange». See Stowers , “Religion of Plant and Animal Offerings.”

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above non-Christians, they put a certain group of Christians above other groups of Christians. My argument is that we need to understand Christian texts that reject sacrifice as part of this competitive repackaging, which is coming from a particular class of Christian elites who do not speak for all Christians. This reframing, I hope, will provide further evidence that the ‘spiritualization’ model is flawed. The ‘spiritualization’ model assumes that Christians transition from physical offerings to non-physical ‘spiritual’ offerings. This transition is often attributed to some internal mental change, either an awakening to spiritually superior forms of worship, or a new emphasis on the self and the individual in relationship to God, or a direct and sui generis experience of Christ. 57 Klawans has shown that such ideas are, in part, artifacts of old evolutionary models of religion. 58 I want to argue that the spiritualization model is flawed for two more reasons. First, the claim that all or even most Christians transition quickly or immediately to ‘spiritual’ offerings is patently false. As MacMullen shows, many Christians make no such change, at least not until the fifth cen­ tury. 59 However, even among those who do make this change (people like Eusebius who frequented churches and who refrained from offerings at shrines and tombs), there is still no lack of physical offerings. Again, as MacMullen shows, the churches of the fourth and fifth centuries are as filled with dedicatory plaques and sponsorship ads as the average college campus. The elites paid for these churches, took the best spots in them, and immortalized their own largess in indelible inscriptions that covered the buildings. For example, the mosaic floor of a fourth century church currently preserved under the Florence Duomo records not simply the names of major donors but a precise statement of the number of feet-ofchurch they financed. The ‘spiritualization’ model suggests that elites in the Roman Empire go from offering Roman animal sacrifices to offering pure ‘spiritual’ Christian worship, but this is untrue. Elites go from paying for animal sacrifices to paying for churches. The old networks of reciprocity, patronage and euergetism are still very much intact; they have simply been redirected. 60 57.  See, for example, Petropoulou, Animal Sacrifice and Stroumsa, The End of Sacrifice. 58. See K lawans , Purity, Sacrifice, and the Temple, and J. K lawans “Symbol, Function, Theology, and Morality in the Study of Priestly Ritual,” in J.  W. K nustZ. Várhelyi, eds, Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice (New York, 2011) 106-122. 59.  M acMullen, Second Church. See also M. R. Salzman, “The End of Public Sacrifice: Changing Definitions of Sacrifices in Post-Constantinian Rome and Italy,” in J.  W. K nust-Z. Várhelyi, eds, Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice (New York, 2011) 167-183; M. R. Salzman, The Making of a Christian Aristocracy Social and Religious Change in the Western Roman Empire (Cambridge, Mass., 2002). 60. See Salzman, Making of a Christian Aristocracy; Jacob L atham, “Battling Bishops, the Roman Aristocracy, and the Constestation of Civic Space in Late

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The ‘spiritualization’ model hides this fact by presenting Christian worship as pure and immaterial, but the arguments and theoretical framework above suggest that the whole concept of ‘spiritual’ offerings is polemical. It hides the economic realities underwriting the power and authority of a particular class of Christian elites. The enormous expansions and architectural daring of churches in the fifth and sixth centuries shows this. There is nothing immaterial or spiritual about the mountain of money required to finance something like the dome of Hagia Sophia (the largest masonry dome in the world from 563 to 1436). Second, the ‘spiritualization’ model is further flawed because it puts far too much emphasis on belief and changes in belief as the trigger for the transition from sacrifice to non-sacrifice. The model assumes that people are convinced by the Christian critique of sacrifice and therefore live out that conviction by rejecting the practice. Sociologists, ethnographers, and network theorists have long known that this model of ‘conversion’ is false. 61 Recent work, particularly in the area of network theory, shows that looking at changes in worship practices as a function of changes in belief is backwards. Changes in behavior are the result of cumulative changes in the network. People’s behaviors are rarely based on reflexive belief but rather on what they perceive to be good, advantageous, or simply normal. Views of what constitutes normal are dependent on the actions of others in the social network, particularly those people whose range of connections and position in the network afford them highly asymmetric influence on the network, people like Constantine and Warren Buffett. 62 The recent provocative book by Christakis and Fowler showed that people are deeply impacted in their personal behavior by people up to three steps away from them in their social network – in other words, people who they are connected to through other people but who they do not know personally. 63 For example, they show that an individual’s statistical probability of starting up or quitting smoking, gaining or losing weight, and even catching a sexually transmitted disease are significantly affected by Antique Rome,” in J. Rosenblum-L. Vuong -N. DesRosiers , eds, Religious Competition in the Third Century ce: Jews, Christians, and the Greco-Roman World (Göttingen, 2014) 126-138. 61. R.  Stark-W. S. Bainbridge , “Networks of Faith.” See also L. R. R ambo C. E. Farhadian, eds, The Oxford Handbook of Religious Conversion, (New York, 2014). 62. See P rell , Social Network Analysis, and C. K adushin, Understanding Social Networks: Theories, Concepts, and Findings (New York, 2012). See also Sosis , “Why Aren’t we all Hutterites?” 63.  N. Christakis-J. Fowler , Connected: The Surprising Power of Our Social Networks and How They Shape Our Lives: How Your Friends’ Friends’ Friends Affect Everything You Feel, Think, and Do (New York, 2011).

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the practices of those they are connected to at up to three levels of separation in a social network. These findings from the social sciences must impact our historical models of religious change. I agree that we will never be able to do a fullscale social network analysis of the ancient world; the data simply do not exist. One would need data on thousands of contemporaneous individuals and their relationships and contacts. We hardly know the names of more than a handful of people living in any particular area at any particular time. However, I reject those who say that network theory is useless for the study of ancient religion, or worse, that it is simply trendy. The real value of network theory is that it challenges our models, such as the ‘spiritualization’ model, which too often treat belief as autonomous and prerather than dependent and post-. 6. C onclusion The goal of this essay was to show the ways in which early Christian experts rearrange elements associated with proper ideas and practices in relationship to non-obvious beings, such as ethnic identity, rationality, superstitio, and sacrifice, in order to compete in a discourse that originally placed them and their practices outside the realm of the rational and the true. But this rearrangement is just one rearrangement; simply making arguments (particularly via the medium of written texts in a predominantly illiterate world without printing technology) does not do much to change broader society. My main argument is that to understand why this rearrangement became the dominant arrangement in the ancient Mediterranean, we should dispense with notions like ‘spiritualization’ or ‘belief,’ and even concepts like ‘conversion’ and ‘persuasion’, and look to network dynamics and the consecrating power of people like Constantine and other Roman elites. This means that the end of animal sacrifice is not simply about the success of Christianity, it is about the success of one particular group of Christian experts. We are still living with the results. When, in the early 1990s, the city of Hialeah, Florida, USA, refused to recognize Santería (a Caribbean tradition that includes animal sacrifice) as a ‘religion,’ and when the chaplain of that city’s police department called Santerían animal sacrifice the “worship of demons,” they were simply echoing the rearrangement of sacrifice put forward by Eusebius 1680 years before, and made salient by the spreading Christian “norm” in the wake of Constantine and his dynasty.  6 4 64.  On the 1993 Santeria Supreme Court case, see P.  Waldau-K. C.  Patton, A Communion of Subjects Animals in Religion, Science, and Ethics (New York, 2006).

II. From Jesus to His First Followers

T HE GROUPS OF JESUS’ FOLLOWERS IN JERUSALEM Fractionation and Divergencies (30-70 ce) A.  Destro-M.  Pesce Pa rt I Our reflection focuses on the presence of different cultural groups in the same context or environment. We start with a consideration about the theme of cultural contact and its potential contribution to the life of religious groups. In particular, we intend to highlight that, between the years 30-70 ce ., several groups of Jesus’ followers were dwelling in Jerusalem. We believe that, despite their cohabitation in the same city, there was scarce communication between them. We want to discuss the lack of knowledge and communication among Jesus groups in Jerusalem, starting from the fact that these groups handed down different “stories of apparition” of the resurrected Jesus. In our view, this is a relevant trace that, in Jerusalem, the groups of Jesus’ followers were fragmented and dispersed, perhaps divided or conflicting. 1. Contacts of Cultures. Coexistence of Groups 1. Before discussing the apparition narratives, we will present some preliminary considerations. Scholarly research on cultural contact is extremely relevant for a number of reasons. Cultures cannot be considered or imagined as isolated and self-sufficient. They often are reciprocally linked, interacting, evolving or in movement. Within such evolution, all human groups retain a great deal of autonomy in the way they understand and accept contact and coexistence with other groups. What is sure is that when contacts and confrontations occur, the groups may bring about a variety of changes in their organization. They may innovate or refuse innovation. Under certain circumstances, despite their cohabitation, certain groups preserve much of their cultural preferences (and customs). In other cases they symptomatically try to differentiate or separate from other aggregates. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 153-200.

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DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117940

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a. In social investigations, cultural contact is sometimes qualified as cultural traffic. 1 It is depicted as a process of “giving and receiving,” as a way of comparing and making alliances, of exchanging perspectives and ideals. The term “traffic” suggests movement, discontinuity, acquisitions, and losses in different directions. It suggests the existence of numerous trends, efforts, and expectations attached to the cultural contact itself. In other words, cultural contact may be seen from two viewpoints. It may be conceived as an occasion for stimulating, renewing views, and achieving a better knowledge of different agents and environments. However, it may also be seen in the opposite way and considered as something that gives strength to divergences that cannot be ignored. b. Within the conceptual horizon of cultural complexity and cultural contact, many social investigations have criticized the concepts of identity and of community, 2 two umbrella terms. These investigations have promoted new methodological perspectives with strong effects on cultural analysis. What can we say about identity? Within the construction of the identity of one group – in consonance, in comparison, or in opposition to other identities – cultural contact always involves processes of promotion and self-defense, but also of concrete adjustment and adaptation. This leads to recognize that cultural contact may give birth to a variety of power dynamics and vital opportunities that may shape or influence the perceptions of identities. Consequently, within cultural traffic identity construction is uncertain, porous, unstable, and discursive. Identity is not ontological or essentialist. It is relational and linked to the self and to the other, to us and them, to my group and your group. It ordinarily is dependent on temporary situations, circumstances, and changeable cultural procedures. The coexistence of the self and of the other, within the discourse of identity, has brought about new theoretical approaches. Instead of the notion of identity, several terms have been proposed and elaborated, such as “miscegenation,” “hybridization,” “metissage,” “branchement,” “interplay,” “connection,” and others. 3 1.  See e.g. H. J. Elam-K. A. Jackson (eds), Black Cultural Traffic: Crossroads in Global Performance and Popular Culture (Ann Arbor, 2005). 2.  F.  Barth (ed), Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference (Bergen-London, 1969); F. R emotti, Contro l ’identità (RomaBari, 1996); I d., L’ossessione identitaria (Roma-Bari, 2010); G.  Bauman, The Multicultural Riddle: Rethinking National, Ethnic, and Religious Identities (New York, 1999); S. K. Stowers , “The Concept of ‘Community’ and the History of Early Christianity,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 23 (2011) 238-256. 3.  J.-L., A mselle , Logiques métisses. Anthropologie de l ’identité en Afrique et ailleurs (Paris, 1990); I d., Branchements. Anthropologie de l ’universalité des cultures (Paris, 2001); I d., “Métissage ”, in S.  M esure-P. Savidan (eds), Le dictionnaire des

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c. In order to understand the limits of the concept of “group identity,” we must remember, as Th. H. Eriksen states, that “[groups] exist from a certain point of view, but from another point of view, they disappear.” 4 When a group emerges, others may cease to exist. In other words, groups are conventionally constructed and their identity results from conceptualizing specific historical features. In brief, cultural groups live alternative situations of “cohesion and conflict” – to use the theoretical scheme suggested by M. Gluckman. On one side, people aggregate, and, on the other, the same people disaggregate, split, fractionate, and change their identity. In this connection, we must note that Network-Analysis is engaged in showing the plurality and ductility of the net of relationships that characterize groups. Indeed, this kind of analysis decodes, for example a concept such as community because it seems to define a group by stressing precise boundaries and by building artificial content. The notion of community may have the effect of producing a fictitious unity and of distinguishing human aggregates from the surrounding environment (to which they are actually connected in many ways and with many purposes). 5 All these conditions have not failed to influence the research about Jesus and the first groups of his followers. sciences humaines (Paris, 2006); H. K.  Bhabha, The Location of Culture, London, Routledge, 1994; N.  G. Canclini, Culturas híbridas. Estrategias para entrar y salir de la modernidad (Mexico, 1989); M. R enaud, La utopía mestiza. Reflexión sobre sincretismo y multiculturalismo en la cultura latinoamericana (Poitiers, 2007). 4.  Th.H. Eriksen, “What is Cultural Complexity,” in H. Moxnes-W. BlantonJ. C. Crossley (eds), Jesus Beyond Nationalism (London-Oakville, 2009) 9-24; See also A.  Destro -M.  Pesce , “From Jesus movement to Christianity: A Model for the Interpretation. Cohabitation and Separation of Jews and Christians,” in: S. C.  M imouni-B.  Pouderon (eds), La Croisée des chemins revisitée. Quand l ’Église et la Synagogue se sont-elles distinguées? Actes du colloque de Tours 18-11 juin 2010 (Paris, 2012) 21-49, here: 22-23. 5.  On Network-Analysis about the groups from the point of view of relational complexity among persons, see: S.  Wasserman-C. Faust, Social Network Analysis: Methods and Applications (Cambridge, 1994); D.  van K nippenberg -M.C Schippers , “Work Group diversity,” Annu. Rev. Psychol. 58 (2007) 515-541; D. R.  WhiteM.Houseman, “The Navigability of Strong Ties: Small Worlds, Tie Strength and Network Topology,” Complexity 8 (2002) 72-81; D. R.  White-U. C. Johansen, Network Analysis and Ethnographic Problems: Process Models of a Turkish Nomad Clan (Oxford-Lanham, 2005); J.  A ltman, “Observational Study of Behavior: Sampling Methods,” Behavior 49 (1973) 227-267; G.  A nzera, L’analisi dei reticoli sociali: problematiche di acquisizione dei dati e strategie metodologiche nella network analysis (Roma, 1999); A.-L.  Barabasi, Linked: How Everything Is Connected to Everything Else and What It Means (New York, 2003); R.  A. E gginsS.  A. H aslam-K. J. R eynolds , “Social Identity and Negotiation: Subgroup Repre­ sentation and Superordinate Consensus,” Pers. Soc. Psychol. Bull. 28/7 (2002) 887899; C. H aythornthwaite , “Social network analysis: An approach and technique for the study of information exchange,” Library & Information Science Research 18/4 (1996) 323-342; M. E mirbayer-J.  Goodwin, “Network Analysis, Culture,

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However, the comprehension of the interrelation between the first groups of Jesus’ followers and the surrounding cultural and historical world can benefit from other recent methodological approaches. For example, it can benefit from the “theory of the niche” 6 and the “coexistence approach” of ecological studies. 7 For example, ecology studies, which focuses on competitive interactions between species and on their diffusion in space, are not only able to inspire new investigations about interconnections between human groups that live in the same environment, but also about their displacement and diffusion. 8 It is understood, in fact, that populations of plant and animal species share the problem of relying on the same scarcity of resources as human populations. 9 Substantially, ecoand the Problem of Agency,” AJS 99/6 (1994) 1411-1454; L. Festinger-J. Thibaut, “Interpersonal communication in small groups,” The Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology 46 (1951) 92-99; L. Festinger , “A Theory of social comparison process,” Human Relations 7 (1954) 117-140; K.A Frank-J.  Y.  Yasumoto, “Linking Action to Social Structure within a System: Social Capital within and between Subgroups,” AJS 104 (1998) 642-686; J.  Galaskiewicz-S.  Wasserman, “Social Network Analysis. Concepts, Methodology, and Directions for the 1990s,” Sociological Methods Research 22 (1993) 3-22; M.  A. Hogg., “A Social Identity Theory of Leadership,” Personality and Social Psychology Review 5/3 (2001) 184-200; M. J. Hornsey.-M. A. Hogg, “Subgroup Relations: A Comparison of Mutual Intergroup Differentiation and Common Ingroup Identity Models of Prejudice Reduction,” Pers Soc Psychol Bull 26 (2000) 242-256; Y. J. Huo -H. J. Smith-T. R. TylerE.  A. Lind, “Superordinate Identification, Subgroup Identification, and Justice Concerns: Is Separatism the Problem; Is Assimilation the Answer?” Psychological Science 7 (1996) 40-45; J. Jetten-A. O’Brien-N. Trindall , “Changing identity: Predicting adjustment to organizational structure as a function of subgroup and superodinate identification,” British Journal of Psychology 41/2 (2002) 218-297; D. C. L au-J. K.  Murnighan, “Demographic Diversity and Faultlines: The Compositional Dynamics of Organizational Groups,” Academy of Management Review 23/2 (1998) 325-340; I d, “Interactions within Groups and Subgroups: The Effects of Demographic Faultlines,” The Academy of Management Journal 48/4 (2005) 645-659; I.  M astropasqua, Architettura delle reti sociali. Teorie, luoghi, metodi (Roma, 2004); J.  Moody-D. R.White , “Structural Cohesion and Embeddedness: A Hierarchical Concept of Social Groups,” American Sociological Review 68 (2003) 103-127; Ch.  Prell , Social Network Analysis: History, Theory and Methodology (Los Angeles-London, 2011); J. Scott, Social Network Analysis (London, 2000); J. Skoveretz , “Complexity Theory and Models for Social Networks,” Complexity 8 (2002) 48-56; S.  P.  Borgatti-M.  G. Everett, “Network Analysis of 2-Mode Data,” Social Network 19 (1997) 243-269; A. Trobia-V.  M ilia, Social network analysis: approcci, tecniche e nuove applicazioni (Roma, 2011). 6.  J.  W.  Dimmick , Media Competition and Coexistence: The Theory of the Niche (Mahwa-London, 2003). 7.  U. Sommer-B. Worm, Competition and Coexistence (Berlin-Heidelberg, 2002). 8.  Sommer-Worm, Competition and Coexistence, v-vi. 9.  “In applying the theory of the niche to media organizations and industries, it is not being suggested that populations of organizations and populations of biological species have anything in common except that insofar as organizations or species

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logical studies on the common climate for certain species may offer heuristic patterns for the comprehension of the coexistence of human religious groups in a given territory. 10 2. Before speaking of the groups of Jesus’ followers, we briefly present the concept of “dwelling” 11 that we mentioned at the beginning. The term “to dwell” not only means “to be present and active” in one place. Its semantic value implies the use of a space as a point of reference for human beings or as a “container” for human actions. This means that activities involved in “dwelling” can include many activies and evaluations: sowing a field, knocking down trees, building altars for worship, defining sacred paths, organizing burying places for the dead, fulfilling ritual killing of animals, and so on. These varied ways of dwelling in a physical context give us a complex panorama of the relationships human beings have with their territories. In particular, they show the kind of plans and perspectives that intervenes in the transformation of temporary dwellers into permanent residents, in the transformation of common inhabitants into a people holding distinctive beliefs, rights, and identities. Of course, the act of inhabiting a concrete space does not mean to live peacefully and to collaborate with others, or to have a continual face-toface relationship with them. It may mean participating in the growth of others while promoting one’s own interest. In short, it indicates sharing and consolidating the “belonging” to a place in a variety of ways. Sharing concrete resources is just one side of the theme of dwelling. We cannot ignore that all forms of dwelling entails mutual distances, when collective activities are disattended or refused. In many cases, cohabitation implies competition and disagreement among groups (for example, between immigrants and natives). Furthermore, if cohabitation does not take place in a durable and stable way, it may not involve homogenization or, coincidence of ends at cultural, social, political, and religious levels. In many cases, non-regular and durable cohabitation may bring about a final fragmentation. Obviously, structural fragmentation is not simply brought about by occasional or discontinuous patterns of residence. constitute populations that subsist on the same resources” (Dimmick , Media Competition and Coexistence, 23). 10.  G.  W.  Grimm-Th.  Denk , “Reliability and Resolution of the Coexistence Approach: A Revalidation Using Modern-Day Data,” Review of Palaeobotany and Palynology 172 (2012) 33-47. 11.  T. I ngold, Ecologia della cultura (Roma, 2004); I d., The Perception of the Environment (London-New York, 2004). See also A.  Destro -M.  P esce , Le récit et l ’écriture (Génève, 2017) 102-110; I d., From Jesus to the First Groups of His Followers (Leiden, 2017) 135-175.

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3. If we turn to Christian origins, we must note that the cohabitation of Jewish and Christian groups within the Roman Hellenistic world implied very often (though not always), the sharing of a number of “cultural instruments”: cosmological visions of the world, political orientations, and religious practices (such as prayers and various forms of contact with the supernatural). 12 It is certainly useful to remember that the type of settlement, its extension and its physical location can favor or, on the contrary, hinder the communication of individuals and groups. Interactive contacts change if they occur in a small village, in a suburb or in an urban center. Also natural barriers can obviously be a major obstacle to interchanges. Equally, some socio-political conditions (fortified or inviolable frontiers, exclusive property of the soil, residential privileges) heavily influence the communication trajectories. The conditions of the territory obviously affect Jesus and his first followers. Many of their actions were dictated by the necessity to reach the “lost sheep of Israel” in the different places in which they were located. Material and social conditions of the places that the groups of followers visited solicited different answers. As it is well known, Jesus entered and sojourned in many villages. He generally avoided the cities. His principal actions took place in rural environments, among peasants and fishermen. After his death, however, many (though not all) preachers concentrated their activity in urban centers. We might ask ourselves how relationships worked between the Jesus’ followers who lived in villages and those who lived in cities. It is conceivable that the growing urban installation of the groups of Jesus’ followers quickly led to a remarkable divarication of groups. A difference probably existed between the transmission lines among the cities connected by large roads on the one hand, and the villages connected by a network of narrow roads on the other. At the same time one may imagine that, among villages that gravitated around the cities, the links of communication were rather numerous and intense. 4. A shift in emphasis in the human sciences, that influenced the study of ancient religions, occurred in recent decades. The concentration on the identity characteristics of groups has been replaced by attention on exchange, hybridization, cohabitation, and sharing. An example of this change of emphasis is the fact that an international research group organized in Paris at the École Pratique des Hautes Études has passed from 12.  A.  Destro -M.  Pesce , “Die Himmelsreise bei Paulus. Eine ‘religiöse’ Praktik der antiken Welt,” in Wolfgang Stegemann-R ichard E. De M aris (hrsg.), Alte Texte in neuen Kontexten. Wo steht die sozialwissenschaftliche Bibelexegese? (Stuttgart, 2015) 315-332.

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the theme of the identity of religious communities in the Greco-Roman world, 13 first to the theme of “Lignes de partage et territoires de passage,” 14 and later to the theme of “Cohabitations religieuses dans les mondes Grec et Romain.” 15 In 2006, Stephen G. Wilson, in a volume published by Leif E.Vaage, entitled Religious Rivalries in the Early Roman Empire and the Rise of Christianity, maintained that the concept of “rivalry” does not cover all the evidence for social relationships between different religious groups in the ancient Mediterranean world. We must add that some scholars prefer terms such as competition, interaction, and interconnection. 16 In another volume, published in 2008 by P. Guldager Bilde and J. H. Petersen, we can find further interesting presentations concerning the problematic encounter of cultures and their coexistence. 17 2. The Cohabitation of Jesus Groups in Ancient Cities A significant number of studies has made it clear that the great ancient cities in the first or Second Century ce were inhabited by a variety of ethnic, political, and religious groups. The cohabitation in the same city of different groups led to a symptomatic situation: close contacts and multiform exchanges regulated essential aspects of the urban life. Separation and extraneousness among groups, however, were not rare or exceptional. In general, the simple existence of groups in the same territory, as we noted, does not guarantee homogeneity or similarity.

13.  N.  Belayche-S. C.  M imouni (éd.), Les communautées religieuses dans le monde gréco-romain. Essais de définition (Turnhout, 2003). 14.  N. Belayche-S. C. M imouni (éd.), Entre lignes de partage et territoires de passage. Les identités religieuses dans les mondes grec et romain. “Paganismes”, “ judaïsmes”, “christianismes” (Louvain, 2009). 15.  N.  Belayche-J.-D.  Dubois (eds), L’Oiseau et le poisson. Cohabitations religieuses dans les mondes grec et romain (Paris, 2011). 16.  S. G. Wilson, “Rivalry and Defection”, in L. E. Vaage (ed.), Religious Rivalries in the Early Roman Empire and the Rise of Christianity (Canada, 2006), 51. 17.  P.  Guldager Bilde-J. H.  Petersen (eds), Meetings of Cultures in the Black Sea Region: Between Conflict and Coexistence (Aarhus, 2008). We would like to thank Luca Arcari for his reference to R. White , The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region. 1650-1815. Twentieth Anniversary Edition (Cambridge, 2011), in his presentation of the conference “Signs of Cohabitation in Urban Spaces of the Roman East (first-sixth century ce), Naples, 22-23 January 2015.” The concept of “middle ground” tends to identify what is in common between groups that are opposed in a violent conflict. In essence, a common cultural atmosphere, and also political, economic, and religious practices link individuals and groups that coexist while maintaining essential autonomy and diversity.

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Normally, contemporary studies of cohabitation tend to highlight the processes of contact and mutual communication, neglecting the limits of these processes. They insist on the historical homogeneity of groups. We believe that, despite their presence in the same territory, groups generally cannot coincide. They may live concrete conditions of distance or perhaps of incompatibility. Phenomena of isolation and lack of mutual knowledge often respond to structural conditions. Areas of introversion and impossibility of developing mutual knowledge are due to social-political situations, urban complexity, or to geographical and ethnic differentiation. This network of influences does not encourage closeness and collaboration. 18 In Mediterranean urban areas (in the First and Second Century), we find many Greco-Roman and Jewish religious groups in mutual relation. This leads us to think that, from the beginning, the post-Jesus movement was constituted by aggregates – more or less dissimilar – that coexisted at different levels in the cities. We do not find a unique “Christian community,” but the fragmentation of groups of Jesus’ followers. 19 In one word, Jesus’ groups had different origins and different trajectories. Since the beginning, some groups were unable to build strong reciprocal relationships. At certain times, a double orientation dominated. Some groups entered in a cultural traffic and interacted between them, while others remained distant and rather unrelated. In the general development or evolution of Jesus’ followers, some aggregates also experienced internal splits and fragmentations. In recent decades, the idea that different groups of Jesus’ followers were present within some important Mediterranean cities has been commonly accepted. The cohabitation of groups of Jesus’ followers has been studied, in particular, in Antioch, 20 Corinth, 21 and Ephesus. 22 18.  A. Destro -M. P esce , “Plurality of Christian Groups at Antioch in the First Century: The Constellations of Texts,” in L.  Padovese (a cura di), Atti dell ’Ottavo Simposio Paolino, Paolo tra Tarso e Antiochia. Archeologia / Storia / Religione (Roma, 2004) 139-156; I id., “From Jesus Movement to Christianity: A Model for the Interpretation. Cohabitation and Separation of Jews and Christians,” 31 (in which we analyze the cohabitation between Jesus’ followers, Jews, and pagans in Rome and in Golan villages from the point of view of burial space. 19.  P. Trebilco, “Studying ‘Fractionation’ in Earliest Christianity in Ephesus and Rome,” in C.  Breytenbach-J. Frey (eds), Reflections on the Early Christian History of Religion – Erwägungen zur frühchristlichen Religionsgeschichte (Leiden, 2012) 299-333. 20.  W.  A.  M eeks-R. L.  Wilken, Jews and Christians in Antioch in the First Four Centuries of the Common Era (Missoula, 1978); R. E.  Brown-J.  P.  M eier , Antioch and Rome: New Testament Cradles of Catholic Christianity (London, 1983); M. Zetterholm, The Formation of Christianity in Antioch: A Social Scientific Approach to the Separation Between Judaism and Christianity (London, 2003); A.  Destro -M.  Pesce , “Plurality of Christian Groups at Antioch in the First Cen-

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a. Already in 1989, Peter Lampe, in his book on Christians in Rome in first two centuries, maintained that there were about ten groups of Jesus’ followers in the city, and that they differed in organization, practices, and religious concepts. 23 Lampe’s work focused on “topological fractionation” 24 and not merely on religious diversity. Starting from the point of view of the theological plurality existing in Rome, 25 Lampe noted that the fragmentation of the groups was “related to the size of the city” and that – connected with the break-up of the groups – there was also a “theological pluralism.” 26 In Rome, the presence of a variety of groups was normal because it was a great city at the center of the empire. Jerusalem, the object of our research, was certainly smaller than Rome. Nevertheless it was an tury”; S. Friesen, Corinth in Context (Leiden, 2010); Ph.F. E sler , “Sectarianism and the Conflict at Antioch,” in I d. (ed.), The First Christians and Their Social Worlds: Social Scientific Approaches to New Testament Interpretation (London, 1994) 52-69. A.  Destro -M.  P esce , “Plurality of Christian Groups at Antioch,” 139-156. 21.  R. Cameron-R.  P.  M iller (eds), Redescribing Paul and the Corinthians (Atlanta, 2011). 22.  P. Trebilco, Christians in the Lycus Valley: The View from Ephesus and from Western Asia Minor, in A. Cadwallader-M. Trainor (eds), Colossae in Space and Time: Linking with an Ancient City (Göttingen, 2011) 180-211; I d., “Studying ‘Fractionation’ in Earliest Christianity in Rome and Ephesus,” in C. BreytenbachJ. Frey (eds), Reflections on the Early Christian History of Re­ligion (Leiden, 2013) 294-333. 23.  P. L ampe , Die Stadtrömische Christen in den beiden ersten Jahrhunderten: Untersuchungen zur Sozialgeschichte, Tübingen, Mohr, 1989; Am. Tr.: From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the first Two Centuries, (Minneapolis, 2003). As H. O.  M aier wrote, the book “is a breathtaking achievement that has already become a classic” ( JTS 54 [2005] 655). See also P. L ampe , “Early Christians in the City of Rome: Topographical and Social Historical Aspects of the First Three Centuries,” in J. Z angenberg -M. L abahn, Christians as a Religious Minority in a Multicultural City: Modes of Interaction and Identity Formation in Early Imperial Rome, (London, 2004) 20-32. See also C. Kunst, “Whonen in der Antiken Grossstatd. Zur sozialen Topographie Roms in der frühen Kaseirzeit”, in J. Z angerberg -M.  L abahn (eds), Christians as a Religious Minority in a Multicultural City, 2-19. 24.  Lampe highlights the topographical organization of Jesus’ groups in the city. The “topological fractionation” is discussed as first point: “To place the topographical investigation … at the beginning has the attraction of placing before one’s eyes a spatially conceivable framework for everything that follows” (From Paul to Valentinus, 19). 25.  “Besides the representatives of orthodox Christianity, we saw in their own circles Marcionites with their independently (Apelles!) developed school sections, Valentinians, Carpocratians, dynamistic monarchians (= Theodothians), modalistic monarchians under Praxeas, Montanists (even in two theologically distinctly marked groups), Quartodecimans, Jewish Christians with Torah observance, Cerdo with Gnosis…” L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus, 381-382. 26.  Lampe underlines as well as “the delayed development of a monarchic episcopacy in Rome,” ibidem, 410.

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important center in the Land of Israel. Furthermore, this city was the destination of the annual pilgrimages for all the Jews who lived in many parts of the ancient world. Based on archaeological evidence, Lampe tries to locate the places of Rome where the followers of Jesus probably lived. 27 He links topological splitting to the “splitting up of the Jews of Rome,” which “serves as a trace for the fragmentation of Roman Christianity.” 28 Lampe’s insight is very important for our research on Jerusalem, in which the groups of Jesus’ followers were part of Jewish groups living in different sectors of the city. Lampe finds literary confirmation that the followers of Jesus used private homes in Rome for their religious gatherings. After discussing Romans 16, 29 he speaks of the “suburban villa on the Via Latina” used for the meetings of the “Valentinian community,” and of many passages from Pseudo-Clementine literature, Justin’s Dialogue, and Justin’s Acts. 30 Central in Lampe’s book is the attempt to use the texts of each Jesus’ group to understand the socio-political attitude of their authors and the social position of the followers. b. An important contribution to the study of the relationships of Jesus’ followers with other religious groups in urban areas is given by the two volumes of L. M. White about the evolution of early Christian architecture. First, White shows that the evolution of the buildings used by Jesus’ followers is a clear indication of their integration into the surrounding society. Furthermore, for each phase of Christian integration, White establishes a parallel with the architectural evolution of Jewish synagogues and of the buildings used for the worship of Isis. 31 27.  Lampe speaks of five kind of evidence: “1. Local traditions; 2. The earliest archeologically available graves; 3. Jewish quarters; 4. Concentrations of the Tituli; 5. Contemporary literary information concerning businesses of Christians that can be localized”, Ibidem, 19. 28.  Ibidem, 432. 29.  Ibidem, 359-360. 30.  Ibidem, 364-365. 31.  In a first moment Jesus’ followers are strictly connected with Jews. Following L.  M.  White , The Social Origins of Christian Architecture. Volume I. Pagans, Jews, and Christians (Valley Forge, 1996) 102-148, in this first phase, the meetings of Jesus’ followers took place in the so-called house-churches. In a second phase, they began to use a special building defined Domus Ecclesiae, which could not be identified from outside as “Christian,” “yet the building was clearly known as the church edifice to the local authorities ” (ivi, 122). The third phase was characterized by the Aula Ecclesiae, a “larger, more regular hall of assembly,” which became necessary for the increasing enlargement of Christian communities. At the end of the third century, some churches began externally more evident buildings, as it seems evident from the affirmations of Porfiry (Adversos Christianos, Fragm. 76), following which the Christians “erected great buildings” “imitating the construction of temples” (ivi,

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The data analyzed by White, from private homes to monumental buildings, show a parallel evolution between Christian and Jewish architecture. 32 The fact suggests reciprocal influence. It shows a structural relationship between foreign groups and cities during the Roman Empire. This structural point is better clarified if attention is directed to the chronological non-coincidence in the evolution of Jewish architecture, compared to Christian architecture. Indeed, synagogue buildings became clearly recognizable and assumed monumental features long before Christian buildings did. This is indicative of the fact that Jewish integration in the cities took place before Christian groups could become urbanistically identifiable. The temporal diversity in the evolution of Christian architecture is an essential fact. In the oldest phase, Jesus’ followers used their private buildings, while Jews already used buildings that were clearly identifiable as synagogues. Different integration in the city influenced the relations between the followers of Jesus and the Jewish groups. The change from the house-church to the Domus ecclesiae by the end of the Second Century must also be considered in the light of another institutional evolution: the beginning of the monarchical episcopacy and the “professionalization” of the priesthood. 33 129). “The Constantinian innovation of basilical architecture, therefore, seems less abrupt. Although it surely represents a radically new imposition of scale and style on the architecture and aesthetic, it still depended on some continuity with earlier church buildings” (ivi, 139). The three phases of development of Christian architecture correspond to different level of interrelationship with the surrounding society. The fact that Jesus’ followers made use of private homes for their meetings is an indication that they constituted sub-groups of larger aggregates of Jews or “Pagans.” At the beginning, the aim of Jesus’ followers was not to acquire a territorial and juridical position within the cities and the Empire. Their aim was not acquiring a legitimacy as an independent and autonomous part of their society. In the second phase, their building exercised different functions (for example, they were used for baptismal rituals). Only in the third phase (and in the Constantinian period) a need for legitimacy became urgent, followed by the appearance of the tendency to exercise a predominant influence on the society. 32.  “A common thread for the diffusion of Judean groups in the Diaspora, as with other foreign religious associations, was to move first into private quarters which over time were gradually adapted more to the peculiar needs of religious use in accordance with the social circumstances of the community ” (White , The Social Origins of Christian Architecture. Volume I, 101). Following White, five of six Diaspora synagogues excavated in 1990 “were renovated from private domestic edifices, and in each case they had been houses typical of domestic architecture” (Ivi, 62.) 33.  “Dès la fin du IIe siècle… l’apparition de l’épiscopat monarchique et la professionalisation du clergé qui l’accompagne” (E. R ebillard, Religion et sépulture. L’Église, les vivants et les morts dans l ’Antiquité tardive (Paris, 2003) 63; see also C. Carletti , Epigrafia dei Cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 2008) 27-23.

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Parallel to the architectural changes in the second century is the change in the ethnic composition of Jesus’ followers in different phases and geographic areas. Groups of Jewish followers of Jesus were replaced by groups composed of non-Jews. The key point is that these non-Jewish Christians now considered the Jews (and also the followers of Jesus who were Jews) as strangers and unrelated to their own group.  3 4 3. Jerusalem after Jesus’ Death The question we face is the coexistence of groups of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem immediately after his death. We suppose that these groups were independent and had scarce reciprocal contacts. Our emphasis is on the difference, and on the particularity of each group in relation to the others. As we know, the Acts of the Apostles speak of the presence of different groups of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem, for example, the “Hebrews” and the “Hellenists” (Acts 6:1; 9:29; 11:20). They also speaks about the presence of many priests in the post-Jesus movement (Acts 6:7) and about the importance of James. 35 Often, however, historians do not highlight all the consequences resulting from these “divisions,” and in particular the absence of a unique “church” or “community,” or the fact that the followers of Jesus were sub-groups of Jewish groups. We will try to give a more complex representation based on the differences between the stories of the apparitions of the resurrected Jesus. We will speak of “differentiation” of groups and not of a “division” of a unique “community.” Many exegetes start from the assumption of a unique church and therefore speak of “divisions” of that church in different parties. They imagine that an original unity had been broken by the emergence of fractionations. In our view, diversity does not necessarily derive from an original unity. It is simply the effect of different orientations, ways of thinking and living concretely. In order to identify these groups and their differences, we will use a particular type of texts that are not normally used for identifying the divergences between groups of Jesus’ followers and the absence of contact between them. We focus, as we have already said, on the narratives of the apparition of the resurrected Jesus in the Gospels of the Hebrews, Luke, 34.  M.  P esce , Da Gesù al cristianesimo (Brescia, 2011) 202-205. 35.  Even the exegesis of the past has recognized the so-called “divisions” of the followers of Jesus in Jerusalem (see R. Penna, “La chiesa di Gerusalemme ai suoi inizi”, in Studi offerti a Marcello del Verme in occasione del suo 75° compleanno (Bibbia e Oriente, 58 [2017]), Napoli, Sardini Editore, 2017, 73-93). Often, however, it did not take all the consequences that result from these “divisions”: and in particular the absence of a single “church” or “community” and the fact that the followers of Jesus were sub-groups of Jewish groups.

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John, and Matthew and in some Paul’s letters. The divergences between apparition narratives allow us to identify the distances between groups of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem. Some points of coincidence between the same texts, however, also allow to identify contacts between the groups, of which they are expression. Some of these texts actually appear as an attempt to legitimize their respective groups. In this way they inform us about their opposition and/or contrasts. We intend to show that, from the beginning, different groups of Jesus’ followers were present in Jerusalem and that they were characterized by divergences not only in practices and conceptions, but also in their location in the city. We will try to understand how it was possible to have in Jerusalem (1) independent groups of Jesus’ followers, (2) competition and conflict between the groups, and (3) mediation and interaction between them. The divergences were the consequence of differences among Jesus’ followers, but were also due to differences between Jewish Jerusalem groups of which the Jesus’ followers were part. 4. Cultural Complexity of Jerusalem A plausible view of the first steps of the post-Jesus movement must take into account the plurality of the groups and their territorial distribution. The birth and growth of Jesus’ groups in Jerusalem occurred between 30-70 ce . 36 This growth has to be related to the development of the city, 36.  The bibliography on the early so-called “Church” (or community) of Jerusalem is immense. See e.g.: E. Norelli, La nascita del cristianesimo, Bologna Il Mulino, 2014, 37-46; 97-99; R. Cameron-M.  P. M iller , Redescribing Christian Origins, Atlanta, SBL, 2003, 141-284; C. Gianotto, “Gli inizi: Giacomo e la comunità di Gerusalemme,” in Ebrei credenti in Gesù. Le testimonianze degli autori antichi (Milano Paoline, 2012) 51-76; D. A. Fiensy, “The Composition of the Jerusalem Church”, in R. Bauckham (ed.), The Book of Acts in its Palestinian Setting (Grand Papids: Eerdmans, 1995) 213-236; R.  Penna, “La chiesa di Gerusalemme ai suoi inizi,” in Studi offerti a Marcello del Verme in occasione del suo 75° compleanno (Bibbia e Oriente, 58 [2017]) (Napoli: Sardini Editore, 2017) 73-93; C. C. Hill , Hellenistìs and Hebrews, Reappraising Division within the Earliest Church, Minneapolis, 1993; M.  Bodinger , “Les ‘Hébreux’ et les ‘Hellenistes’ dans le livre des Actes,” Henoch 19 (1997): 39-58; R.  P enna, I  ritratti originali di Gesù, il Cristo. I. (Cinisello Balsamo: San Paolo, 2010); C.  Gianotto, Giacomo, fratello di Gesù (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2013); C.  Gianotto, “Il movimento di Gesù tra la Pasqua e la missione di Paolo,” in R.  Penna (ed.), Le origini del cristianesimo (Roma: Carocci, 2012), 165-200; S.  Guijarro, “La primerà generación en Judea y Galilea” in: R.  Aguirre (ed.), Así empezó el cristianismo (Estella: Editorial verbo Divino, 2010) 113-119; J. Murphy-O’Connor, “The Christian Community of Aelia Capitolina,” in R. Bauckham (ed.), The Book of Acts in its Palestinian Setting (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995) 303-329.

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which at that time had a considerable demographic and urbanistic development: It was Agrippa who encompassed the parts added to the old city with this wall, which had been all naked before; for as the city grew more populous, it gradually crept beyond its old limits, and those parts of it that stood northward of the temple, and joined that hill to the city, made it considerably larger, and occasioned that hill, which is in number the fourth, and is called “Bezetha,” to be inhabited also. It lies over against the tower Antonia, but is divided from it by a deep valley (Josephus, War V, 4, 148-152). 37

This development of the city had prompted Agrippa I to begin building the so-called third wall in 41 (completed in 66-67). 38 It has been calculated that the city, which, because of the construction of the possibly preHerodian second wall, had already come to cover about 225 acres, could reach now about 450 acres. It had almost doubled in size. There is a lot of discussion about the exact location of the wall begun by Agrippa and therefore about the extension of the city and its population. It probably reached 60,000 people (the estimates of 250,000 inhabitants are certainly exaggerated). 39 The size of the city could be evaluated also on the basis of the number of pilgrims: Passover was a particularly popular pilgrimage time (Ant. 17, 214), but the Pentecost and Tabernacles festivals were also well attended. Numbers in ancient texts are always hard to evaluate, but Josephus clearly intended to impress his readers when he gave the figure of 2,700,000 male pilgrims who came to Jerusalem for the Passover in 66 ce (War 6, 425); the size of the city’s normal population is unknown, but even the highest estimate is under one quarter of a million.  4 0 37.  See also War  II,11, 218-222; Antiquities  XIX, 326 ss. E.  M. Smallwood, The Jews under Roman Rule. From Pompey to Diocletian (Leiden, 1986) 197 e Appendix C: “The North Walls of Jerusalem Before ad 70”, ibidem, 561-564. 38.  H.  Geva, “On the ‘New City’ of Second Temple Period Jerusalem: The Archaeological Evidence,” in K.Galor-G. Avni , Unearthing Jerusalem. 150 Years of Archeological Research in the Holy City (Winoka Lake, 2011) 299-312. 39.  See also W. R einhardt, “The Population Size of Jerusalem and the Numerical Growth of the Jerusalem Church,” in R. Bauckham (ed.), The Book of Acts in its Palestinian Setting (Grand Papids: Eerdmans, 1995) 237-265. 40.  M. Goodman, Judaism in the Roman World. Collected Essays (Leiden, 2007) 61. Ancient comments on the impact of pilgrimage in the First Century ce . Jerusalem make it clear that the festivals were very crowded. “Visitors might use tents (Ant. 17, 213-217) but often they needed to be given accommodation by institutions [J.-B. Frey, Corpus Inscriptionum Judaicarum, II (Rome, 1952), no. 1404. ] or individuals (Mark 11,11), for which they might pay in cash or in kind (as envisaged in T Ma’aser Sheni 1,12)” (M.  Goodman, Judaism in the Roman World. Collected Essays [Leiden, 2007] 60). See especially S. Safrai, Pilgrimage in the Time of the

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The city considerably extended in the middle of the First Century. In an oft-repeated phrase, Pliny the Elder (23-79 ce) considered Jerusalem to be “by far the most famous of the cities of the East” (“Hierosoluma, longe clarissima urbium orientis, non modo Iudaeae”). 41 Unfortunately, as Levine pointed out, Little is known about any overall planning for the city, divisions into smaller administrative subsections, building controls, services, public order and the repair and maintenance of public areas. 42

The Jewish character of Jerusalem was, however, far from unitary. In this cosmopolitan city, there were competing and conflicting Jewish religious movements, which included Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, and others of differing significance and power. In the First Century, as is well known, the most widespread languages in Jerusalem were Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek. 43 Many residents knew Greek, as evidenced by the fact that 37% of extant inscriptions are in Greek.  4 4 These Greek-speaking Jews probably belonged to middle and upper classes. 45 This language differentiation was Second Temple, 2 (Jerusalem, 1985) (Hebrew). See also J. Feldman, “La circulation de la Tora: les pèlerinages au second Temple,” in S. Trigano (ed.), La Société juive à travers l ’histoire, IV (Paris, 1992-1993) 161-178. 41.  Natural History 5,70 (written between 50 and 77-78 ce). The passage on Jerusalem was written in 70. M.  Avi-Yonah, “Jerusalem in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods,” in I d, (ed.), The World History of the Jewish People. Vol. vii: The Herodian Period (Jerusalem, 1975) 207-249. 42.  L. I. L evine , Jerusalem. Portrait of the City in the Second Temple Period (538 bce-70 ce) (Philadelphia, 2002) 315. 43.  L evine , Jerusalem, 270-276. 44.  L.  Y. R ahmani, A  Catalogue of Jewish Ossuaries in the Collections of the State of Israel (Jerusalem, 1994) 12-13. 45.  L evine , Jerusalem, 273. The bibliography on the use of languages in Jerusalem (and also on the languages spoken by Jesus) is massive; we quote only Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae. A Multi-Lingual Corpus of the Inscriptions from Alexander to Muhammad. Volume 1: Jerusalem. Part I: 1-704. Hrsg. H.  M. Cotton u. a. (Berlin/New York, 2010); R.  Buth-R. S. Notley (eds), The Language Environment of First Century Judaea (Leiden, 2014); S. E. Fassberg, “Which Semitic Language Did Jesus and Other Contemporary Jews Speak?” CBQ 74 (2012): 263-280 (with bibliography); E.  M. Cook , “Aramaic,” The Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism (Michigan, Eerdmans, 2010), 360-362; J.  M arshall , Jesus, Patrons, and Benefactors: Roman Palestine and the Gospel of Luke (Tübingen, 2009) 92-109; E.  M. Cook , “Qumran Aramaic, Corpus Linguistics, and Aramaic Retroversion”, Dead Sea Discoveries 21 (2014) 356-384; D.  A.  M achiela, “Aramaic Writings of the Second Temple Period and the Growth of Apocalyptic Thought: Another Survey of the Texts,” Judaïsme Ancien 2 (2014) 113-134; E. E shelD. R. Edwards , “Language and Writing in Early Roman Galilee. Social Location of a Potter’s Abecedary from Khirbet Qana,” in D. R. Edwards (ed.), Religions and Society in Roman Palestine: Old Questions, New Approaches (London, 2004) 49-55; M.  Black , An Aramaic Approach to The Gospels and Acts (Third Edition) (Oxford,

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intersected with an ethnic one, since there were Jews coming from cities and regions outside the Land of Israel. The fragmentation of the Jewish groups in Jerusalem also manifested itself in the plurality and diversity of synagogues that existed in the city at that time. Information about these synagogues is not abundant, and there is no indication of their place or their day-to-day operations. There is, however, some archaeological and literary evidence about some synagogues, which can be characterized linguistically and ethnically. The case of the synagogue of Theodotos  4 6 confirms that Greek synagogues were used to host pilgrims. This synagogue existed for about three generations, as indicated by the Greek inscription: Theodotos son of Vettenus, priest and archisynagogos, son of an archisynagogos and grandson of an archisynagogos, built the assembly hall (synagogê) for the reading of the Law and for the teaching of the commandments, and the guest room, the chambers, and the water fittings, as an inn for those in need from foreign parts, (the synagogue) which his fathers founded with the elders and Simonides.

The Acts of the Apostles speak of “some of those who belonged to the synagogue of the Freedmen (as it was called), Cyrenians, Alexandrians, and others of those from Cilicia and Asia” (Acts 6:9). 47 There is a debate concerning whether this phrase refers to two or five different synagogues. However, we do not know where they were located. As L. I. Levine remarks, “We do not know how these synagogues functioned. Were they

1967); S. D. Fraade , “Language Mix and Multilingualism in Ancient Palestine: Literary and Inscriptional Evidence,” Jewish Studies 48 (2012) 1*-40*; W. Smelik , Rabbis, Language and Translation in Late Antiquity (Cambridge, 2013); S. Schwartz , “Language, Power and Identity in Ancient Palestine,” Past and Present 148 (1995) 3-47; P.  M. French, The Fourth Gospel An Aramaic Source Part 1, 2015 https:// www.academia.edu/10944014/The_Fourth_Gospel_-_An_Aramaic_ Source_ Part_1; G. Scott Gleaves , Did Jesus and His Disciples Speak Greek? The Emergence of Greek Linguistic Dominance in First Century ce Palestine (Eugene, 2015). 46. See J. S. K loppenborg, “Dating Theodotos (CIJ II 1404),” Journal of Jewish Studies 51 (2000) 243-280. 47.  τινες τῶν ἐκ τῆς συναγωγῆς τῆς λεγομένης Λιβερτίνων καὶ Κυρηναίων καὶ Ἀλεξανδρέων καὶ τῶν ἀπὸ Κιλικίας καὶ Ἀσίας. See also Acts 2: 5-11: “Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, ‘Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs – in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.’”

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established on the initiative of those who settled in Jerusalem or were sponsored (in whole or in part)?” In any case, Levine is right to say that this list of Diaspora Jewish communities in Jerusalem is impressive. In contrast to Acts 2:5-11, which attests to a large and multifarious gathering of “every nation” on a festival, the quoted passage speaks of the institutionalized presence of Diaspora Jews in the city. 48

Four of these groups are identified by Acts according to their urban (Cyrene, Alexandria) or regional (Cylicia, Asia) location. Only one, the first, is identified by the congregants’ status or social position (freed slaves). 49 At least four are distinguished by their regional origin, 50 which means that immigrants from the same place had a tendency to gather for cultic activities in separate buildings. Perhaps they were also distinct for their housing proximity. In any case, it does not matter whether ethnic groups of immigrants had their own independent synagogues, but whether many Jewish ethnic groups were established in Jerusalem. The fact that different ethnic groups of Jews had their own synagogues is evidenced by an inscription in Corinth: “Synagogue of the Jews.” The inscription seems to hint at a building of a low or middle social level (difficult to date, likely Second to Third Century ce). 51 A confirmation that groups coming from the same place could organize their own cultic meetings in Jerusalem is provided by Josephus’ affirmation that pilgrims in Jerusalem celebrated the Passover supper in small groups, which therefore were homogeneous in origin and language. Certainly, pilgrims are not settlers. It should not be forgotten that, in Jerusalem, the Jews were in a situation very different from the one they had to face in the cities of the Mediterranean world. In those cities, as Josephus writes (War VII 3,3 [43]): For as the Jewish nation is widely dispersed over all the habitable earth among its inhabitants, so it is very much intermingled with Syria by reason of its neighborhood, and had the greatest multitudes in Antioch by reason of the largeness of the city.

48.  L evine , Jerusalem, 394. 49.  “Some scholars try to connect it to the freedmen descendants of the Jews taken captive to Rome by Pompey (Philo, Embassy to Gaius, 155-157)” (L. T. Johnson, The Acts of the Apostles [Collegeville, 1992)] 108). 50.  L evine , Jerusalem, 394-400; I d., Ancient Synagogue Revealed (Jerusalem, 1981) 52-54; I d., The Ancient Synagogue. The First Thousand Years (New Haven, 2010) 55-61. 51.  S. Fine (ed.), Jews, Christians, and Polytheists in the Ancient Synagogue. Cultural Interaction During the Graeco-Roman Period (London-New York, 1999).

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In a great city like Antioch, it was normal for the Jews to be mixed with other inhabitants. Their homes and their activities were contiguous with those of many non-Jews. Josephus tells us that in Antioch there was “their synagogue” (VII, 33, [44]), that is, the synagogue of the city (which does not exclude other smaller synagogues). Such a great synagogue probably became the place of symbolic recognition of the presence of Jews in the town. In Jerusalem, however, the whole city was Judaic, and the Jews were not mingled with non-Jews or dispersed among them. Nor did they need a single great synagogue to differentiate themselves. The Jews who settled in Jerusalem, coming from regions and cities throughout the Mediterranean, did not distinguish themselves as Jews, as they did in Antioch. Rather, they differentiated themselves by their local provenance (Cyrene, Cilicia, Alexandria, and so on). In this situation, the synagogues of immigrants from a given region became a place of ethnic aggregation and an usual place of encounter of a particular group of Jewish residents. We have already said that Jerusalem is a Jewish pilgrimage city (unlike every other city in the ancient world inhabited by Jews). Compared to other cities, this is a significant difference in the way the groups related to each other. Jerusalem could be a place of periodic exchange or confrontation at the festivals of Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot. This may have influenced the forms of coexistence of Jesus’ followers. The fact that some of the followers could meet in Jerusalem does not mean that they resided there. They could have come to the city to accomplish their cyclical religious practices, without any further consequence concerning habitation. It is quite probable that Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem would mingle with the Jews of their region of origin and aggregate with them in their ethnic synagogues. It is equally likely that the linguistic divisions between Jesus’ followers would bring them together with Jews with whom they shared the language. The Acts of the Apostles (6:1), in fact, reveal the opposition between “Hellenist” and “Hebrew” followers, i.e., followers of different regional and linguistic backgrounds. Even in Acts 9:29, the “Hellenists” seem to behave as a distinct group. The same thing could be said for social stratification. From the point of view of localization in the various districts of Jerusalem, however, it is imaginable that the homes of Jesus’ followers were not close to each other. Their cultic meetings (distinct from the usual Jewish ritual occasions, in which they normally were participating as Jews) took place in houses 52 (a fact widely acknowledged by many researches53 and also 52.  The fact that the ritual meetings took place in many different houses means that each group had specific ritual occasions. It is historically doubtful that some Jesus’ followers had also a meeting place in Solomon’s Portico (3:11; 5:12:25). In any case, we do not have any evidence that all the groups of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem use the Portico for a common meeting. The insistence of Acts on the fact

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affirmed for Jerusalem by the Acts of the Apostles 2:46 and 5:42). 54 Consequently, the cultic meetings of the followers were as dispersed in the city as their homes. Of course, this does not mean that meeting opportunities could not exist. that the disciples were omothumadon (“in harmony, united by the same sentiment”) in these meetings in the temple does not correspond so much to historical truth, but rather to idealization. The adverb omothumadon, which expresses an attitude of concord, rather than an indication of place, is found 11 times in Acts (1:14; 2:46; 4:24; 5:12; 7:57; 8:6; 12:20; 15:25; 18:12; 19:29) and only once in the letter to the Romans and in no other of the 27 writings included in the New Testament. This means that the idea of the harmony and unìty of the followers expresses a literary and ideological imagination of the author of Acts, rather than the historical reality of which he speaks. Moreover, the insistence on the presence of the disciples in the temple seems to reflect the Lukan narrative that perhaps insists a little more than Mark and Matthew to place in the Temple the final activity of Jesus (Lk 19:47; 21:37-38) (see L.T. Johnson, The Acts of The Apostels, 59). The information that Jesus had been active in the Portico of Solomon seems to be known in different groups of Jesus’ followers, as we see from John 10:23. Even if it were historically true that the followers of Jesus gathered occasionally in Solomon’s Portico, this did not separate them from the rest of the city’s Jews and their groups precisely because they were a group of Jews in the normal place of worship of all the Jews. 53.  A.  Destro -M.  Pesce , “In and Out of the House: Changes in Women’ Role from Jesus’s Movement to the early Churches,” in M. Navarro -M.  Perroni (eds), Gospels: Narrative and History (Atlanta, 2015) 299-320; I id., “Codici di ospitalità. Il presbitero, Diotrefe, Gaio, itineranti delle chiese e membri estranei,” in L.  Pado vese (a cura di), Atti dell ’ IX Simposio di Efeso su S. Giovanni Apostolo (Roma, 2003) 121-135. See also P. R ichardson, Building Jewish in the Roman East (Waco, 2004) 73-90 and passim. For the environment of the historical Jesus see A. Suad V. Tamari, The Palestinian Village Home (London, 1989); W. E.  A rnal , Jesus and the Village Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q (Minneapolis, 2001); D. L.  Balch-C. Osiek (eds), Early Christian Families in Context: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue (Grand Rapids, 2003); R. Frankel ,-N.  Getzov, et  al . Settlement Dynamics and Regional Diversity in Ancient Upper Galilee: Archaeological Survey of Upper Galilee (Jerusalem, 2001); K. C. H anson-D. E. Oakman, Palestine in the Time of Jesus: Social Structures and Social Conflicts (Minneapolis, 1998); Y. Hirschfeld, The Palestinian Dwelling in the Roman-Byzantine Period (Jerusalem, 1995); A.  G.  M ackay, Houses, Villas and Palaces in the Roman World (London, 1975); H.  Moxnes (ed.), Constructing Early Christian Families (London, 1997); S.  Guijarro Oporto, Fidelidades en Conflicto: La Ruptura con la Familia por Causa del Discipulado y de la Mission en la Tradición Sinóptica (Plenitudo Temporis 4) (Salamanca, 1998); C. Osiek-D. L.  Balch, Families in the New Testament World: Households and House Churches (Louisville, 1997); P. Oakes , “Law and Theology in Galatians,” in M. Tait-P. Oakes (eds), Torah in the New Testament (London, 2009) 143-153; I d., “From Archaeology to Commentary Writing via House Churches,” in A. Cissé Niang, C. Osiek  (eds), Text, Image, and Christians in the Graeco-Roman World (Eugene, 2012) 132-140. 54.  We do not agree with B. P ixner , Wege des Messias und Stätten der Urkirche. Jesus und das Judenchristentum im Licht neuer archäologischer Erkenntnisse, hrsg. von R. R iesner (Giessen-Basel, 1991).

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Pa rt II 1. The Apparition Narratives of the Resurrected Jesus as Expression of Different Groups in Jerusalem Narrating Jesus’ apparitions could have had different purposes in the texts of the first Jesus’ followers. Of course, the need to speak of prodigious things and to exalt the figure of Jesus was essential, but other purposes could not be neglected. Narrators and writers could have had, for example, the intention of inducing their addressees to distinguish themselves from other groups of Jesus’ followers. The apparition narrative could be part of the legitimacy strategy of each group. 55 The apparitions narrated in Luke (and in Acts) and the apparitions narrated in chapter 20 of the Gospel of John and of the Gospel of the Hebrews are independent in many respects. We wish to show that the variety and divergence within the narratives mean that autonomous groups of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem handed down different information. 56 It is significant that, in the stories of the arrest, mistreatment, and killing of Jesus (the so-called “Passion narratives”), the Gospels show partial agreement on a series of events, only differentiating themselves through another series of events that are distinctive of their own texts. The agreement on a series of events persists even in the hypothesis that there were more than one pre-evangelical Passion story. Instead, for the apparition narratives, this common literary nucleus is missing or is particularly small (as we will see in detail), and we are in the presence of a variety of stories. This justifies the hypothesis that the variety and independence of narratives presuppose independent groups of followers. 2. The Apparitions of the Resurrected Jesus in Luke-Acts Luke, in Acts of the Apostles (1:3), supposes that Jesus appeared many times “for 40 days,” “speaking of things concerning the kingdom of God.” We know that Luke, however, only narrates three apparitions of the resurrected Jesus: (1) to two disciples on their way from Jerusalem to

55. Enrico Norelli rightly affirms that the narratives of Jesus’ apparition described by Matthew 28:8-10, Luke, John 20, and by the Gospel of the Hebrews show the existence of different streams of transmission in Jerusalem (La nascita del cristianesimo [Bologna, 2014] 36). 56.  We develop here some considerations presented in A.  Destro -M.  Pesce , La morte di Gesù. Indagine su un mistero (Milano, 2014); I id., Le récit et l ’écriture, 114-168.

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Emmaus (24:13-32), 57 (2) to Simon (24:34) (an apparition only affirmed but not described), and (3) to the Eleven and to those who were with them (24: 36-51). This last apparition is related with variations also in Acts 1:4-11. See Synopsis no. 1. Luke’s third apparition is divided into several parts (as though these parts were transmitted independently and redacted to a narrative unit by Luke). In 24:36-40, Jesus proves not to be a ghost; in 24:41-43, Jesus eats with the Eleven and the others; in 24:44-49, he explains the Scriptures and assures to send them the Holy Spirit; and in 24:50-51, Jesus goes to Bethany with his disciples, blesses them and ascends to heaven without speaking. In the Acts of the Apostles, the third apparition is repeated, but it is presented in modified form. Luke 24:36-51

Acts 1: 4-11 58

While they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you.” They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet (36-40). 41 While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, “Have you anything here to eat?” 42 They gave him a piece of broiled fish, 43 and he took it and ate in their presence.

1:4 While eating with them,

44 Then he said to them, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you – that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.”

57.  The passage belongs to the special materials of Luke (H. K lein, Das Lukas­ evangelium [Göttingen, 2006] 725). These special materials seem to depend on information coming from Jerusalem and its surroundings, from west Judea, from the Mediterranean coast, and from south Galilee (Destro -Pesce , Le récit et l ’écriture, 146-150). 58.  Typographical underlining with a simple line means literary kinship between the two texts. Underlining with dots indicates some similarity in the content. Bold characters indicate texts added by Acts to the parallel version of Luke.

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45 Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, 46 and he said to them, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, 47 and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. 48 You are witnesses of these things. 49 And see, I am sending upon you what my Father promised; so stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high.”

1:4 … he ordered them not to leave Jerusalem, but to wait there for the promise of the Father. “This,” he said, “is what you have heard from me; 5 for John baptized with water, but you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit not many days from now.” 6 So when they had come together, they asked him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” He replied, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”

50 Then he led them out as far as Bethany, and, lifting up his hands, he blessed them. 51 While he was blessing them, he withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven.

9 When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. While he was going and they were gazing up toward heaven, suddenly two men in white robes stood by them. They said, “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.”

52 And they worshiped him, and returned to Jerusalem with great joy; 53 and they were continually in the temple blessing God.

1:12 Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a sabbath day’s journey away.

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The apparition narrated in Acts is divided into two parts (1:4-5 and 1:6-10). The first (1:4-5) corresponds to the third part of Luke’s third apparition, since it speaks of Jesus eating together (1:4) with his “apostles” (1:1). The participants in the action change; Luke 24:36 mentions the Eleven and those who were with them, while the Acts speak of “apostles.” The content of Jesus’ words corresponds to the words of the third part of Luke’s third apparition. Nevertheless, the Acts add a sentence of Jesus not contained in Luke: He ordered them not to leave Jerusalem, but to wait there for the promise of the Father. “This,” he said, “is what you have heard from me; for John baptized with water, but you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit not many days from now”(Acts 1:4-5). 59

The second part (Acts 1:6-10) corresponds to the fourth part of Luke’s third apparition, but it seems to be represented as an isolated apparition, not as a continuation of the previous one. It seems that the encounter of Jesus with his followers takes place at a different time. Jesus and his people are already on the Mount of Olives. Moreover, here Jesus speaks for a long time, while in Lk 24:50 no words of Jesus are related. The contents of Jesus’ words in the apparitions of the Gospel of Luke and Acts are predominantly redactional. Luke fills the apparitions, of which he had news, with his theology (and with his theories about the scandal of Jesus’ death and the failure of the coming of the kingdom of God). 60 However, in the previous transmission, there were no words of Jesus connected with such apparitions. Secondly, the Acts version of the third apparition of Luke presents additions to the Gospel. This means that the narration of the apparitions, with the passing of time, would be replenished with new content, which can have little historical reliability (indicated in bold characters in Synopsis 1). These latter additions cannot tell us anything, therefore, about the groups of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem immediately after his death. The three apparitions of the Gospel of Luke are closely related to the places of Jerusalem and its immediate surroundings. The first one takes place on the road that goes to Emmaus from the city and then into a house in the village of Emmaus. The followers, after Jesus disappeared, return to Jerusalem; the scene is indisputably tied to the city and its surroundings. The third apparition also takes place in Jerusalem and involves a dislocation, this time of Jesus himself, from Jerusalem to the Mount of Olives (or to Bethany according to the Acts version). It is evident from the context of Luke’s narrative that the apparition attributed to Simon takes 59.  The sentence added by Acts is uderlined in bold. 60.  Destro -Pesce , La morte di Gesù, 200-203.

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place in Jerusalem. It is therefore almost inevitable to conclude that these narratives originated in Jerusalem. The mention of a place in a story is an ineliminable expression of the dwelling, that is, of the local existence of the group itself. As we said at the beginning, by clarifying Tim Ingold’s concept of “dwelling” – being established in a particular space through particular actions – is an essential factor of existence. There is no group without a place (and there is no dwelling without an occupation and transformation of this place). The place is not a secondary element of the story, but part of the strategy of the narrator and the group that transmits it. The Lukan narratives, with their insistence on Jerusalem, express a particular aspect of the “dwelling” of a group in this city. It is this group that creates and/or transmits stories of apparitions because of its strict connection with Jerusalem. 3. Comparison between the apparitions in Luke and in John John speaks of four apparitions. Three take place in Jerusalem: (1) to Mary of Magdala (20:14-18), (2) to the disciples without Thomas (20:1923), and (3) to Thomas with the other disciples (20:26-29). A fourth apparition is placed on the lake of Tiberias (21:2-23), in which Jesus appears to Simon Peter, his beloved disciple, Nathanael, Thomas, the sons of Zebedee, and two others (if the beloved disciple is not one of these two). It is important to note that the apparitions in John are completely different from those of Luke.

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Synopsis no. 2: Literary comparison between Luke’s and John’s apparitions Luke 24:36-52

John 20,19-22

John 21,4-13

19 When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked 36 While they were talking about for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, “Peace be “Peace be with you.” with you.” 37 They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. 38 He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? 39 Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” 40 And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. 41 While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, 20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. 21 Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

he said to them, “Have you anything here to eat?” 42 They gave him a piece of broiled fish, 43 and he took it and ate in their presence.

4 Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. 5 Jesus said to them, “Children, do you have anything to eat?” They answered him, “No.” 6 He said to them, “Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some.” So they cast it, and now they were not able to haul it in because

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there were so many fish. 7 That disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord!” When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on some clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the sea. 8 But the other disciples came in the boat, dragging the net full of fish, for they were not far from the land, only about a hundred yards off. 9 When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. 10 Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish that you have just caught.” 11 So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn. 12 Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, “Who are you?” because they knew it was the Lord. 13 Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. 14 This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead. 44 Then he said to them, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you – that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.” 45 Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, 46 and he said to them, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day,

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47 and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. 48 You are witnesses of these things. 49 And see, I am sending upon you what my Father promised; so stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high.”

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22 When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. 23 If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”

50 Then he led them out as far as Bethany, and, lifting up his hands, he blessed them. 51 While he was blessing them, he withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven. 52 And they worshiped him, and returned to Jerusalem with great joy;

The apparitions of Jesus to Mary of Magdala (John 20:14-18), to Thomas (20:26-29), and to several disciples along the lake of Tiberias (21:2-23) are absent in Luke. John also ignores the apparitions to the two disciples on the way to Emmaus (Lk 24:13-32) and to Simon (Lk 24:34), and the last apparition to the Eleven with the change of location to Bethany/Mount of Olives and – what is very significant – the ascension to heaven from there (Luke 24:36-51; Acts 1:4-11). The diversity of John and Luke’s narratives is impressive and requires an explanation. Even the characters that appear on the scene of the apparitions are often different. In John, Mary of Magdala and Thomas are relevant. Thomas is also very important in other parts of the Gospel of John and is found in his fourth apparition (21:2). However, Thomas is completely irrelevant in Luke.

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Characters present in the apparition narratives 1 Cor 15:5

Luke/Acts

Gosp. Hebr.

John 20

Matthew

John 21:2

Mary of Mag- Mary of dala Magdala and another Mary 28:9 Cefas

Simon (Luke 24:34)

The Twelve

The Eleven and others with them (24:36-52)

Disciples without Thomas

The Eleven on a mount in Galilee (28:16-20)

500 brothers James

James

The apostles Paul Two disciples (Emmaus) (24:13-34) The slave of the High Priest Thomas

Thomas

Lazarus Simon Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, the two sons of Zebedee, two other disciples (one of them is the beloved disciple)

The location of the apparition narratives of Luke/Acts and of John 20 is in Jerusalem. There is no doubt that in Luke/Acts the scenario is necessarily Jerusalem. But this also applies to John 20 because the apparition to Mary of Magdala is near the grave of Jesus, while the second apparition to the disciples presupposes a closed space where the disciples are gathered for fear of “the Jews.” This fear seems to be possible in Jerusalem because of the pressure of the Jewish authorities towards the groups of followers immediately after the death of Jesus. For Jesus’ followers, dwelling in Jerusalem requires caution. They must take into account that the groups of their adversaries exert a prevalent and powerful influence on the territory. There is a special way here to be present or to act in Jerusalem.

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These accounts of apparition were transmitted, at least in the initial phase, by those who resided in this city. However, the fact that the stories are different can be explained by the existence of groups of followers (from which the information of John and Luke comes) who live contemporarily in Jerusalem, but are independent one from the other. The two groups are autonomous because they possess their own narratives. Keeping and transmitting deeply different accounts implies that these groups have developed without taking account of each other. Perhaps they lived in a mutual suspect and hostility that made exchanges difficult or impossible. However, in some cases, Luke’s and John’s apparition narratives are partially kindred in some minor points (see Synopsis No. 2). In fact, two narratives of John present little elements that are connected in the content and also in their literary form with the third apparition of Luke (John 20:19-20, 23 // Luke 24:36, 40, 47; John 21:5, 9, 13 // Luke 24:41b-43). John 20:19-23 and John 21:4-13 do not seem to reflect a common narrative, but rather two little distinct nuclei of information, perhaps previously transmitted in various environments. The first narrative nucleus (common to John 20:19-20 and Luke 24:3640) consists of four elements that are contained in sentences that are almost identical in both Luke and John:

(a) “Jesus stood among them, and said, Peace be with you” (Luke 24:36//John 20:19); 61 (b) “he showed them his hands” (Luke 24:36//John 20:20); 62 (c) disciples rejoice (Luke 24:40//John 20:20); 63 (d) forgiveness of sins (Luke 24:47//John 20:20).  6 4

In the second nucleus, the common narrative elements are the following: (a) Jesus asks if there is anything to eat (John 21:5 // Luke 24:41); 65

(b) Jesus or the disciples eat (Jesus eats in Lk 24:43; the disciples eat in John 21:13); 66 (c) a roasted fish as food (Luke 24:42 // John 21:9). 67 61.  John 20:19: ἦλθεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς καὶ ἔστη εἰς τὸ μέσον, καὶ λέγει αὐτοῖς· Εἰρήνη ὑμῖν; Luke 24:36: ἔστη ἐν μέσῳ αὐτῶν. Καὶ λέγει αὐτοῖς· Εἰρήνη ὑμῖν. 62.  Luke 24:39: ἴδετε τὰς χεῖράς μου; John 20:20: ἔδειξεν τὰς χεῖρας. 63.  Luke 24:41: ἁπὸ τῆς χαρᾶς; John 20:20: ἔχάρησαν. 64.  Luke 24:47: εἰς ἄφεσιν ἁμαρτιῶν; John 20:23: ἄν τινων ἀφῆτε τὰς ἁμαρτίας. 65.  John 21:5: μήτι προσφάγιον ἔχετε; // Luke 24:41: ἔχετέ τι βρώσιμον ἐνθάδε;. 66.  Luke 24:42: οἱ δὲ ἐπέδωκαν αὐτῷ // John 21:13: Ἰησοῦς … δίδωσιν αὐτοῖς. 67.  Luke 24:42: οἰ δὲ ἐπέδωκαν αὐτῷ ιχθύος ὀπτου μέρος // John 21:9: βλέπουσιν ἀνθρακιὰν κειμένην καὶ ὀψάριον ἐπικείμενον.

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It is particularly significant (and requires an explanation) the fact that all these elements are present in the same Lukan literary unit (Luke 24:3647), while John presents the first group of narrative elements in Chapter 20 and the second group in chapter 21. It is possible that Luke and John transformed these narrative elements in their own way. For example, in Luke, the followers give roasted fish to Jesus. However, in John, the followers have no food and it is Jesus that gives them bread and roasted fish. We cannot exclude the possibility that one of the Gospels was depending on the other Gospel. Perhaps John wanted to challenge the Lukan version; perhaps it is Luke who disputes John’s narrative. The polemical interlacing between the two versions is evident: Luke 21:41-43: “Have you anything here to eat?” (ἔχετέ τι βρώσιμον ἐνθάδε;) They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate. John 21:5.9.13: Children, do you have anything to eat? (μή τι προσφάγιον ἔχετε;) They answered him, “No.” … When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. … Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish.

The affinity in Luke and John of some small details shows that, despite the profound diversity of the narratives, there was a common transmission stream of certain information that was modified differently by the groups of followers in Jerusalem. It is also important to observe the different content in Jesus’ words and actions. The most important difference lies in the fact that, in the second apparition of John 20, Jesus communicates the Spirit to his disciples immediately after Passover. In the Acts of the Apostles, however, the Holy Spirit is not communicated to the followers by Jesus during one of the apparitions, but descends directly from God. In Jerusalem, therefore, two groups transmitted profoundly conflicting stories about the transmission of the Spirit. It is necessary to note how both Luke and John 20 use apparition narratives as a tool for legitimizing their own group. In either case, it is the resurrected Jesus who gives to the disciples the task of spreading the message. This legitimizing intent confirms the existence in Jerusalem of various conflicting and competing groups who claimed to have legitimacy directly from the resurrected Jesus. They had in fact received no power from Jesus while he was still alive.

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The three accounts of Jesus’ apparitions in Luke and the three in John 20 are located in Jerusalem. Nevertheless, these are two series of divergent stories. Characters, places, and situations are mostly different. How was it possible that such contradictory stories, relating an extraordinary event, could be composed in the same city? We try to present some hypotheses. The explanation we suggest is that each group of Jesus’ followers could be located in various areas of Jerusalem and had different meeting places where other groups of followers did not intervene. The apparition narratives were handed down, not only in these meetings, but also in the daily interactions between members of the group. (a) The protagonists of these narratives were characters who had played a significant role within each respective group (Mary of Magdala and Thomas in John 20; the two disciples of Emmaus, Simon, and the Eleven in Luke). (b) The topics of the narratives are different. In John 20, Jesus expresses himself according to the theology of John: Jesus must “ascend to the Father” and, after going up, can deliver the Spirit to the disciples, according to his promise to send the Spirit (chapters 14-16). The communication of the Spirit takes place during the second apparition and not, as in the Acts, fifty days after Passover, by God Himself. Of course, the Gospels of Luke and of John were written long after the formation of the respective apparition narratives, which have precise local roots in Jerusalem. These narratives seem to have been handed down for a long time with little exchanges and reciprocal interferences. This presupposes that scarce communication existed between the groups who transmitted them. The reason is probably that these stories were handed down in different places in the city. This could happen because the city was large enough to permit the coexistence of many groups located in areas without many encounters. It is very important to realize that two sets of stories that diverge on the same event can be formed and successively handed down only if they are produced by groups that live in distinct places. Only the independence of two groups who elaborate their stories without communicating with other groups can explain how the same event takes such divergent forms. The conditions for the formation of independent and divergent stories are: (a) the lack of interaction between groups and (b) distinct experiences on which each group has developed autonomously reflections and transformations. It is the diversity of independent experiences that gives birth to diverse stories. If a relationship had existed at the time in which experience and reflection on it took place, there would have been reciprocal contamination and not two transmission streams that would spread their own divergent content. The two groups of narratives, that of Luke and that of John 20, do not bear the signs of continuous mutual contamination (as

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a result of close coexistence or continuous confrontation). Instead, they show the signs of a long, autonomous, and independent gestation. When these stories could be finally compared, it was clear that the first group of accounts was focused on certain locations and people, while the other was completely different: Jesus’ words in the Lukan narratives are not the ones he pronounces in John; the motivations or expectations of the first are not those of the second. A long autonomous gestation is therefore a plausible and crucial hypothesis. Divergences in the accounts can be explained if we assume that their places of formation are distinct and not in osmosis. We need to add an important hypothesis to these observations, although unfortunately we have no textual data on which to base our supposition. We know that Jerusalem was linguistically divided between Aramaic (and Hebrew) speakers and Greek speakers. It is therefore plausible that some accounts of the apparition were handed down in Aramaic and others in Greek. This difference in language could have hindered their mutual contamination. That groups of independent Jesus’ followers could exist in Jerusalem is quite understandable. Jesus had certainly been in Jerusalem many times, and it is therefore probable that various groups of followers were formed both in the city and in its surroundings at different times. These Jerusalem groups do not correspond to the family of Jesus, to the Twelve, or to the Galilean disciples. They are also different from those followers who adhered to the message of Jesus after his death under the influence of Jesus’ family or the Galilean disciples who stayed in Jerusalem for occasional sojourns (for example, during annual festivals). Paul, who became a follower of Jesus through a very personal experience (which leads him to elaborate his own vision of Jesus’ message in conflict with other groups), represents a case that perhaps is not structurally different from that of various groups who adhered to Jesus for different reasons and who elaborated their own vision of him. The followers of Jesus grew up here and there without coordination and developed by producing their own narratives and religious conceptions. A mutual relationship could certainly occur, but it was not planned and was not universal. For example, according to Acts, there were groups of Jesus’ followers in Ephesus who had ideas and practices that were fairly differentiated, so much so that some of them seem to be Baptists inspired by Jesus (Acts 19,1-7). The fact that this story in Acts might not be entirely reliable does not matter. What matters is that Acts considered it normal or probable that, in a large city like Ephesus, there could be more or less consistent groups of followers, with few mutual bonds and without a unifying coordination. To say that the groups of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem lived, in their beginnings, independently one from the other or with little interaction

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does not mean denying any mutual knowledge. The relationship between John 20:19-23 and Luke 24:36-47 (as we have seen) could be evidence for a connection between the communities before the writing of the Gospels. It might also be the effect of an influence of one of the two written gospels on the other. In the latter hypothesis, there would have been no osmosis among the groups of followers in the formation of the apparition narratives. We do not think that an osmosis among the groups was absolutely lacking. However, the simple knowledge that other groups of Jesus’ followers existed in Jerusalem does not mean participating in their life. Occasional interaction could, moreover, have given rise to the unpleasant experience of being divided by opposing convictions. If we then realize that there was no new Christian religion, but only diverse aggregates of Jesus’ followers who were sub-groups of Jewish groups. On this basis, the scarcity of communication becomes much more understandable. In substance, there was no a unique “community” in Jerusalem. There was not a unique “church” in the city. 68 It is not necessary to imagine an unitary Christianity that may have never existed, but that certainly did not exist at that time. 4. The Apparitions of Jesus in the Gospels of the Hebrews, of John and of Luke The comparison between the Gospels of the Hebrews, 69 of John, and of Luke, emphasizes closeness and divergence, and therefore suggests the existence of separate groups in the same city (see Synopsis No. 3).

68.  See also J.Schroeter , “Jerusalem und Galiläa. Überlegungen zum Verhält­ nisbestimmung von Pluralität und Kohärenz für die Konstruktion einer Geschichte des Frühen Christentums,” Novum Testamentum 42 (2000) 127-159 and H.Koester , Introduction to the New Testament, II (Philadelphia-Berlin-New York, 1981) 94: “The mission and expansion of Christianity in the first years and decades after the death of Jesus was a phenomenon that utterly lacked unity.” We do not agree with J.  D.G Dunn, Beginning From Jerusalem. Christianity in the Making. Vol. ii (Grand Rapids, 2009)133-155. 69.  On the distinction between the Gospel of the Hebrews and the Gospel of the Nazarens see M.  Pesce , Le parole dimenticate di Gesù (Milano, 2004) 601-602. 610-611; G. Dorival , “Un group judéo-chrétien méconnu: les Hébreux,” Apocrypha 11 (2000) 7-36.

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Synopsis no. 3: Comparison between the Gospel of the Hebrews and John 20-21. Gospel Hebrews (Hier. In Es. 18)

Gospel Hebrews (Hier. Vir. Ill. II)

John 20

John 21

Luke 24:36-43

dominus autem cum dedisset sindonem seruo sacerdotis, iuit ad iacobum et apparuit ei, (iurauerat enim Iacobus se non comesurum panem ab illa hora qua biberat calicem domini, donec uideret eum resurgentem a dormientibus) Quid turbati estis, et cogitationes ascendunt in corda vestra? Videte manus meas et pedes, quia ipse ego sum. Palpate et cernite, quia spiritus carnem et ossa non habet, sicut me videtis habere. Et cum hoc dixisset, ostendit eis manus et pedes.

Rursumque Thomae locutus est ambigenti: infer digitum tuum huc, et vide manus meas; et extende manum tuam et mitte in latus meum; et noli esse incredulus, sed fidelis.

20,20: καὶ τοῦτο εἰπὼν ἔδειξεν τὰς χεῖρας καὶ τὴν πλευρὰν αὐτοῖς

ἶτα λέγει τῷ Θωμᾷ· φέρε τὸν δάκτυλόν σου ὧδε καὶ ἴδε τὰς χεῖράς μου καὶ φέρε τὴν χεῖρά σου καὶ βάλε εἰς τὴν πλευράν μου, καὶ μὴ γίνου ἄπιστος ἀλλὰ πιστός.

37 They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet.

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Denique ad probandam corporis veritatem, sumpsisse scribitur cibos, quos et archisynagogi filiae iusserat tribui, quam a mortuis suscitavit, et Lazarus, ne resurrectio eius phantasma putaretur, cum salvatore narratur iniise convivium

adferte, ait dominus, mensam et panem, statimque additur: ‘tulit panem et benedixit et fregit et dedit Iacobo iusto et dixit ei: ‘frater mi, comede panem tuum, quia resurrexit filius hominis a dormientibus’

21:13: ἔρχεται Ἰησοῦς καὶ λαμβάνει τὸν ἄρτον καὶ δίδωσιν αὐτοῖς, καὶ τὸ ὀψάριον ὁμοίως.

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42-43 They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.

The apparition narratives of the Gospel of the Hebrews are reported by Jerome, In Ex. 18 and Vir. Ill. II, 11-13. 70 This gospel speaks of an apparition James in Jerusalem that takes place after Jesus handed the sheet to the servant of the High Priest (cum dedisset sindonem seruo sacerdotis, iuit ad iacobum et apparuit ei). The narrative seems therefore to presuppose an apparition also to the servant. This means that the Gospel of the Hebrews implies a location in Jerusalem. Both John and Luke’s Gospels ignore an apparition to James. It cannot, however, be an invention of the author of the Gospel of the Hebrews because, in the mid-50s, as we shall see later, Paul knew of an apparition of the resurrected Jesus to James alone (1 Cor 15:7). Therefore, the story circulated in Jerusalem, but was not transmitted to the groups from which Luke and John depended. It was presumably the group headed by James who handed it dawn. James was killed in 62 ce . The decision was taken by the Sanhedrin presided by the Sadducean high priest Anan. This provoked a reaction from “those who seemed the most equitable of the citizens, and such as were the most accurate in the respect of the laws” (ἐπιεικέστατοι […] καὶ περὶ τοὺς νόμους ἀκριβεῖς, Josephus Ant. XX, 199-203) who denounced Anan to the new Roman governor Albinus, so that the king Agrippa removed him. All this makes us think that James was considered by the city’s ruling class as “accurate” with respect to Jewish laws, but not loved by the Sadducees. One must also think that he was a prominent personality if Anan was concerned about eliminating him and if a part of the city’s ruling class defended him. Therefore, James’ group had to be well integrated into the Jewish religious world in the early 60s of the First century. This has led some schol70.  See in particular S. C.  M imouni, Jacques le Juste, frère de Jésus (Paris, 2015) 188-189.

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ars to hypothesize that James was very close to the Pharisees, but this is only a supposition. It is more correct to think that the followers of Jesus headed by James belonged to a Jewish group who had peacefully and gradually legitimized its location in Jerusalem, in good agreement with the religious vision of the Jerusalem leaders. The radical opposition of this group to Paul is well outlined in 2 Corinthians 10-13. Some scholars hypothesize that Paul was arrested in Jerusalem due to the instigation of a group of Jews faithful to the law who were in agreement with the group of James. This would add a further and dramatic element to the scenario of the competition between different Jesus groups. Unfortunately, the text of the Gospel of the Hebrews has come to us only partially. Perhaps the fact that Jesus also appeared to the servant of the High Priest, to whom he handed over the sheet, might confirm the inclusion of James in some of the Jewish religious elites of Jerusalem. As we have seen, the Gospel of the Hebrews presents not only strong differences with the apparition accounts of Luke and John, but also small narrative nuclei that are common with them. In the apparition to James narrated by the Gospel of the Hebrews, Jesus gives James food, and this makes this Gospel very close to the contents of John 21:13: Gospel of the Hebrews adferte, ait dominus, mensam et panem […] Tulit panem et […] Dedit Iacobo John 21:10.13 Jesus said to them, “Bring […] took the bread and gave it Gospel of the Hebrews

John 21:10.13

Ait dominus

21:10 λέγει αὐτοῖς ὁ Ἰησοῦς

Adferte

ἐνέγκατε

mensam et panem

ἀπὸ τῶν ὀψαρίων ὧν ἐπιάσατε νῦν.

Tulit panem et … Dedit

21:13 Ἰησοῦς καὶ λαμβάνει τὸν ἄρτον καὶ δίδωσιν

Iacobo

αὐτοῖς,

et dixit ei: ‘frater mi, comede panem tuum

21:12 λέγει αὐτοῖς ὁ Ἰησοῦς· δεῦτε ἀριστήσατε

καὶ τὸ ὀψάριον ὁμοίως.

There are some little literary elements that legitimize the hypothesis of different modes of transmission of some common content. There is, however, no reason to hypothesize a dependence of the Gospel of the Hebrews on that of John. Further connection with narrative elements contained in John is represented by the mention of Lazarus eating together with James: “et Lazarus, ne resurrectio eius phantasma putaretur, cum salvatore narratur iniisse

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convivium” (Jerome, Commentary on Isaiah, 18). 71 Lazarus is important in the fourth Gospel, even if it is not mentioned in Jesus’ resurrection stories. Another point of contact is present in the episode of Thomas’ incredulity narrated in John 20:20. This affinity between the two Gospels can be explained either by one author’s knowledge of the written text of the other or by the existence of a narrative element circulating in both groups before the Gospels were written. In conclusion, we have to take into account the fact that the Gospel of the Hebrews speaks of the apparition to James, also mentioned by Paul (1 Corinthians 15:7), It seems therefore plausible that a group who was related to James handed down the story of this apparition in Jerusalem and had knowledge of narrative materials that were also known by the groups from which the information of the Gospel of John came from. 5. The Apparitions in the Gospel of Matthew The first apparition reported by Matthew (28:9-10) seems to have the purpose of contradicting the accounts that Jesus had appeared to the Eleven and Peter in Jerusalem. A comparison with Mark’s text shows that Matthew emphasized the affirmation that Jesus wanted to appear to the Eleven in Galilee and that he wanted to stress that the place of beginning of preaching to all peoples was Galilee. In our book Il racconto e la scrittura, 72 we wrote that the Gospel of Matthew (26:30-32; 28:5-7; 28:8-10; 28:16-20) confirms Mark’s idea that followers go back to Galilee after Jesus’ death. Moreover, such Gospel stresses and expands the position of Mark. It confirms Mark’s affirmation relating the prediction made by Jesus to his disciples after the last supper: “After I am raised up, I will go ahead of you to Galilee” (Matthew 26:32). Then Matthew, similarly to Mark, mentions the angel that says to the women that Jesus will precede his disciples in Galilee (Matthew 2:7): Then go quickly and tell his disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.’ This is my message for you.

Matthew adds, moreover, an episode – absent in Mark – in which Jesus himself repeats to the women that he will meet his disciples only in Galilee (Matthew 28:10): Then Jesus said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me’.

71. See M.Pesce , Le parole dimenticate di Gesù, 607. 72.  Destro -Pesce , Le récit et l ’écriture, 111-117.

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Finally, Matthew adds to Mark the scene of the encounter in Galilee between Jesus and his disciples (Matthew 28:16-20): Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.

Matthew, in essence, insists four times (and not only two as Mark) on the encounter in Galilee between the disciples and Jesus right after his death. It is possible therefore that he had other information, independent of Mark, about the fact that the followers had returned to Galilee after Jesus’ death and had begun from there to spread the message. If he did not know Mark, we have to conclude that he depended on information similar to what Mark used. 73 Matthew, in other words, affirms at least four fundamental things: (a) that Jesus himself commanded the disciples not to remain in Jerusalem; (b) that there was no apparition of Jesus to the Eleven and to the disciples in Jerusalem; (c) that Jesus gave a definite mandate to his group on what they should do in the future in Galilee; and (d) that Jesus himself gave order to his disciples to address all peoples, and not just the Jews. In substance, the two apparition narratives in Matthew constitute an intentional and radical denial of the version of the facts presented by Luke, John and the group of James. We are in presence of a group openly opposed to those who claim that Jesus appeared in Jerusalem. Moreover, the fact that Jesus assigns to the Eleven the task of preaching not only to the Jews, but to all peoples, reveals the intention to legitimize the Galilean group (and not that of Jerusalem) as the one from which the diffusion of the post-Jesus movement began. 74 From the strictly textual point of view, the two stories of Matthew appear to have no literary relation with Luke’s apparitions and with those of the Gospel of the Hebrews. It could be, first of all assumed that the apparitions of the Gospel of Matthew were narrated to contrast anyone claiming to defend a primacy of the groups of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem. It instead legitimizes a group that originates and expands from Galilee. Secondly, it seems plausible that the adversary of Jerusalem that the Gospel of Matthew had in mind was the group of James. James is completely absent from the horizon of Matthew’s resurrection stories. Perhaps the fact that Matthew legitimizes preaching to Gentiles on the basis of 73.  Destro -Pesce , Le récit et l ’écriture, 111-117. 74.  Destro -Pesce , Le récit et l ’écriture, 111-117.

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a command of the resurrected Jesus (Matthew 28:19) could contain an implicit polemic against the group of James. As it is well known, Matthew 28:10 has an indubitable literary relationship with John 20:17 (see Synopsis No. 4) Synopsis no. 4 Comparison between Matthew, Paul, John and Mark Matthew 28:8-10

John 20:17:

Mark 16: 6-7

Καὶ ἀπελθοῦσαι ταχὺ ἀπὸ τοῦ μνημείου μετὰ φόβου καὶ χαρᾶς μεγάλης ἔδραμον ἀπαγγεῖλαι τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ. καὶ ἰδοὺἸησοῦς ὑπήντησεν αὐταῖς λέγων· χαίρετε. αἱ δὲ προσελθοῦσαι ἐκράτησαν αὐτοῦ τοὺς πόδας καὶ προσεκύνησαν αὐτῷ.

λέγει αὐτῇ Ἰησοῦς· μή μου ἅπτου, οὔπω γὰρ ἀναβέβηκα πρὸς τὸν πατέρα· πορεύου δὲ πρὸς τοὺς ἀδελφούς μου καὶ εἰπὲ αὐτοῖς· ἀναβαίνω πρὸς τὸν πατέρα μου καὶ πατέρα ὑμῶν καὶ θεόν μου καὶ θεὸν ὑμῶν.

ὁ δὲ λέγει αὐταῖς· μὴ ἐκθαμβεῖσθε· Ἰησοῦν ζητεῖτε τὸν Ναζαρηνὸν τὸν ἐσταυρωμένον· ἠγέρθη, οὐκ ἔστιν ὧδε· ἴδε ὁ τόπος ὅπου ἔθηκαν αὐτόν. ἀλλὰ ὑπάγετε εἴπατε τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ καὶ τῷ Πέτρῳ ὅτι προάγει ὑμᾶς εἰς τὴν Γαλιλαίαν· ἐκεῖ αὐτὸν ὄψεσθε, καθὼς εἶπεν ὑμῖν.

τότε λέγει αὐταῖς ὁ Ἰησοῦς· μὴ φοβεῖσθε· ὑπάγετε ἀπαγγείλατε τοῖς ἀδελφοῖς μου ἵνα ἀπέλθωσιν εἰς τὴν Γαλιλαίαν, κἀκεῖ με ὄψονται. Matthew 28:16-20

1 Cor 15:5

Οἱ δὲ ἕνδεκα μαθηταὶ ἐπορεύθησαν εἰς τὴν Γαλιλαίαν εἰς τὸ ὄρος οὗ ἐτάξατο αὐτοῖς ὁ Ἰησοῦς, καὶ ἰδόντες αὐτὸν προσεκύνησαν, οἱ δὲ ἐδίστασαν. καὶ προσελθὼν ὁ Ἰησοῦς ἐλάλησεν αὐτοῖς λέγων· ἐδόθη μοι πᾶσα ἐξουσία ἐν οὐρανῷ καὶ ἐπὶ [τῆς] γῆς.

ὤφθη […] τοῖς δώδεκα

πορευθέντες οὖν μαθητεύσατε πάντα τὰ ἔθνη, βαπτίζοντες αὐτοὺς εἰς τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ πατρὸς καὶ τοῦ υἱοῦ καὶ τοῦ ἁγίου πνεύματος, διδάσκοντες αὐτοὺς τηρεῖν πάντα ὅσα ἐνετειλάμην ὑμῖν· καὶ ἰδοὺ ἐγὼ μεθ᾿ ὑμῶν εἰμι πάσας τὰς ἡμέρας ἕως τῆς συντελείας τοῦ αἰῶνος.

15:7 ὤφθη […] τοῖς ἀποστόλοις πᾶσιν

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The phrase pronounced by Jesus presents strong literary and content similarities in the two accounts of Matthew and John: Matthew 28:10: Jesus said to them [the women]: do not (fear)…go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee John 20:17: Jesus said to her, do not (touch me)…go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending

These texts speak of an apparition of Jesus: to two women according to Matthew, but only to Mary of Magdala according to John. This goes against the story of Luke in which only two angels appear to the women, and not Jesus himself. It is not a matter of dependence of Matthew’s current text on John’s or John’s on Matthew’s. Rather, it seems likely that news circulated in Jerusalem and passed down in unknown ways to the authors of both Gospels. Matthew 28:8-10 does not have contact with Luke. One might imagine that the apparition to the Eleven might coincide with one of the resurrection appearances of Paul in 1 Cor 15:5 or 7. Matthew speaks of an apparition to the Eleven (Matthew 28:16). Paul speaks of an apparition to the Twelve (1Co 15:15). The Twelve of Paul could correspond to the Eleven of Matthew. Paul also speaks of an apparition to “all apostles.” For Matthew, the Twelve are the Apostles (10:2) and therefore Matthew’s words - to “all apostles” - could have been interpreted as related to the twelve apostles (reduced to eleven after Judas’ death). 6. Jesus Groups in the Apparitions Mentioned by Paul Paul’s letters, written in the mid-50s of the First Century, can give some confirmation about the probable presence of various groups of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem in those years. The list of Jesus apparitions that Paul presents in the First Letter to the Corinthians (1 Cor 15:5-7) contains an apparition to Cephas, one to the Eleven, one to five hundred “brothers” at one time, one to James, and one to “all apostles.” Paul does not tell where these apparitions would have taken place. A comparison with the Gospels of Luke, John, Matthew, and the Gospel of the Hebrews may be useful in clarifying the relationship between what Paul knew and what the authors of the other texts knew about presumed Jesus apparitions. The apparition to Cephas (1 Cor 15:5) is only reported in the Gospel of Luke (24:34), which, however, seems to know nothing about how this apparition took place and of what it consisted. It is not certain that the apparition to the Twelve related by Paul coincide with that related by Luke

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in 24:36-42. It is interesting that Luke also puts in the same sequence an apparition to Simon and to the Eleven, so that we could hypothesize that Paul and Luke reflected the same ‘transmission flux’. However, Paul may have received information of that apparition not from the source that Luke knew, but from the source used by Matthew, which placed the apparition to the Eleven on a mountain in Galilee. We cannot know if Paul depended on a “pre-Lukan” or on a pre-Matthean” stream of information. Paul knows an apparition to James, of which actually only the Gospel of the Hebrews give information. The apparition to more than five hundred followers is absolutely unknown to other texts. The apparition “to all apostles” is likewise absent from all other texts, because the apostles do not coincide with the Twelve for Paul, and therefore the apparition to the apostles of which he speaks cannot coincide with that to the Eleven of Luke 24:36-51 and Matthew 28:16-20 or with the apparitions of John 20 and 21. Paul ignores all the four apparitions mentioned by John and also that of the two disciples on the way to Emmaus, narrated by Luke. These textual comparisons confirm what we have repeatedly emphasized elsewhere: each group of Jesus’ followers (and each individual) had only partial knowledge of what was transmitted about Jesus. 75 The list of apparitions of the First Letter to the Corinthian may be an indication that Paul had contacts with Cephas, James, and the environments from which Luke’s information came. However, he does not have, it seems, any contact with the Johannist groups. In the letter to the Galatians, Paul states: Then after three years I did go up to Jerusalem to visit Cephas and stayed with him fifteen days (ἐπέμεινα πρὸς αὐτὸν ἡμέρας δεκαπέντε); but I did not see any other apostle except James the Lord’s brother (Gal 1:18-19).

The episode could be perhaps located around the year 35. The fact that Paul only meets Cephas and James after two weeks of staying in Jerusalem, gives us the idea of dispersion of Jesus’ followers in different parts of the city and of scarce connection between them. It can also be argued that there was a limited presence of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem. How can it be possible to stay with Peter for fifteen days and meet no one except James? It would seem that no collective meeting of Jesus’ followers took place during Paul’s presence in Jerusalem, unless he was prevented from participating in these gatherings. In those two weeks, Paul does not seem to have lived in Peter’s house or in a house of Jesus’ followers, otherwise he would have said it. 76 75.  Destro -Pesce , Le récit et l ’écriture, 9, 84, 93, 99, 108. 76.  πρὸς αὐτὸν could mean “in Peter’s home” or “with Peter in the same city.” In Rom 1:13; 15:22-23, 29, and 32, ἐλθεῖν πρὸς ὑμᾶς means “to come in your city,” to the place you are living, not: “in your home.” We can therefore probably exclude

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We can also suppose that Paul’s meeting with Cephas in Jerusalem was made possible in occasion of one of the pilgrimages to the city, for the feast of Pesach, Shavuot, or Sukkot. Paul might have gone to Jerusalem on one of these festivals, knowing that also Cephas would be or go there. After 14 years, around the end of the Forties, Paul returned to Jerusalem and spoke with the major representatives of the post-Jesus movement in Jerusalem. After fourteen years I went up again to Jerusalem with Barnabas, taking Titus along with me. I went up in response to a revelation. Then I laid before them though only in a private meeting with the persons which seemed to be somewhat (tois dokousin) the gospel that I proclaim among the Gentiles, in order to make sure that I was not running, or had not run, in vain. […] And from those who seemed to be somewhat (apo tôn dokountôn einai ti) – what they actually were makes no difference to me; God shows no partiality – they who seemed to be somewhat (oi dokountes) contributed nothing to me […] and when James and Cephas and John, who seemed to be pillars (oi dokountes stuloi einai) , recognized the grace that had been given to me, they gave to Barnabas and me the right hand of fellowship (Gal 2:1-2, 6, 9).

Paul speaks of two different groups: “those who seemed to be somewhat” (oi dokountes) and “the pillars (stuloi).” Of the first group, “those who seemed to be somewhat” (oi dokountes), Paul does not even mention their names, and this fact may be an indication of his scarce knowledge of the Jesus groups in Jerusalem. The “pillars” are James, Cephas, and John. James is the Lord’s brother. John is the son of Zebedee, brother of that James whose death is narrated in Acts 12:2. It is unclear whether they constitute a sort of internal directory of the “those who seemed to be somewhat” (oi dokountes) or if they constitute another group encountered by Paul afterwards. In any case, it is difficult to understand if the three pillars are a board of leaders of all Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem conceived as a unique community, or if each of them is at the head of a distinct group of followers. Can we think that Cephas and John were a couple that Paul wanted to affirm that he lived in Peter’s home for two weeks. See also 1 Cor 2:1-3; 4:18-19, 21. The meaning of 1 Cor 2:3 is different: ἐν τρόμῳ πολλῷ ἐγενόμην πρὸς ὑμᾶς, in which πρὸς means to stay in front of or in the midst of certain persons with a certain attitude. See also ὁ λόγος ἡμῶν ὁ πρὸς ὑμᾶς οὐκ ἔστιν ναὶ καὶ οὔ (2 Cor 1:18) and 2 Cor 2:1: μὴ πάλιν ἐν λύπῃ πρὸς ὑμᾶς ἐλθεῖν, in which the expression means to have a certain attitude “towards you.” However, in Gal 1:18 the expression used by Paul is not elthein pros, but epimenein pros as in 1 Cor 16:7: ἐλπίζω γὰρ χρόνον τινὰ ἐπιμεῖναι πρὸς ὑμᾶς. Here also, however, the meaning is not “to remain to dwell in your home,” but “to remain in the same city or place in which you live.” In conclusion, it seems that the expression does not mean that Paul stayed in Peter’s home. Therefore, it seems that Paul did not live in Jerusalem in Jesus’ followers homes.

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somehow distinct from James? In this case, James would express his own group, Cephas and John other groups, not necessarily resident in the city. Of the Eleven (or Twelve), there is no trace in these two meetings of Paul in Jerusalem. In favor of the existence of a series of distinct groups and hence of their different locations in Jerusalem, as opposed to a compact or monolithic “community,” there is another passage of the same letter to the Galatians (2:12) in which Paul speaks of “some from James” (τινας ἀπὸ Ἰακώβου). It seems from this sentence that there was a group led by James in Jerusalem. There are other pieces of evidence in favor of a group of James in Jerusalem. First of all, Cephas and John do not appear to be particularly related to Jerusalem in their personal story. While James’ connection with the city is an evident fact in the sources, 77 less important is his missionary activity outside the city. His life ends in Jerusalem when he was killed by the High Priest Anan in 62 (Josephus, Antiquities 20, 197-203). 7. Johannist and Other Groups in Galilee (End of the First Century) The accounts of the apparitions in Galilee of Matthew 28:16-20 and that of John 21 show the existence of transmission streams affirming that Jesus had appeared in Galilee. These narratives expressed the future destiny of Jesus’ followers and their duties. According to Matthew, Jesus had given order to preach “to all people” on a Mount in Galilee. The beginning of the spread of the message was evidently located in Galilee. The final redaction of the Gospel of John (chapter 21) seems to look for a reconciliation with Matthew’s vision, because Jesus appears to seven disciples in Galilee on the shore of the lake and directs Simon Peter to “feed [the] sheep” (21:17). Here the localization of the beginning of the mission of the disciples takes place in Galilee, as Matthew. Certainly, the mandate to Peter takes place at different times in the texts (before the death of Jesus in Matthew; after his resurrection in John) and in different places (in John along the lake, in Matthew at Caesarea of ​​Philip), but it occurs in Galilee in both cases. For John 21, the last earthly presence of Jesus and his last message occurred in Galilee. John’s Gospel wants to transmit the certainty about the truth of what is narrated in Chapter 21 to the reader. The text itself underlines that the narration is based on the witness of the beloved disciple, who is supposed to be the writer of what the Gospel tells. If we compare the two narratives of John 21 and Matthew 28 with the statements of Luke and Acts that the disciples should not depart from Jerusalem, one must deduce that

77.  See also Norelli, La nascita, 40-43.

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there was a strong tension between groups of followers of Jesus in Galilee and groups of Jerusalem. A tension, however, that also existed in Jerusalem, given the diversity of the stories of apparition. It can be assumed that at the end of the First Century or the beginning of the Second, when perhaps chapter 21 of John was written, it was still very important to recognize that Galilee had been the place of the final moment of the apparitions of Jesus and of his latest indications on his succession. In Galilee, Jesus would have given the leadership to Peter, not to the beloved disciple. 78 This means that the groups of disciples who recognized Peter’s authority as leader and had their seat in Galilee (perhaps located in the places preferred by Matthew’s Gospel) 79 were still strong and active at that time. They defended their autonomy with respect to those of Jerusalem and had so significant importance at the end of the First Century to induce the Johannist group of Galilee to seek a form of mediation and agreement with them. In other words, John 21 shows us that the Galilean Johannist community sought an agreement with the Galilean disciples who were connected to Peter, recognizing his primacy over the beloved disciple. We can then add that the phenomenon of fragmentation of the groups of Jesus’ followers on the same territory and within the same place does not only occur in Jerusalem, but probably also in Galilee, where the Johannist groups were faced with the Galilean groups that found expression in the Gospel of Matthew. John 21 could represent a form of mediation or conciliation between them. 8. The Fractionation of the Groups of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem How can we imagine the fragmentation of Jesus groups in Jerusalem on the basis of the texts we examined? 1. Our approach is based on the cultural complexity normally attributed to Jerusalem. It was a city where various socio-cultural components were present and where divergent cultural, political, and social dynamics coexisted. As in many Mediterranean cities, we can see in Jerusalem a fractionation of Jewish groups that was not only theological, but also topographical. Two are the aspects which are crucial and which highlight the profile of the city and those who lived there. Jerusalem was a town where periodic pilgrimages took place and therefore was a point of encounter, a “meeting point.” For this reason, there is a structural difference between 78.  For John 21:24 the certainty of this event is given by the beloved disciple’s witness: “This is the disciple who is testifying to these things and has written them, and we know that his testimony is true.” 79.  Destro -Pesce , Le récit et l ’écriture, 150-153.

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Jerusalem and other cities where Jews were present in the land of Israel and in the Mediterranean area. In Jerusalem, immigrant Jews were often identified on the basis of ethnic distinctions (i.e., of accepted and identifiable provenances). In the cities of the Diaspora, on the contrary, the Jewish population was identified as “Jews” in general (and not as Jews of Rome, or Alexandria, or Corinth, etc.). These particular features bring about important consequences for the comprehension of the groups of Jesus’ followers in the city. First of all, in Jerusalem, Jesus’ followers expressed a number of divisions that already existed among the Jews of the city (on the basis of ethnic belonging, movements membership, neighborhoods, and the social stratification). The followers of Jesus attended the gathering places of the Jews to which they were affiliated (for example, the ethnic synagogues). Each of these Jesus groups was probably a subgroup of the Jewish groups of Jerusalem. Therefore, they were not autonomous, and were not separated from the usual Jewish groupings. They were not a unique aggregate of Jesus’ followers. The numerous groups of Jesus’ followers were actually dissimilar among them. Secondly, it is true that there were exclusive ritual occasions of the groups of Jesus in Jerusalem. However, the fact that they took place in private homes did not permit all the members of a single sub-group to meet together. Some homes were probably used as schools. These meeting places were not recognizable outwardly and this is an indication of their non distinction from other Jews in Jerusalem. 2. It is necessary to stress that we must imagine not a “Jerusalem community” or a cohesive “sect” or “faction,” but a set of small aggregates of Jesus’ followers, who were divided primarily according to their territorial origins (Galilee, Judea, Perea, Samaria, etc.), and according to their language (those who spoke Aramaic and those who spoke Greek, see Acts 6:1-9; 9:29), according to the attendance to the meetings of particular synagogues, but also according to their adherence to a Jewish movement (followers of the Baptizer, of the Pharisees, etc.), or to some priestly environments of Jerusalem rather than to others. Merely dwelling in certain districts of Jerusalem could divide the followers. In fact, it was relevant to belong to the high city or to the northern area of Bezetha, ​​ which was very dense and popular. To be in the lower city or in some Jerusalem districts to the west rather than to the east could make a difference. The transmission of the narratives about Jesus in different languages led to some independence and autonomy of transmission streams. It is obvious that an Aramaic narrative had a life of its own in relation to a Greek one. Another type of group variability can be expressed by a non-naïve picture of the configuration of aggregates. Mobility is implicit in any society.

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In a multifaceted social fabric, a change of the general cultural horizon is frequent and full of consequences. This means that social relationships are often volatile, scarcely perceptible, and unsuitable for giving life to a “community” climate or to feed a perfect homogeneity. We try to individuate the different groups of Jesus’ followers in the city of Jerusalem. (a) A first group of Jesus’ followers could consist of those who had adhered to his preaching during his visits to Jerusalem. It is this aggregate that is probably reflected in the accounts of John’s Gospel. We call it a Johannist group. It should not be confused with those who are often referred to as “Hellenistic” followers of Jesus. This group was associated with many other Johannist groups in the Land of Israel (Judaea, Samaria, Lower Galilee, and the Transjordan territories). 80 It was probably very articulated, scarcely cohesive and uniform. - as we can see from the various editions of the Gospel of John, from the internal crisis of the group witnessed by the letters of John and the conflictual relationships with various opinions expressed in the Gospel of Thomas. This means we have to keep in mind that the Johannist groupings could be rather informal. Given their presence in many areas, these aggregates had contacts with other non-homogeneous groups of followers, as shown in John 21 (where it is said that they had contact with Galilean groups connected with Peter). (b) Another type of followers was related to James the brother of Jesus. This group probably spoke Aramaic. It was well received in some traditional Jewish religious environments, even priestly, and presumably frequented their places of prayer (although we cannot identify them exactly). The production of its own narratives gave rise to specific writings, such as the Gospel of the Hebrews and, probably later, the James’ letter. James’ group appears to be permanently established in Jerusalem, but it seems to have been very active in the 50s in the diffusion of Jesus’ message in other territories (as shown by the mobility of its emissaries who went to Antioch several times). His representatives seem to go also to Corinth to fight Paul’s orientations. It is essential to recognize that there is a Jacobite expansion beside that of Paul and other groups of Jesus’ followers. It is the group closest to the traditional Judaic institutions of Jerusalem, despite the opposition to certain priestly environments that culminates in James’ death sentence. (c) A third group is the one in which the resurrection stories have been handed down by the Gospel of Luke. Luke’s special sources seem to be well rooted in Jerusalem, in western and coastal Judaea. It is very difficult 80.  Destro -Pesce , Le récit et l ’écriture, 153-163.

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to delimit this set of followers. While it is easy to say that these aggregations were different from the Johannist group and the group of James, it is more complicated to identify their characteristics. These groups were probably constituted by Greek-speaking Jews. The Acts of the Apostles, in fact, are dedicated in their second half to Paul and to the presence of the post-Jesus movement in the Mediterranean area from Asia Minor to Rome (Acts 13 to 28). The first part of Acts seems to be based on information coming mainly from environments of Greek-speaking followers. But perhaps these groups should not be identified with the “Hellenists” of chapters 6-9 of the Acts. The Acts speak in 6:1 , in fact, of hellênistai followers (i.e. Greek speaking) and opposes them to the hebraioi followers (i.d. Hebrew or Aramaic speaking). But it is the hellênistai followers who seek to kill Paul (Acts 9:29). This fact shows that different tendencies could exist among the Greek-speaking followers. 3. All the groups of Jesus’ followers were characterized by the effort to find or create a local presence, but also by their great mobility. Mobility is practiced in different ways. Those who lived in the cities presumably moved along the great roads connecting them, and had little interest in staying in small villages. This type of persons belongs above all to the third group of those who transmit the apparition narratives. This is the case of Luke, whose focus is on the Mediterranean Sea, on the coastal cities and on the great communication roads of the coast. It is plausible that this group had little knowledge of the followers living in the inner villages of Judea, Samaria and Galilee. Paul also moves along the great communication roads and his focus is inevitably concentrated on the cities. Actually, he had little contact with the villages of the land of Israel and even less with those of Galilee. Other Jesus’ groups, on the other hand, mostly frequented peripheral areas and villages. They followed secondary roads. Some kinds of Johannist followers belong to these aggregates, and lived in very limited areas. They could have less relations with the Johannist followers who were living Jerusalem. The communication between these two lines of transmission, one among the cities and the other among the minor centers, may have been scarce, perhaps occasional. This may perhaps explain why Luke’s Gospel and Acts (based on urban information) present an image of the so-called Jerusalem church and the beginning of the post-Jesus movement that does not correspond to the complexity of the aggregations of Jesus’ followers. They probably had scarce information on the multiplicity of smaller centers. Some of the texts of the first followers of Jesus were probably produced in Jerusalem in the early decades after the death of Jesus, as many schol-

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ars maintain. 81 These texts were tools that promoted religious mobility and “cultural traffic”. They could be used with the aim of legitimizing or spreading particular visions). The texts were the instrument used by each group for supporting its members. It might be said that the first texts of Jesus’ followers were principally written (though not necessarily) for an internal function within each group, not just as a primary tool of proclamation and diffusion.

81.  G. Theissen, “Die große Erzähleinheit der Passionsgeschichte und die Jerusalemer Gemeinde in den 40er Jahren,” in I d., Lokalkolorit und Zeitgeschichte in den Evangelien. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der synoptischen Tradition (FreiburgGöttingenn, 1989) 177-211.

JESUS AND THE A IMS OF JOHN Abandoning the Quest for the Underivable Jesus∗ F.  A dinolfi Is the search for the unique Jesus really gone for good? One of the traits commonly regarded as paradigmatic of recent Jesus research is the break with the former, theologically driven, interest in establishing the utter singularity of Jesus. 1 Accordingly, historical or contextual plausibility has by and large replaced dissimilarity as the guiding principle of current research. 2 Few today would advocate distinctiveness as the starting point and primary foundation of historical inquiry. Yet, though largely unnoticed, there is at least one locus classicus of the Jesus Quest where (almost) everyone keeps doing just that: the relationship between Jesus and John the Baptist, which arguably represents the last stronghold of the old search *  The present paper summarizes the proposal developed in my doctoral dissertation to rethink Jesus’ activity in terms of a consistent and programmatic continuation of John’s ministry. See F.  A dinolfi, Gesù continuatore di Giovanni. Studio storico-esegetico sulla relazione tra Gesù di Nazaret e Giovanni il Battista (Bologna, 2014). 1. This is true in general terms, although – it goes without saying – voices emphasizing Jesus’ singularity with respect to Judaism can still be heard. See, for instance, the recent critical remarks by Daniel Marguerat on the exaggerated rejudaization of Jesus going on in the so-called Third Quest: D. M arguerat, “Giudaicità e singolarità di Gesù di Nazaret,” in N. Ciola-A. P itta-G. P ulcinelli, Ricerca storica su Gesù. Bilanci e prospettive (Bologna, 2017) 107-125. According to Marguerat, only a Jesus whose views and claims were unparalleled in Judaism (to the point of being rejected as intolerable by the religious authorities) can adequately explain the subsequent emerging of Christianity as an entity distinct from Judaism. 2.  “Nella terza epoca della ricerca ormai molti studiosi non privilegiano più il criterio della doppia dissomiglianza bensì il criterio di plausibilità, tanto che proprio i detti che all’interno del giudaismo trovano analogie e appaiono plausibili hanno la maggior probabilità d’essere detti gesuani” (W. Stegemann, Gesù e il suo tempo [Brescia, 2010] 175). Contextual plausibility is also commonly regarded today as the necessary precondition for assessing the degree of relative originality or distinctiveness that Jesus may have exhibited under this or that respect: “Individuality is always contextual individuality. It is methodologically perceptible only by seeing it in a particular context” (G. Theissen-D.  Winter , The Quest for the Plausible Jesus: The Question of Criteria [Louisville, 2002] 248); “His [Jesus’] individuality is not an originality which is independent of the context, but a peculiarity which is bound up with the context” (G. Theissen-A. M erz , The Historical Jesus: A Comprehensive Guide [Minneapolis, 1998] 118). From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 201-222.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117941

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for the dissimilar, original and unique Jesus. While on every other topic great care is taken to understand Jesus within in his own context in a positive way, here the rule is rather to proceed by clear and sharp oppositions, despite the fact that the ministry of John clearly provides the closest possible context for understanding Jesus. 3 Whatever the influence played by John at a formative level (usually acknowledged to be quite strong), it is invariably assumed that what Jesus was up to in Galilee was something essentially new, original, and well beyond whatever he may have inherited from the Baptist. Therefore, it has been customary to represent John and Jesus more or less as poles apart: John was all about judgment, while Jesus announced the good news; John firmly demanded repentance, Jesus offered entry into the kingdom freely; John immersed people and valued purity, Jesus did neither; John was an ascetic, while Jesus was the proverbial “party animal”; John stood still in the desert, while Jesus was always on the move. 4 Recently, Dale Allison has criticized the methodological flaw inherent in such “antitheses”. 5 For instance, how do we know that John never spoke of the kingdom? Is it remotely possible that the few sayings and summaries known to us are a complete miniature reproduction of his preaching? 3. David Catchpole, one of the scholars most immune from the disjunctive tendency, aptly entitles a paragraph of his 2006 monograph “Jesus in the context of John” and unreservedly acknowledges how Jesus “was deeply rooted in the mission of John, and he took from that mission many of its defining features”. Cf.  D. Catchpole , Jesus People: The Historical Jesus and the Beginnings of Community (London, 2006) 42, 49. 4.  References for such antithetical scholarly construals of John and Jesus would be countless. For a recent and instructive example, see the following quotation by José Antonio Pagola: “Pronto comienza Jesús a hablar un lenguaje nuevo: está llegando el reino de Dios. No hay que seguir esperando más, hay que acogerlo. […] Dios llega para todos como salvador, no como juez. [… ] Las gentes no tendrán ya que acudir al desierto como en tiempos de Juan. Será él mismo, acompañado de sus discípulos y colaboradores más cercanos, el que recorrerá la tierra prometida. […] Jesús abandona también el talante y la estrategia profética de Juan. La vida austera del desierto es sustituida por un estilo de vida festivo. […] Jesús abandona también el lenguaje duro del desierto. El pueblo debe escuchar ahora una Buena Noticia. Su palabra se hace poesía. […] Comienza a contar parábolas que el Bautista jamás hubiera imaginado. […] Con Jesús todo empieza a ser diferente. El temor al juicio deja paso al gozo de acoger a Dios, amigo de la vida. Ya nadie habla de su ira inminente.; […] También se transforma la figura misma de Jesús. Nadie lo ve ahora como un discípulo o colaborador del Bautista” (J.  A.  Pagola, Jesús aproximación histórica (Madrid, 2008) 78-80). 5. See D. C.  A llison, “The Continuity between John and Jesus,” in Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 1 (2003) 6-27; I d., Constructing Jesus: Memory, Imagination, and History (Grand Rapids, 2010), 204-220. See also F.  Bermejo Rubio, “Why is John the Baptist Used as a Foil for Jesus? Leaps of Faith and Oblique Anti-Judaism in Contemporary Scholarship,” in Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 11 (2013) 170-196.

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The same may be said – to raise a different point from those discussed by Allison – of the strategies of their ministries: was John really the static, sedentary preacher he is universally assumed to have been, simply waiting for people to come to him (perhaps even reluctantly 6)? What if he used to move from place to place instead, 7 so that Jesus simply learned from him? Indeed, there are bits of evidence placing John across generic, wideraging areas like the wilderness of Judaea (Matt. 3:1; cf. Mark 1:4) and “the whole region of the Jordan” (Q/Luke 3:3), as well as in more spe6.  In many scholarly portraits, John is imagined as an extremely harsh prophet of doom, who considered the present world, and the Jewish nation in particular, as an irremediably evil and corrupted reality, inescapably destined to destruction. An interesting variation on this dark understanding of John is the authoritative interpretation by Edmondo Lupieri (see E. Lupieri, Giovanni Battista fra storia e leggenda [Brescia, 1988] 164-184; I d., Giovanni e Gesù. Storia di un antagonismo (Roma, 2013) 63-78), who comes to a similar conclusion by taking a very different route. Rather than relying on John’s apocalyptic message as reported in the Gospels (since, in his view, all the sayings attributed to John are, in their present shape, Christian reformulations), Lupieri investigates the widely neglected question of John’s genuinely Jewish purity halakhah, as it can be recovered by paying close attention to halakic details leftover in ancient traditions like Mark 1:6. To this extent, Lupieri’s work represents a landmark in the search for the authentically Jewish Baptist. The result of his insightful inquiry is a radical legal observance that regarded as pure only what could be found in nature, uncontaminated by contact with sinful and unclean human hands. Everything else was utterly corrupted and defiling. And this is the reason why John withdrew to the desert, far from inhabitated places: to shun any contact with the polluting power of human society. However ingenious, Lupieri’s proposal falters, in my view, in depicting a Baptist who, sociologically, looks far too introverted than the evidence would suggest. I honestly find it hard to match a worldview so deeply marked by the idea of universal contamination with the overall impression conveyed by the sources of a John that gladly welcomed people like soldiers, tax collectors and prostitutes, and sent them back renewed to their everyday life. I think that John’s interest in ritual purity went hand in hand with an active concern for reforming individual lives and social relations according to righteousness. In this respect, it seems to me that we are on a better track with those scholars who see John as the prophetic leader of a popular movement of social renewal. According to Robert Webb: “John called for his followers to manifest social justice in their current situation and at the same time expected a radically new situation in which justice and righteousness would reign” (R. L. Webb , John the Baptizer and Prophet (Sheffield, 1989) 359. Cf. C. K azmierski, John the Baptist: Prophet and Evangelist [Collegeville, 1996) 56: “If then the crowds were attracted to John, it was because they were able to find reflected in him and in his teaching the principal aspirations that they themselves shared as children of the covenant. He was, in the radical sense of the term, ‘one of them’”. 7.  The point was made, though mostly ignored, in P.  W. Hollenbach, “John the Baptist,” in D. N. Freedman, ed., Anchor Bible Dictionary. Vol. 3 (New York, 1992) 893. See also J.  P.  M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Volume 2: Mentor, Message, and Miracles (New York, 1994) 45: “his desire to reach as many Jews as possible probably caused him to roam the length of the Jordan, seeking out travelers at various crossings and springs”.

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cific places like Bethany beyond the Jordan (John 1:28) in Peraea 8 and the more obscure Aenon near Salim (John 3:23), probably located in the Decapolis, at Tell Shalem, a few miles south of Beit She’an (or, alternatively, in Samaria). 9 Whatever the details, the overall impression of a roaming lifestyle is strong. It seems that John knew quite well how it feels to live on the road! 10 However, it is not just a matter of being more circumspect concerning any supposed point of discontinuity. The root of the problem lies in the very way we approach the whole question, that is, by taking for granted that, whatever influence John may have had, Jesus’ Galilean ministry was in any case something novel, original, and ultimately underivable. For all the stark differences in the ways scholars craft their profiles of Jesus, on one point everyone agrees: Jesus went beyond John, he was now doing something new. 11 But is this assumption sound? The way John and 8.  Unless understood as a reference to the Batanaea region, east of Galilee, as argued by R. R iesner , “Bethany beyond the Jordan (John 1:28): Topography, Theology, and History in the Fourth Gospel,” in Tyndale Bulletin 38 (1987) 29-63. See the assessments of this proposal by Michele Piccirillo (negative) and Urban C. von Wahlde (sympathetic but ultimately agnostic) in J. H. Charlesworth, ed., Jesus and Archaeology (Grand Rapids, 2006) 431-443, 528-533, 583-584. 9. For an up-to-date discussion of the topographical issues related to John’s activity, see now J. E. Taylor , “John the Baptist on the Jordan River: Localities and their Significance,” in ARAM Periodical 29: 1-2 (2017) 365-383. As Taylor remarks, “the Jordan River wilderness itself was actually not so very far from areas of cultivation and towns […] a major road leading from Jerusalem to Livias and Esbus crossed the Jordan at Makhadat Hajla, so John’s location was not so remote. In fact, in establishing his activity not far from a road John was locating himself in quite a public space. […] People visiting John could have stayed in the local towns and made day journeys to the Jordan, as well as camped at the site”. A scenario that easily resembles the Markan Jesus’ numerous retreats along the lake and in deserted places, with people coming to him from the nearby villages. 10.  One should also beware of the risk of a biased perspective that may arise from the disproportionate state of our sources: on John we have only a handful of summaries or, in visual terms, six stylized vignettes (Q, Mark, Matthew, Luke, John, Josephus), some of which, at first sight, may well look like copies with very little variation; while the evidence on Jesus may be compared to, at least, four movies full of hand-held recorded scenes! Little wonder then, at first sight, itinerancy looks like something more pertinent to Jesus rather than John. Yet, upon closer examination, even the meager evidence of those vignettes is enough to reveal the historical reality of John’s wandering prophetic-baptismal activity spanning throughout the Land, or at least the whole area surrounding the Jordan river. 11. The variety of scholarly construals of the John-Jesus relationship may be classified as follows: 1. No relationship (Jesus’ baptism unhistorical; their paths never crossed): Morton Enslin, Gerald Downing, Ernst Haenchen. 2. External approval/ influence (Jesus was not John’s disciple): Max Aplin, Knut Backhaus, Josef Ernst, Joachim Gnilka, Ben Witherington. 3. With John beyond John (emphasis on continuity): James Dunn, Martin Ebner, John Meier, Ben Meyer, Jens Schröter, Robert Webb. 4. Jesus builds on John but goes well beyond him (emphasis on novelty/discon-

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Jesus are represented in the sources, especially the older ones such as the Gospel of Mark, the Sayings Source Q and the Gospel of Matthew, should give us pause. 1. Th e O l de s t M e mor i e s

of

J oh n

and

J e sus

John plays a pivotal role in the prologue of Mark: his ministry fulfils the prophecies and as such it represents the ἀρχὴ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου (Mark 1:1): the beginning and foundation of the good news. For Mark, John is primarily the returned Elijah whose destiny paves the way for the Son of Man. 12 They both walk down the same path and suffer the same fate at the hands of similarly apprehensive, impressionable and pliable authorities. 13 In many ways, they resemble and correspond to each other. 14 But John is also important for the other side of Mark’s Christology, depicting Jesus as the powerful, wonder-working agent of God. 15 Indeed, when Jesus heals the sick and casts out the unclean spirits, he is acting precisely according to what John had prophesied: as the one who will baptize in the tinuity): Jürgen Becker, Helmut Merklein, Jacques Schlosser, José Antonio Pagola, Gerd Theissen & Annette Merz. 5. Jesus deconverts from John (discontinuity amounts to an actual break): John Dominic Crossan, Paul Hollenbach, Giorgio Jossa, Jerome Murphy O’Connor. 6. Towards a “no post-Baptist Jesus”: various insights by Dale Allison, Fernando Bermejo-Rubio, David Catchpole, Richard France, John Meier, Joan Taylor & Federico Adinolfi, Graham Twelftree. 12.  Cf. Mark 1:2b.6a; 9:12; and the common “preach and be delivered up” pattern in 1:7; 1:14a (John); 1,14b; 9,31; 10,33 (Jesus) – further extended to Jesus’ followers in 3:14; 13:9-13. 13. Cf. 6:20.26 (Herod Antipas); 11:32; 12:12 (chief priests, scribes and elders); 15:15 (Pontius Pilate). See C.  Black , Mark (Nashville, 2011) 157, 319-320; D. R hoads-J.  Dewey-D.  M ichie , Il racconto di Marco (Brescia, 2011) 195. 14.  Clifton Black well summarizes the “subtle but real similarities” as follows: “as John appears from out of nowhere; so too does Jesus. John attracts a stupendous audience; repeatedly, so also will Jesus. John lived an impoverished, itinerant existence; so, it appears, did Jesus. The preaching of John stresses repentance, forgiveness of sins, baptism, and greater things to come. Much things will be true of Jesus’ preaching. Throughout Mark’s Gospel, people compare Jesus with John, even confuse Jesus with John. Oddly, the eponymous practice for which John is best remembered – baptism – is something we never witness Jesus in Mark perform for others. Baptism in Mark carries, instead, a metaphorical weight, with reference to eschatological traumas, whose endurance is incumbent on the faithful” (C.  Black , Mark [Nashville, 2011) 56. The oddity noticed by Black may find an illuminating explanation in what will be argued at the end of the present paper. 15. On Mark’s double narrative Christology – epiphanic in the first part, kenotic in the second one –, see M. E.  Boring, Mark: A Commentary (Louisville, 2006) 4, 258; I d., Introduction to the New Testament: History, Literature, Theology (Louisville, 2012) 514-516.

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holy spirit (Mark 1:8; cf. 3:22, 28-29 and the recurrent exorcistic conflict with the πνεύματα ἀκάθαρτα). 16 Intriguingly enough, it can also be argued that all along Mark’s narrative John plays a subtle but crucial role as a source of authority and endorsement for Jesus, particularly in the three key-Christological scenes: baptism, transfiguration, and crucifixion, where John’s presence regularly comes into play – whether explicitly or under the code name “Elijah” (easily decipherable in light of Mark 9:11-13) – to reveal Jesus’ identity as Son of God. 17 The close link between the two is even more explicit in Q, as their relationship forms the framework for the whole first part of the text, with its fairly sophisticated ring-like structure. 18 On the one side, we see John announcing Jesus as the Coming One and exhorting the crowds (including, behind them, the readers and hearers of Q) to make fruit worthy of repentance, according to the instruction that Jesus is going to give in the central sermon, whose closing part – it should be noted – seems in turn to be devised so as to echo the words and images that John spoke at the outset, as if to underline their mutual agreement. 19

16. See J. E. Taylor-F.  A dinolfi, “John the Baptist and Jesus the Baptist: A Narrative Critical Approach,” in Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 10 (2012) 247-284. Cf. E. M anicardi, Il cammino di Gesù nel Vangelo di Marco (Roma, 2003) 169: “le parole del Battista (…) sono un invito a vedere nel ministero di Gesù (…) un’immersione nello Spirito Santo”. Similarly E. Trocmé , L’Évangile selon saint Marc (Gèneve, 2000) 30: “les miracles de Jésus sont conçus comme l’œuvre du Saint-Esprit mis à sa disposition par Dieu (1,10). Bien que cette idée reste implicite, la place importante accordée par Marc, dans sa représentation des miracles de Jésus, à la lutte contre les ‘esprits malpropres’ (…), vient confirmer la supposition”. 17. See C. K. Rothschild, Baptist Traditions and Q (Tübingen, 2005) 129-148. 18. (A) Introduction: the coming of John (3:2.3) / (B) John’s speech to the crowds about the Coming One (3:7-9, 16-17) / (C) Baptism: the appointment of the Coming One (3:21-22) / (D) Dialogue with devil: miracles rejected due to obedience to the word (4:1-13) / (E) Jesus’ sermon (6:20-49) / (D1) Dialogue with centurion: miracle granted due to obedience to the word (7:1-10) / (C1) “Are you…”: the public revelation of the Coming One (7:18-19, 22-23) / (B1) Jesus’ speech to the crowds about John (7:24-28) / (A1) Conclusion: the coming of JB & JC and its effects: repenting crowds are now Wisdom’s children (7:31-35). The ring composition of the first part of Q is commonly recognized by Q scholars. Slightly different but comparable articulations are offered by Allison, Fleddermann, Kirk, SevenichBax. 19.  Cfr. Q 3:9b “Every tree that does not bear good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire” ↔ Q 6:43 “For no good tree bears bad fruit, nor does a bad tree bear good fruit”; Q 3:8b.8a “And do not presume to say ‘We have Abraham as father!’… so bear fruit of repentance” ↔ Q 6:46 “Why do you call me ‘Master, master!’ and do not do what I say?”; Q 3:16d: immersion in a river of fiery wind (πνεῦμα): repentant refined, unrepentant destroyed; Q 3:17 Winnowing of the

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Then, on the other side, we see Jesus praising and exalting John in front of those very same crowds that believed John and answered his call to repentance. Finally, at the end of the section, we find John and Jesus aligned side by side as messengers of Wisdom equally rejected by “this generation”. And this is indeed the dominant note that Q wishes to strike: the alignment, agreement and mutual conformity between John and Jesus. 20 Interestingly, this is also the aspect that Matthew chose to emphasize most in his peculiar reworking of the relationship. For Matthew too John and Jesus are on the same side, being both representatives of what we may call “the Justice Party” (cf. Matt. 3:15 and 21:32), in straight and vitriolic opposition to the current leadership of Israel. Indeed, Matthew sees the agreement between John and Jesus as so perfect, that they can even speak the very same words – or, to be more precise, it is Jesus who repeats grain (wind implicit): grain gathered, chaff burned up; ↔ Q 6:47-49 Rain, rivers, winds (ἄνεμοι) over two houses: one stands, the other falls. 20. Cf. C. Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity (Edinburgh, 1996) 131: “If then we are concerned with the ‘final’ form of Q, we must say that it is this view of the mutually supportive ministries of Jesus and John which forms the literary climax of the section Q 7:18-35 as a whole and hence is the one which must be seen as the dominating view of the Q composition”. This remains true even if one allows – as I do, following Q-scholars like Paul Hoffmann and David Catchpole – for some key Christological insertions by the Q redactor in Q 3:16 (ὀπίσω μου … ἰσχυρότερός μου ἐστιν, οὗ οὐκ εἰμὶ ἱκανὸς τὰ ὑποδήματα βαστάσαι) and Q 7:27, 28b (οὗτός ἐστιν περὶ οὗ γέγραπται· ἀποστέλλω τὸν ἄγγελόν μου πρὸ προσώπου σου, ὃς κατασκευάσει τὴν ὁδόν σου ἔμπροσθέν σου … ὁ δὲ μικρότερος ἐν τῇ βασιλείᾳ τοῦ θεοῦ μείζων αὐτοῦ ἐστιν), aiming not so much at downgrading John, but rather at building on his figure and message, whose authority is unconditionally endorsed: a dialectical Christology depicting Jesus as the “stronger one” who used to “go after” John (i.e. follow him as his disciple) and the “lesser one” who will turn out to be even greater than John, the greatest man ever. In this way, the Q redactor has reapplied to Jesus the coming of God originally prophesied by John (ἐγὼ μὲν ὑμᾶς βαπτίζω ἐν ὕδατι, ὁ δὲ ἐρχόμενος ὑμᾶς βαπτίσει ἐν πνεύματι καὶ πυρί), while at the same time explaining how it happened that the one who historically was known to be a disciple of John actually turned out to be the messianic Coming One and Son of Man that (as the John & Jesus Q followers had realized in the meantime) was the “real” object of John’s expectation. The striking peculiarity of this dialectic Christology centered on the reciprocal status of John and Jesus, is best explained as the product of a Jesus-group firmly placed within the matrix of John’s movement, engaged in the task of rethinking the relationship between their two masters. Cf. K. Backhaus , Die “Jüngerkreise” des Täufers Johannes: Eine Studie zu den religionsgeschichtlichen Ursprüngen des Christentums (Paderborn, 1991) 336: “(…) Q zwar ein besonderes personales und theologisches Interesse an der Gestalt des Täufers und an den Verhältnis zwischen Jesus und Johannes hegt, dass sie so aber retrospektiv bzw. ‘protologisch’ die eigenen Ursprünge in den Blick nimmt und sich keinesweg mit einem Täuferkreis auseinandersetzt. Es wurde vermutet, dass die Q-Gemeinde zum Teil selbst auf eine täuferische Vergangenheit zurückschauen kann, so dass sich das Christentum hier einmal mehr als ‘outgrowth of the Baptist movement’ erweist”.

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over and over again the Baptist’s words, bringing on his proclamation once John is off the stage (cf. Matt. 3:2 = 4:17; 3:7 = 12:34 and 23:33; 3:10 = 7:19 and 15:13; 3:12 = 13:30). 21 To summarize: Mark, Q, and Matthew, each in its own way, strongly converge in remembering the relationship in terms of similarity and agreement. The earliest memory of John and Jesus is definitely not the memory of an irreducible diversity, much less of a departure or break. In light of this, is it a safe assumption to hold that Jesus’ mission was an utterly novel and original reality? 22 Should we not perhaps consider as a more likely possibility that what Jesus was up to in Galilee stood in basic continuity with the work of John? 2 . A lt e r i ng

the

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I will now propose five good reasons to question the standard, sometimes uncritical, assumption in favour of a more plausible historical hypothesis that sees Jesus’ as not only building on John’s foundations – as many concede – but undertaking his own prophetic mission as an intentional continuation of what John had started. (1) In all likelihood Jesus began his prophetic career as a follower and disciple of John, as also did some of his own disciples. 23 On this point 21. In view of the strong likelihood that a close socio-historical continuity existed between the people responsible for Q and the later Matthean community, as agreed by many (see U. Luz , Vangelo di Matteo [Brescia, 2006] 103-104; M. E. Boring , Introduction to the New Testament: History, Literature, Theology [Louisville, 2012] 537-540), the peculiar twin-like characterization of John and Jesus displayed by Matthew – rather than being dismissed as a merely literary creation by the evangelist – should be viewed as the product of the living social memory of a particular sector of the early Jesus movement that revered both prophets as their “founding fathers”. On the Matthean Baptist see now the important work by B. C.  Dennert, John the Baptist and the Jewish Setting of Matthew (Tübingen, 2015). 22.  “If the primary sources produce false general impressions […] then the truth of things is almost certainly beyond our reach. […] Wrong in general, wrong in the particulars” (D. C.  A llison, The Historical Christ and the Theological Jesus [Grand Rapids, 2009] 66). Although, unlike Allison, I am not at all inclined to abandon the old path of seeking the historical Jesus via tradition-histories and authenticity criteria, on this point I do agree with current Jesus-memory approaches: “One must quest for the historical Jesus by accounting for the interpretations of the Gospels, not by dismissing them” (C. K eith, Jesus’ Literacy: Scribal Culture and the Teacher from Galilee [London-New York, 2011] 66). “[Historical-critical Jesus research] its goal cannot be to reach the one Jesus behind texts but to reach a conception grounded on the weighing of plausibilities, which as an abstraction from the sources always moves in front of the sources” (J. Schröter , Jesus of Nazareth: Jew from Galilee, Savior of the World [Waco, 2014] 17). 23. As it can be reasonably inferred from the following points: (1) Jesus was remembered as “going after” John (ὀπίσω μου; Q 3:16; Mark 1:7) and being the

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I cannot but endorse the widespread scholarly judgment that the Fourth Gospel preserves some ancient and historically reliable tradition where Jesus, after his baptism (which the FG omits), stayed with John for a certain period, 24 although when the Johannine memory starts recording, the properly penitential-discipular phase had already passed and Jesus seems to have upgraded into a sort of senior disciple collaborating with John in a concerted parallel baptismal activity (John 3:22-23). (2) Between this early phase of Jesus’ activity alongside John and his later ministry in Galilee, there seems to have been a close chronological contiguity. Although it is very hard to quantify, presumably not much time had passed for him to completely change his mind and quit altogether his strong ideological commitment to John and his program (and though such possibility cannot be ruled out in principle, is there anything to support it? 25). “lesser one” (ὁ μικρότερος; Q 7:28b; perhaps still understood as such by Matthew, in light of the proximity between the ὁ μικρότερος in Matt. 11:11 and the discipular μικροί a few verses before, in 10:42). (2) The pre-Johannine tradition apparently remembered Jesus as having begun his activity within the matrix of John’s movement, as well as some of his own disciples (John 1:35-50; 3:22-23); the same impression that the group of the Twelve had its roots in John’s ministry is given by the requirement in Acts 1:22 that Judas’ replacement should be chosen among those who had been part of Jesus’ following since the time of the baptism of John (ἀρξάμενος ἀπὸ τοῦ βαπτίσματος ᾿Ιωάννου). 24.  The alternative scenario in the Gospel of Mark, where Jesus immediately after his baptism goes his own way to begin his prophetic career is part and parcel of the highly condensed Markan prologue, which looks like a movie trailer: a rapid sequence of isolated flashes: the accomplishment of prophecy from Isaiah to John first and then to Jesus; the spirit descending into him and throwing him into the wilderness; as soon as John is arrested, Jesus starts preaching the kingdom. This has quite an effect, but lacks verisimilitude. Without denying the possibility that at the moment of baptism Jesus may have experienced some kind of prophetic call – as Mark seems to suggest –, in light of the evidence of the Johannine tradition concerning an early activity of Jesus within the matrix of John (which, rather than being a product of the Johannine redactor’s apologetic tendency to show the superiority of Jesus even on John’s own terrain, as a few scholars maintained, was the cause which made that tendency arise, once that memory became a source of embarrassment requiring correction), it is better to think of a period of “prophetic apprentice” akin to that of Elisha after Elijah. This seems to me preferable to the otherwise reasonable suggestion by Robert Webb that “two temporally separate events [baptism and prophetic call-vision] were later linked together” (R. L.  Webb , “Jesus’ Baptism by John: Its Historicity and Significance,” in D. L.  Bock-R. L.  Webb , eds, Key Events in the Life of the Historical Jesus [Grand Rapids, 2010] 112). 25.  Crossan’s thesis that Jesus broke with his past commitment to John hangs on a questionable interpretation of a single logion (Q 7:28) questionably cut off from its natural context (Q 7:24-26[.27]) on the basis of the questionable tradition-historical anteriority of their separate occurrence in the Gospel of Thomas (cf. Gos. Thom. 78, 46). See J. D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (San Francisco, 1991) 236-238.

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(3) There is some evidence that Jesus in Galilee was perceived by the people in relation to John. 26 According to Mark 6:14b-15, some thought Jesus was John, others that he was Elijah – which again points to John. Clearly, there was something in what Jesus was doing in Galilee that resembled what people already knew about the Baptist. 27 (4) There are also indications that Jesus himself used to associate his own work with that of John, especially in polemical situations. In Q 7:31-35 Jesus aligns himself with John against “this generation”, and it is surprising (and revealing) to see John being charged with an accusation that is otherwise typically addressed to Jesus: having a demon. Matt. 21:31c-32ab has Jesus openly appealing to the Baptist and even suggesting that listening to John was a sufficient condition to enter the kingdom of God! 28 Even more telling is a third example, Mark 11:27-33: questioned by 26.  A case in point is also Mark 2:18-19, where some unspecified observers ask Jesus why his disciples do not fast as John’s disciples do (and the Pharisees’ ones as well – though this might be a secondary addition), therefore expecting as the most natural thing in the world that Jesus’ disciples should “walk” according to the same halakhah practiced by John’s (other) disciples. And since they apparently do not, and Jesus justifies them, many scholars point to this episode as a proof of Jesus’ refusal in principle of any supererogatory fasting and therefore as an index of strong discontinuity of Jesus in respect to John. But such claims go too much beyond the evidence. First, Jesus himself is remembered as having fasted at times: see Matt. 6:16-18; Q 4:2; Mark 9:29 (καὶ νηστείᾳ according to the vast majority of MSS. On the reasons to retain it: R. T. France , The Gospel of Mark [Grand Rapids, 2002] 361; M. R escio, “Demons and Prayer: Traces of Jesus’ Esoteric Teaching from Mark to Clement of Alexandria,” in Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 31 [2014] 53-81, esp. 69-72). This might seem scant evidence indeed, of course, but perhaps the reason is simply that “in normal circumstances it [fasting] was unremarkable, and it was not normally connected to specific incidents. Indeed, when Jesus’ disciples were not fasting at a time when both the disciples of John and the disciples of the Pharisees were fasting, some people thought it worth coming to ask him why his disciple were not fasting” (M. Casey, Jesus of Nazareth [London, 2010], 252). Secondly, it is unwarranted to take the disciples’ lack of fasting (moreover: which disciples? Jesus’ itinerant companions? Or some local sympathizers?) and Jesus’ justification for them in v. 19, as if they expressed a matter of principle and a generalized feature of Jesus’ discipleship. Jesus’ reply may well be read as an ad hoc argument related to a particular circumstance: “He was ‘on the road’ around the villages of rural Galilee. His disciples could not celebrate his arrival in their town by maintaining any fasts they might ordinarily maintain” (J. E. Taylor , The Immerser: John the Baptist within Second Temple Judaism [Grand Rapids, 1997] 248). We just do not know. Be as it may, for the sake of my present argument Mark 2:18-19 adds proof that Jesus was spontaneously perceived by the Galilean people in relation to John. 27. For the uncovering of that “something” see below, and more extensively: J. E. Taylor-F. A dinolfi, “John the Baptist and Jesus the Baptist: A Narrative Critical Approach,” in Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 10 (2012) 247-284. 28. On this often neglected tradition, see my previous contribution here in Bertinoro: F.  A dinolfi, “Una redazione piena di memoria. L’indispensabile contributo di Mt 21,31c-32 alla conoscenza storica di Gesù e Giovanni il Battista,” in

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the temple establishment about his own authority – right at the climax of his ministry – Jesus seems to have no better answer than to shift the issue to the authority of John, thus making explicit that a close link existed between their ministries: you cannot have one without the other. 29 And it should be noted that, apparently, Jesus was thinking this way right to the end of his life. 30 (5) Finally, we have some traditions attesting that Jesus continued to speak of John in the highest possible terms, assigning to him a decisive place within God’s eschatological plan. This is the case of Mark 9:11-12a, 13a; Q 16:16 and Q 7:24-26, 28a. In different ways, each of these traditions says basically the same thing: John is the climax of the prophecies, he is the prophesied Elijah who comes before the end, he is all that the Law and the Prophets were pointing to, he is more than a prophet and even the greatest man that ever lived, and as such he is also the starting point of the kingdom of God. 31 A. Destro -M. P esce , eds, Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary approaches to the history of Jesus’ followers in the first two centuries (Turnhout, 2017) 129-149. 29. “John had begun the reformation movement among the Jewish people to which Jesus was the obvious heir. There was a direct line of continuity, obvious to all observers, between them” (R. T. France , The Gospel of Mark: A Commentary on the Greek Text [Grand Rapids, 2002] 454). It is too seldom appreciated how Jesus’ counterquestion, in order to be effective and win the debate, must assume that the interlocutors are aware of the existing connection between his activity and John’s (similarly J. P. M eier , A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol. 2: Mentor, message, and miracles (New York, 1994) 167-168). Indeed, if read in terms of a mere analogy between two supposedly unrelated heavenly inspired prophetic ministries, the argument would carry little weight “for any imposter could make the same claim by drawing the same analogy […] Nor would mention of Jesus’ baptism by John have helped an argument from analogy […] Otherwise every Tom, Dick, and Harry baptized by John could have claimed similar authority” (R.  Gundry, Mark: A Commentary on His Apology for the Cross [Grand Rapids, 1993] 669). 30. The Markan placement of the debate – in Jerusalem, after and in clear connection to the temple incident – is entirely plausible (cf. A. J. Hultgren, Jesus and His Adversaries [Minneapolis, 1979] 69-72) and I see no reason to share the speculations about hypothetical alternative original contexts proposed on formcritical grounds by scholars such as Bultmann, Shae and Gnilka. See the discussion in C.  A. Evans , Mark 8:27-16:20 (Nashville, 2001) 197-198, 204; W.  D.  DaviesD. C.  A llison, The Gospel according to Saint Matthew: Volume 3 (Edinburgh, 1997), 157-158. 31.  Concerning the textual reconstruction of Q 16:16, wide consensus exists on the following Vorlage: ὁ νόμος καὶ οἱ προφῆται μέχρι [ἕως] Ἰωάννου· ἀπὸ τότε ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ βιάζεται καὶ βιασταὶ ἁρπάζουσιν αὐτήν. Although Luke has better preserved the first part of the logion, a precious clue for its correct interpretation is offered by Matthew’s redactionally supplied verb προφητεύω (“all the Prophets and the Law have prophesied until John”), which reveals the authentic sense of Q’s elliptical and hence potentially ambiguous phrase: that the divine will inscribed in the Law and the Prophets, with its demands of justice and its salvific promises, had long been waiting for accomplishment, until John came. In other

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To summarize: 1) if Jesus and his disciples were followers of John, 2) if a close chronological contiguity existed between this early baptist phase and the ministry in Galilee, 3) if the Galilean people when seeing Jesus naturally thought back to John, 4) if Jesus himself enforced this perceived connection by appealing to John against his opponents and 5) by emphasizing John’s greatness and meaning to his followers, then it seems to me that the more likely assumption should be that Jesus’ ministry was in strong continuity and agreement with John’s. Prima facie, Jesus was John’s continuer. 3. D oe s

the

H ypot h e si s Wor k ?

Plausible and reasonable as it sounds, the assumption of a programmatic continuity must next be tested against the broad evidence available concerning the main aspects of Jesus’ message and activity. Is it possible to find a good match between the vision and the aims of Jesus and the vision and the aims of John? To begin with, there can be no doubt that John’s outlook was strongly eschatological. John was waiting for the imminent coming of God – that, to my mind, was most likely the ὁ ἐρχόμενος he talked about, rather than some kind of messianic figure or superhuman deliverer. 32 It is important, words, the Scriptures pointed to John. Accordingly, what our logion has properly in view is not a shift of the aeons with John placed as a watershed between the elapsed era regulated by the Law and the Prophets and the new era of the kingdom: this is a reading which may perhaps suit Luke, but certainly not Matthew, Q and Jesus. The key point is that ὁ νόμος καὶ οἱ προφῆται denote the Hebrew Scriptures rather than an epoch: “If ‘the law and the prophets’ in 16:16a was a standard phrase for the authoritative Israelite tradition […] then Q 16:16 suggests simply that beginning with John the kingdom as the fulfillment of that tradition is suffering violence, not that the kingdom has superseded ‘the law and the prophets’» (R.  A. HorsleyJ.  A.  Draper , Whoever Hears You Hears Me [Minneapolis, 1999] 115-116). 32.  The alternative, often endorsed, identification of the Coming One as being the heavenly Son of Man would likewise point to a fundamental continuity in terms eschatological outlook, at least for those who are ready to acknowledge as authentic a kernel of Jesus’ apocalyptic Son of Man sayings (e.g. Q 12:8-9; 17:24, 26-30; Mark 8:38; 13:26-27). On this issue, I share the current skepticism of many concerning the existence in Jesus’ time of something like an established Menschensohnbegriff, rather than a series of literary reprises of the vision of Daniel 7, and though Jesus may well have been part of that prophetic stream, I am inclined to interpret the Son of Man imagery in such sayings (besides those simply reflecting the idiomatic generic bar enash(a), of course) as a kind of exegetical, perhaps mystical, in any case consciously danielic language for the coming of the kingdom of God (and the concomitant judgment) that Jesus employed in his esoteric teaching to his disciples: e.g. when the (probably angelic, i.e. Michael) ke-bar enash prophesied by Daniel will come to his throne in heaven, then God’s kingdom will be finally estab-

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however, to realize that the advent of God was not simply about judgment, but also restoration. The salvific outcome is very clear in the image of the grain gathered into the barn after having been separated or “cleansed” from the chaff by winnowing (Q 3:17). So, John expected both judgment and restoration 33, but right before that, he also envisioned a process of radical purging and refining, visualized in analogy to his baptismal activity (as well as through the image of winnowing the grain to cleanse it from the chaff). This is what the image of an immersion in spirit-and-fire (or a fiery spirit) referred to: a kind of general eschatological purification akin to the traditional idea of a period of trial and tribulation that would precede the new age.  3 4 That this very eschatological vision was fully shared and endorsed by Jesus, is quite straightforward. The ideas of God’s kingdom and God’s coming are very close, indeed overlapping 35 – not to mention the likelihood that the Baptist too may have specifically spoken of the kingdom 36 lished on earth (…and you will sit on twelve thrones governing the restored twelve tribes of Israel). Finally, Robert Webb’s identification of John’s expected Coming One as a human plenipotentiary of God is strongly dependent on the historicity of John’s embassy to Jesus in Q 7:18-23 (since the result of his excellent survey of the wide range of Jewish eschatological agents of judgment and restoration, taken at face value, is that “the figure which best meets all elements of John’s description is Yahweh – in fact the only figure who does so”; R. L.  Webb , John the Baptizer and Prophet [Sheffield, 1991] 283), whose authenticity, however, should be seriously doubted. See below, note 49. 33. One may also add the possible ideal connection between John’s reference to “these stones” (Q 3:8) in the Jordan setting and the legendary twelve stones erected by Joshua at Galgala, after crossing the Jordan, in memory of God’s powerful feats performed on behalf of the twelve tribes of Israel (cf. Joshua 4:20-24). See O. J. F. Seitz , “What Do These Stones Mean?,” in Journal of Biblical Literature 79 (1960) 247-254; C.  A. Evans , “John the Baptist,” in K.  D. Sakenfeld, ed., The New Interpreter’s Bible Dictionary. Vol. 3 (Nashville, 2008) 345-351; J. E. Taylor , “John the Baptist on the Jordan River: Localities and their Significance,” in ARAM Periodical 29: 1-2 (2017) 365-383. 34. So, J.  D.  G.  Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids, 2003) 368. Cf. Dan. 12:1-3; 1 En. 91:5-7; 93:9; 100:1-4; Jub. 23:11-25; 4 Ezra. 5:1-13; 6:21-25; 9:1-4; 2 Bar. 25-29; 32; 48:31-41; T.  Moses 8-9; 1QM I,12; XV,1; m. Soṭ. 9:15. See further on this D. C.  A llison, The End of the Ages Has Come (Philadelphia, 1985) 5-25; B.  P itre , Jesus, the Tribulation, and the End of the Exile (Grand Rapids, 2005) 41-130. 35.  Cf. Isa. 35:4; 40-49-10; Zech. 14:5; 1 En. 1:3-9; 25:3; Jub. 1:26-28; T.  Levi 5:2; T.  Moses 10:1-12; Tg. Isa. on 31:4; 40:9; 52:7. See discussions in J. Schlosser , Le règne de Dieu dans les dits de Jésus (Paris, 1980) 268-284; J. Dupont, Le beatitudini. I. Il problema letterario. II La buona novella (Cinisello Balsamo, 1992) 648656. 36.  A cumulative argument leads me to think that he definitely did. (1) Matt. 3:2 and Luke 3:18 portray John speaking, respectively, of the kingdom of God and the good news, though the redactional character of both these passages is quite certain – however, is it possible that some historical reminiscence stands behind these

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–, and certainly visions of judgment and restoration were not lacking in his preaching. 37 What is striking is rather that some sayings of Jesus display the same images employed by John concerning a purification by fire and a future, distressing immersion that Jesus felt he had to undergo (Mark 9:49; 10:38-39; Luke 12:49-50; Gos. Thom. 10; 82). 38 Thus, the eschatological scenario was the same. But what about the implications? John’s task was to make Israel ready for the coming of convergent redactional compositions? (2) In Luke 11:1b, the Lord’s prayer is introduced by a request of a disciple of Jesus to be taught to pray καθὼς καὶ ᾿Ιωάννης ἐδίδαξεν τοὺς μαθητὰς αὐτοῦ. As a minority of scholars have argued, this could be taken in the sense that they asked to be taught the same prayer that John had taught his own disciples. (3) The fact that Mt 21:31c-32 draws a causal link between the entry of tax-collectors and prostitutes in the kingdom of God and their having believed in John, suggests that the announcement of the kingdom was indeed part of John’s message. (4) The controversial saying on “the violent ones” in Q 16:16 links the kingdom of God to the person of John: in what sense? Maybe John’s suffering (here implied) has inaugurated the kingdom in its provisionally hidden, vulnerable and chaotic form (i.e. the tribulation)? Or perhaps what in John has started to be ostracized is not the kingdom itself but rather its proclamation? Only the latter interpretation strictly implies that John announced the kingdom of God, but the former does not rule it out. (5) Within the gospel tradition Isaiah 40:3 LXX has a place of prominence as a hermeneutical key for the person and ministry of John, and this quotation naturally resonates with the strong salvific atmosphere of the whole chapter 40, which is very close to the idea of the kingdom of God (see Tg. Isa. 40:9: “the kingdom of your God is revealed”). It may be that John himself interpreted Isa. 40 (in addition to Mal. 3:1) in relation to his ministry. (6) As Josephus reports, Herod Antipas arrested John because of the extraordinary excitement that his speeches aroused among the populace. However, it would be very difficult to explain such enthusiasm, as well as Antipas’ fear, if John’s rhetorical arsenal consisted only of harsh invectives and gloomy warnings of judgment. Something like the announcement of God’s kingdom or the restoration of the twelve tribes surely had to be part of the picture. (7) Finally, in light of what has been argued so far regarding John’s deep and enduring influence on Jesus, it is highly unlikely that the very core theme of Jesus’ preaching owed absolutely nothing to his master. 37.  Cf. Q 10:2; 10:13-15; 11:31-32; 12:8-9; 13:29, 28; 17:26-30, 34-35; 22:28, 30; Mark 4:26-29; 8:38; Matt. 13:24-30 (original parable possibly in vv. 24b, 26, 30b); 13:47-48; Luke 13:1-5, 6-9; Gv 4:35; Gos. Thom. 57; 73. 38. See J.  D.  G.  Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids, 2003) 802-809; D. C.  A llison, Constructing Jesus: Memory, Imagination, and History (Grand Rapids, 2010) 274-278. Allison suggests that Jesus not only took over John’s conception of an imminent eschatological purification in a fiery stream, but he may also have identified himself as the Coming One prophesied by John. This I find very doubtful. Even if one allows for a certain overlapping in that Jesus, according to Luke 12:49 and Gos. Thom. 10, apparently conceived his activity as directly involved in the outpouring of the eschatological fire on earth (just as it was involved in the breaking-in of the kingdom), he nonetheless clearly expected he had to undergo himself that fiery baptism. But nothing suggests that John conceived the Coming One as someone subjected to his own baptism – understandably enough, if that Coming One was YHWH.

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God. In face of that, the whole people needed to be restored to a condition of integral holiness. To this end both moral purity (inner righteousness) and ritual purity were important and required. But John’s emphasis fell clearly on righteousness. Without a pure heart, the body could never be made clean, any immersion would be useless. 39 John was first of all a “teacher of righteousness” (cf. Ant. 18:117; Luke 1:17b; 3:10-14; Matt. 21:32; Mark 6:18.20), addressing those who disregarded Torah and who were unfaithful to the covenant: i.e. the sinners. Immersion was devised specifically for them – rather than for all and everyone  4 0 –, as the final stage that would cleanse their bodies once their heart had become pure. 41 The same prioritization of inner, moral purity over (but not against) outer, ritual purity surfaces in the Jesus tradition as well (cf. Mark 7:15; [Q] Matt. 23:25-26 // Luke 11:39-41). 42 39.  On this, see especially J. E. Taylor , The Immerser: John the Baptist within Second Temple Judaism (Grand Rapids, 1997), esp. 49-100. More than any other scholar, Joan Taylor has contributed to a long overdue reappraisal of John’s baptism as having to do, just like all Jewish immersions, with ritual or bodily purity, as Flavius Josephus’ description in Ant. 18:117 clearly states. It is important to note that, in Taylor’s view, John conceived his immersion to be effective in cleansing the body of ritual defilement resulting from the common sources of impurity (seminal emissions, menstruation, childbirth), and not from moral impurity due to sin and wickedness, and neither from some sort of special sin-generated impurity that may have affected the body of the sinner, as some have argued. John’s thrust seemed to have rather been that, as long as one lacks righteousness in his heart and behavior, it is totally futile to undertake any act of ritual purification (and it should be kept in mind that, in Second Temple times, ritual purity was something widely valued, as archaeological findings have demonstrated): God will not accept it; it will not work. In Jesus’ words: “first cleanse the inside of the cup, so that its outside may be clean as well” (Q/Matt. 23:26). 40.  “John called the disobedient to repent and follow the Law, but at no point in our sources does he consider that only those who come to him will be counted as God’s servants. Nor does he insist that the righteous come to him for immersion to ensure their own salvation, as if immersion functioned like some kind of ‘seal’. If they were righteous, then they did not need immersion” (J. E. Taylor , The Immerser: John the Baptist within Second Temple Judaism [Grand Rapids, 1997] 203). 41. Cf. M. Pesce , “Gesù e il sacrificio giudaico,” in: I d., Da Gesù al cristianesimo [Brescia, 2011] 103-104: “L’immersione in acqua – il cosiddetto battesimo – è parte integrante di un processo religioso unitario, ma ne è solo una parte. L’intero processo aveva per scopo di porre in stato di purità completa e di obbedienza rigorosa alla Torah i singoli che vi si sottoponevano e che dovevano passare attraverso: a) un riconoscimento interiore dei peccati; b) probabilmente una confessione pubblica dei medesimi (Mt 3,6); c) una conversione interiore, che comportava un ritorno a un rispetto rigoroso della Torah di Mosè (Ant. XVIII 118); d) un insieme di atti di giustizia sociale (cr. diakiosunê in Ant. XVIII 117; Lc 3,10-14) intesi in senso riparatorio al fine di praticare la legge in modo rigoroso, secondo l’interpretazione del Battista; e) infine l’immersione in acqua corrente del fiume”. 42. See J. E. Taylor-F.  A dinolfi, “John the Baptist and Jesus the Baptist: A Narrative Critical Approach,” in Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 10

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Baptism was therefore not an “eschatological sacrament” effecting the remission of sins, and even less a sort of emergency exit that God left open to individual Jews while Israel as a nation was irremediably lost and doomed, as a very widespread interpretation maintains. Against that, it is my contention that John stood firmly within covenantal nomism: Israel was still God’s people, the covenant was not broken, the temple was not useless, being descendants of Abraham was not insignificant – provided that one also imitates Abraham’s righteousness –, and his fellow Israelites were not sinners decayed into pagans and therefore needing to receive what later would become the rabbinic proselyte baptism. Such an alienated John as we find in many scholarly portraits, may well be the sort of figure that some Christians would like to posit as a living bridge from Judaism to Christianity – but that’s certainly not the historical John, the holy prophet who excited the hopes of his people, and the righteous teacher about whom even the Jerusalem priest Josephus could only speak well. Sure, John must have been annoying and disturbing to someone – besides Herod Antipas, of course –, but I think it was especially those who were not very happy with the radical demands of his social agenda, according to which anyone who had goods just above his basic needs (e.g. two tunics, some extra food) should share them with those who had none (Luke 3:10-11). And it is here that we find an aspect of his ministry which is indeed of wider and general impact, as Luke 3:10-11 confirms by having John address these words to the crowds in general, rather than to specific categories of sinners like soldiers or tax collectors, as in the following verses. Again, the same can be said for Jesus. Mark 2:17 is very clear: “I came not to call the righteous, but the sinners”. It was the lost sheep within the house of Israel that he was sent to (Matt. 15:24). His attention and efforts were primarily aimed at leading into repentance those who, by disregarding the Law, were actively involved in the socio-economic oppression of the people. 43 Here Zacchaeus naturally comes to mind. Being an (2012) 247-284, esp. 266-269; D. Catchpole , Jesus People: The Historical Jesus and the Beginnings of Community (London, 2006) 196-202. James Crossley’s reply to Jonathan Klawans captures the key point: “According to Klawans, Jesus nowhere defends ritual purity as a symbol of moral purity. Prioritizing moral purity, without underscoring any connection between ritual and moral purity, leaves ritual purity without a leg to stand on. I would be reluctant to endorse this fully in terms of the earliest Palestinian tradition […] In a context where basic purity laws are simply assumed, this would not be an issue. Yet once removed from such a context then Klawans’ point becomes more significant” (J.  G. Crossley, Jesus and the Chaos of History: Redirecting the Life of the Historical Jesus [Oxford, 2015] 133. 43.  “The sinners are not the ordinary masses but rather the rich and presumably the oppressive rich […] Jesus aimed his teaching on law and wealth at rich people to provoke them into repentance and law observance oriented to the poor before it was too late” (J. G. Crossley, Why Christianity Happened: A Sociohistorical Account

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ἀρχιτελώνης, Zacchaeus certainly played a big part in the systemic oppression of his own folk. What is striking is that not only does he repent and agree to make fourfold restitution to anyone he had defrauded (far more than the Law required), but he even decides to give to the poor half of what remains after such restitutions. It is precisely for this reason that Jesus declares him to be “a son of Abraham”.  4 4 This is remarkable: a son of Abraham is one who repents, who returns to the Law and who performs concrete deeds of radical generosity as a result of his rediscovered faithfulness to the covenant. According to Jesus, Law observance was inseparable from a radical attitude of solidarity and sharing with the people in need, and therefore incompatible with the pursuit of wealth. 45 And such was precisely the view of John. of Christian Origins (26-50 ce) [Louisville, 2006] 89, 95-96. Crossley perfectly summarizes the perspective in which Jesus’ nomistic attitude is to be understood: “Jesus’ concern to uphold the law […] was in part a reaction to the perception of Gentile/Roman-endorsed wealth and exploitation, alongside a reaction to the commercialization of Jesus’ Galilean surroundings. […] Torah must be observed and understood in light of social justice […] through the eyes of the exploited poor” (p. 62, 65). On Jesus’ strategy of social renewal – particularly as focused on reforming the households by demanding the practice of a radical hospitality – see further A. Destro -M. P esce , Encounters with Jesus: The Man in His Place and Time (Minneapolis, 2012) 125-127. 44. Sanders’ notoriously controversial proposal that Jesus did not ask sinners to repent has rightly met widespread resistance. The repentance motif is attested enough across the synoptic tradition (Mark 1:15; 6:12; Q 10:13-15; 11:31-32; 15:45, 7; Luke 13:1-5, 6-9; 15:8-9, 11-32) and cannot be dismissed, as Sanders tends to do, as wholesale Lukan redaction. More importantly, whatever its numerical incidence may be, the repentance demand is a necessary condition in order to keep together two indisputable aspects of Jesus’ ministry that otherwise would be at odds: Jesus’ association to the sinners – which no doubt included people responsible for oppressing the poor – on the one hand, and his radical denunciation of wealth (cf. Mark 10:25; Q 16:13; 17:26-30; Luke 6:24-25; 12:16-20; Luke 16:1931) and attention to the poor on the other. Is it remotely conceivable that Jesus pronounced his beatitudes to the poor, hungry and mournful (Q 6:20-21), while at the same time banqueting cheerfully with their oppressors? Sanders’ objection that, had Jesus been a successful reformer of dishonest tax-collectors, then everyone would have applauded him as a national hero, rather than criticize him, misses the mark. Criticisms leveled against Jesus’ habit of associating with sinners (to bring them to repentance), can be adequately explained both in terms of factional rivalry (each wicked person who adhered to Jesus’ movement and its vision of righteousness was one person less among the Pharisees’ ranks) and as a mere effect of the powerful inertia of social stigma (once a sinner, always so). Similar considerations in: J. G. Crossley, Jesus and the Chaos of History: Redirecting the Life of the Historical Jesus (Oxford, 2015) 110-111. 45.  Cf. Q 16:13; Mark 10:17-22; Luke 14:12-14 (and its counterexample in the wicked business-as-usual people of Q 17:26-30); Luke 16:19-31. See also the whole (fairly chiastically arranged) cluster Q 16:13, 16-18, which illustrates the foresaid socioeconomically grounded nomistic attitude: (A) radical fidelity: God or wealth;

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Therefore, so far, I would say we have a very good match between the aims of John and the aims of Jesus. The eschatological outlook is the same, the target of leading sinners into repentance and the program of social renewal were also very much the same. The big difference, apparently, is that John was a baptizer, while Jesus made a name for himself as an exorcist and healer. However, there are reasons to think that the difference was not as wide as it seems. As already noted, there are some traces here and there suggesting that John himself may have performed some exorcisms or healings: he enjoyed the reputation of being endowed with “the power and spirit of Elijah” (Luke 1:17), while in his critics’ hostile but complementary evaluation he had a demon (Q 7:33). Moreover, the rationale for the identification of Jesus as John by the Galilean people has to do with the powers at work in Jesus (διὰ τοῦτο ἐνεργοῦσιν αἱ δυνάμεις ἐν αὐτῷ), while the Fourth Gospel’s apologetic statement that “John did no sign” (John 10:41) suggests rather that the opposite was the case. But there are also reasons to think that Jesus was himself a baptizer during his ministry in Galilee.  4 6 Indeed it is intriguing to see how the Gospel of Mark repeatedly places Jesus along the lake of Galilee and in wilderness places, where huge crowds reach out to him 47 – just like with John! The fact that Mark does not tell of any immersion performed by Jesus in the lake is well explained by his Christological agenda: Mark wants to present Jesus as the powerful baptizer in the holy spirit throughout his exorcistic and healing campaign. After such a sensational upgrade, (B) with John begins the kingdom as the fulfillment of the Law & the Prophets, but violent/powerful people oppose it; (B’) unswerving validity of the Law; (A’): radical fidelity: no remarrying as a means of social climbing. See also the alternative version of the dialogue with the rich, quoted by Origen in Commentary on Matthew 15:14 (from the Gospel of the Hebrews or, alternatively, the Gospel of the Nazareans), which captures very well the spirit of Jesus’ attitude to the Law: “… How can you say ‘I have kept the law and the prophets?’. For it is written in the law, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself ’. And look, many of your brothers, sons of Abraham, are clothed in excrement and dying of hunger while your house is filled with many good things, not one of which goes forth to these others”. 46.  In what follows I briefly summarize the arguments more fully developed in: J. E. Taylor-F. A dinolfi, “John the Baptist and Jesus the Baptist: A Narrative Critical Approach,” in Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 10 (2012) 247-284. For other recent supporters of the “Jesus the Baptist” hypothesis, see: J.  MurphyO’Connor , “John the Baptist and Jesus: History and Hypotheses,” in New Testament Studies 36 (1990) 359-374; R. T. France , “Jesus the Baptist?,” in J. B. GreenM. Turner , eds, Jesus of Nazareth Lord and Christ: Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology (Grand Rapids, 1994) 94-111; J.  P.  M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol. 2: Mentor, Message, and Miracles (New York, 1994) 126-129; G. H. Twelftree , “Jesus the Baptist,” Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 7 (2009) 103-125. 47.  Cf. Mark 1:4-5; 1:45; 2:13; 3:7-10; 4:1-2; (5:1-20); 5:21; 6:32-36; 8:14.

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it was absolutely unsuitable to have Jesus still immersing in water. However, Mark was not able to make up from scratch a different framework for his story, and so left unaltered the water and wilderness scenarios originally tied to Jesus’ baptismal (and healing) ministry. Exorcisms and healings, however, originally went hand in hand with immersion. They were different remedies for different cases. Some people could become pure simply by repenting and immersing, while exorcism and healing came into play for people possessed by unclean spirits or afflicted by other chronic diseases. But they really were all equally part of a single program of thorough purification of the people prior to the coming of God. 48 If this hypothesis is accepted, we can well understand why the Galilean people were ready to see in Jesus the return of John, but we are also able to appreciate in a new light what Jesus meant when he promised to his disciples to make them “fishers of men” (Mark 1:17), in quite a literal sense. It is my contention that such a water-and-spirit baptizing Jesus, who took over John’s program of preparing a renewed and thoroughly purified Israel for the imminent coming of God’s kingdom, offers a historically credible picture that accounts for the Gospels’ data in a consistent way, without playing features of the Jesus tradition off against others (healings 48. This proposal has the considerable advantage of synthetizing into a consistent picture two aspects of Jesus’ activity – immersions and exorcisms/healings – that have been so far considered as more or less incompatible and therefore assigned to alleged different phases of Jesus’ ministry. See especially: P.  W. Hollenbach, “The Conversion of Jesus: From Jesus the Baptizer to Jesus the Healer,” in W. H aase-H. Temporini, eds, Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt, II.19.1 (Berlin, 1982) 850-875; and also (though arguing for continuity rather than break with John’s eschatological outlook) G. H. Twelftree , “Jesus the Baptist,” Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 7 (2009) 103-125. According to these scholars, Jesus stopped baptizing precisely as he became convinced, on the basis of the astonishingly success of his exorcisms and healings, that the kingdom of God had already broke in. Accordingly, since the kingdom was already here, future-oriented baptism became soon irrelevant and obsolete. A major problem for such theories – besides the arbitrariness of any attempt to split Jesus’ ministry in a succession of different phases – is the exaggerated emphasis on the realized dimension of Jesus’ eschatology to the detriment of the future one. Against this, we maintain that even “if Jesus thought that the incredible success of his powerful deeds testified that the Kingdom of God had already started breaking in, this would not make the process of achieving inner and outer purity in preparation of the eschaton – through repentance, remission of sins (forgiveness) and water immersion – entirely obsolete. An eschatology in the process of being realized (an inaugurated one) would imply an even more heightened expectation towards its fulfilment, and this makes the role of baptism all the more relevant. Only the full manifestation of the eschaton could bring to an end the preparatory function of John’s baptism” (J. E. Taylor-F.  A dinolfi, “John the Baptist and Jesus the Baptist: A Narrative Critical Approach,” in Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 10 (2012) 247-284, 250).

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and exorcisms vs. baptizing, kingdom vs. judgment, present eschatology vs. future eschatology, concern for the sinners vs. call to repentance, social inclusiveness vs. purity) or, alternatively, scattering the evidence through different, arbitrarily drawn, phases of Jesus’ ministry. As this paper has hopefully shown, the aims and vision of Jesus were by and large the aims and vision of John. In no way is this meant to deny to Jesus some original thinking, distinct emphases and autonomous traits (although it is tricky, if not altogether flawed, to establish such points by way of contrast to John, as has been argued above). I do not wish to present Jesus as a carbon copy of John, and no claim has been made here concerning such a delicate issue as Jesus’ self-understanding. What I have rather argued for is a new way of looking at Jesus that interprets his activity as a whole within the matrix of the movement initiated by John. The Baptist’s project for Israel was, in Jesus’ eyes, definitely a good one, worthy of being carried on. And this he did. Jesus was John’s successor and continuer. Perhaps much more than that. Certainly nothing less. 4. F rom J oh n

to

J e sus

and

B ack (a n d F ort h)

John the Baptist was the prophetic leader of a Jewish renewal movement, who enjoyed wide support among the populace as well as a certain respect among the elites. He was primarily engaged in a penitential and baptismal mission, aiming on the one hand at recovering religiously marginal people – many of whom (though not all) were responsible of socioeconomic exploitation and oppression – by urging them to repent and return to an adequate observance of the Law; while, on the other hand, he took care of socially marginal people through a program of solidarity and sharing which would guarantee to everyone access to the basic provisions of life. John’s activity was, therefore, completely oriented around helping the people achieve that thorough state of righteousness and purity – inner, outer, and social – which, in his view, was absolutely and urgently required in preparation of the imminent coming of YHWH, with its concomitant eschatological purgation in a fiery spirit that would effect the judgment and result in the restoration of Israel. Once John had been violently put off the stage by Antipas, Jesus of Nazareth, one of his disciples – indeed, one who already stood out as a senior assistant and likely prophetic heir – took over the interrupted work of his master and brought his program of renewal right into the heart of Antipas’ Galilee, moving on among the fishermen’s villages and their deserted surroundings around the waters of Kinneret, with large crowds reaching out to him, as if the Jordan days had never passed. An impres-

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sion shared by many, judging from the excited rumours circulating among the Galilean folk: “Elijah is back! John has been raised from the dead!”. 49 In bringing our discussion to a close, it can be safely concluded that in almost every regard – eschatological, ethical, social, exorcistic and baptismal – Jesus’ activity was completely consistent with John’s, to the point that his mission can be properly seen as a direct continuation of John’s 49.  It will be evident from this brief sketch that I do not consider historically reliable the so-called embassy of John’s disciples to Jesus, which is usually deemed authentic on the basis of the alleged “doubtful Baptist” that it portrays. No matter how widely endorsed, this scholarly opinion suffers seriously from a lack consideration of the place of Q 7:18-23 within its compositional context, that is to say, the finely chiastically arranged first part of Q (3:2.3-7:35, see above note 19). But once the passage is duly taken within the structure and overall argumentative progression of its context (see J. S. K loppenborg, Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel [Edinburgh, 2000] 122-124), it becomes immediately clear how misleading is to read it as depicting a doubtful John who receives a stern warning by Jesus. Were it so, John’s credibility would be utterly damaged and the whole argumentative structure of the section would collapse on itself! Far from representing John as doubtful or skeptic, the scene in Q 7:18-23 has been designed by the Q redactor as the climatic moment of the section where the Q hearers and readers are led – via the loyal and totally reliable enquiry of John – to accept the revelation of Jesus as the Coming One that John had prophesied at the outset. It is to them, rather than John, that the warning beatitude of v. 23 is addressed. They are the ones who are called to pass from their potential status as a “progeny of vipers” (3:7) to the one of “children of Wisdom” (7:35), while concerning the status of John there can be no doubt at all for the hearer/reader of Q: Jesus himself solemnly declares him to be “more than a prophet” (7:27) and the greatest man ever (7:28), unreservedly aligning himself to him against the unbelieving “this generation” (7:31-35). However, the content of Jesus’ reply in Q 7:22 may well represent a piece of authentic tradition (so J. Becker , Jesus of Nazareth [Berlin, 1998] 111) employed by the Q redactor to argue his case for Jesus as the Coming One prophesied by John, despite the incongruity in respect to John’s original expectation [the coming of God]. As Kloppenborg aptly remarks: “Q seems aware of the fact that Jesus does not fit John’s description of the ‘Coming One’, but wishes nonetheless to affirm the equation” (p. 123). Even those who doubt the existence of Q may do well to suspend their assent to our scene’s historicity, not only because a doubtful John is out of place in Matthew as much as in Q, but it should also be appreciated that there are historical problems in Matthew’s reference to John being imprisoned but nonetheless apparently free to communicate as he wishes with his disciples. Although prisoners in antiquity were in general allowed to receive visits and indeed expected to be fed by their family or friends, it is however hardly thinkable that Antipas may have let John freely to communicate with his followers as he liked, when it is precisely the exciting and potentially seditious effect of Johns’ speeches that led to his arrest (cf. Ant. 18:118: “because he [Herod] feared that his great persuasiveness with the people might lead to some kind of strife (for they seemed as if they would everything which he counseled)”; trans. by L. H. Feldman). Among the few scholars who rightly doubt the historicity of “John’s embassy”, see K.  Backhaus , “Echoes from the Wilderness: The Historical John the Baptist,” in T. Holmén-S. E.  Porter , eds, Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus. Vol. 2 (Leiden, 2011) 1783-1784.

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prematurely beheaded work. Although some aspects may well be more characteristic of Jesus than it appears to be the case with John (as far as we can tell) – e.g. the centrality of exorcisms or his proverbial commensality with sinners – even in these instances it can be maintained that Jesus remained within the boundaries of John’s mission. If one were pressed to detect some kind of development, it is perhaps the more pronounced millenarian traits of his ministry that should be pointed out. 50 Having interpreted the tragic death of his mentor as the sign of the eschatological tribulation of which John had spoken – and which he felt it was now his own turn to undergo – Jesus possibly experienced an even more radical intensification of John’s imminent expectation. Convinced as he was of standing in a further phase of the eschatological drama, Jesus believed he could see around him the crop ready for the endtime harvest – with his own person and work as the dividing line between salvation and ruin. It is probably in such a mood of fervent expectation that Jesus and his disciples came to Jerusalem (cf. Luke 19:11) in what would actually turn out to be the end – though of his own life rather than the world’s –, proclaiming God’s kingdom to come in power on that very Passover, 51 and thereby handing himself over to the quite predictable consequences of such an explosive announcement. And so, it happened that what John had started as a reform movement – no doubt eschatologically driven – to restore righteousness in the lives and social relationship of the people before the fire of God’s holiness broke out (cf. Sir. 48:10), eventually evolved, under his successor, into a millenarian flame akin to those of other utopian prophets who, in the years to come, catalyzed the hopes of the Jewish people by promising to see the tokens of the long-awaited deliverance. A flame, however, that unexpectedly did not burn out.

50.  For recent interpretations of Jesus and his movement in millenaristic terms, see D. C.  A llison, Jesus of Nazareth: Millenarian Prophet (Minneapolis, 1998); R.  Aguirre , Dal movimento di Gesù alla chiesa cristiana (Roma, 2005) 42-51; G. Theissen, Gesù e il suo movimento. Storia sociale di una rivoluzione di valori (Torino, 2007) 91-105. Cf. also E. Eve , The Healer from Nazareth: Jesus’ Miracles in Historical Context (London, 2009) 129-144. 51. See P.  Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews: A Jewish Life and the Emergence of Christianity (New York, 1999) 241-259; P.  Bilde , The Originality of Jesus: A Critical Discussion and a Comparative Attempt (Göttingen, 2013) 149-152.

T HE PARABLE OF THE T WO SONS AND THE QUEST FOR THE AUTHENTIC PARABLES OF JESUS G.  M assinelli Jesus taught in parables (Mark 4:2). The presence of the parables in the Synoptics is so pervasive that nobody would dare refute the historical truth of this Markan statement. This is the conviction that inspired Joachim Jeremias’ programmatic ouverture of his study on the parables: “The student of the parables of Jesus […] stands upon a particularly firm historical foundation.” 1 This rosy picture, unfortunately, is somewhat upset when exegetes consider individual parables and try to assess whether Jesus did speak them or not. It is striking that the “democratic” approach of the Jesus Seminar to the historicity of the parables produced quite a broad distribution, with only 5 parables “undoubtedly” from Jesus, 16 “probably” authentic, 7 not deriving from Jesus but with ideas that are “close to his own,” and 6 that reflect “a later or different tradition.” 2 Despite some reservations, most parables still hold their place as the main vehicle of Jesus’ genuine teaching. Yet, how do interpreters decide whether a parable was “probably” or even “undoubtedly” spoken by Jesus? The literature on the parables provides a well-established set of criteria that, ultimately, are rooted in form criticism. 3 These criteria are based on two interconnected assumptions. The first is properly form critical and is expressed in C. H. Dodd’s famous words: “At its simplest the parable is a metaphor or simile drawn from nature or common life, arresting the hearer by its vividness or strangeness, and leaving the mind in sufficient doubt about its precise application to tease it into active thought”. 4

Second, interpreters tend to think that the gospel writers applied the parables to their situation by adding introductions and, especially, inter1. J. Jeremias , The Parables of Jesus (rev. ed.; New York, 1963) 11. 2.  R. W. Funk-B. B. Scott-J. R. Butts , The Parables of Jesus: Red Letter Edition (Sonoma, 1988) 21, 26-27. 3. For instance, R. W. Funk-B. B. Scott-J. R. Butts , The Parables of Jesus: Red Letter Edition (Sonoma, 1988) 16-19; A. J. Hultgren, The Parables of Jesus: A Commentary (Grand Rapids, 2000) 5-11; K. Snodgrass , Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus (Grand Rapids, 2008) 17-22. 4.  C. H. Dodd, The Parables of the Kingdom (New York, 1961) 5. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 223-240.

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pretative conclusions (nimshalim) to the original material. This intrusion of form criticism produces a subtle shift in the question of authenticity. Exegetes tend to assume that a parable was spoken by Jesus and attempt to establish whether and in what ways the gospel writers adapted it for their ideological agenda. In other words, the aim of historical analysis is not to evaluate the genuineness of the parables but to “recover,” as far as possible, the original parables as they were uttered by Jesus, freeing them of later traditions and redactional elements. The assumed gap between Jesus and the gospel writers fuels suspicion towards all possible theological features of the parables – unless they happen to conform with the message of Jesus as understood by interpreters – and towards most closing interpretations that are appended to parables, because, it is assumed, “Jesus himself never explicitly tells us how he meant them to be understood,” and “interpretative conclusions are always secondary.” 5 Although it is plausible that the genuine parables of Jesus were mostly characterized by a common form, the assumption that form can be an indicator of authenticity is a non sequitur. There is no reason why gospel writers, or other tradents, could not produce texts in every aspect similar to Jesus’ parables. Analogously, the presumption that Jesus did not offer interpretations of his parables is questionable, especially in view of the fact that parables in the Hebrew Bible, early Christianity, and early Judaism often provide such conclusions. 6 Rather, the authenticity of the gospel parables, as well as their interpretative conclusions, is to be assessed with more reliable tools of historical analysis. This study applies the historical-critical method to a specific test case, the Parable of the Two Sons (Matt 21:28-32), to show that these common assumptions about the parables can be, and in this case are, misleading. The Parable of the Two Sons is a short parable that Matthew introduces into the Markan sequence between the dispute over John’s baptism and the Parable of the Wicked Tenants. Its text is as follows: “What do you think? A man had two children. He went to the first and said: ‘Child, go and work in my vineyard today.’ 29 But he replied: ‘I will not.’ Yet afterward, he changed his mind and went. 30 And he went to the other and asked the same. And he replied: ‘I will, Lord.’ But he did not go. 31 Which of the two did the will of the father?” They say: “The first.” Jesus says to them: “Truly, I say to you that toll-collectors and prostitutes go ahead of you into the kingdom of God. 32 For John came to you in the way of righteousness, but you did not believe him, while toll-collectors and 28

5.  R. W. Funk-B. B. Scott-J. R. Butts , The Parables of Jesus: Red Letter Edition (Sonoma, 1988) 17-18. Emphasis added. 6. K. Snodgrass , Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus (Grand Rapids, 2008) 34-35.

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prostitutes believed him. But you, even though you had seen, you did not change your mind afterward so as to believe him.” 7 7.  The text-critical difficulties of the Parable of the Two Sons are well known. Regardless of some minor variants typical of any New Testament text, the various witnesses present three substantially different versions of this parable. In the version of Codex Bezae and a few translations, the Jewish leaders claim that the son who did the will of his father is the one who disobeyed. This appears to be nonsensical and a lectio difficillima. While this could be an intriguing turn in the narrative, it has no resonances in the following text, so it is reasonably safe to consider this text form secondary. Moreover, the same witnesses omit the negative in v. 32 and thus imply that the Jewish leaders did believe in John the Baptist, which suggests a deliberate amendment of the text that rehabilitates the Jewish leaders (W. G. Olmstead, Matthew’s Trilogy of Parables: The Nation, the Nations and the Reader in Matthew 21.28-22.14 [Cambridge, 2003] 170). P. De M artin De Viviés presents arguments in support of Bezae’s reading (“Les deux fils envoyés à la vigne (Mt 21,28-32): Une parabole dans tous ses états,” Revue théologique de Louvain 46 [2015] 84-96). The rest of the witnesses present two alternative forms of the parable in which the order of the two sons is inverted. In the version of Codex Sinaiticus and its allies (C K L M W Z Δ Π ƒ1 28 33 Byz. (lat) sy p.h sa mss mae), the first son refuses to go into the vineyard but later goes, while the second agrees but does not go. In the version of Codex Vaticanus and its allies (B Θ ƒ13 700 (lat) sa mss bo), the first son agrees to go but does not, while the second refuses but goes. The external evidence is inconclusive. W. E. L angley suggests that the change between the two versions was intentional and that “the solution is rather to be found in the workings of Christian theology than in the principles of textual criticism” (“The Parable of the Two Sons (Matthew 21:28-32) against Its Semitic and Rabbinic Backdrop,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 58 [1996] 230). The most compelling argument in support of the Sinaiticus version is that copyists may have changed the order of the sons so as to reflect the chronological order of salvation history – first (disobedient) Jews, then (obedient) Gentiles – the opposite reordering being counterintuitive (W. G. Olmstead, Matthew’s Trilogy of Parables: The Nation, the Nations and the Reader in Matthew 21.28-22.14 [Cambridge, 2003] 171; R. H. Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church under Persecution [2nd ed.; Grand Rapids, 1994] 421; J. K. Elliott, “The Parable of the Two Sons: Text and Exegesis,” in A. Denaux, ed., New Testament Textual Criticism and Exegesis: Festschrift J. Delobel [Leuven, 2002] 73). Contrary to this view, some scholars remark that Matthew could have been aware of the salvation-historical order and have implemented it himself in his original text (P. Foster , “A Tale of Two Sons,” New Testament Studies 47 [2001] 33; J. K. Elliott, “The Parable of the Two Sons: Text and Exegesis,” in A. Denaux, ed., New Testament Textual Criticism and Exegesis: Festschrift J. Delobel [Leuven, 2002] 73). This position assumes that Matthew had a view of the relationship between Jews and Gentiles similar to later Christianity (e.g., Origen, ComMt 17:4-5), which is possible but not self-evident. Moreover, the opposite change, i.e., against the salvation-historical order, is more difficult to explain as a scribal amendment. In an attempt to surmount this last obstacle, Paul Foster hypothesizes that the Sinaiticus version was the original, pre-Matthean form of the parable that “resurfaced subsequent to the Matthean composition and intruded itself on the evangelist’s [salvation-historically reordered] form of the parable” (P. Foster , “A Tale of Two Sons,” New Testament Studies 47 [2001] 33). Foster’s reconstruction seems unnecessarily labyrinthine and laden with too many

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The pericope Matt 21:28-32 contains the parable proper, vv. 28-31b, and two logia, v. 31c and v. 32. Form-critically, this parable exhibits virtually all the characteristics of the parables of Jesus as listed by Klyne Snodgrass: 8 1) It is very short and concise, with no waste of words.

2) It is extraordinarily simple and symmetric, with the two sons acting in opposite ways. 3) It focuses on humans. 4) It is taken from everyday life. 5) It engages the hearers by requiring them to pass judgment on the behavior of the sons. 6) It implements reversal. 7) The second son’s refusal is the crucial matter. 8) It is contextualized in the dispute with the Jewish authorities over the ministry of the Baptist. 9) It is theocentric and focuses on the response to God’s will. 10) It alludes to the Hebrew Bible through the motif of the vineyard. 11) Together with the Wicked Tenants and the Wedding Banquet, it appears in a collection of three interconnected parables.

Few parables can compare with the Parable of the Two Sons as exemplars of form-critical perfection. On the other hand, the presence of two juxtaposed interpretative conclusions raises serious doubts about the original unity of the pericope. In particular, the reference to John the Baptist seems a rather clumsy attempt to relate the Parable of the Two Sons to questionable assumptions to be convincing. Other scholars prefer the Vaticanus version on the basis of an alleged parallelism with the following two parables, the Wicked Tenants and the Wedding Banquet. Matthew would have aligned the first parable to the others by introducing the disobedient character first and then the obedient one, according to the pattern of the following parables (P. Foster , “A Tale of Two Sons,” New Testament Studies 47 [2001] 36; W. G. Olmstead, Matthew’s Trilogy of Parables: The Nation, the Nations and the Reader in Matthew 21.2822.14 [Cambridge, 2003] 174). This observation has its merits but fails to persuade fully, since both sons in this parables are complex and contradictory characters. The son who obeys, for instance, initially rejects his father’s command, apparently mirroring the refusal of the wicked tenants and of those invited to the wedding banquet. To sum up, despite the high quality of the witnesses of the Vaticanus version, the Sinaiticus version enjoys a slightly greater external support and can explain the origin of both the Vaticanus version – by inversion of the sons – and the Bezae version – by change of the Jewish leaders’ answer. Furthermore, the salvation-historical order (Jew-Gentile) better supports the Vaticanus version as a theologically-inspired scribal intervention. In my view, the evidence favors the Sinaiticus version, which I adopt here. 8. K. Snodgrass , Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus (Grand Rapids, 2008) 17-22.

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the preceding discussion on John’s baptism (Matt 21:23-27). The logic of the parable does not appear to apply to v. 32: tax-collectors and prostitutes never said, “No,” to the Baptist, nor did the authorities ever say, “Yes,” to him. In light of these data, the vast majority of interpreters believe that the Parable of the Two Sons is genuinely from Jesus and cast doubts on the authenticity of one or both of the interpretations. Relatively few consider the whole pericope a Matthean creation. 9 Contrary to these evaluations, a close analysis of the Parable of the Two Sons through the lens of the historical-critical method will deliver completely different results. It will be argued that the first interpretative conclusion, v. 31c, is most likely an authentic logion from Jesus. Matthew interprets this logion in light of his exhortation to do God’s will and illustrates it narratively by creating the parable itself. Finally, v. 32 appears to be the redaction of a pre-Matthean tradition that connects the parable to the preceding pericope. These conclusions strikingly subvert the aforementioned assumptions of most parables scholarship, since they reverse the expected relationship between parable and nimshal. In this case, the nimshal is an authentic logion from Jesus, while the parable is a Matthean interpretation of the logion in narrative form. 1. Th e Two S ons a n d t h e Wi l l of (M at t 21:28-31 b)

the

Fat h e r

The first part of the Parable of the Two Sons (vv. 28-30) contains the parable, while the second includes the nimshal, which consists of two elements: the identification of the referents of the parable (v. 31c) and the reason for this identification (v. 32). 10 The parable proper also consists of two parts, each introduced by a question. The first one, “What do you think?” (v. 21:28a), is redactional and generic. However, it alerts the addressees that they are called to adopt a specific listening mode and express a judgment. In this sense, it anticipates the second, more specific question, “Which of the two did the will of the father?” (v. 31a), which makes explicit the point to be judged.

9. K. Snodgrass (Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus [Grand Rapids, 2008] 271 and 676, nn. 59-62) identifies four positions in scholarship: 1) vv. 28-32 are all Matthean; 2) vv. 28-31b are from Jesus, while vv. 31c-32 are from a later tradition or Matthew; 3) all from Jesus, but v. 32 originally belonged to a different context; 4) all from Jesus and belonging together. See also A. J. Hultgren, The Parables of Jesus: A Commentary (Grand Rapids, 2000) 223. 10.  B. B. Scott, Hear Then the Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus (Minneapolis, 1989) 82.

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The parable itself has a very clear parallel structure. 11 The parallelism between the encounters of the father with each son is so evident that their differences stand out as the most meaningful elements: 1) the two sons offer opposite verbal responses; 2) the first son repents, while the second does not. The interpretation in v. 32 explicitly refers to these two differences. The opposite replies of the two sons correspond to the belief of toll-collectors and prostitutes and to the unbelief of the Jewish leaders. The repentance of the first son (ὕστερον δὲ μεταμεληθείς) is paralleled by toll-collectors and prostitutes only implicitly, but the unrepentance of the second son is clearly applied to the Jewish leaders (οὐδὲ μετεμελήθητε ὕστερον). In a thorough study of the Matthean features of the Parable of the Two Sons, Helmut Merkel lists the main elements that suggest redactional intervention. 12 It is worth going over them briefly here while integrating further observations. v. 28: Τὶ δὲ ὑμῖν δοκεῖ; is a typical, Matthean redactional sentence. 13 This is not surprising because introductions to parables “exhibit an unusual 11.  W. D. Davies and D. C. A llison (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew [London, 1988-1997] 3:164) offer a clear schematization of the parable as follows: Premise: A man had two sons The first encounter and issue    The father went (προσελθών) to one son      The father said (εἶπεν): Go work in the vineyard        The son answered (ἀποκριθωὶς εἶπεν): ‘I will not’          But later he changed his mind and went (ἀπῆλθεν) The second encounter and issue    The father went (προσελθών) to the other son     The father spoke (εἶπεν) as before        The son answered (ἀποκριθεὶς εἶπεν): ‘I (will), Lord’          But he did not go (ἀπῆλθεν) I consider the abbreviation of the father’s request to the second son in ὡσαύτως a stylistic detail of no exegetical consequence. The Parable of the Two Sons has “a parallel plot” in which the two actions are narrated independently: the first begins and ends; then the second begins and ends. In this kind of plot, the two actions are often in “overt opposition” (M. A. Tolbert, Perspectives on the Parables: An Approach to Multiple Interpretations [Philadelphia, 1979] 74-76). Parallel plots naturally call for judgment, but in the case of the Parable of the Two Sons the introductory and final questions (vv. 28a and 31a) intensify the polemic undertones inherent in this kind of plot (K. Snodgrass , Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus [Grand Rapids, 2008] 13). 12. H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.2832),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 254-261. 13.  Matt 18:12 diff Luke 15:3; Matt 22:42 diff Mark 12:35; Matt 26:66 diff Mark 14:64. Similarly, τί σοι δοκεῖ; in Matt 17:25 no parallel; Matt 22:17 diff Mark 12:14. See H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.28-32),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 255.

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number of the stylistic peculiarities of the individual evangelists.” 14 Davies and Allison suggest that ἄνθρωπος is frequently editorial in Matthew, but the word is very common and their claim seems only based on its greater frequency in the first gospel. 15 προσελθών + εἶπεν is a common Matthean turn of phrase. 16 It is likely redactional in Matt 19:16 diff Mark 10:17 and in Matt 26:49 diff Mark 14:45. 17 The superlative πρῶτος is probably redactional in Matt 10:2; 22:38; and 27:64. 18 ὕπαγε + imperative is not very frequent in Matthew, but it is redactional in Matt 18:15 diff Luke 17:3 and occurs three times in Matthew’s Sondergut (Matt 5:24; 27:65; 28:10). 19 This command is the most striking connection with the Matthean Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard, which has the similar command, ὑπάγετε καὶ ὑμεῖς εἰς τὸν ἀμπελῶνα, twice (Matt 20:4,7). Moreover, the specific mention of the vineyard as a workplace connects the Parable of the Two Sons to the following Parable of the Wicked Tenants (Matt 21:33). v. 29: ὁ δὲ ἀποκριθεὶς εἶπεν is a common Matthean locution. 20 The expression of refusal, οὐ θέλω, connects the Parable of the Two Sons with the Parable of the Wedding Banquet, in which those invited to the feast refuse to go (οὐκ ἤθελον; Matt 22:3). The adverbial ὕστερον occurs 7 times in Matthew out of 11 in the New Testament. It is probably redactional in Matt 4:2 diff Luke 4:2 and Matt 26:60 diff Mark 14:57. 21 Within the Synoptics, μεταμέλομαι only occurs twice in the Parable of the Two Sons and once in the Matthean Sondergut (Matt 27:3). Moreover, the construction conjunct aorist participle + aorist indicative (here, 14. J. Jeremias , The Parables of Jesus (rev. ed.; New York, 1963) 98. 15.  W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 3:166. 16.  9 times: Matt 4:3; 8:19; 18:21; 19:16; 21:28,30; 25:22,24; 26:49; elsewhere, only once in Acts 22:27. 17. H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.2832),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 255; W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 3:166. 18.  W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 3:166. 19. H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.2832),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 255. 20. 17 times: Matt 4:4; 12:39,48; 13:11,37; 15:3,13,24,26; 16:2; 17:11; 19:4; 21:29,30; 24:2; 25:12; 26:23; only twice in Mark; three times in Luke; nowhere else in the New Testament. See H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.28-32),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 255; W. D. DaviesD. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 1:363. 21. H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.2832),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 256.

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μεταμεληθεὶς ἀπῆλθεν) is typically Matthean. 22 The verb ἀπέρχομαι is very common in Matthew and often redactional. 23 v. 30: προσελθών + εἶπεν, see v.  28. ὡσαύτως is redactional in Matt 21:36 diff Mark 12:4-5 and occurs twice in Matthew’s Sondergut (Matt 20:5; 25:17). 24 ὁ δὲ ἀποκριθεὶς εἶπεν, see v. 29. The vocative κύριε as an address to one’s father is unexpected and more suitable for a slave. 25 Its introduction into this context might be evidence that the parable comments on Matt  7:21, “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ [κύριε κύριε] will enter the kingdom of heaven, but one who does the will of my Father in heaven.” 26 v. 31: The construction τίς ἐκ + genitive is redactional in Matt 12:11 diff Mark 3:3. 27 Doing the will of the Father is a common Matthean theme (Matt 6:10; 7:21; 12:50; 18:14) that identifies the true disciples of Jesus. 28 The expression is probably redactional in Matt 7:21 diff Luke 6:46 and Matt 12:50 diff Mark 3:35. 29 The asyndetic use of λέγω is a typical Matthean feature. 30 In particular, the asyndetic introduction λέγουσιν is redactional in Matt 11:17 diff Luke 7:32 and never appears outside of Matthew in the New Testament. This brief overview demonstrates the overwhelming presence of Matthew’s pen throughout these verses. In particular, it should not be over22. H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.2832),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 256. 23.  Matt 8:32 diff Mark 5:13; Matt 8:33 diff Mark 5:14; Matt 9:7 diff Mark 2:12; Matt 14:16 diff Mark 6:37; Matt 16:21 diff Mark 8:31; Matt 26:36 diff Mark 14:32; Matt 26:44 diff Mark 14:41; Matt 27:60 diff Mark 15:46; Matt 28:8 diff Mark 16:8. See H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.28-32),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 256. 24. H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.2832),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 256. 25. U. Luz , Matthew: A Commentary (Minneapolis, 1989-2005) 3:30, especially n. 45. 26. A. J. Hultgren, The Parables of Jesus: A Commentary (Grand Rapids, 2000) 221. 27.  W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 3:168. 28.  W. G. Olmstead, Matthew’s Trilogy of Parables: The Nation, the Nations and the Reader in Matthew 21.28-22.14 (Cambridge, 2003) 100. 29. H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.2832),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 256. The Lord’s prayer in Luke lacks the Matthean γενηθήτω τὸ θέλημά σου, but it is difficult to establish whether the Matthean petition is redactional or traditional. For further discussion, see W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 1:605. 30.  W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 1:84. It is especially common in the form λέγουσιν αὐτῷ (Matt 9:28; 13:51; 19:7; 20:7,22,33; 21:41; 22:21; 22:42).

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looked that the arguably Matthean elements are not limited to transitional phrases or grammatical structures, which could easily be explained as Matthean redaction of traditional material, 31 but extend to essential features of the parable such as the command to “go and work,” the reference to the vineyard, the verb μεταμέλομαι, the unusual address κύριε for a father, and the motif of doing the father’s will. Furthermore, a number of strong connections have emerged with important Matthean pericopes: the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard (20:1-16), the Parable of the Wicked Tenants (21:33-46), the Parable of the Wedding Feast (22:1-14), and the logion of Matt 7:21. Considered together, the evidence indicates that Matt 21:28-31b is a Matthean creation, based on motifs that the author uses elsewhere in the first gospel. 2 . Tol l -C ol l ector s

P ros t i t u t e s i n (M at t 21:31c)

and

the

K i ngdom

of

G od

In comparison with the density of Matthean features in vv. 28-31b, the logion in v. 31c seems strikingly un-Matthean. Admittedly, the introductory expressions do look redactional. The turn of phrase λέγει αὐτοῖς ὁ Ἰησοῦς is typically Matthean. 32 The solemn introduction ἀμὴν λέγω ὑμῖν occurs in all the Synoptics, but Matthew might occasionally use it redactionally, 33 and Joachim Jeremias claims that this expression “in more than one instance marks the end of a parable.”  3 4 The recurrent association of the ἀμὴν λέγω ὑμῖν formula with sayings of Jesus has spurred a debate 31. U. Luz (Matthew: A Commentary [Minneapolis, 1989-2005] 3:27-28) and W. D. Davies and D. C. A llison (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew [London, 1988-1997] 3:165) suggest that Matthew gave written form to an oral tradition. 32. 12 times: Matt 4:10; 8:4,20; 9:28; 15:34; 18:22; 21:31,42; 26:31,52,64; 28:10; elsewhere, only twice in Mark 14:27,30 but fairly common in John. See H.  M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.28-32),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 256; W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 2:793. 33.  Matt 5:18 diff Luke 16:17; Matt 5:26 diff Luke 12:59; Matt 8:10 diff Luke 7:9; Matt 11:11 diff Luke 7:28; Matt 13:17 diff Luke 10:24; Matt 17:20 diff Luke 9:6; Matt 18:3 diff Mark 9:36; Matt 19:23 diff Mark 10:23. See H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.28-32),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 256. 34. J. Jeremias , The Parables of Jesus (rev. ed.; New York, 1963) 80. The only Matthean reference Jeremias provides is Matt 5:26, which is not a parable (sic!). Nonetheless, this expression closes a parable in Matt 19:23 and 24:34. Moreover, it introduces a conclusion, albeit still within the parabolic narrative, in Matt 18:13; 24:47; and 25:12.

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about its origin and its possible use as a marker for authentic sayings from Jesus. Bruce Chilton carefully analyzes previous contributions on the subject and adds further evidence from Aramaic and Syriac usages of “Amen” and similar formulae. He concludes that the presence of the Amen-formula indicates Greek provenance of the saying in its final form but does not exclude the possibility that the saying had a corresponding Aramaic expression in an earlier form. 35 This implies that the Amen-formula cannot be a criterion for identifying authentic words from Jesus without further evidence. The logion itself, “Toll-collectors and prostitutes go ahead of you into the kingdom of God,” has elements that sound out of place in Matthew. Toll-collectors are important figures in Matthew, who agrees with the generally negative view of them (Matt 5:46; 18:17) and associates tollcollectors with sinners (Matt 9:10-11; 11:19; 18:17; 21:31-32). 36 However, Matthew is also the only gospel that numbers a toll-collector among the Twelve (Matt 10:3), describes the calling of the toll-collector named Matthew and Jesus’ table fellowship with toll-collectors and sinners (Matt 9:910), and reports the accusation that Jesus was “a friend of toll-collectors and sinners,” a title that is in no way rejected (Matt 11:19). If a positive stance towards toll-collectors may fit Matthew’s statements elsewhere, the praise of prostitutes comes out of the blue. Prostitutes have a constantly negative connotation in the New Testament. Excluding the mentions of Rahab (Heb 13:31; Jas 2:25), the Parable of the Two Sons is the only text that has positive comments about prostitutes, and they never appear in association with Jesus. 37 It might not be totally clear why tollcollectors and prostitutes are grouped together, but the very fact of being compared with them must have sounded outrageously insulting to the Jewish leaders and can be seen as a shaming strategy designed to cause their repentance. 38 In fact, since doing the Father’s will seems to be the central teaching of the pericope, what sets apart toll-collectors and prostitutes from the Jewish leaders is apparently that the former did the will of God, whereas the latter did not. This shocking and counterintuitive statement 35. B. Chilton, “‘Amen’: an Approach through Syriac Gospels,” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde 69 (1978) 203-211, here 211. 36. S. Savarimuthu, A  Community in Search of Its Identity: Mt. 21:28-22:14 in a Subaltern Perspective (Delhi, 2007) 130. 37.  The sinful woman in Luke 7:36-50 has often been considered a “‘prostitute’ or ‘courtesan’” (J. Nolland, Luke [Dallas, 1989-1993] 1:353), but she is not explicitly identified as such. 38.  P. Y. Oppong -Kumi, Matthean Sets of Parables (Tübingen, 2013) 233. Moral unworthiness might not be the only connection between toll-collectors and prostitutes. J. Gibson gathers evidence suggesting that both groups were “hated for their collaboration with Rome” (“Hoi Telōnai kai hai Pornai,” The Journal of Theological Studies 32 [1981] 429-433, here 433).

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brings a sudden, captivating (and harshly polemical) edge to an otherwise unsophisticated parable. 39 The transitive use of the verb προάγω seems to be Matthean usage,  4 0 but the phrase ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ is famously not a Matthean favorite and betrays the logion’s origin in an earlier tradition. 41 The analysis of the logion in v. 31c with criteria of historicity confirms its pre-Matthean origin. 42 First, especially on the basis of the criteria of multiple attestation and discontinuity, John P. Meier convincingly argues that the “‘kingdom of God’ was a major component of Jesus’ message,” whereas “kingdom of heaven,” a phrase that only Matthew uses in the New Testament, was “a pious Jewish periphrasis to avoid constantly naming the Deity.” 43 The presence of this phrase is coherent with the historical Jesus’ reconstructed phraseology and possibly indicates an authentic logion in Matthew. Second, the positive role that v. 31c attributes to prostitutes is unique in the New Testament, where prostitution regularly has a very negative connotation. In the Parable of the Prodigal Son, the elder son despises the younger one because he “devoured” the father’s property “with prostitutes” (Luke 15:30). In 1 Cor 6:15-16, intercourse with a prostitute is a sin “against the body itself.” In Revelation, the great whore is one of the most negative symbols (Rev 17; 19:2). Only Rahab, despite her (well-deserved) title, is regarded with approval (Heb 11:31; Jas 2:25). This positive judgment, however, is due to her hospitality, definitely not to her “trade.” Analogously, the only reference to prostitutes in the Apostolic Fathers is to Rahab (1 Clem. 12:1), who is praised for her faith and hospitality. The Hebrew Bible also uses the root ‫הנז‬, both literally and figuratively, in a 39.  Contra J. R. Donahue’s comment that the Parable of the Two Sons “lacks the elements of surprise and paradox” (The Gospel in Parable [Philadelphia, 1988] 87). 40.  Matt 14:22 diff Mark 6:45 and Matt 21:9 diff Mark 11:9. See W. D. DaviesD. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 3:169, n. 35. 41. U. Luz , Matthew: A Commentary (Minneapolis, 1989-2005) 3:30. Βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ: Matthew: 4 or 5 (text-critical doubts on Matt 6:33); Mark: 14; Luke: 32. Βασιλεία τῶν οὐρανῶν: Matthew: 32; Mark: 0; Luke: 0. However, “the kingdom of God” also appears in the addendum to the nimshal of the following Parable of the Wicked Tenants (Matt 21:43), which leads H. M erkel (“Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.28-32),” New Testament Studies 20 [1974] 257) and W. D. Davies and D. C. A llison (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew [London, 1988-1997] 3:170) to regard it as redactional. 42.  I apply, here, the criteria laid out in J. P. M eier , A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus (New York, 1991-2009) 1:167-177. 43. J. P. M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus (New York, 1991-2009) 2:239 and 3:485, n. 146. See also W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 1:501.

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uniformly negative sense. Therefore, all evidence suggests a profound discontinuity between this logion and both Jewish and early Christian prejudices against prostitutes.  4 4 Moreover, the presence of prostitutes in the entourage of John the Baptist (and thus indirectly associated with Jesus himself) can definitely be regarded as a source of embarrassment – quite literally! And there is no obvious reason why Matthew or a tradent should have introduced such a scandalous detail, otherwise unheard of. 45 On the contrary, the embarrassment engendered by such a tradition may be the cause of its minimal attestation, especially with respect to the more common hendiadys “toll-collectors and sinners” (Matt 9:10-11; 11:19; Mark 2:15-16; Luke 5:30; 7:34; 15:1).  4 6 Given the evidence, v. 31c appears to be authentically coming from the historical Jesus. In its present literary context, the second-person plural pronoun ὑμᾶς refers to the Jewish leaders, but it is impossible to determine whether this pronoun was part of the logion from the beginning or whether it is a Matthean adaptation. In either case, the original referents might have been different and cannot be recovered with certitude. Form-critical considerations indicate that vv. 28-31b did not exist independently of v. 31c, because juridical parables necessitate an interpretation to be fully effective. 47 Indeed, by identifying the referents of the parable, v. 31c provides the application of the parable, which renders “the whole point of the parable intelligible.” 48 This conclusion corroborates the preceding 44. Only late did repentant prostitutes appear in Christian literature. See W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 3:169, n. 33. 45. J. Schlosser , Le règne de Dieu dans les dits de Jésus (Paris, 1980) 461. 46. Further evidence of the embarrassment caused by prostitution might be the periphrasis, “a sinner in the city” (ἐν τῇ πόλει ἁμαρτωλός), by which Luke describes a woman in 7:37. Most commentators consider this phrase a euphemism for a prostitute (J. A. Fitzmyer , The Gospel According to Luke [New Haven, 1974] 689; J. Nolland, Luke [Dallas, 1989-1993] 1:353). However, there is no explicit reference to sexual sin in the context, so the exact meaning of the phrase remains uncertain. 47. K. Snodgrass , Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus (Grand Rapids, 2008) 34. 48. R. Cameron, “Matthew’s Parable of the Two Sons,” Forum 8  (1992) 191209, here 198. See also H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.28-32),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 259; A. Ogawa, “Paraboles de l’Israël véritable? Reconsidération critique de Mt. xii 28-xxii 14,” Novum Testamentum 21 (1979) 121-149, here 123; J. Dupont, “Les deux fils dissemblables: Mt 21,28-32,” Assemblées du Seigneur 57 (1971) 20-32, here 21-22. The application can nonetheless be formulated in various ways (for instance, in the narrative introduction; see Luke 18:9-14). Theoretically, vv. 28-31b might have existed independently with a different application, but this hypothesis seems unnecessary and has no evidence in the text. For additional form-critical remarks, see J. Schlosser , Le règne de Dieu dans les dits de Jésus (Paris, 1980) 457.

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inference that vv. 28-31b are a Matthean creation. Apparently, Matthew composed a simple parable with parallel structure in order to illustrate an authentic logion, which he reinterpreted in light of his polemic, especially as expressed in Matt 7:21. 49 3. B e l i ev i ng J oh n

the

B ap t i s t (M at t 21:32)

A number of elements of v. 32 seem to be redactional. First, the mention of John the Baptist connects the Parable of the Two Sons to the preceding pericope, Matt 21:23-27, where Jesus questions the Jewish leaders about the origin of John’s baptism. In particular, the epiphora repeating πιστεῦσαι αὐτῷ 50 echoes Matt 21:25, where the Pharisees imagine being accused of unbelief (διὰ τί οὖν οὐκ ἐπιστεύσατε αὐτῷ) if they acknowledge the heavenly origin of John’s baptism. Second, some expressions may be Matthean. The wording ἦλθεν γὰρ Ἰωάννης parallels Matt 11:18 (possibly redactional, diff Luke 7:33), and the noun δικαιοσύνη is a Matthean preference. 51 Third, two elements link v. 32 to the preceding verses. The reference to toll-collectors and prostitutes is drawn from v. 31c, while οὐδὲ μετεμελήθητε ὕστερον clearly opposes the Jewish leaders to the repentant son in v. 29 (ὕστερον μεταμεληθείς) and implicitly associates them with the second son, who in fact did not repent. Since virtually all of v. 32 derives from the context – i.e., the Parable of the Two Sons and the dispute on John’s baptism (Matt 21:23-27) – or from Matthean usage, one might infer that the verse is a Matthean redac49.  J. R. Donahue , The Gospel in Parable (Philadelphia, 1988) 88. Not only does Matt 7:21 focus, like the Parable of the Two Sons, on the contrast between words and deeds, but it also comprises, in very few words, a striking number of lexical connections to the Parable of the Two Sons: “Lord” (κύριε; Matt 21:30), “into the kingdom of heaven/God” (εἰς τὴν βασιλείαν τῶν οὐρανῶν/τοῦ θεοῦ; Matt 21:31), and “doing the will of the Father” (ὁ ποιῶν/ἐποίησεν τὸ θέλημα τοῦ πατρός; Matt 21:31). 50. An epiphora is a repetition of a word or phrase at the end of successive clauses: “For John came to you in the way of righteousness, but you did not believe him [ἐπιστεύσατε αὐτῷ], while toll-collectors and prostitutes believed him [ἐπίστευσαν αὐτῷ]. But you, even though you had seen, you did not change your mind afterward so as to believe him [πιστεῦσαι αὐτῷ].” See H. L ausberg, Handbook of Literary Rhetoric: A Foundation for Literary Study (Leiden, 1998) § 631. 51. Matt 3:15 diff Mark 1:9; Matt 5:6 diff Luke 6:21; Matt 6:33 diff Luke 12:31. The noun δικαιοσύνη occurs 7 times in Matthew, never in Mark, and only once in Luke. See H. M erkel , “Das Gleichnis von den ‘ungleichen Söhnen’ (Matth. xxi.28-32),” New Testament Studies 20 (1974) 256.

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tional appendix that links the Parable of the Two Sons to the preceding pericope. However, this does not satisfactorily explain the tension between v. 32 and vv. 28-31. Verse 32, in fact, does not mirror the contrast between words and deeds that characterizes the parable. As far as we know, never did the Jewish leaders verbally approve of John’s ministry only to disobey him in action. Similarly, toll-collectors and prostitutes never refused John’s call to conversion, nor did they later repent of their refusal. If v. 32 were entirely redactional, it would be quite a clumsy attempt to connect the two passages. A possible explanation of this textual tension is that v. 32 is a heavily edited pre-Matthean tradition. Indeed, this verse is possibly linked to Luke 7:29-30, “And all the people who heard and the toll-collectors acknowledged the justice of God, because they had been baptized with John’s baptism. But by refusing to be baptized by him, the Pharisees and the lawyers rejected God’s purpose for themselves.” 52 A close comparison of Matt 21:32 and Luke 7:29-30 shows relatively few lexical links: John the Baptist, the toll-collectors, and the mention of righteousness (ἐν ὁδῷ δικαιοσύνης/ἐδικαίωσαν). Some differences between the texts, however, can be ascribed to redactional tendencies, thus reducing their divergence. 53 Therefore, given the strong redaction at least of the Matthean verse, vocabulary cannot conclusively prove nor disprove any literary dependency between these two texts. 54 52. While some scholars deny any real connection between the two texts (J. D. M. Derrett, “The Parable of the Two Sons,” Studia Theologica 25 [1971] 109-116, here 113; U. Luz , Matthew: A Commentary [Minneapolis, 1989-2005] 3:27; K. Snodgrass , Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus [Grand Rapids, 2008] 272), others attribute it to the common source Q (J.  Jeremias , The Parables of Jesus [rev. ed.; New York, 1963] 80), and still others claim that they report similar information from two independent “stray traditions” (J. P. M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus [New York, 1991-2009] 2:169; A. J. Hultgren, The Parables of Jesus: A Commentary [Grand Rapids, 2000] 222). 53.  W. G. Olmstead, Matthew’s Trilogy of Parables: The Nation, the Nations and the Reader in Matthew 21.28-22.14 (Cambridge, 2003) 139. For instance, the Lukan Pharisees and lawyers disappear in favor of chief priests and elders from the preceding pericope (Matt 21:23-27). Similarly, the Lukan mention of baptism gives way to faith – another element deriving from the preceding dispute (Matt 21:25). Again, the term λαός, “people,” might be a Lukan addition. On the other hand, Matthew might have drawn αἱ πόρναι, μεταμέλομαι, and ὕστερον from the preceding verses (R. H. Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church under Persecution [2nd ed.; Grand Rapids, 1994] 423; J. Dupont, “Les deux fils dissemblables: Mt 21,28-32,” Assemblées du Seigneur 57 [1971] 29). 54.  As a matter of fact, scholars who do not go beyond the level of vocabulary conclude that there is no connection between Matt 21:32 and Luke 7:29-30. See J. D. M. Derrett, “The Parable of the Two Sons,” Studia Theologica 25 (1971) 113; U.  Luz , Matthew: A Commentary (Minneapolis, 1989-2005) 3:27; K. Snodgrass ,

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In spite of this failure of lexical analysis, two other kinds of argument might be more compelling. First, there are strong thematic correspondences between the two texts: John the Baptist, the contrast between two groups, doing/rejecting the will of God, and the paradox that those supposed to be righteous do not obey God’s call to repentance, while those supposed to be sinners do. 55 Second, Luke 7:29-30 is part of a narrative sequence focusing on the Baptist and covering Luke 7:18-35. This sequence has its Matthean counterpart in Matt 11:2-19. 56 Table 1 Matthew 11

Luke 7

vv. 2-6: Question of John: are you the one who comes?

vv. 18-23: Question of John: are you the one who comes?

vv. 7-10: Identity of John: I send my mes- vv. 24-27: Identity of John: I send my senger. messenger. v. 11: John is the greatest among those born of women.

v. 28: John is the greatest among those born of women.

vv. 12-15: John and Elijah.

vv. 29-30: The people is baptized, but the Pharisees refuse to be baptized.

vv. 16-19: The children in the places.

vv. 31-35: The children in the places.

Table 1 shows that both gospels present the same traditional sequence on John the Baptist, which presumably goes back to their common source Q. The two versions are perfectly parallel except for the sections Matt 11:12-15 and Luke 7:29-30. Matthew gathered here diverse material from several traditions that did not belong to the original sequence. 57 Apparently, Matthew used this material to replace Luke 7:29-30, a tradition that he transferred to Matt 21:32. 58 Since Matthew integrates elements of Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus (Grand Rapids, 2008) 272; J. A. Fitzmyer , The Gospel According to Luke (New Haven, 1974) 671; H. T. Fleddermann, Q: A Reconstruction and Commentary (Leuven, 2005) 362. 55. J. Schlosser , Le règne de Dieu dans les dits de Jésus (Paris, 1980) 456; W. G. Olmstead, Matthew’s Trilogy of Parables: The Nation, the Nations and the Reader in Matthew 21.28-22.14 (Cambridge, 2003) 139-140; A. M. Castaño Fonseca , Δικαιοσύνη en Mateo: Una interpretación teológica a partir de 3,15 y 21,32 (Rome, 1997) 238; J. P. M eier , A  Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus (New York, 1991-2009) 2:168. 56.  H. T. Fleddermann, Q: A Reconstruction and Commentary (Leuven, 2005) 354-368. 57.  Matt 11:12-13 is a logion about the kingdom suffering violence that has a parallel in Luke 16:16. Moreover, Matt 11:14 is an identification of John with Elijah that also occurs in Matt 17:13 (diff Mark 9:13), and Matt 11:15 is a recurrent logion (Matt 13:9,43). 58. J. Jeremias , The Parables of Jesus (rev. ed.; New York, 1963) 80; J. Schlosser , Le règne de Dieu dans les dits de Jésus (Paris, 1980) 455; G. H äfner , Der verheißene

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the parable into Matt 21:32 (in particular, αἱ πόρναι and μετεμελήθητε ὕστερον), 59 it appears that the inclusion of this verse was the last step in the formation of the pericope. 60 4. C onclusions This brief analysis of the Parable of the Two Sons suggests that Matthew composed the pericope by combining traditional material with his own additions. First, he preserved a logion from his own special tradition, Vorläufer: Redaktionskritische Untersuchung zur Darstellung Johannes des Täufers im Matthäus-Evangelium (Stuttgart, 1994) 387; J. Dupont, “Les deux fils dissemblables: Mt 21,28-32,” Assemblées du Seigneur 57 (1971) 29; J. L ambrecht, Out of the Treasure: The Parables in the Gospel of Matthew (Louvain, 1991) 96-97; A. M. Castaño Fonseca, Δικαιοσύνη en Mateo: Una interpretación teológica a partir de 3,15 y 21,32 (Rome, 1997) 239. J. P. M eier claims that Luke 7:29-30 is a Lukan intrusion into the Q sequence and thus independent from Matt 21:32 (A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus [New York, 1991-2009] 2:168-169). He bases his conclusion on the narrative form of Luke 7:29-30, which is at odds with the sayings that surround it, and on the Lukan vocabulary and themes (A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus [New York, 1991-2009] 2:224, n. 225). Meier’s arguments are plausible, yet I regard the few lexical links, the thematic correspondences, and the parallel interruptions of the Q sequence as sufficient indication that Matt 21:32 and Luke 7:29-30 are two versions of the same tradition. For further discussion of this issue, see J. S. K loppenborg, Q Parallels: Synopsis, Critical Notes, and Concordance (Sonoma, 1988) 58. 59.  That the two expressions were in Q and Luke expunged them seems more difficult and entirely hypothetical. 60.  W. G. Olmstead, Matthew’s Trilogy of Parables: The Nation, the Nations and the Reader in Matthew 21.28-22.14 (Cambridge, 2003) 139; J. Dupont, “Les deux fils dissemblables: Mt 21,28-32,” Assemblées du Seigneur 57 (1971) 21; J. L ambrecht, Out of the Treasure: The Parables in the Gospel of Matthew (Louvain, 1991) 97; U. Luz , Matthew: A Commentary (Minneapolis, 1989-2005) 3:27-28. J. Jere­ mias suggests that the application of v. 32 to the parable “is not due to Matthew, but must have been already effected in the earlier tradition” (The Parables of Jesus [rev. ed.; New York, 1963] 81). However, his suggestion is incompatible with the above-stated conclusion that vv. 28-31b are a Matthean creation. Occasionally, scholars mention a possible affinity of the Parable of the Two Sons with the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32) (for example, R. H. Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church under Persecution [2nd ed.; Grand Rapids, 1994] 422; W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew (London, 1988-1997) 3:165; more recently, M. R astoin, “Le génie littéraire et théologique de Luc en Lc 15.11-32 éclairé par le parallèle avec Mt 21.28-32,” New Testament Studies 60 [2014]: 1-19). The two parables are radically different in vocabulary, themes, and degree of plot development. Even the hypothesis that a “dominical parable lies behind vv. 28-30” seems to have flimsy evidence (W. D. Davies-D. C. A llison, A  Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew [London, 1988-1997] 3:165) – such a parable would only consist of a father and two sons.

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v. 31c, which likely goes back to the historical Jesus. Then, he created the parable proper, vv. 28-31b, as a narrative commentary on the traditional logion. In this process, Matthew employed elements from other parables (the Workers in the Vineyard, the Wicked Tenants, and the Wedding Feast) and especially from Matt 7:21, an exhortation to do God’s will that appears to be Matthew’s interpretation of the original logion. Subsequently, he included additional material from the common source Q (v. 32 par. Luke 7:29-30), material that presented a few thematic correspondences with the parable (toll-collectors, refusal, and will of God) and a mention of John the Baptist connecting the parable with the preceding dispute. Finally, this last verse was heavily adapted to its new literary context by adding elements of the logion in v. 31c (οἱ τελῶναι καὶ αἱ πόρναι), of the parable (μετεμελήθητε ὕστερον), and of the preceding pericope (οὐκ ἐπιστεύσατε αὐτῷ). This reconstruction of the composition of the Parable of the Two Sons strikingly challenges basic assumptions that dominate parables scholarship. First, form-critical criteria do not seem entirely reliable tools to identify authentic parables of Jesus. The Parable of the Two Sons conforms incredibly well to what is, according to inteprerters, the form of Jesus’ parables, but evidence strongly indicates that it is a Matthean creation. In fact, there is no compelling reason why early Christian authors such as Matthew could not pen parables in the same form as Jesus, especially since they presumably knew and transmitted some of Jesus’ authentic parables. While it is often conjectured that the gospel writers “adapted” Jesus’ parables to their own agendas, in particular by adding interpretative conclusions, the Parable of the Two Sons is an example of the opposite process. Matthew interpreted an authentic logion of Jesus by prefacing it with a simple parable. Due to the conciseness of the logion itself and our lack of knowledge about its original context, it is impossible to determine the logion’s original meaning. Matthew, however, reads it through the lens of his exhortation to “do God’s will” in Matt 7:21. The links between Matt 7:21 and the Parable of the Two Sons, in fact, are not merely lexical. On the contrary, both passages portray a specific way of relating to God’s will, epitomized by the verb “doing.” It is especially worth noting that the logion in v. 31c contains no explicit reference to this theme, which suggests that Matthew may have imposed this meaning on the logion through a parabolic expansion in order to adapt it to his religious agenda. These conclusions advise caution in dealing with issues of historicity in the study of the parables. Despite the difficulty of applying the usual criteria of historicity to the parables and the possibly disappointing, inconclusive results, form criticism is no viable alternative and can at most corroborate findings based on other approaches. Early Christian authors were perfectly capable of shaping simple, direct narratives and did not need to

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introduce heavy theological concepts to further their agendas. This, unfortunately, is a powerful blow to the possibility of determining the historicity of the parables. Of course, this does not mean denying the authenticity of the parables in general, but form-critical criteria alone are no conclusive proof. Finally, the relationship between the parables and their interpretative conclusions does not always mirror the two-stage development that is often assumed – i.e., Jesus and gospel writers, in this order – but can depend on a variety of processes of literary accretion that should be identified case by case.

H ISTORICIZING JESUS Leon Modena (1571-1648) and the Magen ve-herev C.  Facchini Because the people who recognize the reality of God and his greatness are three: the Jews, the Turks, and the Christians. (Leon Modena, Magen ve-herev)

1. Leon Modena a n d t h e M age n v e - h e r ev (Th e S h i e l d a n d t h e S wor d) Leon Modena was one of the most eclectic and learned rabbi of late Renaissance Venice. 1 In his small autobiographical masterpiece, written in diary-form, the Venetian rabbi confessed his frustrations and his wish to fully become part of the res publica litterarum. In those pages, he listed with clear pride his many works, stating especially his relentless activity as a Jewish leader and his untiring cooperation with Christian scholars. 2 Despite the tragedies and problems of his own troubled life, Leon left an indelible mark on the world in which he lived. Although his work attracted the immense curiosity of Jewish scholars who belonged to the Wissenschaft des Judentums, his personality remained partially misunderstood: was he a medieval author or the Jewish representative of an incipient modernity? Was he a sceptic, an atheist, or a believer? Whereas these 1. Bibliography on Leon Modena is quite extensive. The best biographical reconstruction is still provided by H. A delman, Failure and Success in the Seventeenth Century Ghetto of Venice: The Life and Thought of Leon Modena, 1571-1648, PhD Dissertation (Brandeis University, 1985). 2.  Leon Modena, The Life of Judah (Hebrew), ed. by D. Carpi (Tel Aviv 1985); Leon Modena, The autobiography of a Seventeenth-Century Venetian Rabbi. Leon Modena’s Life of Judah, English trans. and edited by M. R. Cohen, (Princeton, 1988); Leon Modena, Vita di Jehudà. Autobiografia di Leone Modena, rabbino veneziano del XVII secolo, Italian transl. ed. by E. R. A rtom-U.  Fortis-A. Viterbo (Turin, 2000). From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 241-260.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117943

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questions might capture some features of his personality, they also betray the scholar’s biases and interests, and the complexity of Modena’s legacy. 3 By his own admission, Leon certainly aspired to be, and was, a prolific and original author. Oppressed by the vice of gambling, by his debts and his family problems, which he describes with disarming honesty, Modena stressed his authorship of books and texts composed both in Hebrew and Italian. He was an active and creative promoter of himself, with an interest in many religious issues relating to Judaism – from preaching to rituals, from music to theatre, from community management to inter-religious polemics. His intellectual dialogue with Christians was indeed intense. 4 It is no coincidence that his outmost work, the Historia de’ riti hebraici, 5 was the result of many exchanges between him and different Christian authors and audiences of the time. Somehow it was the product of the interreligious encounters a city like Venice did enhance. 6 Ultimately, the successful outcome of the work was mainly due to its early translations in English and French, and especially by the relevance of the French version, composed by the great Catholic scholar Richard Simon. 7 When Modena started his anti-Christian treatise, he had already written a relevant piece of critique on Kabbalah. The Ari nohem (1639), the first systematic criticism of the Kabbalah to have been written in the modern age by a Jewish author, is one of his works where historical sensibilities are masterfully expressed. 8 Leon started the Magen ve-herev (The shield and the sword) around 1643. In his diary (Toledot Yehudah), discussing his will, Modena indicates that he had been working on this text for some time, even though he was unable to finish it:

3.  For some references see A delman, Failure and Success. 4. C. Roth, “Leon Modena and his English correspondents,” Transactions of the Jewish Historical Society of England 17 (1951-1952) 39-43; I d, “Leon Modena and the Christian Hebraists of His Age,” in Jewish Studies in Memory of Israel Abraham (New York, 1927) 384-401. 5. Leon Modena, Historia de’ riti hebraici, vita et osservanza de gl ’Hebrei di questi tempi (Venice, 1638). I refer here to the edition which was approved by the Venetian Inquisition. 6.  On this context see C. Facchini, “The City, the Ghetto, and Two Books,” Quest – Issues in contemporary Jewish History 2 (2011), 11-44. 7.  Richard Simon, Les Juifs présentés aux Chretiéns. Cérémonies et coutumes qui s’observant aujourd ’hui parmi les Juifs par Léon Modène, traduit par Richard Simon, et suivi de Comparaison des cérémonies des Juifs et de la discipline de l ’église, J. L e Brun – G.G. Stroumsa, eds, (Paris, 1998). 8. Y. D weck , The Scandal of Kabbalah: Leon Modena, Jewish Mysticism, Early Modern Venice (Princeton-Oxford, 2011); C. Facchini, “Judaism. An Inquiry into the Historical Discourse”, in B.-C. Otto -S. R au-J. Ruepke , eds., History and Religion: Narrating a Religious Past (Berlin, 2015) 371-392.

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Then, as much as I have written at that time of my treatise against the Christians, Magen va-herev, [sic] and of my quarto size journal, in which I wrote memorandum notes for some things to be written in that treatise. 9

Further information can be found in the text written by his grandson, Isaac min-Haleviim, also known as Isaac Levi, who transcribed a version of it. 10 “According to Levi, Modena had claimed that no Jew since Isaac Abravanel had gone to such lengths to defend the Jewish faith against its Christian opponents”. 11 Magen ve-herev will be analysed here against the backdrop of the debate about the rise of historical writing in the early modern period, with a special focus on the question of the ‘historical Jesus’. There are a number of reasons that justify a special treatment and discussion of Magen ve-herev, which is, after all, a classical text that belongs to an established literary genre of polemical literature. The first reason lies in Modena’s historical sensibilities that have been detected by many scholars. 12 The second one refers to our ability to understand different cultures of historicity, according to the rules of their time. If we are to investigate representations of the historical Jesus before Reimarus, as suggested by some scholars, then we have to provide information about practices of historical writing, and trying to avoid anachronism. 13 Third, on a more general ground, we are to be aware of the unsolved ambivalence between religious mind and his9. Leon Modena, The Autobiography, 176. 10.  For a description of this character in inquisitorial sources, see F. Barbierato, Nella stanza dei circoli. Clavicula salomonis e libri di magia a Venezia nei secoli XVI e XVII (Milano, 2002). 11.  D weck , The Scandal of Kabbalah, 45. It refers to S. Simonsohn, Introduction, in L. Modena, Clipeus et gladius. Leonis Mutinensis tractatus antichristianus. Magen wa-herev. Hibbur neged ha-natzrut, ed. by S. Simonsohn, (Jerusalem, 1960). We vocalize as Magen ve-herev, as in the biblical verse. 12. See especially B. Safran, “Leon da Modena’s Historical Thinking”, in I. Twersky-B. Septimus , eds, Jewish Thought in Seventheenth Century (Cambridge, 1987) 381-398 and C. Facchini, Judaism. An Inquiry into the Historical Discourse. 13. I refer to M. Pesce , “The Beginning of Historical Research on Jesus in the Modern Age”, in C. Johnson Hodge-S.  M. Olyan-D. Ullucci-E.  Wasserman, eds, The One Who Sows Bountfully: Essays in Honor of Stanley K. Stowers, (Atlanta, 2013) 77-88. A different and yet inspiring approach in A.  GraftonJ.  Weinberg, I  Have Always Loved the Holy Tongue: Isaac Casaubon, the Jews, and a Forgotten Chapter in Renaissance Scholarship (Cambridge-London, 2011); A.  Grafton, “Church History in Early Modern Europe: Tradition and Innovation,” in K. Van Liere-S.  Ditchfield -H.  L outan, eds, Sacred History: Uses of the Christian Past in the Renaissance World (Oxford, 2012). The question is raised also by J. Birch, “The Road to Reimarus: Origins of the Quest for the Historical Jesus,” in K. Whitelam, eds., Holy Land as Homeland? Models for Constructing the Historic Landscape of Jesus (Sheffield, 2011) 19-47. If these are recent attitudes in historiography of religion, one must recall the works of B. L abanca, Gesù Cristo nella letteratura contemporanea straniera ed italiana. Studio storico-scientifico (Torino,

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torical writing: on the one hand, both Jews and Christians share historical writings and practices; on the other hand, both theological traditions did fear, at some moment, the challenges brought about by historiographical currents. 14 This ambivalence must be kept in mind in order to assess what, when, and why special cultural conditions trigger an interest in some historical events. Magen ve-herev is preserved in several manuscripts. The edition used for the purposes of this essay is the twentieth century printed edition of Shlomo Simonsohn. 15 Before presenting some of the themes connected with the representation of Jesus, it should be pointed out that, like many Jewish works of this genre, Magen ve-herev has a polemical objective; this was often an author or a text considered particularly pernicious for Judaism. In texts from the anti-Christian polemical tradition, the most immediate enemies were Jewish converts, who often wrote aggressive works against their former fellow Jews. 16 That is not the case of the Magen veherev, which was devised to attack a different polemical objective, namely a text by an authoritative Christian author. 17 1903); L. Salvatorelli, “From Locke to Reitzenstein: The Historical Investigation of the Origin of Christianity,” The Harvard Theological Review 22 (1929) 263-369. 14. Historiography of religions is often challenged by theological preoccupations, even if the use of the past appears in many ‘sacred narratives’. For a new approach to theses themes see: B.-C. Otto -S. R au-J. Ruepke , eds., History and Religion: Narrating a Religious Past (Berlin, 2015). 15.  L. Modena, Clipeus et gladius. Leonis Mutinensis tractatus antichristianus. Magen wa-herev. Hibbur neged ha-natsrut, ed. by S. Simonsohn (Jerusalem, 1960). From now: Magen ve-herev. For the English translation of the Magen ve-herev see: A  Translation of the Magen wa-Hereb by Leon Modena, 1571-1648, by A. Podet (Lewiston, 2001). In some cases I offer an alternative translation. The work of Modena on Christianity proved to be relevant for some members of the Wissenschaft des Judentums, who became interested in historical representations of Jesus and early Christianity. It is worth mentioning the relevant contribution of A.  Geiger , Leon da Modena, Rabbiner zu Venedig (1571-1648), und seine Stellung zur Kabbalah, zum Thalmud, und zum Christentum (Breslau, 1856) (in German and Hebrew). For Geiger’s interpretation of the historical Jesus see S. H eschel , Abraham Geiger and the Jewish Jesus (Chicago, 1998); for a new interpretation of the historical Jesus see C. Facchini, “‘The Immortal Traveler’: How Historiography Changed Judaism,” Archiv für Religionsgeschichte (forthcoming); paper presented at the workshop Creating Religion(s) by Historiography, convened and organized by J. Ruepke and M. Mulsow, Erfurt, 12-14 June 2015. 16. For the context of Ashkenazi culture see E. Carlebach, Divided Souls: Converts from Judaism in Germany, 1500-1750 (New Haven, 2001); on converts in Italy see F. Parente , “La chiesa e il Talmud,” in C. Vivanti, ed., Storia degli ebrei in Italia, I  (Turin, 1996) 524-643; more recently M. Caffiero, Battesimi forzati: storie di ebrei, cristiani, convertiti nella Roma dei papi (Roma, 2004); A. Toaff, Storie fiorentine (Bologna, 2013). 17. The Historia would, on the other hand, receive a strange reception in Christian circles, and indeed some of its fiercest critics would be converted Jews such as

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2 . A C r i t iqu e of C h r i s t i a n K abba l a h : F or a H i s tor ica l A ccou n t of Th eologica l N ot ions Modena chose a very specific polemical target, as he often does in his writings. In this case, the author he aims to criticize is Pietro Colonna Galatino (1460-1540). 18 A member of the order of the Friars Minor, Galatino completed his De arcanis catholicae veritatis in around 1516 and it was published in 1518. 19 The work reached a huge success and was republished several times (Basel 1550, 1561; Paris 1603; Frankfurt 1572, 1603, 1612, 1676). Written in support of Johannes Reuchlin, the De arcanis defends the Jewish literary tradition against its detractors, claiming that if properly read, Jewish sources contain all of the Christian truths and may be used profitably for the purposes of converting Jews. 20 In a moment of deep conflict between Christians and Jews, Reuchlin had come into their defence against Johannes Pfeffenkorn, a convert from Judaism who supported the idea of the destruction of rabbinical literature. The whole story deserves more than few lines, but it suffices to note that when Modena started his criticism, many things had changed in the Catholic world. The Reformation had, ever since, spread in many cities and countries, with the result that Western Christianity became increasingly divided on strong theological and confessional lines. By the time of Modena, Galatino’s work circulated in prints that contained also Reuchlin’s works. 21 So why did Modena take Galatino’s text as his polemical target? Guetta has explained it through the notion of “asynchronic criticism”, but I suggest

Paolo Morosini and Paolo Medici. On P. M edici see the recent A. Toaff, Storie fiorentine (Bologna, 2013). 18. On Galatino: A. K leinhaus , “De vita et operibus P. Galatini,” Antonianum  I (1926) 145-179 and 327-356; F. Secret, “Relations humanists oubliés,” Studi francesi 47-48 (1972); C. Colombaro, “Colonna, Pietro,” Dizionario biografico degli italiani 27 (1982) http://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/pietro-colonna_res0a1bcb2e-87eb-11dc-8e9d-0016357eee51_(Dizionario-Biografico). 19. F. Secret, I  cabbalisti cristiani del Rinascimento (Milano, 1985); J. L. Blau, The Christian Interpretation of the Kabbalah in the Renaissance (New York, 1944). 20. E. Rummel , The Case Against Johann Reuchlin: Religious and Social Controversy in Sixteenth Century Germany (Toronto, 2002); D. P rice , Johannes Reuchlin and the Campaign to Destroy Jewish Books (Oxford, 2011). Reuchlin composed De verbo mirifico in 1494 and De arte cabalistica in 1517. For the English translation see J. Reuchlin, The Art of the Kabbalah, translated by M. Goodman-S. Goodman; introduction by G.  Lloyd Jones (London, 1983). 21. See especially W. Horbury, “Petrus Galatinus and Jean Thenaud on the Talmud and the Toledot Yeshu,” in S. M andelbrote-J. Weinberg, eds, Jewish Books and their Readers (Leiden-Boston, 2016) 125-250.

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there might be some different answers, and I will explore some of them, albeit not in depths. 22 Galatino is part of a galaxy of Christian kabbalists who belonged to different orders of the Western Church. Although they are often labelled as “Christian kabbalists”, they also represented different undercurrents of Christian thought, albeit not uniform or coherent. Some of them elaborated, as in the case of Pico della Mirandola, an inclusive notion of Christianity, sometimes centred upon the idea of universal harmony. 23 This Christian current, whose outmost representative was Pico della Mirandola, aimed to redefine the notion of Christianity as a religion capable to incorporate cultural traditions from non-Christian cultures, such as ancient philosophies like Pitagoreanism and Platonism, and certain features of ‘pagan’ religions. Even after the Reformation, these strands of Christianity were cross-cultural, which means they were circulating among Catholics and Protestants and they displayed, in different variants, a sort of eschatological posture, which implied the conversion of the Jews and the Muslims. Members of these Christian currents include Pico, Reuchlin, but also visionaries such as Guillame Postel or some of Modena’s own contemporaries, such as Jacques Gaffarel, who he met in the ghetto of Venice. 24 For Modena, the friar Galatino was not only a successful author, but was also the advocate of a certain type of Christianity which might be linked to strains of joachimism, with its strong visionary and apocalyptic tradition. Albeit these Christian traditions might have been inclusive, they were also committed to missionary work, and drawn to the Jewish world with the intention of seducing and converting it. 25 22.  The article of Guetta dealing with Magen ve-herev is still one of the most important: A. Guetta, “Leone Modena’s Magen va-herev as an anti-Catholic Apologia,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 7 (2000) 296-318 reprinted in A. Guetta, Italian Jewry in the Early Modena Era: Essays in Intellectual History (Boston, 2014). 23.  On Giovanni Pico della Mirandola and Hebrew literature see C. Wirszubsky, Pico della Mirandola’s Encounter with Jewish Mysticism (Cambridge, 1989); G.  Busi,  Vera relazione sulla vita e i fatti di Giovanni Pico, conte della Mirandola (Aragno, 2010); G. Busi,  L’enigma dell ’ebraico nel Rinascimento (Torino, 2007) 25-45; G. Busi, R. E bgi, Giovanni Pico della Mirandola: mito, magia, qabbalah (Torino, 2014). 24. For example of the case of Guillame Postel: M. Kuntz , Guillaume Postel: Prophet of the Restitution of All Things, His Life and Thought (Hague, 1981); J.-P.  Brach, “Son of the Son of God: The Feminine Messiah and her Progeny, According to Guillaume Postel (1510-1581),” in O. H ammer , ed., Alternative Christs (Cambridge, 2009) 113-130. 25. For the religious context of Galatino see: C. Vasoli, Filosofia e religione nella cultura del Rinascimento (Napoli, 1988) 183-209; R. Rusconi, Profezia e profeti alla fine del Medioevo (Roma, 1999); R. Rusconi, “An Angelic Pope before the Sack of Rome,” in M. R eeves , ed., Prophetic Rome in the High Renaissance Period (Oxford, 1992) 157-187. I refer here very briefly to the prophetic and apocalyptic tradition of Joachim of Fiore. See the most relevant works of: E. Buonaiuti, Gioac-

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It is hardly surprising that Leon Modena targeted him in his polemical work if, as he himself underlined, Galatino represented the epitome of that tradition, which combined the instrumental use of Hebrew literature with religious anti-Judaism. 26 If on the one hand Galatino’s effort was to save Jewish texts, on the other one he did it through a hermeneutical gesture that aimed at emptying the autonomous meaning of Hebraic religious tradition. Galatino, like many before and after him, contributed to crystallising that hermeneutics inspired by the image of the blindfolded synagogue, which postulated the inability of Judaism to access the most profound truths of its own sacred tradition. 27 Lastly, the reason why he lends himself to such exacting criticism is all the more logical if we think that his text was still well known in Christian circles, while at the same time it was revised in the early seventeenth century by two great Calvinist philologists, Joseph Justus Scaliger and Isaac Causabon. 28 In a book devoted to Causabon’s knowledge of Hebraic traditions, Anthony Grafton and Joanna Weinberg write that, when commenting upon Galatino’s work, “he [Casaubon] found himself particularly irked by the Franciscan’s repeated claims that the rabbis whose words he quoted had offered exact prophecies about the virgin, the Messiah, and the Catholic doctrine of the Eucharist”. 29 One of the criticisms Modena makes about Galatino resembles those we find in Casaubon and Scaliger. The reasons that led Leon Modena to criticize Galatino’s text should not be taken as “asynchronic criticism”, as much as an albeit polemical attempt to contribute to a more specific understanding of the meaning of Christianity and of Jesus, by embracing cultural practices such as textual philology that were commonly used by Christian scholars of all confessions. Ultimately, Galatino’s work and others like it were cause of distress because they provided resources, themes, notions and exegetic techniques for missionary work. 30 chino da Fiore. I tempi, la vita, il messaggio (Roma, 1931); H. Grundmann, Joachim von Fiore, 2 (Stuttgard, 1977); G. L. Potestà,  Il tempo dell ’apocalisse. Vita di Gioacchino da Fiore (Bari, 2004). 26.  Grafton-Weinberg, I  always loved. 27. On the meanings of the blindfolded synagogue and its transformations cf. S. Lipton, Dark Mirror: The Medieval Origin of Anti-Semitic Iconography (New York, 2014). 28. See Colombaro, “Colonna, Pietro”; Secret, Cabbalisti cristiani, 112-114; Grafton-Weinberg, I  always loved. 29.  Grafton-Weinberg, I  always loved, 39. Casaubon’s discussion dates around 1603/04. 30.  On this interpretation see I. Sonne , “Church Use of the Kabbalah in Seventeenth Century Missionary Work,” Bitzaron 36 (1957) 7-12; 57-66; H. A delman, “Rabbi Leon Modena and the Christian Kabbalists,” in M. Cline Horowitz , ed., Renaissance Re-Readings (Urbana, 1988), 271-286.

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In short, there were four reasons that led Modena to write a polemical text against Christianity: 1) the chance to express a judgment on the inaccuracy of the sources of a text that was still in use and in circulation; 2) the implicit assumption of criticising various features of Christianity, namely its apocalyptic/prophetic, millenarian variant; 3) to alert Jews and preachers to the missionary potential of the exegetic practices and notions used by Galatino and authors like him; 4) the very personal attempt to prove Galatino’s forgeries and inaccuracy. 31 3. Th e N a z a r e n e : Yeshu

ha-notsrì

As mentioned before, Magen ve-herev was composed around 1643, and it belongs to an established literary tradition of anti-Christian polemical texts written by Jews since the Middle Ages. 32 It is divided into five sections (mahanot), each in turn sub-divided into chapters (ma’arakot). The five sections (literally fields, a term taken from the semantic sphere of war) bear enlightening headings indicating their polemical theme: 1. On original sin; 2. On the trinity; 3. On the incarnation; 4. On the virginity of Mary; 5. On the Messiah. Three sections mentioned by the author are missing. They were to have tackled the themes of Christ’s death and resurrection, of the eternity of the Torah, and of miracles. 33 Modena’s work thus joins an established tradition of religious polemics, while it aims to be innovative and original. Not only does his treatise offer a series of answers to the most widespread themes of the polemic between Jews and Christians, it also presents a somewhat original theory of religious comparison, which takes on Christianity and Islam.  3 4 There are several very specific philosophical choices in the text. Alessandro Guetta has carefully extrapolated one of the philosophical princi31. Forgeries were detected by Scaliger and Possevino: “Colonna, Pietro”; Grafton-Weinberg, I  always loved, 37-38 mention Beroald’s remarks, according to whom Galatino had plagiarized Ramon Marti’s Pugio fidei, a work compiled in the thirteenth century and published by the orientalist Voisin in 1651. In 1687 the edition of Carpzov established the relationship between the two. 32.  H. Trautner-K romann, Shield and Sword: Jewish Polemics against Christians in France and Spain from 1100-1500 (Tubingen, 1993); D. L asker , Jewish Philosophical Polemics against Christianity in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 2007); D.  Berger , Persecution, Polemics, and Dialogue: Essays in Jewish-Christian Relations (Boston, 2010). 33.  Guetta, “Leone Modena’s Magen va-herev,” 297. These themes are those we find in all polemical literature between Christians and Jews. It is unclear whether this was the precise order Modena wanted to give to his work. 34. T. Fishman, “Changing Early Modern Jewish Discourse about Christianity: The Efforts of Leone Modena,” in R. Bonfil-D. J.  M alkiel , eds, The Lion Shall Roar: Leon Modena and his Word (Jerusalem, 2003) 159-194.

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ples employed by Modena to direct and interpret religious beliefs, which is based on Maimonides and Albo sources of inspiration, in line with Averroism, a philosophical tradition quite established in Padua. 35 Modena also refers to Christian sources, using Thomas Aquinas, who was central to the discussion of various religious dogmas such as that of “original sin”; a profound conflict on that subject had already arisen after the Protestant Reformation, and had occupied a lot of space at the Council of Trent. 36 Guetta also identified the presence of anti-Trinitarian notions derived from authoritative exponents of Anabaptist groups, particularly Niccolò Paruta. Anti-trinitarian sources were mentioned in the Hizzuk emunah of the karaite scholar Isaac of Troki (1533-1594), who is quoted also in Magen ve-herev. 37 Modena criticizes the most widespread and aggressive tradition of the Toledoth Yeshu, which purported Jesus’ life according to a parodic counter-narrative of the Gospel. 38 Modena clearly suggests that this prosaic and grotesque tradition has nothing to do with his own interpretation. 39 Talya Fishman has also contributed with an innovative interpretation of Leon’s Magen ve-herev. She highlighted the differences between Modena’s text and the medieval tradition, especially those linked to images of Jesus and early Christianity, detecting the novelty of his works. Fishman claims that Modena’s Jesus had been devised to cater to the needs of the conversos who were returning to Judaism.  4 0 Although this theory is fasci35.  Guetta, “Leone Modena’s Magen va-herev,” 302. 36.  Suffice it to refer for this historical background to P. Sarpi, Istoria del concilio tridentino, published in London in 1619 under a pseudonym, Pietro Soave Solano. Modena might have been acquainted with Sarpi, as many sources might indicate. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 12, where he underlines discussions described by Sarpi at the Trent Council. For some references: D. Wootton, Paolo Sarpi: between Renaissance and Enlightenment (Cambridge, 1983); A different evaluation of Sarpi’s work: H. Jedin, Geschichte des Konzils von Trient, 5 volls (Freiburg, 1951-1976). 37.  Guetta, “Leone Modena’s Magen va-herev,” 308. 38.  On the Toledot Yeshu there is an increasing scholarly interest: S. K rauss , Das Leben Jeshu nach jüdischen Quellen, (Berlin, 1902); S. K rauss , The Christian-Jewish Controversy from the Earliest Times to 1789 (Tübingen, 1996); J.- P. Osier ,  L’évan­ gile du Ghetto ou comment les Juifs se racontaient Jésus (Parigi 1984); R.  Di Segni, Il Vangelo del Ghetto (Roma, 1985); M.  M eerson-P.  Schafer-Y.  Deutsch, eds,  Toledot Yeshu (“The Life Story of Jesus”) Revisited (Tübingen, 2011); Toledot Yeshu: The Life Story of Jesus, edited and translated by M.  M eerson-P. Schäfer (Tübingen, 2014); some remarks also in P. Sch Ä fer , Jesus in the Talmud (Prince­ ton, 2009). 39. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 43, note 2. (“A book circulating among us, which tells the story of his youthful sins, of the transgressions of his life, of how he was a miracle-worker, until his death. It is to me clear that everything told is fabrication and lies”). References to Toledot Yeshu appear quite often among archival material from the Inquisition. See Caffiero, Legami pericolosi. 40.  Fishman, “Changing Early Modern Jewish Discourse about Christianity.”

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nating, it is not substantiated by historical evidence, as has been recently shown by K. D. Dobos. 41 Guetta suggested that Leon’s text devises different strategies of analytical reading: one is guided by philosophical principles that aim to define theological notions that were contested between Jews and Christians, such as the trinity or the original sin, the concept of God’s unity or the notion of religious belief; the second one is devoted to a logical reasoning not strictly connected to the traditional authorities; the third one is linked to exegetical work on the text which is, by all chance, unavoidable; and finally, I add, Modena offers also a critical insight of ancient religions. Modena does not only offer an exegesis of New Testament materials, or pinpoint a philosophical process for establishing the plausibility of religious beliefs, but he presents a gesture of historical identification by combining an analysis of the text and its content with an eyewitness account, which is central to historical theory in the early modern age. Indeed, he claims that “only after an examination of their books and our books, did I extrapolate a rule, which from my point of view is true and solid, as though (keilu) I were of his generation and had been close to him”. 42 Anthony Pagden has described this analytical method through the notion of “autoptic imagination”, which is rooted in classical authors. The “autoptic paradigm”, 43 namely the act of observing as a witness, is combined with an examination of written sources. Together they form a key pairing in various forms of historical writing. It is a relevant point in claiming a historical gaze in this text.  4 4 In the Historia de’ riti hebraici Modena had presented himself as a “neutral writer” seeking to “forget that he was a Jew”: “Nello scriver, in verità, che mi sono scordato d’esser Hebreo, figurandomi semplice, e neu-

41.  K. D. Dobos , “The Impact on the Conversos on Jewish Polemical Activity in Baroque Italy. Was Yehudah Arieh mi-Modena’s Magen va-herev destined for a Converso’s Audience?” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 33 (2016) 413-434. 42. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 43-44. Translation is mine. 43. Widely used in the accounts written from the Americas. Cf. A. Pagden, European Encounters with the New World (New Haven, 1993), 51-55. “Autoptic paradigm” is taken from S. M iglietti, “Tesmoings oculaires. Storia e autopsia nella Francia del secondo Cinquecento,” Rinascimento 50 (2010) 1-40. 44.  Historiographical methods in the early modern period combined different strategies of analysis. They were influenced by ancient historiography, but also by new currents which were developed in the Renaissance. Much relevance was attributed to ‘observation’, eye witnesses reports, which make a relevant point in attributing relevance to travel literature, as well. Some remarks also in Grafton-Weinberg , I  have always loved, 139, n. 55; F. H artog , Le miroir d ’Hérodote. Essai sur la représentation de l ’autre (Paris, 1980); C. Ginzburg, Occhiacci di legno (Milano, 1998).

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trale relatore”. 45 Although he relied heavily upon his inner knowledge and experience as a Jew,  4 6 it is clear that he was preoccupied with his bias, as he aims to be reliable for his audience, both Jewish or Christian. Like Simone Luzzatto, 47 he aims to be “neutral”; he forgets that he is a Jew, both when describing Jewish customs and traditions (istorie) and when he travels back in time, in a gesture of simulation that gives a whole new meaning to the polemical genre he is taking on. It is the ‘eye account’ that supports his reliability. Having established the principle of observation, in the ninth chapter of the third part (My discussion of the story of the Nazarene), Modena introduces Jesus: Very often I have thought to myself I would explain and clarify the origins and development of the actions of the Nazarene (ha-notsrì). And what the intention was of his words and his preaching, and which actions were aimed at his glorification and his magnification, and in particular what he intended with himself, when he described himself as the son of God (ben ha-elohim). 48

In order to place Jesus in his own context, Modena provides a brief description of the history of the Second Temple (bet ha-sheni), explicitly mentioning the sources he uses: the (Sefer) Yosippon, 49 the Hebrew version by Flavius Josephus, and a chapter of a text that played a controversial role 45.  L. Modena, Historia de’ riti hebraici, reprint, Venezia, 1678: “Proemio”: “In writing, in truth, that I forgot that I was a Jew, imagining myself a mere neutral reporter”. The text which was presented at the Venetian Inquisition reads “naturale”. See R. A rnold, “Neutral or Natural Relater? Some Remarks on Rabbi Leon Da Modena’s Historia de’ riti hebraici,” Zutot 2004 107-112. 46. Modena’s Historia de’ riti is deliberately neutral and emic, textual and based upon experience. Facchini, “The City, the Ghetto”; I d, “Judaism”. 47. We find a similar attitude in Simone Luzzatto, Discorso circa il stato de gl ’Hebrei, Venezia, 1638, 4 recto. “Mi sono proposto nell’animo formare compendioso, ma verace racconto de suoi Ritti principali, et opinioni più comuni dall’universale non dissonanti, et discrepanti, nella quale applicazione ho procurato con ogni mio potere (benchè io sia della istessa natione) astenermi da qualunque affetto, et passione che dal vero deviare mi potesse.” Here Luzzatto is ‘neutral’ in the sense that he aims to be deprived of “passions” and “affections” that a native perspective (emic in modern parlance) might provide. On this topic see also G. Veltri, Renaissance Philosophy in Jewish Garb: Foundations and Challenges in Judaism in the Eve of Modernity (Leiden-Boston, 2009) 195-225. 48. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 43. 49. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 44, mentions Ha-Yosippon without clarifying which version, the Hebrew one which was edited in the Middle Ages, or the version by Flavius Josephus that circulated in the early modern age and that was translated in many vernaculars, in Latin and Italian. See articles of Silvia Castelli and Saskia Dönitz in H. Howell Chapman-Z. Rodgers , eds, A  Companion to Josephus (Oxford, 2015).

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in Catholic tradition, namely the De republica hebraeorum by Carlo Sigonio. 50 In the fifth book, Sigonio describes a variety of figures in ancient Jewish society, in particular those he calls “interpreters of the law”. 51 In the eleventh chapter of the fifth book, Sigonio gives a detailed description of the “Jewish sects”, divided into seven groups (De septem haeresibus Iudaeorum), where he combines information provided by Flavius Josephus with that given by Epiphanius. 52 Know, there were among the Jews at that time, close to the end of the second commonwealth, many sects, all of which acknowledged the Torah of Moses, but divided as to its interpretation and its commandments. There were Pharisees and Scribes, which are our Sages, from whom came the Mishnah. Apart from them, there were the Sadducees, the Boethusians, the Essenes, and many besides them.

All of the many sects active in ancient Jewish society acknowledged the authority of the Torah, although they disagreed on aspects of how its commandments should be interpreted. 53 The “Nazarene”, in Modena’s version, selected the “true sect”, namely that of the Pharisees (ket ha-perushim), in “everything they said regarding beliefs, and all of their actions”. 54 To sup-

50. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 44. In the text Carlo Sefinio (Sifinio) and the title De republica hebreorum in Latin with Hebrew characters (44). On Sigonio and his misfortunes: P. P rodi, Profezia contro utopia (Bologna, 2013); F. Parente , “Il De Republica Hebraeorum di Carlo Sigonio (The De Republica Hebraeorum – by Carlo Sigonio),” Rivista di storia della filosofia 3  (2010) 423-459; G. Bartolucci, La repubblica ebraica di Carlo Sigonio. Modelli politici in età moderna (Firenze, 2007); L’Ecriture sainte au temps de Spinoza et dans le système spinoziste, ed. by Groupe de recherches spinozistes (Paris, 1992). 51.  C. Sigonio, De republica Hebraeorum libri VII, Bologna, 1582. In book V, Sigonio describes different Jewish sects (groups) (chap. 11, De septem haeresibus Iudaeorum). As for many other books written in the Italian lands, De republica Hebraeorum was, in fact, reprinted many times and was obviously read even if not accepted by the counter-reformed Church. See W. McCuag, Carlo Sigonio: The Changing World of the Late Renaissance (Princeton, 1989); for the English translation: Carlo Sigonio, The Hebrew Republic, trans. by P.  Wyetzner , introduction G.  Bartolucci, (Jerusalem-New York, 2010). 52. Epiphanius, Panarion see Epiphanius I. Ancoratus und Panarion Haer. 1-33, ed. K. Holl , revised ed. M. Bergermann-C.-F. Collatz , introduction by C.  M arkschies (Berlin, 2013); The Panarion of Epiphanius of Salamis, Books II and III, De Fide, translated by F. Williams (Leiden-Boston, 2013). 53.  Modena, Magen ve-herev, 44. 54. Ibidem, 44. On the history and interepretation of this group see: A. I. Baumgarten, “The Name of the Pharisees,” Journal of Biblical Literature 102/3 (1983) 441-428; A. Saldarini, Pharisees, Scribes, Sadducees in Palestinian Society (Edinburgh, 1989). The image of Pharisees has been often at the core of JewishChristian scholarly conflict.

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port this claim, Modena uses the verse of Matt. 23:2-3. 55 “It is found that not only did he acknowledge the written Torah but also the Oral Torah”, Modena writes. 56 In this short chapter, Modena presents Jesus as a follower of one of the hegemonic groups of the Second Temple period, which, according to the Jewish master narrative, would play the most important role in disseminating the oral Torah, which converges in the Mishnah and in the other rabbinical scriptures. 57 Modena takes great care to highlight the different components of the Judaism of the Second Temple. Jesus does not belong to groups that Modena often defines as schismatic, in keeping with the themes circulating during this period, such as the Sadducees or the Samaritans. 58 Modena explains the success of Jesus by his total adherence to Jewish culture; otherwise he would have generated conflict right from the start, undermining the formation of a movement. If Jesus followed the written and oral Torah, how then can we explain the friction between followers of Jesus’ movement and the Pharisees, which recurs so frequently in the canonical Gospels? The conflict emerges slowly, and hinges upon the question of certain specific rituals which are not found in the Law of Moses, but which were deduced from it. The logical deduction of rituals and doctrines is used constantly to explain the transformation of ri­tuals, along with plausible mistakes in doctrine. In this case, the focus is on the practice of netilat yadaiim (handwashing) and the blessing that is spoken before meals. These, according to Modena, were the problems, which caused friction with the Pharisees, who began to suspect that Jesus and his

55.  The textual traditions are quite different. Modena presumably used the Vulgate version, but we do not know this for certain as this was a Hebrew manuscript not necessarily intended for printing. “Then Jesus addressed the crowd and his disciples saying: the scribes and Pharisees are seated on the throne of Moses. Do and observe what they tell you (but do not do what they do, for they speak and do not act)”. The presence of Matthew’s gospel in anti-Christian polemics has been analyzed by C. Ochs , Matthaeus Adversus Christianos: The Use of the Gospel of Matthew in Jewish Polemics Against the Divinity of Jesus (Tübingen, 2013). 56. Here Modena refers to a chapter that was left unfinished, the one on the eternal validity of the written Torah, a classical polemical theme, which was deployed against Christians but also against criticism on the validity of Jewish law. 57. Modena, Magen ve-herev, III, 9. 58. Modena described Jewish sectarians in his Historia de’ riti hebraici. He often linked ancient sectarians, like the Sadducees, with contemporary groups, such as the Karaites, who were discovered by Western Christians in the early modern period. See how, based on Modena’s Historia, Richard Simon describes Karaites and Samaritans. Modena, Les juifs présentés aux chrétiens. Some remarks are in C. Facchini, Infamanti dicerie. La prima autodifesa ebraica dall ’accusa del sangue (Bologna, 2014); I d., “Una insinuante modernità. Su Leone Modena e il Seicento ebraico in Italia. Rassegna di studi,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 19 (2002) 467-497.

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followers were a group of rebels, similar to the Sadducees or the Boethusians. It is crucial here to review these themes found in the Magen ve-herev and compare them with Qol sakhal, a work attributed to Modena. 59 The Qol sakhal is a work divided into three parts, dedicated to multiple issues that affected early modern Judaism, in which a reform of Judaism is purported. 60 The second part of the text contains a brief historical summary of Jewish law. In it, the author identifies two opposite poles of interpretation of the Torah: one situated at the far extreme of Karaism which interprets the written law literally, and a Christian pole situated at the other extreme, which interprets it in a figurative manner. Once again, the author insists on the proliferation of religious groups in the “Second Temple” period, stating that: And to my opinion, the opinion of the Nazarene (leda’ati gam de‘at hanotsrì) who lived in those days close to the time of the destruction when those sects so proliferated, was also to create a different sect to interpret the Torah of Moses in accord with his truth according to his opinion. 61 For although he was far from all the opinions of the other sects and very close to that of the Pharisees, several of the interpretations and commandments that he saw them innovating daily and that they claimed were laws given to Moses at Sinai were nonetheless improper in his eyes. For example the commandment of lavishing the hands, which was one of the principal ones over which he differed with them, as is evident from the book of his Gospels, as well as from the words of our sages […]. 62

While they are similar, these claims are framed within a different context where, on the one hand, the contradictions and inconsistency of oral tradition are not highlighted, while on the other, in the Qol sakhal, the focus is precisely on that question. Here Jesus is not a member of one of the hegemonic groups that contributed to founding rabbinical Judaism but is one of the many who intended to establish a “different sect” to interpret the Torah, although he was closer to “that of the Pharisees”. The difference is remarkable, although we cannot exclude a change of opinion between one text and the other. 59.  On this work E. R ivkin, Leon Da Modena and the Kol Sakhal (Cincinnati, 1952); T. Fishman, Shaking the Pillars of Exile: ‘Voice of a Foul ’, an Early Modern Jewish Critique of Rabbinic Culture (Palo Alto, 1997); one of the first edition of this work see I. S. R eggio, Behinat ha-kabbalah (Gorizia, 1852); O. P roietti, “La voce di De Acosa = 431. Sul vero autore del Kol Sakhal,” Rassegna mensile di Israel 70/3 (2004) 33-54. 60.  Fishman, Shaking the Pillars of Exile. 61. Reggio, Behinat ha-qabbalah, 27. 62.  Fishman, Shaking the Pillars, 102-108. On netilat yadaiim Fishman also cites Profiat Duran, 228, n. 138.

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Returning to the narrative of the Magen ve-herev, Modena tells us that only at that point, following doubts on various ritual practices, did Jesus react by seeking to prove his greatness, both to his disciples and to his detractors. Thus he began to describe himself as the “son of God”, but never did he say he was God, because he knew for certain that such a claim would never have been accepted by the Jews of his day. I have no doubt that the Nazarene never have intended by himself to express that he was God (hioto elohim), or part of God (helek mimeno), as the Nazarenes [Christians] of today claim and believe it was. Rather, we must judge based on his way (be-drakho), upon the manner in which he acted, and upon the words he uttered (u-medivraw), that it never came to his heart (libo), and never crossed his mind, to behave as God (la-‘asot elohim). Because he was no fool, and understood his situation, and saw that those who aimed to be divinities had always been powerful Kings, as our teachers, their memory be for a blessing, enumerated: Pharo, Hiram, Nebuchadnezzar, and Yoash, and Alexander the Great. 63

Modena explains that in the ancient world, the divinisation of humans was linked to power and wealth. Even Muhammad, leader of the “Ishmaelites”, a great warrior and magnificent lord, “never filled his heart with such pride as to imagine himself to be God”.  6 4 People of humble origins cannot be attracted by such a prospect, except for those who, being humble and very isolated (be-perishut rav) might become close to the experience of prophecy. 65 Modena knew that the argument of Jesus’ humble origins had often been used to discredit his mission, as we may find for example in the Hizzuq emunah, and in many medieval texts. 66 However, equally common was the idea that humility, poverty and marginalisation were sometimes combined with experiences of prophecy or of religious redemption, especially in a line of interpretation that was connected to the prophetic tradition. 67 However, the central point of these pages lies elsewhere, namely in its pinpointing of a substantial difference between what Jesus did and believed and what Christians of later generations understood or deduced, particularly when they sought to give meaning to the dual nature of Christ. And so,

63. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 44-45. 64.  Ibidem, 45. 65.  Ibidem, 45. 66.  The topos is, indeed, very old, and would be repeated for centuries. What is worth of note is how it was appropriated by Christians and the role it played once appropriated. We cannot explore here this theme. 67.  See e.g. M. Goldish, The Sabbatean Prophets (Cambridge, 2004); D. Rud erman, Early Modern Jewry: A New Cultural History (Princeton, 2010).

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he writes, “they wrote remote deductions, which his followers adopted for themselves, a long time after his death”. 68 There are other aspects worth focusing on, such as the techniques of exegesis and textual analysis intended to highlight the different opinions offered by the canonical Gospels. In general, the theme, which lends itself the most to this observation are the stories about Jesus’ genealogy linked to the Davidic kinship, which do not appear in all the Gospels. The purpose is to downplay the link between Jesus’ narratives of genealogy and the king David, and to highlight the most obvious discrepancies and contradictions between the various accounts. 69 Another theme subjected to the historicising gaze is the notion of Messiah, an ever-present topos in polemical literature. 70 There is no doubt that in this case, Modena adopts a minimalist notion. This is an enlightening detail because according to Modena, Jesus could not believe that he was the Messiah because at the time of the Second Temple, the need for such a figure was not requested. At the time of the “Second Temple, when Jesus lived, Israel was not awaiting a Messiah, because the prophets had not promised a messianic saviour unless there was a need for one”. 71 According to Modena, biblical prophecy was clear in providing clues about the Messiah: it spoke to the exiles who had been reduced to political captivity due to their sins, according to a deuteronomistic logic which Modena adhered to. 72 Moreover, in order to wait for a final redemption, the “end of all time” must be close, but even these historical conditions required specific characteristics according to Jewish tradition. The biblical chronology did not indicate the imminent end of time in the era of Jesus, 73 no text sug68. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 45. 69. Polemical texts aimed to interpret each Gospel separately, or at least to break down the biographical and hagiographical narratives, which were to be found in the so-called ‘Harmonies’. See M. Pesce , “The History of Research on the Historical Jesus before Reimarus,” in A. Destro -M.  P esce et al., eds, Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries, First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (2-5 October 2014) (Turnhout, 2017). 70.  For a history of messianism see G. Scholem, The Messianic Idea in Judaism, and Other Essays on Jewish Spirituality (London, 1971). For an interpretation of these notions in the nineteenth century C. Facchini, David Castelli. Ebraismo e scienze delle religioni tra Otto e Novecento (Brescia, 2005); I d, “E la rugiada non scenderà più in benedizione. Immagini di salvezza nella Mishnah,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 17 (2000) 47-72. Relevant insights in N. Stahl , ed., Jesus among the Jews: Representation and Thought, (London-New York, 2012). 71. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 68: “beyemei beit sheni kesheba ha-notsrì, lo hayyu Yisrael metsapim lemashiah, ki lo hevtihu hanevi’im mashiah moshyah le-israel”. 72. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 68. 73.  Biblical chronology was great interest for Jews and Christians, both for antiquarian and theological reasons. On the relevance of this discipline see A. Graf-

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gested that that era was the one indicated by the ancient prophecies, while a powerful king was awaited, one capable of liberating the Jews from the Roman domination. 74 The human Jesus of Modena, aligned with some images rooted in the tradition, is no eschatological preacher, waiting for the imminent kingdom of God. No ‘apocalyptic’ imagery is used by Modena, who seems to opt for a notion of the Messiah according to biblical canonical literature. 75 This topic requires of course a deeper analysis, as the notion of the Messiah is at very core of the Jewish-Christian confrontation. It is not surprising that Modena refers to Don Isaac Abravanel, who had compiled, with a deep eschatological frame of mind, a trilogy on messianic expectations, working extensively on biblical history. 76 The unclear mission of Jesus is evident, Modena writes, if the Gospels are accurate in their account of the story of John the Baptist, who baptised on the river Jordan and whom everybody asked, “Are you the one who is coming, or are we waiting for another?” 77 The uncertainty of the evangelists is no mere coincidence, as it indicates the lack of clear signs as to the identity of the Messiah. According to Modena’s vision, the Baptist represents a character announced in the prophecies who, similarly to Elijah, comes before the redeemer in order to convert Israel to repent. The Baptist is a worker of salvation, while little or nothing is known about Jesus, with no clear sign as to whether he is either the Messiah, or the saviour of souls indicated in certain prophetic traditions. 78 We might add that Modena, like others before him, makes a systematic use of the Gospel according to Matthew and does not shy away, in the wake of the theological polemics which had taken place between Protestants and Catholics, from interpreting part of the Pauline epistles, particularly those which seem to establish the theme of original sin, with which his treatise opens. 79 These examples suffice to show how much informaton, Joseph Justus Scaliger: A Study in the History of Classical Scholarship, 2 vols (Oxford, 1983-1993). 74. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 69. 75.  The Christian Jesus, besides being always the Christ, is often an eschatological figure. Some remarks in Pesce , “The History of Research.” 76.  The works of Isaac Abravanel, Ma‘ayenei ha-Yeshuah (“The Wellsprings of Salvation”), Yeshu‘ot Meshiho (“The Salvation of His Anointed”), and Mashmi‘a Yeshu‘ah (“Announcing Salvation”) were all composed at the end of the fifteenth century, when Don Isaac was an exile in Italy. On his humanist erudition see: I.  Baer , “Don Isaac Abravanel and his Relation to Problems of History and Politics,” Tarbiz 8 (1937) 241-259 (Hebrew). 77. E. Lupieri, Giovanni Battista tra storia e leggenda (Brescia, 1988); I d., Giovanni e Gesù: Storia di un antagonismo, (Roma, 2013). 78. Modena, Magen ve-herev, 68-69. 79.  Guetta provides a detail analysis of this question, which was discussed at the Council of Trent. Guetta, “Leon Modena,” 303 ff.

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tion is contained in the polemical texts, as well as their sheer complexity, combining as they do philosophical information, historical sensibilities, exegesis of sacred texts, and interwoven references to the most sensitive issues of the Christian tradition. 4. H i s tor iogr aph y

and

P ol e m ica l L i t e r at u r e

Scholars of religions and early modern historians have been engaged in locating a “paradigm shift” on the discourse about religion between the end of the seventeenth century and the early eighteenth century. 80 There is a certain amount of literature that proves how knowledge on religions in the early modern period contributed to reassess the very notion of “religion”. 81 But this historiographical tradition fails to acknowledge that the shift – either paradigmatic or historical – embraced also the understanding of the historical Jesus, early Christianity and Judaism. And, what is even more relevant, it did so because of the increasing use – at times biased and methodologically flawed – of Jewish sources, both Hebraic and vernacular. If the early modern period was challenged in its way to conceptualize the realm of the religious world by its extraordinary expansion overseas, this holds true also in relation to the use of Jewish and Hebraic sources. Although polemical texts are not works of historiography, they contain relevant historical representations of past events. The text of Leon Modena has attracted some interest mainly among Jewish scholars for its innovative approach, historical sensibility, and warm presentation of the historical Jesus. Jewish polemical treatises offer, as the aforementioned case, sensitive historical insight into the religion of the time of Jesus, but also a counter-narrative on the development of Christianity, which aimed to criticize the established and powerful narratives of the Church historiographers. 82 As I stressed elsewhere, Italian Jews shared intellectual practices with their fellow Christian scholars. Historiography was no exception. But the interest in the historical figure of Jesus is more problematic, for both Jews 80.  First of all the seminal work of J. S. P reuss , Explaining Religion: Criticism and Theory from Bodin to Freud (Oxford, 1996), which is based on T. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolution (Chicago, 1962). Recently G. G. Stroumsa used the same term in G. G. Stroumsa, A  New Science: The Discovery of Religion in the Age of Reason, (Boston, 2010). 81.  J. Z. Smith, “Religion, Religions, Religious,” in Relating Religions: Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago, 2005), 176-196. 82. See especially C. Wilke , “Historicizing Christianity and Profiat Duran’s Kelimat ha-Goyim (1397),” Medieval Encounters 22 (2016) 140-164.

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and Christians, as it is a dangerous topic and remained, until the twentieth century, a dangerous “war zone” of scholarship. 83 Nevertheless, we may detect different attempts to historicize Jewish and early Christian religious practices, much earlier than the period of historicism and the professionalization of the practice of history. As preliminary conclusive remarks, I wish to highlight two different reasons that might have nurtured and fuelled this historiographical enterprise. Recently, A. Grafton has suggested that ecclesiastical history and history of Christianity blossomed in the early modern period. 84 Scholars along the religious divide combined great philological accuracy, while nurturing theological conflict and bias. Although the historical discourse on Jesus and the early Church is often defined by a theological agenda, it is also interesting to observe how antiquarian analytical practices were often used to precisely reconstruct the historical setting of Jesus’ life. Even the official Catholic work of the Cesare Baronio, if properly analysed, discloses some interesting reading of the context of Jesus, the Christ. 85 Grafton suggests that this is the most relevant issue at stake: Christian scholars of the early modern period incorporated Jewish sources to their work in a way that was destined to change the approach to the study of early Christianity, and therefore, I stress, the ‘historical Jesus’. Grafton writes, in reference to the Magdeburg Centuries: Thus in the 1550s, when Flacius Illyricus and his colleagues set out to write their Protestant history of the Church, they adopted an approach that was radically different from that of Eusebius. From the start, they realized that one could not hope to understand the new Church Jesus had created without first surveying the Jewish beliefs and institutions that he had known. François Baudouin, the distinguished lawyer and historian whose advice Flacius and his colleagues asked as they shaped their work, insisted that the history of the ‘Jewish church’ was directly relevant to Christianity, and must be included. 86

The relevance of Jewish sources became a key question for many scholars. As Josephus Flavius was given an increasing role as a reliable source for the history of second temple Judaism, rabbinic sources became more 83. See my forthcoming “The ‘war zone’ of the historical Jesus. Scholarship, politics, and religion in the Italian context (1890s-1930s),” in C. Facchini-A. L annoy, eds, The other Jesus. Alternative histories of Jesus and the religious world of the past from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Turnhout, forthcoming 2020). 84.  Grafton, “Church History in Early Modern Europe.” 85.  Grafton-Weinberg, I  Always Loved; F. Motta, “Una figura della tradizione. Il Gesù di Baronio (1560 c.-1588),” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 31(2014) 63-92; C. Facchini, “‘The Immortal Traveler.’” 86.  Grafton, “Church History in Early Modern Europe,” 20.

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relevant, albeit unreliable for some scholar, and retained some attractiveness especially with regards to religious rituals. Although Jesus was the Christ, many Christian scholars knew quite exactly that his cultural context was Jewish. This is a signal of a conscious understanding that Jesus’ past was somehow different from the theological interpretations which were elaborated after his death. The other tradition that influenced a different perception of the past has to be linked to those texts devoted to biblical history, that are better known under the heading of De republica hebraeorum literary tradition. If combined with new ecclesiastical histories we definitely see a shift in knowledge about biblical, Jewish, and early Christian past. Usually these texts have been interpreted against the backdrop of the history of political thought, and especially as a source of the theory of separation between state and church. 87 As Jewish sources gained relevance the interpretation of the Christian past, Jewish voices attracted more attention, and were incorporated, not without resistance, into general European context. Only the entangled history of Christian and Jewish perspectives will offer a more vivid, and yet nuanced, history of the ‘historical Jesus’.

87.  For this controversial interpretation see E. Nelson, The Hebrew Republic: Jewish Sources and the Transformation of European Political Thought (Cambridge, 2010).

WAS VON DEM ZWECKE JESU UND SEINER JÜNGER AN I NNOVATIVE CONTRIBUTION? On Reimarus’ Significance in the History of Jesus Research Fernando Bermejo-Rubio For John Kloppenborg

1. A H i s tor iogr aph ica l Pa r adigm B adly i n N e e d of R e pl ace m e n t  1 In the last thirty years, the history of Jesus research has been almost unanimously surveyed through the so-called “three quests” paradigm, according to which that history is to be divided into three periods: “Old Quest” (from Reimarus to the publication of Schweitzer’s historiographical work), “New Quest” (from ca. 1953 to 1980) and “Third Quest” (from ca. 1980 onwards). 2 Despite its appearance of neutrality and its success as a paradigm, the “three quests” model is however not reliable as a historiographical construct. Indeed, the first decade of this century witnessed several compelling criticisms of that triadic typology, which have proved that all their statements and assumptions are not only simplistic, but wholly unwarranted, because they are refuted by available evidence and sound logic. 3 There is no reason to unify within a single category the works on Jesus written from the eighteenth to the beginning of the twentieth century, even less to consider them indiscriminately outdated. There is no reason to state 1.  I am deeply grateful to Jonathan Birch and Dietrich Klein for their constructive and helpful comments on an earlier draft of this paper. In the end, of course, the responsibility for the views held in this article remains mine. 2. The label “New Quest” seems to have been created by J. M. Robinson, A  New Quest of the Historical Jesus (London, 1959). “Third Quest” was a label coined around 1986; see N. T. Wright, “‘Constraints’ and the Jesus of History,” Scottish Journal of Theology 39 (1986) 189-210; S. Neill-N. T. Wright, The Interpretation of the New Testament 1861-1986 (Oxford, 19882) 363 and 379. 3.  One of the most ludicrous assumptions of this paradigm is the idea that the first part of the twentieth century is a period devoid of research (“No Quest”). From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 261-283.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117944

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the existence of a period of “no Quest” in the first half of the twentieth century. There is no reason to turn a “New Quest” describing a particular approach – that of Bultmann’s school – into the key to understand the research carried out in the third quarter of the twentieth century, nor to limit the research of the period to that made by Bultmann’s disciples. And there is no reason to accept an overall distinction between research carried out in the third quarter of the twentieth century and that conducted since then. The inescapable inference is that the prevailing paradigm, with its neat triadic division, is bogus. 4 As if that were not enough, it has been argued that an ideological agenda underlies this allegedly impartial model. In fact, not only has it been designed by theologically-driven authors, but each postulate, assumption and value judgment of the triadic division has apologetic advantages for theological (Christian) quarters. 5 For instance, to state that there was a phase of ‘No Quest’ in the first part of the twentieth century permits the avoidance of a period when much of what happened – e.g. the proNazi exegesis of many German scholars, or the demystifying approaches of Alfred Loisy and Charles Guignebert – seems to be embarrassing for those quarters. These devastating criticisms have exposed the serious shortcomings of the prevailing taxonomy, and have been endorsed by a growing number of specialists. 6 This means that a new historiographical paradigm is needed which allows us to replace a figment of scholarly imagination with a lucid account of the development of this discipline that could do justice to the work of the writers facing the Galilean preacher Jesus of Nazareth from

4. For a demonstration, see S. E. Porter , The Criteria for Authenticity in Historical-Jesus Research: Previous Discussion and New Proposals (Sheffield, 2000) 28-62; D. C. A llison, “Secularizing Jesus”, in I d., Resurrecting Jesus. The Earliest Christian Tradition and Its Interpreters (New York, 2005) 1-26; F. Bermejo -Rubio, “Historiografía, exégesis e ideología. La ficción contemporánea de las ‘tres búsquedas’ del Jesús histórico (1ª parte),” Revista Catalana de Teología 30 (2005) 349406; I d., “Historiografía, exégesis e ideología. La ficción contemporánea de las ‘tres búsquedas’ del Jesús histórico (2ª parte),” Revista Catalana de Teología 31 (2006) 53-106; I d., “The Fiction of the ‘Three Quests’. An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Historiographical Paradigm,” Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 7 (2009) 211-253. 5.  For the sake of brevity I cannot expatiate on this point; for a detailed argument, see Bermejo -Rubio, “The Fiction of the ‘Three Quests’,” 243-250. 6.  See e.g. D. L. Bock-R. L. Webb , “Introduction to Key Events and Actions in the Life of the Historical Jesus,” in I id. eds, Key Events in the Life of the Historical Jesus (Tübingen, 2009) 1, n. 1; J. G. Crossley, Jesus and the Chaos of History. Redirecting the Life of the Historical Jesus (Oxford, 2015) 172, n. 3; H. Brekke Møller , The Vermes Quest: The Significance of Geza Vermes for Jesus Research (London, 2017) 32-35.

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a historical standpoint. 7 Such a daunting task entails a new search for the beginning of the Leben-Jesu-Forschung. 2. In

se a rch of a n

U nce rta i n B egi n n i ng : B e for e R e i ma rus

As is well known, Hermann Samuel Reimarus (1694-1768) is usually deemed the pioneer of Jesus research. The title of the first edition of Schweitzer’s deservedly classical portrait of the quest – Von Reimarus zu Wrede (1906) – is instructive enough; and in fact the Alsatian polymath explicitly and categorically wrote that Reimarus “had no predecessors”, 8 and that before him “no one had attempted to form a historical conception of the life of Jesus”. 9 The same year, Otto Schmiedel published the second edition of his shorter and less famous historiographical work, in which Reimarus is also mentioned as innovator. 10 Since then, virtually every survey of this topic has assumed that the Hamburger scholar, emerging out of nowhere, was the beginning of the quest. 11 Nevertheless, Jesus Research was not born, as is usually thought, in the eighteenth century, when the Fragments of a then unknown German author were published by Lessing. The contention that Schweitzer’s choice of Reimarus as a starting point does not do justice to the Fragmentist’s forebears has been clearly realized in the last decades, and there is a growing awareness of this fact in the field. This is all the more understandable when one realizes that it – at least partially – had already been pointed out by some scholars from the nineteenth century onwards. Almost fifty years before the appearance of Schweitzer’s masterwork, David Friedrich Strauss wrote a monograph on Reimarus in which he devoted a section to point out how some of his views were anticipated by Spinoza, Bayle, and

7.  For a recent proposal, see F. Bermejo -Rubio, “Theses on the Nature of the Leben-Jesu-Forschung: A Proposal for a Praradigm Shift in Understanding the Quest,” Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 17 (2019), 1-34. 8.  “Wie er keine Vorläufer hatte…” (Geschichte der Leben-Jesu-Forschung, Tübingen, 19667, 68). 9.  “Vor Reimarus hatte niemand das Leben Jesu historisch zu erfassen versucht” (Geschichte, 56); “So war die Welt durch nichts auf das gewaltige Werk des Reimarus vorbereitet” (ibidem, 57). 10.  “Die Vorboten der Leben-Jesu-Forschung stammen noch aus dem 18. Jahrhundert. Es sind die bekannten Wolfenbüttler Fragmente, 1777 und 78 herausgegeben” (O. Schmiedel , Die Hauptprobleme der Leben-Jesu-Forschung, Tübingen, 1906, 3). Schmiedel avows that he had access to the proofs of Schweitzer’s book. 11.  “Until Strauss’s time only Hermann Samuel Reimarus […] had made a truly historical approach to the study of Jesus” (Ch. McCown, The Search for the Real Jesus. A Century of Historical Study, New York, 1940, 56).

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the English Deists. 12 In the twentieth century, August Lundsteen carried this idea to the extreme in a monograph on Reimarus which was basically devoted to prove that he had not been at all original, because virtually everything he wrote had been told before him by the Deists. 13 Reimarus’ reliance on the Deists is a contention which has been repeated since then, 14 thereby making it plain that a reliable account of the history of Jesus research should start earlier. Moreover, this should not have come as a surprise to those who had taken the trouble to carefully read Reimarus, because he himself cited former scholars, thereby recognizing that he stood on others’ shoulders. 15 Even before the three quests periodization of Jesus research had been debunked, several voices remarked that the customary narrative was flawed, as far as examination of the historical background made it impossible to endorse Schweitzer’s categorical judgment. On the one hand, prior to Reimarus’ posthumous intervention, there had been indeed remarkable contributions to this historical enterprise. 16 On the other, Schweitzer’s approach has been blamed for being rather parochial, not to say chau12.  “In der That war dem Ergebnis, zu welchem Reimarus in Betreff der christlichen Religion und der biblischen Bücher gelangte, schon von verschiedenen Seiten vorgearbeitet” (D. F. Strauss , Hermann Samuel Reimarus und seine Schutzschrift für die vernünftigen Verehrer Gottes, Leipzig, 1862, 35); see ibidem, 37-44 (“Vorgänger von Reimarus”). The first comprehensive overview of English Deism had been written some decades before in Germany (see G. V. L echler , Geschichte des englischen Deismus, Stuttgart, 1841; and, more recently, C. Voigt, Der englische Deismus in Deutschland, Tübingen, 2003). 13. “Wir glauben durch diese Besprechung ausreichend gezeigt zu haben, wo Reimarus’ Vorgänger zu finden sind, aber auch, dass es ein vollständiges Missverständnis ist, Reimarus als den Urheber der später bekannten Jesusforschung aufzustellen” (A. C. Lundsteen, Hermann Samuel Reimarus und die Anfänge der LebenJesu Forschung, Kopenhagen, 1939, 135). 14.  See Ch. H. Talbert, Reimarus. Fragments (Philadelphia, 1970) 11-18; “Reimarus was hardly the innovator that Schweitzer made him out to be” (ibidem, 40, n. 86); H. G. R eventlow, “Das Arsenal der Bibelkritik des Reimarus: Die Auslegung der Bibel, insbesondere des Alten Testaments, bei den englischen Deisten,” in G. Gawlick et al., ed., Hermann Samuel Reimarus (1694-1768): ein ‘ bekannter Unbekannter’ der Aufkärung in Hamburg (Göttingen, 1973) 44-63. 15.  On this point, see infra, 3.5. 16. See G. Hornig, Die Anfänge der historisch-kritischen Theologie. Johann Salomo Semlers Schriftverständnis und seine Stellung zu Luther (Lund, 1961) 227, n. 47: “Unabhängig von Reimarus und bereits vor der Publizierung der Fragmente durch Lessing war jedoch das eschatologische Problem auch in den Blickpunkt der historisch-kritischen Forschung Semlers getreten”; C. Brown , Jesus in European Protestant Thought 1778-1860 (Grand Rapids, 1985) 29-55; N. T. Wright, “Jesus, Quest for the Historical,” in D. N. Freedman, ed., The Anchor Bible Dictionary, vol. 3 (New York, 1992) 796-802 at 796 (who, among the “commonly held but erroneous views” of the quests, enumerates that according to which “Reimarus began it”); J. C. P. Birch, “The Road to Reimarus: Origins of the Quest for the

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vinistic, as far as it almost only covers the history of German research on the topic; 17 in fact, from the very first paragraph of his masterwork, he explicitly asserted that the investigation of the life of Jesus was “the greatest achievement of German theology” and a result of the “German temperament”. 18 Schweitzer’s praise of Reimarus in such glowing terms might have been part and parcel of his prejudiced belief in German intellectual and spiritual superiority. The true beginning of the quest is, however, debatable. Until recently, the only corrective provided to the traditional view was to say that Reimarus drew on the work of seventeenth and eighteenth century (English, but also Irish and Welsh) Deists. 19 According to some recent contributions, however, the attempt to reconstruct an image of Jesus independently of the theological interpretations of the churches is attested from the sixteenth century onwards. 20 In this stimulating view, an important place is given to the impact of the presence of Jewish scholarship in the European cultural milieu, which imposed the need for a Jewish reading of the Bible and a Jewish interpretation of Jesus; the first figure considered in this renewed survey is indeed Isaac ben Abraham Troki, a Karaite scholar, who in his Ḥizzuq Emunah (Faith strengthened) showed the incongruities apparent in the New Testament and pointed out at the “extraordinary degree of inconsistency” which “presents itself in numerous points, when Historical Jesus,” in K. W. Whitelam, ed., Holy Land as Homeland? Models for Constructing the Historic Landscapes of Jesus (Sheffield, 2011) 19-47. 17. See e.g. S. Gathercole , “The Critical and Dogmatic Agenda of Albert Schweitzer’s The Quest of the Historical Jesus,” Tyndale Bulletin 51.2 (2000) 261283 at 264; H. Moxnes , Jesus and the Rise of Nationalism. A New Quest for the Nineteenth-Century Historical Jesus (London-New York, 2012), 6. 18.  “Das lebendige Nebeneinander und Ineinander von philosophischem Denken, kritischem Empfinden, historischer Anschaauung und religiösem Fühlen, ohne welches keine tiefe Theologie möglich ist, findet sich so nur in dem deutschen Gemüt. Und die größte Tat der deutschen Theologie ist die Erforschung des Lebens Jesu” (Schweitzer, Geschichte, 45). 19. See the works cited in n. 11. “Reimarus was revisiting, in a particularly detailed way, arguments that had raged elsewhere in Europe throughout the Enlightenment” (Birch, “The Road to Reimarus,” 41). 20.  See e.g. M. Pesce , “Per una ricerca storica su Gesù nei secoli XVI-XVIII: prima di Hermann S. Reimarus,” Annali di storia dell ’esegesi 28 (2011) 433-464; I d., “The Beginning of Historical Research on Jesus in the Modern Age,” in C.  Johnson Hodge et al., ed., The One Who Sows Bountifully: Essays in Honor of Stanley K. Stowers (Atlanta, 2013) 77-88. Pesce’s articles have recently triggered a sort of research programme in Italy, with a group of scholars doing historiographical research, particularly focused on the emergence of critical approaches to Jesus in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. See e.g. C. Facchini, “Yeshù ha-Notsrì. Leggere Gesù nelle fonti ebraiche di età moderna,” in M.  Pesce-P. Totaro, eds, Gesù storico – Gesù ebreo. In età moderna e oggi, Roma, forthcoming. See also Birch, “The Road to Reimarus,” 30 and 39.

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we compare the doctrine of the Christians with the teachings of Jesus and his apostles”. 21 Pesce’s approach relies on the contention that only since the Renaissance circumstances such as the birth of modern philology, historical method and the history of religions made historical research on Jesus possible. 22 Without wanting to deny some validity to this view, it would be also possible to travel back in time. If the contention that the intellectual heritage of Jesus research goes back to the field of Jewish-Christian relations is to be accepted, 23 further works by Jewish authors could claim a place of honour. For instance, Isaac ben Moses ha-Levi, better known as Profiat Duran, wrote, in Catalonia or southern France, his treatise Kelimat ha-Goyim (Shame of the Gentiles) at the end of the fourteenth century; examination of the gospels led him to conclude that Jesus made no claims to being divine and simply demanded adherence to the Torah. 24 And even earlier, we could look at the work Milḥamot ha-Šem (The Wars of the Name), by Jacob ben Ruben, written in northern Spain or southern France in the middle of the twelfth century, and whose eleventh chapter contains a brief but vigorous assault on the New Testament, by providing Hebrew translations of the Gospel of Matthew. 25 21.  Faith Strengthened, ed. Moses Mocatta (London, 1851) 223. Nevertheless, Troki did not tackle several crucial issues. For instance, he did not call into question the notion that the Jews were responsible for Jesus’ crucifixion (only the validity of the consequences that Christian drew from it: Faith Strengthened, 221-222, 225, 258). In a paragraph devoted to Acts 1:6 he even states that Jesus did not deem himself the restorer of the kingdom to the Jews, thereby endorsing traditional Christian views (ibid., 269). On this interesting figure, see M. Benfatto, “Il Gesù del  Ḥiizzuk Emunah. Fra ricostruzione critica e costruzione polemica,” in A. Destro -M.  Pesce (eds), Texts, Practices, and Groups. Multidisciplinary Approaches to the History of Jesus’ Followers in the First Two Centuries. First Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (24 October 2014) (Turnhout, 2017) 807-827. 22. See G. W. Dawes , The Historical Jesus Question. The Challenge of History to Religious Authority (Louisville, 2001), 1-38. The period between Renaissance and Romanticism is deemed the crucial one in European intellectual history for the first emergence and early formation of the modern study of religion; see G. G. Stroumsa, A  New Science. The Discovery of Religion in the Age of Reason (Cambridge, MA, 2010) viii. 23.  See A. L e Donne , “The Quest of the Historical Jesus: A Revisionist History through the Lens of Jewish-Christian Relations,” Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 10 (2012) 63-86. 24.  See e.g. D. Berger , “On the Uses of History in Medieval Jewish Polemic against Christianity. The Quest for the Historical Jesus,” in I d., Persecution, Polemic, and Dialogue. Essays in Jewish-Christian Relations (Boston, 2010) 139-157, esp. 147-155. 25. R. Chazan, “The Christian Position in Jacob ben Reuben’s Milḥamot haShem,” in J. Neusner et al., eds, From Ancient Israel to Modern Judaism: Essays in Honor of Marvin Fox, 4 vols (Atlanta, 1989) vol. ii, 157-170. A German translation

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It is even possible that our search for the interest in the historical Jesus should go back to earlier times. In a thought-provoking contribution, Anthony Le Donne has suggested that perhaps we might begin with some figures from the second and third centuries ce . 26 Irrespective of whether Celsus obtained his information from a real Jew or not, his approach to Jesus was very critical of the Gospel portraits, making use of a kind of comparative method and trying to tell the “real Jesus” from the figure contrived by the evangelists. 27 In the Christian field, Celsus’ antagonist, Origen, doubted the literal interpretation of some Gospel narratives. 28 As to Porphyry, although his works on Christianity were destroyed and only some scattered fragments have been preserved, he criticized the reliability of the Gospel accounts. 29 It is not the aim of this section to provide a new and reliable history of Jesus research – such a demanding task can only be satisfactorily carried out after an exhaustive research on all available literature before the Enlightenment has been conducted and a truly critical acumen is applied –, but just to make it clear that looking for the launching of Jesus research before Reimarus is fully justified, and to suggest that perhaps we ought to begin before the Modern era. The blossoming of questions about the historical Jesus took indeed place earlier than the eighteenth century. Schis now available: R. P. Schmitz , ed., Jakob ben Reuben: Kriege Gottes (Milchamot hash-shem) (Frankfurt a. M., 2011). 26.  L e Donne , “The Quest of the Historical Jesus,” 68-69 and n. 19. This scholar refers to Origen, but to Celsus only in a passing way and to Porphyry in a note. The same authors are mentioned in a recent work whose author does not even refer to Le Donne’s article; see M. R eiser , Kritische Geschichte der Jesusforschung. Von Kelsos und Origenes bis heute (Stuttgart, 2015) 18-29 (unfortunately, the title of Reiser’s book is deceptive; although it contains some insights, its approach is very selective, confessionally-oriented, and ultimately far from critical). See also A. D. Baum, “Die Diskussion der Authentizität von Herrenworten in altkirchlicher Zeit. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Leben-Jesu-Forschung,” Theologische Beiträge 30 (1999) 303-317. 27.  “Damit ist die Unterscheidung zwischen dem historischen oder wirklichen Jesus und dem Christus des Jüngerglaubens bereits getroffen” (R eiser , Kritische Geschichte, 20). 28.  “Origen’s doubts of the historicity of the temptation narratives is hermeneutically relevant in that he opens the possibility that many episodes in the canonical Gospels should not be admitted to the historical record” (L e Donne , “The Quest of the Historical Jesus,” 67). This scholar rightly adds, however, that “Origen’s comments have less to do with his aim to define history and more to do with his affinity for allegorical interpretation. Origen is not trying to set the record straight” (ivi). 29.  Admittedly, Medieval Jews were still in the field of religious polemic, and ancient pagan authors were also apologists for their own worldview, but in their works some interesting points can be glimpsed that have their place in a history of Jesus research.

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weitzer’s contention that “Vor Reimarus hatte niemand das Leben Jesu historisch zu erfassen versucht” 30 must be qualified to the extent that it risks dying the death of a thousand qualifications. The idea that Reimarus had no predecessors is accordingly overstated; he was not a bolt from the blue, and should not occupy any longer the place formerly ascribed to him as the absolute beginning of critical research. 3. R e a s se s si ng R e i ma rus ’ S ig n i f ica nce After the above-mentioned research, it is superfluous to insist on the fact that many ideas formerly deemed to be Reimarus’ innovations had been set forth before him, so I will here briefly remark just a few points. 31 That Jesus remained loyal to Jewish observance, demanded adherence to the Torah and did not pose himself as a divine being is a point which had been made by Jewish authors and also by John Toland. Some of those Jewish authors (and others like D’Holbach) called into question the historical value of the Gospel reports by showing their contradictory character. The evidential value of miracles was thoroughly questioned by Thomas Woolston. The value of the resurrection accounts was shattered by Peter Annet because of their many incongruities. A wedge between Jesus and the Christ of the Church creeds was driven by Thomas Chubb, thereby separating Jesus’ teachings from later interpolations. And fraud as a component of early Christian proclamation had been used by quite a few authors. Once we have become aware of the research not surveyed by Schweitzer and have concluded that his work seems to have begun with a false start, the need for a new historiographical paradigm is felt all the more pressingly. If Reimarus is not the beginning of the quest, but just part of the modern concern about the historical Jesus, new questions come up. What sort of part does Reimarus really play? To what extent were his texts – namely, the last Wolfenbüttel Fragments posthumously published by Lessing – on the historical figure of Jesus and Christian origins truly innovative contributions? Were Über die Auferstehungsgeschichte (1777) and Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger (1778) just superfluous repetitions of previous works? 32 Reimarus’ place needs to be redefined and contemplated in a new light within a new paradigm. 30.  Schweitzer , Geschichte, 56. 31.  See e.g. the works cited in notes 12, 13, 15 and 19. 32.  These two Fragments, taken from the Apologie, have a close relationship and were originally intended to go together, although not necessarily in the order Lessing published them. See Talbert, Reimarus. Fragments, 153ff; Birch, “The Road to Reimarus,” 22, n. 8.

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In the remainder of this article I will claim that, even though Reimarus’ work no longer appears – as it did to Albert Schweitzer – as something new and revolutionary in many respects, the last Fragment published by Lessing still deserves being considered an intellectual landmark in the history of Jesus Research. Below I am briefly explaining the reasons to think so. 3.1. Adopting an Independent Stance: Beyond Apologetics and Polemics The need to relate facts without anger and fondness (sine ira et studio) is an obvious requisite for any reliable historical approach, such as Tacitus pointed out. 33 Lack of bitterness and partiality is all the more necessary in a field where ideological interests and religious – or anti-religious – beliefs usually take the upper hand. Unreserved devotion or polemical aims are indeed obvious features of writing about Jesus, both in the past and the present. Search for a historical Jesus implies adopting a critical distance towards this figure and the Christian tradition exalting it. “Critical distance” does not mean hostility or animadversion, but just the detached regard which is expected from a dispassionate observer and an impartial philologist and historian, free from the control of religious and theological constraints.  3 4 Although such a cool regard is not necessarily incompatible with the Christian faith, 35 there is every indication that too often faith commitments prevent scholars from adopting a truly independent stance. 36 Such a dispassionate regard is rare to find. On the one hand, Jesus has been the unfailing object of religious and/or moral admiration, not only in the Christian realm but also in the work of many Deists who identified his message with that of the rational religion and offered a lofty image of him; 37 in fact, until today, panegyric – even dithyrambic – prose is overwhelming in Jesus research. 38 On the other hand, in polemical 33. Tacitus, Annales  I 1. 34. On this dispassionate coolness, see M. Mulsow, “From Antiquarianism to Bible Criticism? Young Reimarus Visits the Netherlands,” in M. Mulsow, ed., Between Philology and Radical Enlightenment. Hermann Samuel Reimarus (16941768) (Leiden, 2011) 1-39 at 15-16. 35. This is proved by the fact that several Christian scholars (e.g. Johannes Weiss, Maurice Goguel or Dale Allison, to mention just a few) have made significant and lasting contributions to the study of the historical Jesus. 36.  Of course, it is likewise true that avoidance of confessional commitments does not warrant attainment of a truly critical stance. 37.  This was the case, for instance, of Thomas Chubb, who repeatedly refers to “our Lord Jesus Christ”. See e.g. The True Gospel of Jesus Christ Asserted (London, 1738) 1 and 30. 38. Almost a century ago, a French scholar warned his readers against “une image factice, celle, par exemple, qui nous représente Jésus comme un personnage

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writings Jesus became the target of very sharp and unjustified criticism. Although the rabbis offered a demythologized account of Jesus’ conception, they labeled him a fool or a false teacher, 39 and this polemical slant is also found in Medieval Jewish works.  4 0 The same is true for many other modern authors from Giordano Bruno 41 to the anonymous treatise De tribus impostoribus; in all these writers, Jesus is openly despised and even occasionally insulted as the alleged origin of Christianity’s fraudulent character. For instance, Jean Meslier called him “un fou…un insensé… un misérable fanatique et un malhereux pendart”. 42 Paul-Henry Thiry, Baron D’Holbach, described him as an impostor who deceitfully presents his “cousin” John the Baptist as his forerunner, 43 and who renounced to convert Herod Antipas because of the fear of being unmasked before an enlightened court.  4 4 Examples could be easily multiplied. 45 In these circumstances, the adoption of a detached regard was not an easy task. In the sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries only a few authors – like the Silesian proto-Deist Martin Seidel and the Venetian rabbi Leone Modena – got it. In Reimarus’ Von dem Zwecke Jesu, howtellement extraordinaire par les dons de son génie, tellement hors de la normale par la profondeur de son sentiment religieux et la délicatesse de sa sensibilité morale, qu’on ne peut vraiment le comparer à rien d’humain. Il y a dans cette façon de le figurer, encorez assez commune, même chez les non-croyants, une sorte de survivance très tenace de la foi atavique en sa divinité, qui ne laisse pas d’être fort gênante pour la liberté de la critique» (C. Guignebert, Jésus, Paris, 1933, 294). 39. See Shab 104b; Sanh 67a; see L e Donne , “The Quest of the Historical Jesus,” 67. 40. Other authors, like Profiat Duran, dealt with Jesus more as an object of pity than as a villain, but had anyway a disparaging view of him. See J. Cohen, “Profiat Duran’s The Reproach of the Gentiles and the Development of Jewish AntiChristian Polemic,” in D. Carpi, ed., Shlomo Simonsohn Jubilee Volume (Tel Aviv, 1993) 71-84 at 73. 41.  On Bruno’s negative view of Jesus, see E. Scapparone , “‘Efficacissimus Dei Filius’. Sul Cristo Mago di Bruno,” in F. Meroi, ed., La magia nell ’Europa moderna. Tra antica sapienza e filosofía naturale (Firenze, 2007) 417-444. 42.  See R. Charles ,  ed., Le Testament de Jean Meslier, tome II (Amsterdam, 1864) 41. 43.  Histoire critique de Jésus-Christ ou Analyse raisonné des Évangiles (Amsterdam, 1778) 54-56. 44.  “Jésus, qui en savoit assez pour opérer des merveilles aux yeux d’un peuple imbécile, n’osa pas se compromettre devant une cour éclairée” (ibidem, 170-171). D’Holbach was not particularly consistent in this respect, because later he leaves open the possibility that Jesus was a genuine visionary (see ibidem, 254-256). 45.  Vanini suggested that Jesus had invented the concept of the Antichrist as a bulwark against all future impostors: “Christus […] praedicit venturum novum legis­latorem, suae legi adversarium, qui erit Deo invisus, assecla Daemonum, vitiorum omnium sentina et orbis desolatio. Quare nemo se finget Antichristum, cum non nisi dedecus et infamiam inde consequi possit” (F. P.  R aimondi-M. Carparelli, eds, Giulio Cesare Vanini. Tutte le opere, Milano, 2010, 1352).

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ever, philological coolness prevailed.  4 6 This does not mean that he had not his own agenda. Reimarus’ work, taken together, is a project of rationalist apologetics and a defense of Deism. What I mean is that in his writings the Galilean preacher is not judged positively or negatively, in glowing or scornful terms, but rather treated in a detached and demystifying way as an object of historical research. Occasional traces of irony are not addressed to Jesus, but rather to the Church construction of him. 47 In his work, intellectual curiositas overtakes both apologetic and polemical animus. 3.2. A Realistic Portrait: The Political Dimension of a Career Although Reimarus did not deny in the least the religious dimension of Jesus’ preaching and, as Schweitzer emphasized, he grasped the fact that the world of thought in which Jesus moved was essentially eschatological, 48 he paid attention to a thread of Gospel evidence which, despite its obvious importance, has been rarely taken into account, namely, a whole

46.  One could object that the Apologie, taken together, is far from detached. I refer here specifically to the Fragment on Jesus and his disciples as published by Lessing (the whole Apologie appeared only in 1972). Some judgments on Reimarus’ alleged “hatred” seem to be the outcome either of rhetorical speech or of an attempt to discredit an intellectual adversary. Schweitzer attributed “hatred” not only to Reimarus, but also to other writers, such as Bruno Bauer. It has been perceptively pointed out that one of Schweitzer’s means of narrative creation was his construction of the feelings involved in the questers, and particularly of “love” and “hate” as driving forces for an author. This is, however, “one of Schweitzer’s most suspect strategies” (Gathercole , “The Critical and Dogmatic Agenda of Albert Schweitzer,” 271). 47.  This was so despite the fact that Reimarus had access to the Toledoth Yeshu, a work with a very negative view of Jesus as a deceiver: “Die ‘Toldoth Jeschu’ zielen unverkennbar auf eine Verspottung des historischen Jesus und geben damit eine Richtung vor, die der Reimarus’schen ‘Apologie’ fremd ist. So sehr Reimarus bereit ist, die Apostel mit ihrem verfehlten Auferstehungsglauben und Weissagungsbeweis ins Lächerliche zu ziehen, so wenig lässt er solchen Spott im Blick auf den historischen Jesus zu” (D. K lein, Hermann Samuel Reimarus (1694-1768). Das theologische Werk, Tübingen, 2009, 146); “Auch was die im Neuen Testament berichteten Wundertaten des historischen Jesus angeht, erhebt Reimarus keinen Betrugsvorwurf gegen Jesus selbst” (ibidem, 147). A precedent for this critical view of the Toledoth Yeshu can be found in Leone Modena’s Magen we-ḥerev; see A. Ghetta, “Leone Modena’s Magen we-ḥerev as an Anti-Catholic Apologia,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 7 (2000) 296-318, reprinted in I d., Italian Jewry in the Early Modern Era. Essays in Intellectual History (Boston, 2014) 134-152 at 145. 48.  See also “Von dem Zwecke Jesu” I 2-8. The German text which was published by Lessing can be seen in G. E. L essing, Werke. Siebenter Band. Theologiekritische Schriften I und II (Darmstadt, 1976).

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set of elements pointing to the political meaning of Jesus’ message and activities. 49 According to the Hamburg savant, through the preaching of the imminent arrival of the kingdom of God, Jesus’ aim was to awaken the people to the speedy arrival of the long-hoped-for deliverer. For this purpose he (and the Baptist) preached repentance, because a widespread hope among the Jewish people was that, if they really and truly repented, God would allow the Messiah to come and release them from their bondage and their oppressors, and would establish a magnificent kingdom, like unto David’s. That Jesus made kingly claims, and that he and his followers entertained hopes that the Messiah would establish a Davidic kingdom on earth, and that the disciples would sit upon thrones, is made clear in the Gospels themselves. 50 The key nature of this aspect explains that it was not mentioned just in passing by Reimarus, but was boldly asserted as crucial. 51 Reimarus not only clearly realized and expounded the political aspect of much of the available evidence in the Gospels, but provided a sustained and compelling argument to enhance the correctness of his view. Since the prevailing hope of the time was that of a worldly deliverer (weltlicher Erlöser), if the people believed Jesus’ preaching and that of his messengers, they would look for such a worldly deliverer, unless they received further and better instruction. Now, Jesus did not convey to the people a different idea, because it is nowhere asserted that he did so; 52 and because he chose as his messengers men who were themselves under the common view (as is proved by passages like Luke 24:21 or Acts 1:6). 53

49.  It is admittedly possible to refer to “political” approaches before Reimarus (see D. M enozzi, Letture politiche di Gesù. Dall ’ancien Régime alla Rivoluzione, Brescia, 1979) but in these cases “political” is taken lato sensu, in a meaning that has not much to do with Reimarus’ concrete reconstruction; mutatis mutandis, the same could be said about the comparisons between Jesus and Muhammad in the literature of the seventeeth and eighteenth centuries. 50. The explicit claim in Luke 22:29-30 is supported by significant evidence (Mark 10:35-40; 11:1-10; Acts 1:6), which is often adduced by Reimarus; see “Von dem Zwecke Jesu” I 30; II 4; II 6; II 7; II 27; II 53. 51.  Reimarus realized the great relevance of this aspect, to the extent that he made a distinction between the Nebendinge (secondary matters) and the Hauptsache (the main issue); see e.g. “Von dem Zwecke Jesu” II 9; II 45; II 52. 52.  Reimarus shrewdly remarked that in the episode (John 6:14) in which people want to make Jesus King he does not seize the opportunity of reproving them, of assuring them that they were mistaken, and that he had come for a very different purpose: “Hier wäre solches, wo sonst jemals, höchst nötig gewesen zu erinnern, wenn Jesus einen andern Zwecke gehabt, und die Leute auf einen andern hätte führen wollen” (“Von dem Zwecke Jesu” II 4). 53.  This argument was extensively set forth in “Von dem Zwecke Jesu” II 2 and II 4; see also II 53.

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All this means that Reimarus understood Jesus as fully integrated in his historical and political context, that of the Roman Empire and the imperial rule of Palestine. He asserted, for instance, that Jesus’ sending of missionaries could have had no other object than to rouse the Jews who had so long been “groaning under the Roman yoke” (unter dem Römischen Joche seufzende) and “preparing for the hoped-for deliverance” (zu einer Hoffnung der Erlösung). 54 Although the political factor elicits allergic reactions in the guild and even today many scholars prefer to overlook or downplay it, 55 the fact that Reimarus took this dimension seriously into account was a giant step towards a historically credible reconstruction of the Galilean preacher, among other reasons because it makes sense of a lot of Gospel material, and because it provides the best explanation for several otherwise hardly understandable aspects, such as – for instance – Jesus’ (and others’) crucifixion. 56 Admittedly, we can no longer deem Reimarus the pioneer in this aspect. He had indeed a forerunner at the end of the sixteenth century. In his Origo et fundamenta religionis christianae, Martin Seidel realized the simultaneously religious and political character of Jesus’ (and his group’s) hopes and goals, which he contextualized within the contemporary prophetic and messianic movements described by Josephus; in fact, he clearly asserted that Jesus considered himself the promised king and redeemer of Israel, 57 thereby unveiling the anti-Roman dimension of his message and explaining his crucifixion by virtue of that claim. Anyway, it is still true that Seidel devoted only a few paragraphs to the historical figure of Jesus, whilst Reimarus wrote extensively about him and could articulate a more thorough discourse. 3.3. Towards a Sound Methodological Approach A historical reconstruction must be methodologically sound, all the more so when it is based on biased sources, as is obviously the case of the Gospels. This implies having reliable criteria to distinguish between trustworthy material and anachronistic or fabricated evidence. Reimarus was 54.  See e.g. “Von dem Zwecke Jesu” II 2. 55. For a thorough demonstration of this statement, see F. Bermejo -Rubio, “Jesus and the Anti-Roman Resistance. A Reassessment of the Arguments,” Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 12 (2014) 1-105. In his valuable article “The Road to Reimarus”, Birch identifies “political eschatology” as something which distinguishes Reimarus’ approach from Chubb’s purely ethical eschatology, but he does not discuss this issue at length. 56. See Bermejo -Rubio, “Jesus and the Anti-Roman Resistance,” 51-68. 57.  Is etiam dixit se esse regem illum promissum […] Jesus crucifixus fuerit, quod se venditarit pro rege Judaeorum (F. Socas-P. Toribio, eds, Martin Seidel. Origo et fundamenta religionis christianae, Madrid, 2017, 26).

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not the first author who made a distinction between the historical Jesus and the Jesus of the Gospels, but he seems to have paid more attention than anyone before him to offer solid foundations for that distinction; in fact, his discourse stands out for his argumentative nature. Furthermore, as far as one can see, he made a lasting methodological contribution by providing an incipient criterion to discern reliable material from that which “has every appearance of fictitious invention” (das offenbar falsch und erdichtet scheinet). 58 According to Reimarus, the creation of a new view of Jesus by the evangelists means that whatever might lead the observer to detect the old view would be omitted by them, unless some remnants of the previous doctrine were allowed to stand. Since the new system which is clearly conveyed in the Gospels is that of a spiritual deliverer of mankind, one can confidently accept as reliable traces of the original view those passages hinting at a material, political and this-worldly kingdom. This is what Reimarus calls “the remnants of the old system” (die Überbleibsel des alten Systematis). 59 In this way, a passage or a theme is shown to be historically reliable if it is directly against what the evangelists wished to be so; conversely, it is historically unlikely it if agrees too closely with what they wished and corresponds to Christian doctrine. 60 Moreover, Reimarus produced reasonable explanations for the presence of those – at first sight unexpected – traces of Jesus’ belief in an earthly kingdom and of the portrait of him as a worldly deliverer of Israel. It was not possible for the Gospel writers utterly to destroy and banish all traces of their former system from their history of Jesus, although those traces have been left behind unintentionally (wider ihr Denken). This is due to several reasons. On the one hand, because of human carelessness (aus Versehen und menschlicher Unachtsamkeit); on the other, because Jesus’ followers had looked upon Jesus as a worldly deliverer of Israel up to the time of his death, and contemporary Jews were well aware that such had been their belief. 61 Reimarus perceptively realized that imposing a completely consistent view on edited sources is quite hard. The Hamburg savant complemented the above-mentioned criterion with some compelling arguments. For instance, he shrewdly remarked that 58.  “Von dem Zwecke Jesu” II 53. 59.  “Von dem Zwecke Jesu” I 31. 60. This criterion is what some contemporary scholars have called “strongly against the grain; too much with the grain” (E. P. Sanders-M. Davies , Studying the Synoptic Gospels, London, 1989, 304-305). 61.  “[…] sie Jesum bis an seinen Tod für einen weltlichen Erlöser Israels angesehen haben, und solches auch bei den Juden, die es alle wußten, nicht verhehlen konnten; so ist besonders auch nicht wohl möglich gewesen, daß sie alle Spuren ihres vorigen Systematis aus der Geschichte gänzlich sollten vertilget und vernichtet haben” (“Von dem Zwecke Jesu” II 1; see also I 31).

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if Jesus had spoken of his death and resurrection so clearly as the evangelists claim, such a vivid promise would have been remembered by his disciples and the women when he died and was buried; nevertheless, their own behaviour gives the lie to the claim, insofar as they speak and act as if they had never heard of such a thing in their whole lives. 62 This kind of reasoning is precisely that which is still used by contemporary critical scholars when it comes to assess, for instance, the lack of historical reliability of the Gospel accounts of the passion and resurrection predictions. 3.4. A Non-Projective Appraisal One of the typical procedures through which the value of Jesus research is often downplayed or relativized in some quarters is to posit the alleged projective nature of every portrait of the Galilean preacher. According to this already familiar charge, scholars see just a reflection of their own faces looking down into the depths of a well rather than any sort of grasping the historical Jesus. Such a widespread contention asserts that research is irretrievably subjective as far as people who carry it out see nothing of the true historical Jesus but rather render the Galilean in their own image. There is, of course, more than a grain of truth in this contention, because very often such a projection is indeed at work. Nevertheless, universalizing such a blame is illegitimate; and while there is always such a thing as interference caused by the act of interpreting, there are also critical methods for minimizing that to a degree which makes history-writing possible, 63 and this is precisely what Reimarus did. Therefore, using the obvious limits of the task of reconstructing the past as an alibi to deny the possibility of somehow engaging the historical object is unwarranted. Reimarus’ reconstruction of Jesus is not easily reducible to a mere “projection” or some kind of spurious interest. One could suspect, for instance, that Jewish scholars might be interested in getting Jesus back for Judaism, or that the Deist writers deemed Jesus to be a preacher of natural religion because they put into his mouth their own values and ideals, or that seventeenth and eighteenth free-thinkers offered a negative portrait of Jesus because they were projecting onto him their scorn for the contemporary Church establishment, and so on. In the case of Reimarus, however, it would be hard to glimpse where the alleged projection lies. One can of course discuss if his reconstruction is compelling or not, but it should be clear that the Jewish Jesus of the Deist thinker, the seditious Jesus of the 62.  “Da reden und handeln sie sämtlich so, als ob sie ihr Lebetage nichts davon gehöret hätten” (“Von dem Zwecke Jesu” I 32); see also II 16. 63.  See J. C. Poirier , “Seeing What is There in Spite of Ourselves: George Tyrrell, John Dominic Crossan, and Robert Frost on Faces in Deep Wells,” Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 4 (2006) 127-138 at 137.

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quiet bourgeois, and the apocalyptic preacher of the reasonable European scholar… are not at all mere projections. Reimarus did not reconstruct Jesus’ aims in this way to foster Judaism, to promote an idiosyncratic radical political theology or an apocalyptic eschatology. When he wrote on Jesus, he was accordingly not looking in the mirror. Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger is – along with Martin Seidel’s work – a good example of a historical reconstruction of Jesus which cannot be blithely ruled out by arguing that it is merely subjective or serves particular interests.  6 4 3.5. An Encompassing Theory of Christian Origins When one looks at the works written before Lessing’s publication of Reimarus’ Fragments, it is hard to avoid the impression that almost every author tackled only single issues. They seem to have contented themselves with raising specific questions, but among them over-arching views of Jesus are conspicuous by their absence. 65 Reimarus, however, did not limit himself to tackling one or two isolated aspects of the Gospel narratives, but he aimed at providing a framework to understand Jesus in a consistent way. Through a thorough reading of the sources, he could build an alternative hypothesis to the story told in the Gospels that allowed him to credibly insert Jesus simultaneously within Judaism and the Roman Empire. Moreover, he provided an alternative account of Christian origins in the aftermath of Jesus’ death which is characterized by a naturalistic and rational approach to the subject. This is why nobody before him – apparently with the only exception of Martin Seidel – seems to have produced a comparably comprehensive historical study of Jesus. There is a factor which contributes to account for this fact. The task of a historian is a complex one, and it requires seriously taking former research into account. Now, Reimarus was superbly endowed to get such a comprehensive view because he was acquainted with virtually all the critical literature on the topic. 66 He knew of course very well traditional Christian scholarship; after all, he was an offspring of Hamburgian and Wittenbergian orthodoxy. At the same time, he had an extensive knowl64. The non-idiosyncratic character of Reimarus’ reconstruction is further proved by the history of its reception, as far as its core – the view of Jesus as an eschatological visionary involved in some kind of anti-Roman resistance in both ideology and activity – has been taken up on several occasion since the eighteenth century until the very present, by authors (from Robert Eisler to Hyam Maccoby, from Karl Kautsky to Samuel Brandon) coming from very different ideological, religious and cultural backgrounds. 65.  This point was made by Brown, Jesus in European Protestant Thought, 53. 66. See E. Walravens , “La Bible chez les libres penseurs en Allemagne,” in Y. Belaval-D.  Bourel ,  ed., Le siècle des Lumières et la Bible (Paris, 1986) 579-597 at 584.

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edge of non-orthodox approaches. As a consummated classicist, he was familiar with the critical insights contained in the works of ancient Greek and Roman authors, and in his Apologie he refers to Celsus and Por­phyry’s assaults on the Christian religion. 67 As a Hebraist and Professor of Oriental languages, he could read and cite many medieval Jewish writings written by exegetes who demanded a pure historical understanding of the Old Testament Messianic passages, and he had also access to some of these texts in the Latin translation of Johann Christoph Wagenseil, Tela ignea Satanae (1681), thereby getting a direct acquaintance with Troki’s Hizzuq Emunah; 68 he referred indeed to this Jewish author as “the most thorough and the strongest opponent of Christianity”, 69 relying on his criticism of several Gospel passages. As if all this were not enough, many readings and his peregrinatio academica to Holland and England brought Reimarus into contact with the work of the Deists and other authors who relentlessly read the Bible as a “profane” piece of writing which had been composed by human hands for human purposes; his extensive knowledge of Deist writings is well known, and in fact he explicitly refers in his Apologie to several of them, such as John Toland and Anthony Collins. 70 Therefore, Reimarus’ critical armoury was particularly well furnished. 71 Reimarus’ wide learning about ancient and modern works makes it plain that he was in an apt situation to gather the former critical insights, by authors of very different religious and cultural backgrounds. By relying on all these authors, the Hamburg savant was able to harvest the seeds that had been sown by others and, in this way, to reap the benefit, thereby going beyond them.

67. G. A lexander , ed., Apologie oder Schutzschrift für die vernünftigen Verehrer Gottes, 2 vols (Frankfurt, 1972) I 61; II 268-269. 68.  On the Judaica used by Reimarus, see D. K lein, “Reimarus, the Hamburg Jews, and the Messiah,” in M. Mulsow, ed., Between Philology and Radical Enlightenment (Leiden, 2011) 159-182, esp. 162-169. 69.  “Der R. Isaac in seinem Chissuk Emunah, wirfft ihnen nicht allein überhaupt vor, daß sie die Sprüche der Propheten, wieder den wahren Verstand, im N. T. mißhandelten, indem man aus dem Vorhergelienden und Nachfolgenden leicht sehen konnte, daß jene gar nicht an das gedacht hätten, was die Evangelisten und Apostel daraus beweisen wollten; sondern er wiederlegt auch im zweyten Theil seines Werks alle Deutungen der besonderen Stellen A. T. die man im Neuen angeführt findet, als falsch und verkehrt; und soferne ist dieser Jude der gründlichste und starkste Wiedersacher des Christenthums” (Apologie  II 268). 70.  See Reimarus, Apologie  I 434; II 658, 660 (Toland); I 728, 742 and II 271 (Collins); II 271 (Clarke). 71.  How cosmopolitan and rich Reimarus’ erudition and thought-worlds were is eloquently argued by J. I srael , “The Philosophical Context of Hermann Samuel Reimarus’ Radical Bible Criticism,” in M. Mulsow, ed., Between Philology and Radical Enlightenment (Leiden, 2011) 183-200.

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3.6. An Uncommon Impact Reimarus’ impact can be only partially explained in the light of the contents of his work; after all, Seidel’s approach, for instance, was also devastating for the traditional view of Jesus. Thus, there are some other circumstances which should be taken into account in order to explain the influence of the German Aufklärer. To start with, unlike former works – Leone Modena wrote in Hebrew, and Martin Seidel’s Origo was written in Latin –, Reimarus composed his work in German, one of the main European vernacular languages, not restricted to scholars; and, although Schweitzer’s judgment on its literary quality was undoubtedly hyperbolic (as it is well known, the Alsatian polymath asserted that Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger was “a masterpiece of world literature”), 72 it was indeed written in a readable and entertaining way. Moreover, unlike many former works – which circulated clandestinely –, Reimarus’ Fragments were published by a towering figure of the German Enlightenment. Although Lessing had accompanied his edition with writings which conveyed his disagreement with the “Anonymous”, he openly recognized the importance of Reimarus’ work. In addition, he published the Fragments in the collection Zur Geschichte und Litteratur. Aus den Schätzen der Herzoglichen Bibliothek zu Wolfenbüttel, supported by the prestigious ducal library of Brunswick where Lessing worked as librarian and which was a referent in the contemporary European cultural world. Later, the Fragments were published in several editions of the Works of Lessing himself, thereby making them further available to the scholarly realm. Another factor which accounts for the Fragments’ impact is the personality of their author. Reimarus’ authorship, known at a very early stage in some restricted circles, became notorious at the beginning of the nineteenth century. This is extremely relevant, because, far from being an outsider, he had begun his career as an orthodox Lutheran scholar, and became soon an outstanding figure who remained at an important intersection within the Republic of Letters. Following in the footsteps of his famous father-in-law, Johann Albert Fabricius, he established himself as a first-class classicist, and his two-volume edition of Cassius Dio’s Historia Romana (1750-1752) was unanimously praised as a landmark. 73 His main 72.  “Ein Meisterwerk der Weltliteratur” (Schweitzer , Geschichte, 58). 73.  “The publication of Cassius Dio […] provided admittance into the pantheon of German classical scholarship”: U. Groetsch, “Reimarus, the Cardinal, and the Remaking of Cassius Dio’s Roman History”, in M. Mulsow, ed., Between Philology and Radical Enlightenment. Hermann Samuel Reimarus (1694-1768) (Leiden, 2011) 103-157 at 126. Reimarus’ edition is referred to in the first footnote of E. Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

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philosophical work, Die vornehmsten Wahrheiten der natürlichen Religion, was admired by Kant. 74 He carried on a correspondence with the cream of the scholarly society of his age, like the bibliothecarius of the Vatican library, Cardinal Angelo Maria Querini (1680-1755), and was named by the Russian empress Catherine the Great a member of the St. Petersburg Academy. All these circumstances contribute to explain the impact of Reimarus’ work. It was definitely not possible to look down on him, neither to characterize him as ignorant, arrogant or immoral, such as had been so often made with heterodox thinkers. The fact that such a prestigious scholar had been the author of the Fragments was indeed deeply disturbing for the orthodox establishment. 75 It is after the publication of Reimarus’ Fragments that the issues tackled by him acquire epistemological relevance and become the focus of a scientific debate within scholarly networks. 4. C onclusions

and

F u rt h e r R e fl ect ions

The former survey allows us to draw at least two complementary inferences about the significance of Reimarus within a new historiographical paradigm. On the one hand, it is beyond doubt that many ideas found in his work are not solely attributable to him, but they are the legacy of authors who had been writing on Jesus, the New Testament, and the Early Church in the former centuries, among whom there are Jews, Deists and free-thinkers (not to mention ancient pagan writers). On the other, there seems to be no comparable examples for the constellation of features which has been surveyed in the former section. A more balanced assessment is accordingly attained. Since we can no longer accept that Reimarus was a thinker without predecessors, we are bound to write the history of Jesus research adding a good number of chapters to it. At the same time, however, there is every indication that in that history, the Wolfenbüttel Fragments – and particularly Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger, which must be read along with the section on the resurrection accounts – deserve a place of honour. Because of its independence, truly critical stance, methodological effort, comprehensiveness and historical plausibility, Reimarus’ work – admittedly anticipated in several respects in Seidel’s Origo – represents a giant step towards a reliable reconstruction of Jesus and of the ideological devel74.  M. Kuehn, Kant. A Biography (Cambridge, 2001) 141. 75.  In 1839, Christian Ferdinand Illgen published an article in which he claimed that Reimarus could not be the author of the Fragments, since he had been a pious person; see F. Parente , ed., Hermann S. Reimarus. I frammenti dell ’Anonimo di Wolfenbüttel pubblicati da G. E. Lessing (Napoli, 1977) 43.

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opment of Christian communities. The publication of this work by Lessing should be deemed a real turning-point in the Leben-Jesu-Forschung. Although inflated and hyperbolic estimations are to be avoided, a high regard for Reimarus’ work is still fully justified. The history of the reception of this work confirms its special position in the history of Jesus research. To start with, its great importance has been stated by authors like Lessing, Strauss, 76 Schweitzer and Dilthey. 77 The fact that so learned and critical philosophers and savants were unanimous in recognizing the significance of Reimarus does not seem to be just coincidental, and should give pause. Schweitzer hardly exaggerated when he wrote that Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger was one of the greatest events in the history of the critical mind (“eines der größten Ereignisse in der Geschichte des kritischen Geistes)”. 78 Moreover, several other scholars maintaining a critical stance have since paid tribute to Reimarus’ lasting contribution. 79 The relevance of Reimarus’ ideas in the Leben-Jesu-Forschung is further and paradoxically proved by the endless attempts to discredit him and disparage his works as desperately flawed or irrelevant. Although it should be obvious that the foreseeable fate of any work questioning the traditional Christian image of Jesus is to be disparagingly rejected, 80 reactions provoked by Reimarus’ Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger are particularly 76.  “Seit ich vor nächstens dreißig Jahren die sogenannten Wolfenbüttelschen Fragmente zuerst genauer kennen lernte, ist ihr Verfasser ein Gegenstand meiner besondern Liebe und Verehrung geblieben […] In Reimarus sah ich das freie vernünftige Denken in Sachen der Religion zum Charakter geworden”: D. F. Strauss , Hermann Samuel Reimarus und seine Schutzschrift für die vernünftigen Verehrer Gottes (Leipzig, 1862) V-VI. 77.  In his essay on Lessing, Wilhelm Dilthey refers to Reimarus’ work as “Dieser scharfsinnigste Angriff, der seit Celsus gegen den ganzen Zusammenhang des Christentums gemacht worden war”: Das Erlebnis und die Dichtung. Lessing, Goethe, Novalis, Hölderlin, in Gesammelte Schriften XXVI. Band (Göttingen, 2005) 60. 78. See Schweitzer , Geschichte, 58. 79. R. Eisler referred to “die m. E. unwiderlegten und unwiderlegbaren genialen Ausführungen des Hermann Samuel Reimarus” (ΙΗΣΟΥΣ ΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣ ΟΥ ΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣΑΣ. Die messianische Unabhängigkeitsbewegung vom Auftreten Johannes des Täufers bis zum Untergang Jakobs des Gerechten, 2 vols, Heidelberg, 19291930, vol. i, 205); see also S. G. F. Brandon, Jesus and the Zealots. A  Study of the Political Factor in Primitive Christianity (Manchester, 1967) 22. 80. Let us recall, for instance, that Troki’s Hizzuk Emunah was labeled by J.  C. Wolf scriptum pestilentissimus, and that it provoked a host of reactions: “The polemical literature dealing with ‘Hizzuq ’Emunah’ would make quite a library, the imprints of which would run through three centuries” (M. Waysblum, “Isaac of Troki and Christian Controversy in the XVI century,” Journal of Jewish Studies 3 (1952) 62-77 at 76). Needless to say, Samuel Brandon has been the target of exceedingly unfair judgments for decades in the New Testament guild.

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revealing, as far as they betray that this work remains extremely disturbing and unpalatable even to the present day. Apart from the well-known fact that the immediate result of the publication of the Wolffenbüttel Fragments was a spate of hostile responses, 81 the sobering lesson is that unjustified and arbitrary assessments have been carried out all along the twentieth century. The Danish Protestant pastor August Lundsteen devoted a whole monograph to downplaying Reimarus’ significance with striking viciousness. 82 The much-respected exegete Joachim Jeremias referred to Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger as a ‘hate-filled pamphlet’, and labeled his approach as ‘clearly absurd and amateurish’. 83 As late as 1979, referring to Reimarus’ work, Ben Meyer wrote: “Never before had the gospels been looked at so hard and so long from so limited an angle of vision”, and “The explosions of what Schweitzer called Reimarus’s ‘lofty scorn’ are likely to strike the reader today as merely paranoid”. 84 These are indeed blatantly unfair and ludicrous assessments. According to Spinoza’s dictum – non ridere, nec lugere, neque detestari, sed intelligere –, however, we should try to understand such an odd state of affairs: abandonment of the argumentative field betrays the inrush of deep-rooted emotions – something other than disinterested search for truth. The reason for the widespread unfair treatment of Reimarus seems to be that the overwhelming majority of scholars – mostly of them of confessional provenance – strenuously cling to the view of a purely religious and apolitical Jesus because of ideological interests, and are prone to discredit intellectual adversaries, even resorting to ad hominem fallacies. 85 To turn a Nelson’s eye on the evidence pointing to an involvement of Jesus in anti-Roman resistance is still the prevailing procedure in New Testament studies. In fact, Richard Horsley has rightly asserted that “Much of the ‘quest of the historical Jesus’ as well as much of the mainline scholarship on Jesus in the twentieth century could be understood as a system81. See G. Buchanan, “Introduction” to The Goal of Jesus and His Disciples (Leiden, 1970) 10-27; Brown, Jesus in European Protestant Thought, 1-16. About Semler’s reaction, see F. Testa, “Hermann Samuel Reimarus (1694-1768) e la ricerca del Gesù storico,” Intersezioni 34 (2014) 225-249, esp. 241-249. 82.  “Nein, Reimarus ist nicht original in seiner Arbeit […] An andern Stellen veranlasst ihn sein zurückgedrängter Hass eigene Wege zu gehen. So vermeidet er es als Plagiator gekennzeichnet zu werden” (Lundsteen, Hermann Samuel Reimarus, 138); “Das schon Angeführte ist unserer Meinung nach Beweis genug dafür, dass Reimarus’ Gedanken – historisch gesehen – keine entscheidende Rolle in unserm Verständnis von Jesus und den Evangelien spielen konnten” (ibidem, 161). 83. J. Jeremias , “The Present Position in the Controversy Concerning the Problem of the Historical Jesus 1,” The Expository Times 69 (1958) 333-339 at 333-334. 84.  B. F. M eyer , The Aims of Jesus (London, 1979) 29-31. 85.  Attributing “hatred” to Reimarus might even be interpreted as a projection onto him of the (true) animadversion felt by some scholars towards the savant’s ideas, which seem to be exceedingly disturbing for traditional quarters.

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atic attempt to ward off the political reading of Jesus originally broached by Reimarus”. 86 The hypothesis of a somehow anti-Roman Jesus has been indeed consistently repressed in standard scholarship, having emerged only in the work of a conspicuous minority of independent minded authors. 87 All this does not aim at vindicating Reimarus tout court. If the Hamburg savant’s work was not the beginning of the search, neither was it its end result or its summit. There are, of course, several limits in his work. For instance, his view of the interrelationships between the Gospels was neither new nor based on fresh research. Like many other readers he sometimes took the Gospel reports at face value, without realizing the apologetic tendencies at work. 88 More importantly, he held a simplistic and naïve approach to the issue of the ideological transformation of Jesus’ views by endorsing the notion that conscious deceit constitutes a credible historical cause for the rise of Christianity, thereby leaving out of account any religious motivation of the disciples. 89 Although trying to discard Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger because of these limits would be to throw the baby with the bathwater, 90 Reimarus’ work is admittedly not to be accepted in its entirety, and should not be uncritically endorsed. Despite their shortcomings, however, the Wolfenbüttel Fragments can be deemed a turning-point, since they constitute a lasting and crucial contribution to any critical approach of Jesus, which has unfailingly inspired scholars. The dangerous nature of Reimarus’ key ideas for orthodoxy is too obvious, to the extent that they have not ceased to be a stumblingblock in some quarters. But this allows us to infer that, such as it has been argued, the history of Jesus research cannot be understood as a linear evolution in subsequent phases: 91 from the very beginning, it is only 86. R. A. Horsley, “The Death of Jesus,” in B. Chilton-C. A. Evans , ed., Studying the Historical Jesus. Evaluations of the State of Current Research (Leiden, 1994) 395-422 at 406. This statement should be nuanced in the light of Martin Seidel’s Origo et fundamenta religionis christianae. 87.  See e.g. Bermejo -Rubio, “Jesus and the Anti-Roman Resistance,” 3 n. 3; 6 nn. 15 and 16. 88.  For instance, he apparently accepted that John the Baptist was Jesus’ cousin (“Von dem Zwecke Jesu” II 3; II 6) and also the Gospels’ portrait of the Pharisees, failing to view that negative image as tendentious distortion, just as fictitious as the miracles and a lot of other material attributed to Jesus (I 1). 89.  This point was lucidly made by D. F. Strauss , Hermann Samuel Reimarus und seine Schutzschrift für die vernünftigen Verehrer Gottes (Leipzig, 1862) 269288, whose simultaneous vindication and criticism of Reimarus represents a truly honest scholarly approach. 90.  Let us remark that the clandestine nature of Reimarus’ work implies that he hardly had the opportunity of refining and improving his ideas through feedback or criticism. 91. See Bermejo -Rubio, “The Fiction of the ‘Three Quests’,” 251-252; Pesce , “The Beginning of Historical Research,” 88.

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understandable as the ongoing conflict between the attempt of historically-oriented approaches to unveil the truth on Jesus, and the attempt of theologically-driven approaches to cling to an idealized image of him, or – given the increasing difficulty of such a task – to make the critical (and often uncomfortable) results square with the religious needs of many people (including scholars). Jesus research is probably to be regarded as an uninterrupted stream in which two conflicting versions are fighting, producing countless compromises. In this history, Reimarus’ Fragments have been of paramount importance, as far as their publication by Lessing made it specially clear that the Jesus reconstructed by sober historical research might be irretrievably different – not to say opposite in some key respects – to the traditional Christ, and that ideological mutations in early Christianity seem to have been far more extensive and deeper than orthodoxy is usually ready to admit.

III. James, Peter, and Paul. Literature, A rcheology, and Documentary Papyri

A RCHAEOLOGICAL I NVESTIGATIONS UNDER THE VATICAN BASILICA From Pope Pacelli’s Project to Revisions of the 50s C. Carletti 1. I n t roduct ion The presence, death and burial of Peter in Rome is undoubtedly one of the most complex and debated issues in the history of Christian origins. In this long and often lively discussion two antithetical positions clearly emerged: a negationist prejudice and, conversely, an apologetical tendency that, gaps in the documentation tended to all too easily underestimate. The aim was to arrive at conclusions in tune with the “outcomes” fervently expected in Vatican circles, namely the identification of tomb of first Apostle. A sequence of only theoretically possible hypotheses, would, through the adaptations to circumstance, become “certainties” or, rather, irrefutable “historical truths”. At the base of these approaches lay the knowledge that the solutions proposed for “the Petrine issue” would have inevitably involved two essential aspects of the Roman church: the legitimacy of the apostolic succession and the primacy of the church of Rome and of her bishop. 1 Within this historiographical panorama a watershed may be easily detected between the years 1950-1951, when the results of interventions carried out under the Vatican Basilica were made public. 2 Scholarly attention immediately shifted to the archaeological evidence, not always easily read due to its the precarious state of conservation and, furthermore, the sometimes questionable methodological and technical procedures followed during the work were. 1. On these issues is still useful the accurate and balanced critical synthesis of O. Cullmann, “San Pietro. Discepolo-Apostolo-Martire”, in I d., Il Primato di Pietro nel pensiero cristiano contemporaneo, It. transl., (Bologna, 19652) 1-349; 177-213 regarding archaeological investigations; in addition see A. G. M artimort, “Vingt-cinq ans de travaux et recherches sur la mort de saint Pierre et sur sa sepulture”, Bullétin de Litterature ecclésiastique 73 (1972) 71-97; I d., “À propos des reliques de saint Pierre”, Bullétin de Litterature ecclésiastique 87 (1986) 93-112. 2.  B.  M.  A polloni-Ghetti, A. Ferrua, E. K irschbaum, E. Josi, Esplorazioni sotto la Confessione di S. Pietro in Vaticano, I-II (Città del Vaticano, 1951). From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 287-305.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117945

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2 . A F l e et i ng R e na i s sa nce I nspect ion In 1626, following a gestation period of 120 years, Pope Urban VIII consecrated the new Basilica of St. Peter, superimposed on that of Constantine, which in turn settled above the pagan burial ground and the funerary memory of Peter. The long history of the construction of the Renaissance Basilica is characterized by a succession of numerous events, projects and changes during the course of work, relating to the morphology and dimensions of the building and to the choice of both interior and exterior architectural solutions. Work was also punctuaded by a series of lengthy dramatic events: the most disastrous occurred during the time of Pope Clement VII (1523-1534) with the so-called Sack of Rome (1527) which witnessed a siege by the Landsknechts along with the outbreak of a terrible plague. A very long and laborious story, initiated in 1506 with Pope Julius II (with the laying of the first stone), then continued for 120 years through the pontificates of eighteen Popes (Leo X, Adrian VI, Clement VII, Paul III, Julius III, Marcello II, Paul IV, Pius IV, Pius V, Gregory XIII, Sixtus V, Urban VII, Gregory XIV, Innocent IX, Clement VIII, Leo XI, Paul V, Gregory XV). This extraordinary project also witnessed the partecipation of some of the greatest artists of the age: Donato Bramante, Raffaello Sanzio, Baldassarre Peruzzi, Antonio da Sangallo il Giovane, Michelangelo Buonarroti, Giacomo della Porta, Carlo Maderno and Gian Lorenzo Bernini. Three principles were rigidly respected during the works: as during the time of Constantine, the place of apostolic memory was not to be encroached; the papal altars of Pope Callixtus II and Pope Gregory remained in their place; the new building (central plan) retained the orientation of the Constantine Basilica (longitudinal plan), whose structures were demolished almost entirely up to the level of the foundations. In order to expand the new Basilica, including in the direction of the Vatican hill, the necessity arose to raise the level of the building with respect to the Constantinian structure: the new flooring was thus raised by around three meters and the resulting diaphragm was mostly filled with the rubble produced by the demolition of the previous building. At the end of the preliminary interventions only the space close to Peter’s memory remained accessible, corresponding to a portion of the presbytery, and the first part of the nave, for around two thirds of the length. The result was a large space, a real underground Basilica, ‘baptized’ with the conventional name of Grotte Vaticane (Fig. 1). During the construction of the Renaissance Basilica – at the time of Paul V (1605-1621) and Urban VIII (1623-1644) – at least two favorable circumstances emerged for a preliminary “reconnaissance” of the previous

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Fig. 1. The “Grotte Vecchie” - Copyright ownership statement

archaeological evidence existing under the new Basilica. Unexpectedly, in 1615, the Petrine area with some tombs had been glimpsed, mistakenly considered as those of the immediate successors to Peter. A decade later, in 1626, some workmen came into ‘physical contact’ with the same area of the funerary memory of Peter. This first-hand evidence of the ‘Vatican environments’ did not solicited any significant interest: rather a collective psychosis emerged, fuelled by several totally random events, that actualized the chilling stories of Pope Gregory of the great calamities that would bear down upon those who

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had profaned the inviolable sanctity of the tombs of the Roman martyrs. 3 This is attested to by Roberto Ubaldi, canon of St. Peter’s Basilica, who recalled the following foreboding episodes: the custodian of the Vatican Library (Nicola Alamanni) and project supervisor, fell ill and died several days later; the same fate befell the chaplain Francesco Schiaderio Secretary of Urban VIII, as well as his domestic, a certain Bartolomeo. It is of particular interest to directly examine the lively and detailed report of Roberto Ubaldi, who presents a faithful description of that troublesome period, during excavations (June 29, 1626) of the foundations of the four colossal bronze columns for Bernini’s canopy: Venuto l’ordine preciso, che si cominciasse a cavare, il cav. Bernini senza toccare il pavimento di sopra nella parte sotterranea, visto e misurato dove venissero a cadere i siti dei pilastri, fece dar principio…a romper sotto quei muri che erano d’impedimento…Accadde questo ai 10 di luglio. Il giorno seguente cascò l’Alamanni in infermità grave, e subito giudicato mortale aggravandosi sempre il male nel quarto decimo venne a morte. Non mancavano cognizioni naturali alle quali si potesse riferire questo accidente… Fu però creduto comunemente che questi fossero i casi avvertiti da s. Gregorio, et una pubblica increpatione di aver poco avvedutamente con titolo di sospetti vani negletto e ributtato quanto in riguardo di quel santo luogo con zelo di sana pietà e religione era stato motivato. Crebbe questa credenza in vedere un D. Francesco Schiaderio cappellano segreto del medesimo pontefice immediatamente cadere in terra di breve infermità intimo suo amico e forse parente a partecipe d’ogni suo pensiero, e quasi nell’istesso tempo morire ancora Bartolomeo suo amanuense di straordinaria sorte di malattia, et un de‘servitori, ch’ era rimasto, si vide non molto dopo reo di morte per un omicidio in questo tempo commesso.

The immediate suspension of any attempt at further investigation was met with a ‘theological justification’: in the collective imaginary Peter himself, through unequivocal warning signs, had condemned such disrespectful probing. 4 3.  Reg. IV, 30: CCL 140, 248-250, a. 594; VII, 23: CCL 140, 474-478, a. 597: in reference to some people, instantly death for having addressed the eyes toward the alleged mortal remains of the saints Paul and Lawrence and for the tampering of Peter’s golden key. 4.  This report, entitled Relazione di quanto è occorso nel cavare i fondamenti per le quattro colonne di bronzo erette da Urbano VIII all ’altare della basilica di s. Pietro fatta da signor R. Ubaldi canonico della medesima basilica, preserved in the Capitular Archive of St. Peter (H 55, foll. 141-166), is published by M.  A rmellini, Le chiese di Roma, II (Roma, 1942 2) 862-888 (quotation 866-868); on this document see also A. M ercati, “Documenti seguiti da altre ‘Varia’ dall’Archivio Segreto Vaticano”, in Miscellanea Historiae Pontificiae, XI, (Roma, 1945) 103104. On this event see also the report written in Latin by the Capitoline notary G. B. Nardone (Capitular Archive of St. Peter, H 55, foll. 169B-169g). On these

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3. Th e R e a l P r e m i se s of t h e I n t e rv e n t ions i n t h e Ye a r s 1939-1950 Before specifically examining the results of the excavations it is necessary to recall the immediate motivations, which an intervention under the Vatican Basilica had been imposed. It was a conscious archaeological project but, ‘more prosaically’, restructuring and extension work for a new tomb, destined for deceased Pope Pius XI, who had passed away on 2 October 1939 and had expressed, by deed testamentary, the desire to be deposed in the Vatican Grottoes, the longitudinal space underlying the sixteenth century Basilica. Pius XII as ‘moral responsible’ (sic!) of the work and as its immediate commisioner, had indicated Msgr. Ludwig Kaas (chairman of the Deutsche Zentrumspartei in the Weimar Republic), tied by a bond of friendship forged with Pacelli, when the future Pope was in Germany as a apostolic nuncio. Devoid of a preconceived plan, the team of scholars intended, a least formally, for the scientific direction of the archaeological research was gradually constituted on the iniziative of Kaas: Antonio Ferrua and Engelbert Kirschbaum of the Company of Jesus and professors Enrico Josi and Bruno Apolloni Ghetti. In practice, however, their role remained largely undefined: Questi lavori lunghi e delicati durarono si può dire un decennio, dal 1940 al 1950, e si svolsero principalmente sotto l’altare papale della basilica di s. Pietro e nello spazio circostante, per quanto la difficoltà dei luoghi e l’ingrombo delle strutture moderne, che pur si dovevano rispettare, lo consentirono. Essi non furono solo voluti, ma anche seguiti con grande interessamento dallo stesso Sommo Pontefice e più volte da esso visitati; la loro direzione fu in mano della Sacra Congregazione della Reverenda Fabbrica di s. Pietro […]. 5 Consequently, with the consent of Msgr. Kaas and Pius XII, the four scholars defined their role according to the unusual designation of “interested spectators”. Inded, as Ferrua recalls: “solo pochissime persone furono ammesse fin quasi da principio a seguirne l’andamento ed i risultati in qualità di osservatori interessati”. 6 This definition, formally reported in the preface in the official report of the excavations, is essentially coherent with the general assumption of the entire project: interventions of the seventeenth century see the clear and documented synthesis of P. Liverani, Le necropoli Vaticane. La città dei morti di Roma (Milano, 2010) 127-133. 5. A. Ferrua, “La storia del sepolcro di San Pietro”, La Civiltà Cattolica 103 (1952) 15. 6.  Ibidem.

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[…] non meraviglia che solo in un secondo momento, ed a lavori molto progrediti, sorgesse l’idea di una relazione di carattere archeologico e se ne facesse parola con quelli che la presentano. I quali ebbero il privilegio di essere ammessi ad assistere ai lavori, chi più chi meno, fin quasi dal loro inizio e li seguirono in qualità di spettatori interessati con la maggiore assiduità che poterono, fornendo, via via che erano richiesti, a chi dirigeva i lavori stessi quegli schiarimenti e quei pareri che erano da loro desidertai… assumendosi in definitiva il compito di una relazione […] 7

In 1941 – two years from the commencement of the works – Ferrua reiterated a basic concept, perhaps not perceived by everyone: […] il vero scopo e il principale effetto di tutti questi lavori non hanno punto a che fare con le ricerche archeologiche, ma vogliono solo ridare alla veneranda cripta vaticana un assetto nuovo, più sano e più arioso, più ampio e più comodo, con una disposizione più decorosa e più razionale […]. 8

This project is explicitly exposed by Msgr. L. Kaas in Introducing of the official report of the excavations: Secondo le disposizioni testamentarie olografe del compianto pontefice (scil. Pio XI), la sua salma doveva riposare presso quella di Pio X lungo il muro meridionale delle Grotte Vecchie. L’angustia dello spazio in quel punto ispirò il tentativo dei sondaggi…I primi accertamenti, benchè ancora modesti, furono tali che l’Augusto Pontefice (scil. Pio XII elected March 2, 1939) con coraggiosa intuizione affidò a chi scrive l’incarico di abbassare il pavimento delle grotte. 9

Work began in 1939 with the “Grotte Vecchie”, below the renaissance Basilica, serving as the base-camp from which the investigations were initiated. Initially the level of the “Grotte” was lowered by around 1 metre, a intervention which, quite predictably, immediately revealed remarkable traces of the Constantinian Basilica and, in the lower layer, part of the pagan necropolis, interred and partly destroyed due to the realization of the building commissioned by Constantine. A lack of the necessary requirements to address an archaeological stratification of such considerable complexity emerged in terms of both planning and execution from both the very outset of the first phase of work as well as subsequently, also due to the narrowness of the spaces in which work was being carried out. A “Giornale degli scavi” was not drawn up; the utmost discretion under oath was required from all participants to the survey with no one outside privy to how the investigation was proceeding. 7.  B.  M.  A polloni-Ghetti, A. Ferrua, E. K irschbaum, E. Josi, Esplorazioni sotto la Confessione di S. Pietro in Vaticano, I-II (Città del Vaticano, 1951) 3. 8. A. Ferrua, “Nelle grotte di S. Pietro”, La Civiltà Cattolica 92 (1941), 433. 9.  B.  M.  A polloni-Ghetti, A. Ferrua, E. K irschbaum, E. Josi, Esplorazioni sotto la Confessione di S. Pietro in Vaticano, I-II (Città del Vaticano, 1951) VIII.

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of

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“E x plor at ions ”

The official report of the excavations was finally published in 1951, one year overdue in terms of the feverish expectations of Pius XII, who wished to announce the final outcome of the excavations, the anticipated discovery of the tomb of Peter, at the end of the Holy Year (December 23, 1950). This delay, as may evidently be deduced, was essentially attributable to the difficulties of the team in indicating a plausible chronology for the initial phase of the “Campo P”, the alleged tomb of Peter sought in vain (Fig. 2-3).

Fig. 2. Planimetry of the “Campo P” - Copyright ownership statement

Among the upper echelons of the Vatican, in the context of opposition from Protestant criticism, hope had grown for the acknowledgment of an interment attributable to the Apostle and, therefore, dating from the first century. Yet not even the final synthesis of the Explorations brought clarity in this sense, as may be inferred from the following passage at the end of the official report: a significant testimony of the difficulties faced by the team of four in proposing a shared conclusion that, as expected, could have closed the issue: Gli scavi hanno dunque rivelato quello che nessuno sospettava, cioè che la tomba del Principe degli Apostoli aveva avuto già prima di Costantino una propria sistemazione monumentale, la quale, nel corso di un secolo e

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Fig. 3. Reconstruction of Gaius’ trophy - Copyright ownership statement

mezzo, subì numerose modifiche e rinnovazioni che documentano chiaramente la continua venerazione concentrata in questo luogo. Costantino non dovette ricercare la tomba di Pietro: questa era ai suoi tempi presente agli occhi di tutti, ed oggetto della più fiorente venerazione. La tomba stessa dimostrava, con la sua consistenza strutturale, la sua età veneranda e la sua lunga esistenza: dall’umile avello, che doveva una volta occupare il misterioso quadrato stretto tra le tombe circostanti, al monumentale trofeo a doppio piano additato da Gaio. 10

It should be acknowledged that this passage was adroitly constructed; yet a careful reading reveals uncertainties, contradictions and reticence, and ultimately different opinions among the scholars themselves as signatories of the Explorations. Their difficulty in clearly presenting the critical issues of the problem – that is to say chronology, position in the ground and morphology of the burial of Peter – is clear in the use of indeterminate expressions such as the excessive use of the phrase “prima di Costantino” and, especially, the ambiguous conclusion “La tomba stessa dimostrava, con la sua consistenza strutturale, la sua età veneranda […]”. 10.  B.  M.  A polloni-Ghetti, A. Ferrua, E. K irschbaum, E. Josi, Esplorazioni sotto la Confessione di S. Pietro in Vaticano, I-II (Città del Vaticano, 1951) 144 b.

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Furthermore, the locution età veneranda was proof of the difficulties encountered by the four “interested spectators”, in explicitly pronouncing the “fateful first century”, in contradiction to the affirmation of the discovery of a tomb that would have warmly received the remains of Peter following his persecution at the end of the year 64. The morphology of the tomb is also defined through the approximate expression “[…] umile avello, che doveva una volta occupare il misterioso quadrato stretto tra le tombe circostanti […]”. 11 On the basis of these outcomes, many of which had already been disclosed before publication of the “Explorations”, Pius XII solemnly announced on the occasion of the closing of the Holy Year of 1950: La gigantesca cupola si inarca esattamente sul sepolcro del primo vescovo di Roma, del primo papa: sepolcro in origine umilissimo, ma sul quale la venerazione dei secoli posteriori, con meravigliosa successione di opere, eresse il massimo tempio della cristianità. 12

For the mass media of the period and, consequently, for the collective imagination, Peter’s tomb had become historical reality. 5. A S u ppl e m e n t

to

I n v e s t igat ions

from

1953

to

1957

The publication of the results achieved during the course of the excavations under the Vatican basilica aroused enormous interest: the work was received with a degree of consent, yet principally with clear disagreement expressed by authoritative archaeologists and historians. The basis of the disagreement was the chronology of the “Campo P” and the extreme difficulty of identifying a grave attributable to Peter. The Vatican vertices were obliged to take notice in the face of such authoritatively motivated reservations. The immediate result of such a situation was the recourse to supplemental investigations in order to allow a new reading of the archaeological evidence brought to light between the years 1939-1949. With the consent of Pio XII, this task was entrusted to a workgroup formed by Professors Domenico Mustilli for the pagan necropolis, Margherita Guarducci for the study of graffiti and Adriano Prandi for archaeological data found at “Campo P”, namely the archaeological context of the presumed tomb of Peter. The new investigation was carried out between 1953 and 1957. Msgr. Kaas had died in early 1953 and Msgr. Primo Principi had been appointed in his place as Secretary Treasurer of the Fabric of St. Peter: this time the new working group had full autonomy. From the first approach to the 11. See supra note 9. 12.  Acta Apostolicae Sedis 43 (1951) 51-52.

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“Campo P” Prandi was able to directly evaluate the technical and methodological limitations which had come to light from excavations during the period 1939-1949. 13 His first objective was a rereading of archaeological evidence that had emerged from “Campo P”, specifically in the area adjacent to the Red Wall towards the niche defined by the N1 excavators, in front of which were three tombs dug directly into the ground, defined as γ, η and θ. These burials adjacent to the niche left a certain space, considered by the “Explorers” as a place of respect, preceding the construction of the Red Wall, leading Prandi to comment: “Assai breve fu il passo per giungere a dire che questa tomba […] doveva indicare la tomba di Pietro”. 14 But this hypothetical tomb indicated like that of Peter, in relationship to its morphological and functional connotation, was only a shapeless hole excavated in the ground, devoid of a stone or a mound, namely of an “identifier signal”. The preliminary work of Prandi focused on a thorough analysis of the chronology of the tombs γ, η and θ arranged in front of the Red Wall, assigned by the “Explorers” as dating from between the I and beginning of the II century. This chronology was regarded as proof, albeit only virtual, of the presence of a funerary memory attributable to the Apostle. The entry by Prandi in the preface of his report is extremely significant in this context: Primo modestissimo lavoro fu pulire, materialmente, ciò che era stato reso visibile. E dico subito che, grazie a questa assai semplice opera di spazzola e pennello, potei leggere su una tegola pertinente alla tomba gamma, già, come s’è detto, attribuita con certezza al I secolo, un bollo del 120 circa (CIL XV120a). E ciò alterò non poco i già assunti dati cronologici […] Il problema, dunque, non fosse che per queste prime elementari osservazioni, parve meritare una piena revisione”. 15

Prandi, with subtle irony, speaks of “elementary observations” obviously citing neglect by those who had preceded him. Indeed, management “in the field” of the archaeological evidence and the individual observations and general conclusions in the “Explorations” reported was a highly complex task. The results obtained by Prandi entirely contradicted any previous findings: there was no archaeological evidence of the I century and, therefore, no material evidence demonstrating an original tomb of Peter. It must also be noted that Prandi expanded the excavation area during investigations, 13. A. P randi, “La tomba di S. Pietro nei pellegrinaggi dell’età medievale”, in Atti del IV Convegno di studi: Pellegrinaggi e culto dei Santi in Europa fino alla Ia Crociata (Todi, 1963). 14.  Ivi, 289-290. 15.  Ivi, 291.

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bringing to light 21 new burials, no earlier than the III century, which were added to the eight oldest graves from the II and III century, already discovered between 1939-1940. These new burials, carried out when the “Trophy of Gaius” mentioned by the eponymous Roman presbyter around the 90s of the II century had already been set up, can be considered as a prototypical model of the praxis of burials ad sanctos. In the report curated by Prandi, published – it should be stressed – “in disguise”, the results of the additional investigations were summarized as follows: Le osservazioni e le conclusioni che fin qui abbiamo esposto e desunto convergono a provare l’istituzione del culto funebre sul luogo celebrato come memoria del martirio e del ‘trionfo’ del Principe degli Apostoli. Ma non hanno dato luogo a chiarire se si siano conservati o se siano comunque riconoscibili immediatamente resti di una vera e propria sepoltura, di una tomba, quella dell’Apostolo. Diciamo subito che la presenza di simile manufatto, cioè di un sepolcro ben definito e definibile, databile all’epoca del martirio di Pietro non è documentabile. La tomba di Pietro, in altri termini…o non ci fu mai, o fu distrutta o anche cancellata da successive strutture o alterazioni della zona; oppure le ricerche finora condotte non hanno dato i risultati, in questo senso, sperati. 16

It should however be recognized that in 1942 Ferrua had already advanced serious reservations relating to the high chronology of archaeological data emerging from the “Campo P”. The fundamental reservation of Ferrua concerns the significant and, in the historical and cultural context of the time, courageous and incontestable consideration of “lack of positive data”: […] per quanto sappiamo tutti questi monumenti non risalgono più in là del II secolo dopo Cristo. Che cosa c’era in questo luogo prima di essi? Che cosa continuò a coesistere con essi […] Tutte queste domande non hanno un valore puramente accademico, ma una certa una certa importanza per il ricercatore, il quale fruga sempre tenendo presente alla mente le circostanze, in cui la prima sepoltura del Principe degli Apostoli in questa 16. A. P randi, “La tomba di S. Pietro nei pellegrinaggi dell’età medievale”, in Atti del IV Convegno di studi: Pellegrinaggi e culto dei Santi in Europa fino alla Ia Crociata (Todi, 1963) 412. These findings essentially were confirmed by A. Vivaldi, “L’area archeologica del Campo P nella necropoli di s. Pietro in Vaticano. Analisi tecnica del monumento”, Rivista di archeologia cristiana 91(2015) 311-358, which compared the observations made on the site with a schematic volumetric model elaborated in environment CAD. Vivaldi has however better defined the chronology of the R1 mausoleum and of the area Q (between the end of the second century and the mid third century) and the function of the Red wall no longer as retaining wall but as an integral part of an environment used by Christians in pre-Constantinian age.

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regione, e le vicende cui essa poté andare soggetta attraverso le età successive. L’argomento, per quanto interessante, è molto spinoso, e non si può trattare a fondo per mancanza di dati positivi. 17

The elegantly ironic tone of locution “the subject (obviously Peter’s tomb) is, while interesting, very thorny”, should also be underlined in this context, evidently addressed to the irrational expectations of the period, especially present among clerical environments. 6. E pigr aph ic D ocu m e n tat ion

in the

“C ampo P”

6.1. The Graffito of the Red Wall Ferrua provided, in 1952, the first reports of a fragment of plaster which had accidentally fallen (or deliberately detached?) from the “Red Wall” on which the name of the Apostle was written. It should initially be noted that the graffito was not found in his original support: there is no doubt however that it comes from the Red Wall, as indicated by its the color (the particular red) as well as the impasto of the small written surface, perfectly consistent with that of the wall. The graffito was found by Ferrua the August 2, 1952, not in its original position (Red Wall), but – together with other fragments of plaster and rubble – within a small marble-coated cavity, already in existence in the Wall G by the constantinian period. The first question for Ferrua was how and why the fragment had got to be inside the cavity of the wall G. The answer was that: Qualcuno, alcuni giorni prima, aveva voluto esplorare la natura dei muri che circondano la cassetta a sud ed a ovest, e lavorando con lungo scalpello su quello di ovest, il famoso muro rosso, ne staccò quanto potè del caratteristico intonaco, che per lui aveva l’unico torto di celargli la struttura viva di un muro così importante, in un punto così delicato. Trovai dunque un bel mucchietto dentro la cassetta e senza tanto pensarci ne raccolsi il pezzo maggiore per esaminarne la natura. 18

Who, so secretly and without leaving any trace – could have carried this operation? An unsolved mystery remains. The “someone” suggested by Ferrua can perhaps be identified. E. Kirschbaum (one of four explorers), writes that during the excavations under the confession Vatican, the “moral leader” of excavation activities – L. Kaas – “sometimes exceeded 17. A. Ferrua, “Nuove scoperte sotto S. Pietro”, La Civiltà Cattolica 93 (1942) 236. 18.  A.  Ferrua, “Memorie dei SS. Pietro e Paolo nell’epigrafia”, in Saecularia Petri et Pauli (Città del Vaticano, 1969) 131-132.

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the limits of its competence had”: 19 it was his habit, every evening at the end of the working day, to scour the excavated area picking bones and other artefacts 20 without leaving a written record of this – harmful – personal initiative. At this point the identification of the “someone” seems clear. On the small fragment identified by Ferrua (3, 2 × 5, 8 cm) an inscription is traced “a sgraffio”, articulated on two lines, to the right somewhat damaged and thus not possible to quantify the extent of lost text. To date it remains the only epigraphic datum of “Campo P” positively connectable to the Petrine devotion. The chronology of the graffito finds a terminus ante quem non in the construction of the Red Wall, unanimously assigned to the second half of the second century, and a terminus post quem non in the Wall G, which was positioned perpendicularly to the Red Wall, presumably during the second half the third century. The proposals formulated by Guarducci for the chronology of the graffito as being from around the year 320 and its location in the “loculo” of the Wall G are definitely unsustainable, as the fragment certainty originated from the Red Wall (dating from the second half of the second century), which at the end of the third century would lean against – almost touching – the Wall G on its western side. On a few letters have survived of the original text: Πέτρ[- - -]  / ἐν ι[- -] (Fig. 4). For those scholars who have studied this graffito, the supplement of the first line has presented little problems: the reading Πέτ[ρος], accepted by all, is highly probable. The real issue lies in the second line, of which three letters have remained, leading to the following integrative proposals: Πέτρ[ος]  / ἔνι (contracted form for ἔνεστι), “Peter is here” (Guarducci). 21 Πέτρ[ος]  / ἐν ἰ[ρήνῃ] “Peter in peace” (Carcopino, Ferrua, Carletti) 22 Πέτρ[ος]  / ἐνδ[εῖ], “Peter is far away” (Carcopino) 23 19.  E. K irschbaum, “Zu den neuesten Entdeckungen unter der Peterskirche in Rom”, Archivum Historiae Pontificiae 3 (1965) 309-316. I d., Die Gräber der Apostelfursten (Francoforte, 1957) 68, 113, 137 tav. 24. 20. M. Guarducci, Pietro ritrovato. Il martirio – La tomba – Le reliquie (Milano, 1969) 39, 93. 21. M. Guarducci, I graffiti sotto la Confessione di san Pietro in Vaticano (Città del Vaticano, 1958) 396-403; E a ., Epigrafia greca, IV. Epigrafi sacre pagane e cristiane (Roma, 1978) 552-556. 22. J. Carcopino, Études d ’histoire chrétienne (Paris 1953) 281. A.  Ferrua, “Memorie dei SS. Pietro e Paolo nell’epigrafia”, in Saecularia Petri et Pauli (Città del Vaticano, 1969); C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi (Bari, 20122) 265-266. 23. J. Carcopino, De Pytagore aux Apôtres (Paris, 1956) 282-284: a change of opinion in support of the hypothetical transfer of the relics of Peter – along with those of Paul – at Apostolorum memoria on the Appian Way.

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Fig. 4. Red Wall: plaster fragment with devotional graffito addressed to St. Peter - Copyright ownership statement

Πέτρ[ος οὐκ]  / ἔνι “Peter is no more here” (Pugliese Carratelli) 24 Πέτρ[ος]  / ἐν Ἰ[Η(σοῦ)] or Ἰ[(ησοῦ) Χ(ριστῷ)] “Peter in Jesus or Peter in Jesus Christ” (Fraser). 25 Πέτρ[ος]  / ἐπί[σκοπος] (Marrou) 26 Πετρ[ὁνιος]  / ἐν ἰ[ρήνῃ] (Klauser) 27 24. G.  P ugliese Carratelli, “Πέτρ[ος οὐκ]  / ἔνι”, La parola del passato 25 (1970) 117-126. 25. P. M. Fraser , “Reviews to Guarducci, I  Graffiti”, The Journal of Roman Studies 52 (1962) 218. 26.  Dictionnaire d ’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie, XV (Paris, 1953) 3337 n. 1. 27. Th. K lauser , Die römische Petrustradition im Lichte der neuen Ausgrabungen unter der Peterkirche (Köln-Opladen, 1956) 51, 71-75; based on this integration, Klauser has advanced the hypothesis that the presence of the Petronio’s graffito in the third century had induced the Christians to recognize the Peter’s grave in that precise place of the Vatican necropolis.

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6.2. The Graffiti of the Wall G. The Wall G is a structure for the containment and protection of the Petrine memory (namely Gaius’s trophy), placed perpendicular to the Red Wall, presumably built around the last decade of the third century. It remained visible and accessible until the construction of the Constantinian basilica, that – in the area of the presbytery – was superimposed on the “Campo P” (approximately 320). On its northern surface (47 × 87 cm), covered by a white plaster, many signs (not better definable) and around twenty real inscriptions were incised over the course of three decades (Fig. 5).

Fig. 5. Wall G: overview of the surface with graffiti - Copyright ownership statement

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These texts, substantially written in atypical “capital” letters, often overlap and generate real palimpsests, evidently due to the small size of the surface accessible to the writers and to the fact – widely documented in the shrines of the Roman catacombs (e.g. Callisto, Priscilla, Ippolito, Marcellino and Pietro) – that some visitors limited themselves to drawing only purely figural “signs”: segments, curved lines, triangles, individual letters and para-alphabetical elements, that often intersect with each other and with the inscriptions. These phenomena, physiological in the graffiti and purely random, were interpreted as vectors of an unlikely esoteric language, to which the name of “mystical cryptography” was given. The new interpretative method conceived by Guarducci is based on three particular aspects: the hidden message transmitted by the individual letters; the rapprochement and union of individual letters of the same or different inscriptions through conjunction lines; decorative patterns and other means to complete the secret meaning and modification and adaptation of letters expressing simultaneously different concepts. Fraser, in an extensive and detailed review of the three volumes in which Guarducci presents the edition and interpretation of the graffiti of Wall G, appropriately observes: “Each of us must weigh the balance for himself. A factor subsidiary which leads to equal uncertainty is the element of mere carelessness of execution, which may lead to an unintentional juxtaposition of items which thereby assume a fraudulently significant air. These factors – the decorative motive and the casual element – must never be forgotten in an evaluation of the probable symbolism of any group of letters or figures”. 28 The readings and interpretations proposed by Guarducci were heavily influenced by the general conviction that the name of the Apostle necessarily had to be inscribed on Wall G. In this sense her expectations were to be disappointed: the name Peter is not – according to an objective reading – present on Wall G. Guarducci consequently elaborated a cryptographic system that – through unjustified artifices – could allow for the identification of the apostolic name, yet only perceptibile through a solution involving short forms and acronyms such as P, PE = P(etrus) Pe(trus), APE = a(d) Pe (trum), APET = a(d) P(etrum), VAP = v(ita) a(d) P(etrum). 29 Wall G, in addition to the name of Petrus had, according to Guarducci, passed down other treasures of “spirituality”, through the “mys28. P. M. Fraser , “Reviews to Guarducci, I  Graffiti”, The Journal of Roman Studies 52 (1962) 215, particularly in reference to the conclusions outlined from M.  Guarducci, I  graffiti sotto la Confessione di san Pietro in Vaticano (Città del Vaticano, 1958) 369-381. 29. M. Guarducci, I graffiti sotto la Confessione di san Pietro in Vaticano (Città del Vaticano, 1958) 375.

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tique” of mysteriously connected individual letters or groups of letters. On the basis of this elaboration not only T (= cross), and the alleged Latin transliteration of alpha and omega in AO (beginning and end), or OA (end and beginning), but also other letters were carriers of hidden values, always in the light a “mystical code”, by virtue of which N, R, S, V, Y, M, respectively were, for example, equivalent to victoria (νίκα), resurrectio, salus, vita, ὑγίεια (salus) and Maria. 30 Ultimately, according to Guarducci, the graffiti of Wall G assumed enormous relevance for the knowledge of Christian spirituality before the Council of Nicaea (325) and in general for the history of the Church. 31 But in graffiti’s tangle still visible on the wall G are distinguished clearly some written, no doubt of great interest in relation to a significant event of the age of Constantine (the vision during the battle at Saxa rubra). Curiously to this documentation neither Bruun or others after him have reserved special consideration. These are Christological signs in the archetypical form of so-called “Costantinian monogram”, to which – not surprisingly – a prominent specialist of the Constantinian age as Timothy Barnes recently has devoted proper attention: for Barnes they are “salient facts” of the wall G (Fig. 6).

Fig. 6. Wall G: Graffito with the inscription hoc / vin[ce] - Copyright ownership statement

The Christological signa – in this context – have a figurative-symbolic function, as in Leontia’s graffito (Fig. 7) – or, more frequently, are inserted into a textual structure as compendium scripturae: [- - -] Simplici vivite in Chr(isto) (Fig. 8); Nicasi vibas in Chr(isto) (Fig. 9), Victor Gaudentia vivatis in Chr(isto) (Fig. 10); Marcus / bive (scil. vive) in Chr(isto). 30. M. Guarducci, I graffiti sotto la Confessione di san Pietro in Vaticano (Città del Vaticano, 1958) 374-381. 31. M. Guarducci, “Dal gioco letterale alla crittografia mistica”, in H.  Tempo rini-W.  H aase , eds, Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt II, 16, 2 (BerlinNew York, 1978) 1765.

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Fig. 7. Wall G: Leontia’s graffito - Copyright ownership statement

Fig. 8. Wall G: Simplicius’ graffito - Copyright ownership statement

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Fig. 9. Wall G: Nicasius’ graffito - Copyright ownership statement

Fig. 10. Wall G: graffito of Victor and Gaudentia - Copyright ownership statement

Among these messages – for its exceptionality within late antique epigraphy – emerges an inscription partially mutilates, which reads hoc / vin[ce] accompanied by the Chi-Rho monogram (Fig. 6). Is what it textually – about twenty years later – Eusebio will express with τούτῳ νίκα (Vita Constantini  I, 29,). 32 32.  Vita Constantini I, 29, in Eusebius Werke, I, 1,ed. F. Winkelmann, Berlin, 1991, 30.

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6.3. Lucius Paccius Euticus: A Protochristian? Tabbernee, in a contribution published in 2013, devoted adequate space to a famous graffito that has, since the conclusion of the Vatican excavations (1949), drawn a series of specialist contributions, with diametrically opposed conclusions. 33 A rereading of this inscription may therefore be of use. The epigraphic memory of Lucius Paccius Eutychus is inscribed on the brick facade of Mausoleum R, built between 125 and 135 in the Vatican necropolis and adjacent to a small inclining road (clivus), which from ground level provided access to the so-called “Campo P”. The transcription of the graffito is as follows (Fig. 11): Ἐμνήσθε Λ(ούκιος) Πάκκιος  / Εὔτυχος  / Γλύκωνος “Lucius Paccius Eutychus remembers Glycon”

Fig. 11. Mausoleum R: graffito of Lucius Paccius Eutychus - Copyright ownership statement

The text, as drafted, certainly proposes a Western-style titulus memorialis that, according to Guarducci, would be a real act of Petrine devotion, as stated on the same wall curtained by the presence of a “fusiform” image interpreted as a fish (Fig. 12). Here follows her somewhat embarrassing rationale: “Nelle vicinanze della Memoria apostolica, un pesce é, verosimilmente, simbolo cristiano, e conferma, così, la riconosciuta cristianità del titulus memorialis. L. Paccio Eutico fu dunque (sembra ormai necessario ammetterlo) un Cristiano venuto a visitare il luogo sacro a Pietro”.  3 4 Critics met little difficulty in refuting this interpretation. Castrén and Coppo have clarified that the titulus does not present specific Christian elements and that the alleged fish is, rather, clearly a well-known depiction of the phallus, often exhibited, especially in graffiti, with an apotropaic function. It is no coincidence that not far from Mausoleum R, on the Vatican hill, stood the famous and popular temple of Cybele, the 33. W. Tabbernee , “Material Evidence for Early Christian Groups during the First Two centuries ce”, Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 30/1 (2013) 28-29. 34. M. Guarducci, I graffiti sotto la Confessione di san Pietro in Vaticano (Città del Vaticano, 1958) 415-418; quotation, 434.

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Fig. 12. Mausoleum R: graffito with phallus - Copyright ownership statement

Phrigianum: on the walls of some rooms adjacent to it tituli memoriales were found accompanied by the image of a phallus. 35 Tabbernee, albeit doubtfully (“may, or may not”), seems to ultimately revive the interpretation of Margherita Guarducci: “A fish symbol and (a separate?) graffito by a man named Eutyches, who recorded remembering a person called Glykon while visiting the cemetery containing the grave of St. Peter, are extant on a wall no longer accessible after the tropaion itself was constructed. These graffiti may, or may not, be evidence of Roman Christianity prior to 160 ce .” 36 The autoptic analysis executed by Coppo, different in certain (nonnegligible) details from that of Guarducci, eliminates any possibility of a relationship between the two graffiti: both their placement and the hand that appears to have created them differ. However, a reliable chronology before 160 is not ascertainable, as Mausoleum R remained practicable, like the others mausoleums of the necropolis, until around the year 325. In conclusion, the supposed fish graffito and the inscription of Lucius Paccius 35. P. Castrén, “Il titulus memorialis degli scavi di s. Pietro”, Arctos 4 (1966) 11-21; A. Coppo, “Contributo alla lettura dei graffiti vaticani del Muro rosso. II: una messa a punto”, Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 42 (1966) 121-134. 36. W. Tabbernee , “Material Evidence for Early Christian Groups during the First Two centuries ce”, Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 30/1 (2013) 29. This conclusion was already proposed by P. L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus. Christians at Rome in the first two centuries (Minneapolis, 2003) 107 and n. 10: «A fish graffito on the eastern outside wall of R may be a trace left by Christian using this access».

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Eutychus on the eastern external wall of Mausoleum R cannot have been a testimony left by Christians, as indicated by Castrén and Coppo: there is no relationship between the two graffiti and, furthermore, the “fusiform” figure is not a fish but a phallus. 6.4. An ‘Evaporated’ Inscription from the Mausoleum of the Valerii As part of the devotional epigraphy relating to Peter, Guarducci also includes a singular inscription prior to the year 300, painted and passed over with charcoal, that she claims to have identified in a niche of the mausoleum of the Valerii. This inscription, it seems, had a very short life: only the time necessary for its deciphering by Guarducci, after which it disappeared. The same Guarducci states: “La feci fotografare, la lessi e pregai altri studiosi di constatare le mie letture. Fu bene, perché il documento deperì sempre di più, ed oggi è praticamente svanito”, 37 yet surprisingly these “other experts” remain anonymous witnesses. The text reads: Petrus roga / pro sanc[ti]s / hom[ini]bus / chrestianis ad / co[r]pus tuum sep[ultis].

It is clearly a highly unusual text, without comparisons in the panorama of devotional epigraphy of late antiquity. In this context, the locution “scritte meravigliose” (sic!) with which Ferrua defines this unusual inscription is symptomatic; 38 similarly eloquent is the subtly ironical comment expressed by Barnes concerning, in particular, the “physical” impossibility of an appropriate verification of Guarducci’s readings: “It is most unfortunate, therefore, that the letters of the graffito faded completely away shortly after Guarducci read it, so that her readings have never been verified by a second pair of eyes”. 39 7. A  P rov i siona l S u mma ry That discussed in the previous pages demonstrates that the real history of the excavations under the Vatican basilica is based largely on the objective and non-confessional remarks of Antonio Ferrua, mostly already written, not coincidently, before the publication of the “Explorations”. Yet this praiseworthy intellectual honesty did not meet with a warm reception within the Holy See.

37. M. Guarducci, Pietro ritrovato (Milano, 1969) 59-60. 38. A. Ferrua, “L’epigrafia cristiana prima di Costantino”, in Atti del IX Congresso Internazionale di Archeologia Cristiana, I (Roma, 1978) 585. 39. T. Barnes , Early Christian Hagiography and Roman History (Tübingen, 2010) 412-413.

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A fundamental aspect is the revision relating to the reading and interpretation of archaeological data, in particular by Ferrua, Prandi, Klauser, that helps to clarify two important aspects of the “Petrine question” in the “Explorations” and later in other publications considered, perhaps hastily, as undoubtedly acquired, perhaps due to the (not insignificant) pressure of confessional motivations. Firstly, at “Campo P” there is no archaeological evidence from earlier than the middle of the second century. It should be added that in this case, even those finds regarded as the most ancient from “Campo P” (the graves) have revealed themselves, through a more careful and cautious reading, to be objectively devoid of any tangible element of Christian extraction: for the identification of these humble tombs, a fossa covered with clay slabs, it seems improper and perhaps misleading to resort to the use of a “religious category”. The only Christian elements, certainly predating the Constantinian Basilica are: the remains of the commemorative aedicule leaning against the Red Wall, the Petros graffito and, therefore, the inscriptions sketched onto Wall G. The readable elements, while few and incomplete, that remain of apostolic worship in “Campo P”, in the perspective of an attempt at a historical reconstruction, must necessarily be evaluated in light of the dynamics that during same period were manifested within the Roman Church. During the second half of the second century the Christian community of Rome passed from the previous federal structure to a unitary structure, thus more stable and cohesive on the doctrinal, disciplinary and liturgical level. This marked the birth of the so-called “Great Church” in which, starting from pope Victor (189-199), the figure of a head of the ecclesial community was consolidated in the institutional form of the monarchical episcopate, who now albeit lagging compared to the Middle East, was affirmed in the Empire’s capital. In this new perspective, sharply defined as “three epochal decades” by Manlio Simonetti,  4 0 two nodal factors emerge, also in material form, for the authority and visibility of the new structure of the Roman See: 40. M. Simonetti, “Roma cristiana tra II e III secolo”, Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989) 115, see also the general framework by A. Brent, Hyppolitus and the Roman Church in the third century. Communities in tension before the emergence of a monarch-bishop (Leiden-New York-Köln, 1995), which however postpones the start of the monarchic episcopate at the time of pope Fabianus (236-250). The situation «of fractionalization of the Roman community» (Lampe), that immediately precedes the birth of the monarchic bishop is thoroughly investigated by P. L ampe , Die städtrömischen Christen in ersten beiden Jahrhunderten (Tübingen, 1987) and I d., “An Early Inscriptio in the Musei Capitolini”, in D. H ellhom-H.  MoxnesT. K. Seim, eds, Mighty Minorities? Minorities in Early Christianity – Positions and Strategies (Oslo-Copenhagen-Stockholm-Boston, 1995) 79-92. On this issue see

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the theological justification of an “apostolic foundation” and the associated “legitimacy of succession” that, for the new figure of the monarchical bishop, means attaining the most illustrious of predecessors in the figure of Peter. The oral tradition and the collective imagination was no longer sufficient: Clement of Rome, towards the end of the first century (around 95-98), testifies the spread of the strongly suggestive image of the “the highest and more just columns who have fought until the death” designating Peter and Paul as the founders of the Roman Church. 41 The urgent need emerged to determine, in space and time, a definite place and an appropriate “device”, as a concrete sign, functional to the consolidation of a “collective memory” (Fig. 13).

Fig. 13. “Campo P”: graphic reconstruction - Copyright ownership statement

This occured during the pontificate of Pope Zephyrinus (199-217), as reported by Gaius, a Roman priest of the period, who, in a polemical context, reports the contentions of the Montanist Proclus regarding the apostolic origin of the Church of Hierapolis: “Four prophetesses, daughters of Philip (apostle of Jesus), were at Hierapolis in Asia, where they and their father now have a tomb (ὁ τάφος αὐτῶν ἐστιν ἐκεῖ καὶ ὁ τοῦ πατρὸς αὐτῶν)”. 42 Gaius replies: “I can show the trophies of the Apostles (τὰ τρόπαια τῶν ἀποστόλων). If one goes to the Vatican or along Via also the recent reflections of E. P rinzivalli, “Le origini della chiesa di Roma in contesto: alcuni elementi di riflessione”, Vetera Christianorun 50 (2013) 279-290. 41.  I Clem. 5, 2: SC 167, 106-108. 42. Eus. H. E., III, 31, 4.

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Ostiense they will find the trophies of the founders of this Church”. 43 In the trophy evoked by Gaius as a locative-marking device of a memorial place, the aedicule leaning against the Red Wall may be recognized, of which substantial remains were found during the explorations of 1939-1950.  4 4 The choice of an sepulchral area on the Vatican hill for the location of the memory of the Apostle may be directly connected to the tradition, handed down by Tacitus (Ann. XIV, 4) of a group of Christians, presumably including Peter, who, during the time of Nero, were martyred on the Vatican hill in the circus of Caligula and Nero, for which consistent traces and a valuable epigraphic record remain, showing the testament of Caius Popilus Heracla, relative to construction of his burial near the Vatican circus (monumentum mihi faciatis in Vatic(ano) / ad circum iuxta monumentum Ulpi / Narcissi). 45 In this perspective, it is not surprising that the Roman funerary memory is defined by the presbyter Gaius as a trophy, that is, a “memorial of a victory”, while that of Hierapolis, evoked by catafrigio Proclus, is instead defined by the term τάφος, i.e. tomb. This diversity, on the one hand an emphatic image and on the other a technical term, perhaps reveals, at least for the presbyter Gaius, the conscious perception of two essentially asymmetrical situations: a cenotaph at Rome and a real burial in Hierapolis.

43. Eus., H. E. II, 25, 7. 44.  About the meaning of τρόπαιον in the monumental context of Campo P see the recent considerations by P.  De Santis , Sanctorum monumenta. Aree sacre del suburbio di Roma nella documentazione epigrafica (IV-VII secolo) (Bari, 2010) 9-10 and P. De Santis in this book. 45. F. Castagnoli, “Il circo di Gaio e Nerone”, Rendiconti Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia 32 (1959/1960) 97-121; F. M agi, “Il circo in base alle sue più recenti scoperte, il suo obelisco e i suoi “carceres”, Rendiconti Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia 45 (1972/73) 37-73; L’Année épigraphique 1945, 136 = Epigraphic Database Roma 073540.

L A ‘MEMORIA’ DI P IETRO IN VATICANO Morfologia e funzionalità P.  De Santis 1. I l

col l e

Vat ica no

n e l l’a n t ich i tà

(I-III

sec .)

L’ager Vaticanus nel I secolo corrispondeva ad un’area molto estesa che fiancheggiava la riva destra del Tevere, comprendendo anche il Gianicolo e la parte dell’odierno quartiere di Trastevere incluso all’interno delle mura aureliane. Nel II secolo è attestato solo il toponimo Vaticanum relativo ad un comprensorio molto più ristretto che includeva la collina vaticana e l’attuale piazza san Pietro (sostanzialmente l’area che oggi corrisponde alla Città del Vaticano). 1 Due ponti collegavano il Vaticano alla città (il cd. nel medioevo pons neronianus – risalente forse all’età di Caligola – e ponte Elio – oggi s. Angelo – collegato al ‘mausoleo’ di Adriano) e immettevano in una viabilità che, in corrispondenza dell’attuale piazza s. Pietro, si divideva in due importanti tratti stradali: la via Trionfale – diretta verso nord – e la via Cornelia – unita per il primo tratto ad un braccio dell’Aurelia – verso ovest. Lungo queste direttrici si svilupparono le necropoli (fig. 1). 2 Che si trattasse di un’area ambita, in quanto piuttosto vicina alla città, lo dimostra la presenza di residenze e proprietà suburbane; tra queste, importanti possedimenti imperiali come gli horti di Agrippina Maggiore e i cd. horti di Domizia. 3 All’interno degli horti di Agrippina, ai piedi della

1. P. Liverani, La topografia antica del Vaticano, Città del Vaticano, 1999, p. 13-20 e P. Liverani-G. Spinola-P. Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane. La città dei morti di Roma, Milano-Città del Vaticano, 2010, p. 12-13 con indicazione delle fonti scritte. Il presente contributo è stato consegnato alle stampe nel 2016, potrebbero, dunque, non essere inclusi riferimenti bibliografici più recenti. 2.  Liverani, La topografia, p. 34-40; Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 13-14. 3. Sul problema relativo all’identificazione di Domizia cf. Liverani-SpinolaZ ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 16. In generale sugli horti F. Castagnoli, Il Vaticano nell ’antichità classica, Città del Vaticano, 1992, p. 35-36; in sintesi LiveraniSpinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 16-18. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 313-334.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117946

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Fig. 1. Il Vaticano, indicazione della viabilità antica (da Liverani-Spinola-Zander, Le necropoli vaticane).

collina vaticana, sorgeva il circo di Caligola e Nerone dove si compì la persecuzione del 64 d.C. (fig. 2). Già nel corso della seconda metà del II secolo la pista del circo cadde in disuso e venne occupata da sepolcri a camera e, entro i primi anni del III secolo, venne interrata di quasi tre metri; questo processo di defunzionalizzazione era evidentemente connesso alla crescente preferenza di altre aree del suburbio più vicine alla città. Lo spazio su cui insisteva il circo venne dunque progressivamente occupato da aree funerarie e sepolcri monumentali (fig. 3). 4 4.  Liverani, La topografia, 21-28 Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 18-19 con bibliografia precedente.

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Fig. 2. I giardini imperiali di Roma antica (da Liverani-Spinola-Zander, Le necropoli vaticane).

Fig. 3. Circo di Caligola e Nerone e necropoli; ricostruzione 3D (da A. Angela, San Pietro. Segreti e meraviglie in un racconto lungo duemila anni, Milano, Rizzoli, 2015).

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Oltre al circo, un altro importante edificio di carattere non funerario era il Phrygianum: un santuario, frequentato tra II e IV secolo, dedicato al culto misterico della Magna Mater. 5 Il Vaticano, soprattutto a partire dal I-II secolo, 6 ebbe una occupazione e una frequentazione di carattere funerario sempre più intensa ed articolata, come dimostrano le numerose indagini che, specialmente negli ultimi decenni, hanno arricchito notevolmente il panorama delle conoscenze. Come si è accennato, le necropoli si disponevano lungo le vie principali sfruttando un reticolo di viabilità secondaria, costituita da viottoli e diverticoli, che raggiungevano soprattutto le pendici del colle. Dato però il carattere dei rinvenimenti, scavi urbani in contesti pluristratificati, non è sempre possibile ricostruire per intero il paesaggio, né determinare l’effettiva entità delle aree funerarie e le modalità di occupazione degli spazi. 7 Per esempio, l’ampia necropoli della via Trionfale era costituita da diversi nuclei eterogenei distribuiti irregolarmente, senza una preordinata programmazione nello sfruttamento degli spazi, sulla parte del colle prossima al primo settore della strada; 8 lo sfruttamento più intensivo è riconducibile al I-II sec. (figg. 4 e 5). Nel III secolo si avvia una fase di declino che terminerà agli inizi del IV secolo presumibilmente anche in relazione con la costruzione della basilica costantiniana che diventerà il principale polo attrattivo di spazi sepolcrali. 9 Il pendio meridionale del colle, in corrispondenza – a valle – del circo, nel I secolo d.C. non era interessato dalla presenza di aree funerarie monumentali; l’esigenza di recuperare nuovi spazi sepolcrali in questa zona si avverte a partire dal II secolo, quando vengono edificati monumenti funerari nell’area a ridosso del circo, sul fronte settentrionale. 10

5.  Il santuario e il culto collegato convissero con la basilica costantiniana di s. Pietro almeno fino alla fine del IV secolo; Liverani, La topografia, p. 28-32; Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 19-20. 6.  Alcuni monumenti funerari (la cd. Meta Romuli e il cd. ‘Tiburtino’ o ‘Terebinto di Nerone’) sono noti anche in età tardorepubblicana e primo imperiale; Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 18 con bibliografia precedente. 7.  Liverani, La topografia, p. 40-43 con bibliografia precedente; Liverani-Spinola-Zander, Le necropoli vaticane, p. 142. 8.  Liverani, La topografia, 42; P. Liverani-G. Spinola, La necropoli vaticana lungo la via Trionfale, Roma, 2006; Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 142-284. 9.  Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 20. 10.  Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 42.

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Fig. 4. Le necropoli della via Triumphalis (da Liverani-Spinola, La necropoli vaticana lungo la via Trionfale).

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Fig. 5. La necropoli dell’Autoparco (da Liverani-Spinola-Zander, Le necropoli vaticane).

2. La

n ecropol i cd . vat ica na e i l

‘C ampo P’

I monumenti funerari più antichi della necropoli, 11 tradizionalmente definita ‘vaticana’ ma che, anche alla luce del quadro d’insieme, sarebbe più corretto definire ‘della via Cornelia’, 12 si disposero, tra l’età adrianea e i primi anni dell’età antonina, a nord di un tracciato viario secondario orientato in senso est-ovest seguendo una sequenza di progressiva occupazione dello spazio dal settore orientale verso ovest. In una prima fase i monumenti funerari dovevano avere la vista aperta – soprattutto dal terrazzo – sul paesaggio occupato dal circo ancora in funzione. 13 Nella seconda metà del II secolo il circo venne abbandonato e l’area fu occupata da altri sepolcri che si giustapposero sul fronte opposto dell’iter, cioè sul lato meridionale. 14 Gli edifici, a pianta quadrangolare e pavi11.  Da A a G, O ed S; cf. fig. 6. 12.  Come ha opportunamente sottolineato Liverani, La topografia, p. 41. 13.  Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 42-43. 14.  Sepolcri H, U, T, R (fig. 6). Liverani, La topografia, p. 41; Liverani-Spino la-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 46.

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mentati a mosaico, ospitavano sia olle cinerarie, soprattutto nella fase più antica, sia arcosoli per sarcofagi (figg. 6 e 7). 15

Fig. 6. La necropoli ‘della via Cornelia’, pianta (da Liverani-Spinola-Zander, Le necropoli vaticane).

Fig. 7. La necropoli ‘della via Cornelia’, particolare del Mausoleo C di Tullius Zethus (da Liverani-Spinola-Zander, Le necropoli vaticane).

15.  B.  M.  A pollonj Ghetti-A. Ferrua-E. Josi-E. K irschbaum, Esplorazioni sotto la confessione di San Pietro in Vaticano eseguite negli anni 1940-1949, Città del Vaticano, 1951, p. 23-91; H.  M ielsch-H.  von H esberg, Die heidnische Nekropole unter St. Peter in Rom die Mausoleen A-D, Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia, III, Memorie 16, 1, Roma, 1986; H. M ielsch-H.  von H esberg, Die heidnische Nekropole unter St. Peter in Rom die Mausoleen E-I und Z-Psi, Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia, III, Memorie 16, 2, Roma, 1995; Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 55-136.

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La frequentazione funeraria della necropoli perdurò fino all’inizio del IV secolo come dimostrano diversi interventi di ristrutturazione e ridecorazione. 16 In particolare, nel sepolcro degli Iulii (M), databile entro la seconda metà del II secolo, si riconosce una committenza cristiana nella decorazione musiva messa in opera in una successiva fase di ristrutturazione (anni centrali del III secolo) (fig. 8). 17 Il settore individuato dagli scavi sotto la navata centrale dell’attuale basilica di s. Pietro restituisce solo una parte della necropoli che doveva estendersi sia a nord, sia sul lato orientale e occidentale. 18 16.  Sepolcri B, C, F, M (fig. 6). Alcuni monumenti risultano particolarmente capienti come per esempio quello dei Valerii (H) che poteva ospitare fino a 170 sepolture e di fatto, fino al suo interro sotto la basilica costantiniana, arrivò a contenerne 250 (Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 101). La sepoltura più tarda datata è l’incinerazione ospitata nel monumento T in cui è stata rinvenuta una moneta del 317-318 (Liverani, La topografia, p. 142; Liverani-SpinolaZ ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 125-126 con bibliografia precedente). 17. L. M aria, «Spunti di riflessione sul programma iconografico del mausoleo dei Giulii nella necropoli vaticana», in F. Guidobaldi-A.  Paribeni (edd.), Atti del VI colloquio dell ’A ssociazione italiana per lo studio e la conservazione del mosaico, Ravenna, 2000, p. 385-396; Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 114; J.  E ngemann, Roma. Lo splendore del tramonto, Milano, 2014, p. 81; F. Bisconti, «Immagini cristiane della tarda antichità», in F. Bisconti-O.  Brandt (edd.), Lezioni di archeologia cristiana, Città del Vaticano, 2014, p. 508-509. Per attestazioni epigrafiche attribuibili ad una committenza cristiana cf. l’epitaffio di Aemilia Gorgonia (seconda metà III-inizi IV secolo); C. Papi, «Le iscrizioni della necropoli vaticana. Una revisione», Rendiconti Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia 73 (2000-2001), 2 p. 56-257 n. 7 con bibliografia precedente. 18.  Liverani, La topografia, p. 42, 153 dove si precisa che verso ovest sono stati rinvenuti resti di edifici funerari sotto l’attuale chiesa di s. Stefano degli Abissini. Le prime indagini si svolsero tra il 1940 e il 1949 sotto il pontificato di Pio XII; la relazione di scavo fu pubblicata da B. M. Apollonj Ghetti, A. Ferrua, E. Josi, E. Kirschbaum (A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni). Ulteriori ricerche furono effettuate agli inizi degli anni Cinquanta (1953-1957) da Adriano Prandi che su diversi aspetti non concorda con l’interpretazione dei dati archeologici proposta dai primi esploratori (A. P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro nei pellegrinaggi dell’età medievale», in Pellegrinaggi e culto dei Santi in Europa fino alla prima crociata. Convegno del Centro di studi sulla spiritualità medievale (8-11 ottobre 1961), IV, Todi, Accademia Tudertina, 1963, p. 285-447). Una serie di articoli, che ripercorrono – in momenti diversi – le tappe salienti delle ricerche nella necropoli, furono pubblicati su La Civiltà Cattolica da Antonio Ferrua (A. Ferrua, «Nelle grotte di s. Pietro», La Civiltà Cattolica 92 (1941), p. 358-365, 457-463 [= Scritti vari di epigrafia ed antichità cristiane, Bari, 1991, p. 82-99]; A. Ferrua, «Nuove scoperte sotto s. Pietro», La Civiltà Cattolica 93 (1942), p. 73-86, 228-241 [= Scritti vari, 110-137]; A. Ferrua, «Sulle orme di s. Pietro», La Civiltà Cattolica 94 (1943), p. 36-45 [= Scritti vari, p. 100-109]; A. Ferrua, «La storia del sepolcro di s. Pietro», La Civiltà Cattolica 103 (1952), p. 15-29 [= Scritti vari, p. 241-255]; A.  Ferrua, «Pietro in Vaticano», La Civiltà Cattolica 136 (1984), p. 573-581 [= Scritti vari, p. 343-351]; A. Ferrua, «La tomba di s. Pietro», La Civiltà Cattolica 142 (1990), p. 460-467 [= Scritti vari, p. 352-359]). In essi si ritrovano diversi

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Fig. 8. Particolare della decorazione musiva nel sepolcro degli Iulii (M) (da Liverani-Spinola-Zander, Le necropoli vaticane).

L’area occidentale della necropoli, dove si colloca il cd. ‘Campo P’, si caratterizzò – sin dalla fase più antica – per una sostanziale mancanza di programmazione nel graduale processo di occupazione degli spazi connesso, in questo settore, alla defunzionalizzazione e al reimpiego di strutture precedenti che comportò, nel corso del II secolo, il progressivo rialzamento dei livelli di calpestio in tempi piuttosto ravvicinati. 19 Vennero costruiti in sequenza il mausoleo S e, subito dopo la metà del II secolo, il sepolcro R (fig. 9 e cf. fig. 6). 20 In un momento successivo – seconda metà del II secolo – nello spazio a cielo aperto (appunto il ‘Campo P’), ampio circa 4 per 7 m, che si estenspunti interessanti che, per diverse ragioni, non trovarono spazio nelle altre pubblicazioni. Per un elenco sintetico dei numerosissimi studi che si sono succeduti nel corso degli anni sul contesto cf. Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, 54 e note 21-22, a cui aggiungerei il recente libro di A. Carandini, Su questa pietra. Gesù, Pietro e la nascita della Chiesa. Appendici e illustrazioni di F. De Stefano, Bari, 2013 che però, anche per il suo carattere divulgativo, mi sembra non sintetizzi l’analisi delle evidenze archeologiche in maniera sufficientemente problematica e critica (cf. le p. 81-86 e appendice di F. De Stefano, p. 126-131). Un più recente e dettagliato studio analitico, dedicato in particolare all’area occidentale della necropoli, si deve a A. Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica del Campo P nella necropoli di s. Pietro in Vaticano. Analisi tecnica del monumento», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 91 (2015), p. 311-358. Per una revisione critica della storia delle ricerche cf. anche il contributo di C. Carletti in questo volume. 19.  P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 306-333, 345-347; Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 315-316 e nota 19, 323-324, 326, 336, 354. 20.  Prandi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 333, 341-342; Liverani-Spinola-Zander, Le necropoli vaticane, p. 136; Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 315-317, 354.

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deva nell’area a nord-ovest di questi monumenti e che era accessibile solo da nord o dal settore del lato est lasciato libero da costruzioni, 21 intervengono importanti modificazioni (figg. 10 e 11).

Fig. 9. I monumenti R, S, O visti da sud-est (da Vivaldi, “L’area archeologica”).

Fig. 10. Pianta del settore occidentale della necropoli ‘della via Cornelia’ (da Vivaldi, “L’area archeologica”).

21. È plausibile ritenere che un percorso viario, orientato in senso est-ovest, passasse alle spalle della fila settentrionale dei monumenti sepolcrali; P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 299-302; Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 139. Cf. anche Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 353.

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Fig. 11. Modello volumetrico del settore occidentale della necropoli ‘della via Cornelia’ con ipotesi ricostruttiva (da Vivaldi, “L’area archeologica”).

Un muro rivestito di intonaco dipinto in rosso – il cd. ‘muro rosso’– venne realizzato a est del mausoleo R e a nord di S, in corrispondenza del suo limite occidentale; l’intervento edilizio rispondeva in prima istanza ad esigenze di contenimento degli accumuli di riporto derivati dalle diverse fasi costruttive in questo settore, ma forse anche da eventi di carattere franoso: 22 si trattava di preservare gli accessi ai monumenti preesistenti e ripristinare i passaggi fra essi. 23 A tale attività è riconducibile la sistemazione della rampa (cd. ‘clivus’), delimitata a est dal muro rosso, con la messa in opera di alcuni scalini. Il ‘muro rosso’ e il ‘clivus’ retrostante sono dunque riferibili ad un’unica fase costruttiva inquadrabile, sulla base dei bolli laterizi, nell’ambito della seconda metà del II secolo. 24 L’effettiva fisionomia e lunghezza del ‘muro rosso’ sono state oggetto di discussione anche in rapporto all’interpretazione della successione cronologica del recinto funerario (Q) collocato a 22.  Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», 316 nota 19, 326 e nota 33. 23.  P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 353-354 e anche 332, 346, 384. La struttura muraria aveva uno spessore piuttosto esiguo, di circa 45 cm; cf. anche Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 324-326, 336. 24.  Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, 48, 54; cf. anche A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, 102, 103-104 e P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 397. La definizione del rapporto cronologico tra la scala e il ‘muro rosso’ ha posto in passato diversi problemi interpretativi; per una sintesi e una revisione critica delle principali questioni si veda Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 332-336, 354-355.

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nord-ovest del campo P e all’analisi dei dislivelli del piano di calpestio; 25 in questa fase il ‘muro rosso’ doveva misurare 3,50 m di lunghezza, 26 terminando – quindi – a nord in corrispondenza della cisterna (C1) addossata al monumento R. Nel ‘muro rosso’, presumibilmente in fase con la sua costruzione, furono ricavate due nicchie sovrapposte (N2 e N3), 27 di cui quella inferiore di altezza maggiore, distinte da una lastra di travertino posta in orizzontale e poggiante su due colonnine marmoree che insistevano su una soglia anch’essa in travertino (fig. 12). Quest’ultima risulta messa in opera con un orientamento differente rispetto agli elementi soprastanti. L’intera struttura architettonica, definita comunemente anche ‘edicola’, probabilmente era alta circa 2,30 m e la lastra orizzontale era posta ad una altezza di 1,34 m; si tratta dunque di una struttura dalle dimensioni piuttosto ridotte, quasi ‘ad altezza d’uomo’. 28 Rimane problematica la ricostruzione della parte superiore dell’edicola rinvenuta in un cattivo stato di conserva25.  A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 96-97, 104, 107-108, 137 ritengono il recinto Q contemporaneo all’assetto generale dell’area e quindi il suo limite orientale un prolungamento verso nord del ‘muro rosso’, benché orientato secondo un asse divergente rispetto al primo tratto della struttura. P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 380-389 affronta la questione sottolineando la diversità dei due tratti murari (indicati con le sigle mr e mq rispettivamente per la parte meridionale e settentrionale), associando la costruzione di mq alla posteriore realizzazione del recinto Q (per la quale si ipotizza, alle pagine 371-373 e 423, una datazione alla metà del III secolo). Cf. Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 136, 139, in cui sostanzialmente si segue la ricostruzione di Prandi, e Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 342-346, 355 con ulteriori riferimenti bibliografici alle diverse ipotesi ricostruttive. 26.  P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 354. 27.  Negli studi la definizione dell’azione che portò alla realizzazione delle due nicchie è espressa in maniera differente: «verso la metà il muro rosso forma un sistema di tre nicchie sovrapposte» (A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 107); «si apre sul vivo del muro rosso la nicchia N2» (A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 126); «il muro rosso fu scavato e rivestito di marmo a formare, questa volta, un’autentica nicchia» (P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 400). Il più esplicito è A. Ferrua: «venne fatta dentro il muro una nicchia poco regolare […] né, per quanto cercassimo, trovammo indizio che la potesse far supporre posteriore alla fabbrica del muro m-r» (cioè il ‘muro rosso’ e il tratto settentrionale) «dentro cui si affonda. Tutta la sua muratura sì negli spigoli che nel fondo si presenta sana e regolare, ond’è da convincersi ch’essa non fu ricavata in breccia in un tempo posteriore, rompendo e scalpellando il muro preesistente, ma fabbricata insieme con esso» (Ferrua, «La storia del sepolcro», p. 23-24). Sulla contemporaneità tra ‘muro rosso’ e nicchie cf. anche P. L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus.Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries, Minneapolis, 2003, p. 106 e nota 7. Contra H. J. Thümmel , Die Memorien für Petrus und Paulus in Roma. Die archäologischen Denkmäler und die literarische Tradition, Berlin-New York, 1999, p. 50. Cf. Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 337-338. 28.  In particolare, la nicchia N2 era larga 0,72 m e alta 1,40 m; la nicchia N3 era larga 1,12 m e alta 0,92 m. La larghezza complessiva della struttura era di 1,78 m;

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Fig. 12. Assonometria ricostruttiva sezionata della ‘edicola’ con le tre nicchie sovrapposte e ipotesi ricostruttiva (da Prandi, “La tomba di S. Pietro”).

zione; secondo l’ipotesi proposta dai primi esploratori, il piano superiore sarebbe stato privo di sostegni sui lati brevi, costituito dunque solo dalla nicchia del muro rosso in cui si apriva una piccola finestra. 29 Dunque, ad un’opera, qual’era la costruzione del ‘muro rosso’, di carattere strettamente funzionale, rispondente ad esigenze di carattere praA pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 122-131, 136-139. Vd. contra Thümmel , Die Memorien, p. 50-62 e fig. XLV. 29. La presenza di un timpano, come emerge dal disegno ricostruttivo, è del tutto ipotetica in quanto della parte superiore non rimangono evidenze strutturali. Per una sintesi delle evidenze su cui si è basata l’ipotesi ricostruttiva cf. Ferrua , «La storia del sepolcro», p. 24-25 e nota 6. Sulla presenza della finestra in rapporto ad un possibile sistema di copertura del ‘clivus‘ retrostante vd. Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», nota 87. Un manufatto di questo tipo non trova puntuali confronti. Alcune similitudini sono state ravvisate nei monumenti sepolcrali rinvenuti nella necropoli della via Ostiense o in quella dell’Isola Sacra presso Ostia; A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 137-138 e nota 1; J.  Toynbee-J.  Ward Perkins , The shrine of st. Peter and the Vatican excavations, Londra, 1956, p. 162; P. Saint-Roch, «ΤΩΝ ΑΠΟΣΤΟΛΩΝ ΤΑ ΤΡΟΠΑΙΑ», in A. L a R egina-V.  Fiocchi Nicolai-M.  G.  Granino -Z.  M ari (edd.), Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae. Suburbium. I, Roma, 2001, p. 81; L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus, p. 108 e nota 14.

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tico da parte dei fruitori non cristiani di questo settore della necropoli si aggiungeva, evidentemente in maniera condivisa, la realizzazione di una struttura architettonica che, come si vedrà, rivestiva invece una funzione ‘ideologica’ connessa ad una committenza cristiana. Rimane problematica anche l’interpretazione di ciò che era al di sotto della ‘edicola’; nella prima relazione degli scavi si parla di una terza ‘nicchia’ (N1), ricavata scalpellando il muro rosso, individuata al di sotto del piano pavimentale sullo stesso asse verticale di quelle superiori. Essa sarebbe stata aperta in corrispondenza di una sepoltura a fossa preesistente, identificata con quella di Pietro, che si estendeva oltre il ‘muro rosso’ verso ovest. La realizzazione del ‘muro rosso’ avrebbe causato l’asportazione della parte occidentale della tomba. 30 Prandi appare contrario a tale ricostruzione arrivando a negare l’esistenza della ‘nicchia’ N1 in quanto tale; secondo l’autore non si tratterrebbe di un’azione di ‘asportazione’, ma di una ‘impronta’ in negativo lasciata da un manufatto (un ‘quid’) nel calcestruzzo di fondazione del ‘muro rosso’. Al momento della sua costruzione, il muro avrebbe rispettato la presenza di questo elemento, emergente dal terreno ed in parte inglobato dal muro stesso pur rimanendo visibile; in questa fase la cd. ‘edicola’, con il sistema delle colonnine e della mensa, non sarebbe stata ancora realizzata. 31 Anche alla luce delle considerazioni di carattere problematico esposte, ne deriva che la ricostruzione dell’assetto del ‘campo P’ prima della costruzione del ‘muro rosso’ rimane – a mio avviso – fortemente oscura. 32 Si può però affermare con certezza che esistevano due sepolture precedenti al muro (le cd. θ e γ): esse, nella prima relazione di scavo, sono attribuite al I secolo (fig. 13), ma il riesame di Prandi, ripreso anche in studi più recenti, sembra orientare, in maniera – credo – ormai definitiva, verso la loro attri30.  A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 120-121, 139, cf. anche 135-136. A pagina 120 si scrive: «sembra che la nicchia sia stata aperta a forza di scalpello, ma poi sistemata alla meglio». Cf. anche Ferrua, «La tomba di s. Pietro», p. 465 che descrive N1 come «uno sgrottamento a forma di mezzo cono praticato violentemente nella fondazione del muro rosso». P. Liverani, seguendo sostanzialmente tale descrizione, parla di una «fossa che si incassava parzialmente anche nella fondazione del muro rosso» (Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 48). 31.  P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 389-400; l’ipotesi è che si potesse trattare di un cippo funzionale a segnalare un locus religiosus messo in stretta relazione da Prandi (p. 400-404) con le modifiche successive intervenute in seguito alla realizzazione della ‘edicola’ che sarebbe stata eretta «in funzione del cippo, ma ne segnò solamente il luogo» (p. 400-401). Cf. Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 337338 e nota 55 dove si aggiungono alcune considerazioni circa la differenza di quota tra il piano su cui poggia l’edicola, più alto di circa 50 cm, e il livello di calpestio circostante. 32.  Cf. le riflessioni di P. Liverani in Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 55.

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Fig. 13. Pianta del settore del ‘campo P’ prossimo all’area dell’edicola (da Apollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-Kirschbaum, Esplorazioni).

buzione alla prima metà del II secolo, negando – di fatto – la presenza accertata e documentata di preesistenze anteriori. 33 Tra la fine del II e gli inizi del III secolo l’assetto preesistente si modifica nuovamente con la realizzazione del monumento R’  3 4 e, nel corso della prima metà del III secolo, 35 nell’area circostante si inserisce il recinto scoperto per inumazioni (Q). La delimitazione orientale dell’ambiente Q (mq) sostanzialmente proseguiva a nord l’andamento del ‘muro rosso’ 33.  A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 111-113, 115, 119, 133-134); contra P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 289-291, 347-353 e nota 41, 412 e nota 92, 426-431. Cf. sulla stessa linea: S. De Blaauw, Cultus et decor. Liturgia e architettura nella Roma tardoantica e medievale, Città del Vaticano 1994, p. 452; L ampe , From Paul to Valentinus, p. 109-111; Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 48 e nota 22. Per completezza, è opportuno ricordare che in A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 119-121, 135, 139 si considera come evidenza più antica un breve tratto murario (m1) «che dovette appartenere alla sistemazione di una tomba» (p. 135) – quella di Pietro –. Prandi ritiene, invece, che «il murello m1 -m2 che avrebbe fiancheggiato la tomba è manifestamente più tardo del muro rosso» (P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 409), concludendo che «a presenza […] di un sepolcro ben definito e definibile, databile all’epoca del martirio di s. Pietro non è documentabile» (p. 412). 34.  Tale attribuzione cronologica, che corregge le osservazioni di Prandi anche sulla base di nuovi rilievi autoptici, si deve a Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 338341 . 35.  Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 345-346, 355; cf. P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 371-373 e 423.

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(figg. 10 e 11). 36 Tra la metà del III secolo e l’inizio della costruzione della basilica costantiniana, l’edicola subì alcuni rimaneggiamenti che ne alterarono l’assetto originario; sul lato settentrionale venne costruita una struttura muraria – il cd. ‘muro g’– che si addossava al ‘muro rosso’ in posizione trasversale (figg. 10, 11 e 14). 37 Il noto frammento di intonaco, rinvenuto non in situ, su cui fu tracciata a sgraffio l’unica attestazione scritta del nome Πέτρ[ος] proviene da un punto del ‘muro rosso’ nascosto dalla successiva sovrapposizione del ‘muro g’. 38 Sulla parete settentrionale il ‘muro g’ era rivestito di intonaco bianco sul quale, tra la seconda metà/fine del III secolo e la costruzione della basilica costantiniana nei primi decenni del IV, furono tracciati una serie di graffiti, che, se considerati in senso proprio, non raggiunsero le venti unità. 39 Si tratta di testi in cui non compare mai esplicitamente il nome di Pietro, ma che documentano il valore attrattivo del luogo in relazione – evidentemente – ad una sistemazione monumentale che segnalava un’area di rispetto nella necropoli. Quale fosse il percorso di frequentazione è da riconsiderare alla luce di recenti ipotesi ricostruttive riproposte da Alessia Vivaldi: il ‘muro g’ farebbe parte di un’area recintata o di un ambiente coperto che doveva occupare il settore settentrionale del ‘campo P’. Orienterebbero verso tale interpretazione una struttura muraria parallela al ‘muro g’, visibile per un breve tratto solo a livello di fondazione (mp), i

36. Cf. supra nota 25. 37. Per A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 128-129, 139-140 il ‘muro g’ venne realizzato per motivi statici e di sostegno al ‘muro rosso’ in corrispondenza di una frattura. P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 385-386 e nota 66 dimostra, invece, come il ‘muro g’ venga inserito, senza aderire né appoggiarsi alla struttura preesistente, nel punto in cui i due distinti tratti murari (mr e mq) si ‘incontravano’ «tanto che l’intonaco che coprì, unificandoli, i due paramenti si ruppe […] si volle semplicemente mascherare (o meglio si ottenne l’effetto di mascherare) la lesione dell’intonaco» (p. 386). Cf. anche Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 48-52; Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 344-345, 350, 352 nota 93. 38. A. Ferrua, «Memorie dei ss. Pietro e Paolo nell’epigrafia», in Saecularia Petri et Pauli, Città del Vaticano, 1969, p. 131-135; Ferrua, «Pietro in Vaticano», p. 578; Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 52. Sulle ipotesi di lettura del graffito cf. C. Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani in Occidente dal III al VII secolo. Ideologia e prassi, Bari, 2008, p. 265-266 e il contributo di C. Carletti in questo volume. La presenza di altri graffiti sul ‘muro rosso’, di cui non fu possibile la lettura, è segnalata da A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 139 e Ferrua, «La storia del sepolcro», p. 26. 39.  A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 129-130; Carletti, Epigrafia dei cristiani, p. 74-75, 270-271 e il contributo di C. Carletti in questo volume.

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Fig. 14. Assonometria ricostruttiva sezionata della ‘edicola’ con l’aggiunta del ‘muro g’ (da Prandi, “La tomba di S. Pietro”).

lacerti di mosaico pavimentale rinvenuti in quest’area e le tracce di pittura che furono segnalate sull’intonaco del ‘muro g’ all’epoca delle prime indagini (figg. 10 e 11).  4 0 A questo proposito non è forse senza significato che in questo settore, nel corso del III secolo, una serie di sepolture 40.  Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica», p. 349-353 con bibliografia precedente (cf. anche P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 379-380, 382, 432 in cui l’autore ipotizza la relazione del muro mp con un recinto, pur esprimendo la difficoltà di poterne precisare ulteriormente la funzione in considerazione degli scarsi dati ad esso riferibili). A questa stessa fase sono probabilmente da riferire ulteriori interventi di ristrutturazione finalizzati sostanzialmente a migliorare l’aspetto estetico del monumento: le pareti interne della nicchia inferiore (N2) furono rivestite di

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Fig. 15. Pianta del ‘campo P’ e dell’area circostante con le sepolture pavimentali che occupano progressivamente lo spazio circostante l’ ‘edicola’ (da Prandi, “La tomba di S. Pietro”).

pavimentali vadano ad occupare progressivamente lo spazio circostante l’edicola, senza intaccare il monumento (fig. 15). 41 Esse potrebbero essere collegate alla graduale occupazione e frequentazione funeraria di questo ipotetico ambiente – o area recintata – a cui riferire anche i graffiti tracciati sulla parete rivolta verso l’interno di questo spazio. Le tombe, che sembrano succedersi anche a poca distanza di tempo e che in alcuni casi si dispongono coerentemente con l’andamento delle strutture murarie – in particolare del muro mq –, possono inoltre essere messe in relazione con il fenomeno attrattivo ad sanctum, di cui il contesto del ‘campo P’ rappresenta la più precoce testimonianza monumentale, che dovette innescarsi conseguentemente alla realizzazione della memoria petrina. In definitiva, il quadro sintetico qui proposto lascia aperti numerosi nodi problematici per certi aspetti irrisolvibili; si è scelto di seguire la linea interpretativa maggiormente rispondente alla oggettività delle evidenze archeologiche già sostenuta da Adriano Prandi e ripresa di recente – con l’aggiunta di nuovi dati – da Alessia Vivaldi. 42 lastre marmoree e, sul lato meridionale, fu collocata un’altra struttura muraria (s) simile al ‘muro g’ e ad esso parallelo; A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 122-126, 140-144. 41.  A pollonj-Ghetti-Ferrua-Josi-K irschbaum, Esplorazioni, p. 107-117; Prandi, «La tomba di S. Pietro», p. 416-432 che documenta ulteriori 21 sepolture di età precostantiniana in aggiunta alle 6 rinvenute nel corso delle prime indagini. 42.  P randi, «La tomba di S. Pietro»; Vivaldi, «L’area archeologica».

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3. I l τρόπαιον

di

G a io :

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mon u m e n ta l i z z a z ion e

di u na m e mor i a con di v i sa

Παῦλος δὴ οῦν ἐπ’αὐτῆς Ῥώμης τὴν κεφαλὴν ἀποτμηθῆναι καὶ Πέτρος ὡσαύτως ἀνασκολοπισθῆναι κατ’αὐτὸν ἱστοροῦνται, καὶ πιστοῦταὶ γε τὴν ἱστορίαν ἡ Πέτρου καὶ Παύλου εἰς δεῦρο κρατήσασα ἐπὶ τῶν αὐτόθι κοιμητηρίων πρόσρησις, οὐδὲν δέ ἧττον καὶ ἐκκλησιαστικὸς ἀνήρ, Γάϊος ὄνομα, κατὰ Ζεφυρῖνον Ῥωμαίων γεγονὼς ἐπίσκοπον· ὅς δὴ Πρόκλῳ τῆς κατὰ Φρύγας προϊσταμένῳ γνώμης ἐγγράφως διαλεχθείς, αὐτὰ δὴ ταῦτα περὶ τῶν τόπων, ἔνθα τῶν εἰρημένων ἀποστόλων τὰ ἱερὰ σκηνώματα κατατέθειται φησίν· “ἐγὼ δὲ τὰ τρόπαια τῶν ἀποστόλων ἔχω δεῖξαι. ἐὰν γὰρ θελήσῃς ἀπελθεῖν ἐπὶ τὸν Βασικανὸν ἤ ἐπὶ τὴν ὁδὸν τὴν Ὠστίαν, εὑρήσεις τὰ τρόπαια τῶν ταύτην ἱδρυσαμένων τὴν ἐκκλησίαν”. 43

La realtà monumentale descritta, in particolare l’edicola nel ‘campo P’, trova riscontro nella nota testimonianza di Gaio, attivo a Roma al tempo del vescovo Zefirino (199-217), il quale, in contrasto con Proclo rappresentante romano dei montanisti, contrappone le tradizioni della ‘chiesa’ romana fondate sulle memorie di Pietro e Paolo, martirizzati e sepolti a Roma, a quelle microasiatiche invocate dai seguaci di Montano e cioè la tomba di Filippo, seppellito a Hierapolis in Frigia, e delle sue figlie.  4 4 43. Euseb. Caes. Historia Ecclesiastica II, 25, 5-7 (= SC 31, 92-93): «Si dice infatti che, al tempo di Nerone, proprio a Roma Paolo venne decapitato e Pietro crocifisso. Il nome di Pietro e Paolo, giunto fino ai nostri giorni sulle loro tombe, che si trovano a Roma, attesta la veridicità di questa storia, e così pure un uomo ecclesiastico, di nome Gaio, che visse al tempo di Zefirino, vescovo di Roma. Egli, disputando nei suoi scritti con Proclo, capo della setta dei Frigi, dice queste cose sui luoghi che custodiscono le sacre spoglie dei suddetti apostoli: ‘Io sono in grado di mostrare i trofei degli apostoli; andando infatti al Vaticano o lungo la via Ostiense, vi troverai i trofei di quelli che hanno fondato questa Chiesa’» (traduzione italiana da: Eusebio di Cesarea, Storia Ecclesiastica/1, intr. a cura di F. Migliore, trad. e note Libri I-IV a cura di S. Borzì, trad. e note Libro V a cura di F. Migliore, Roma, 2001, p. 132-133). Sull’interpretazione del passo di Eusebio, letto nell’ottica della storia di un’’area sacra’, cf. anche P. De Santis , «Denominazione dei “santuari”: lessico, strutture, significati. Osservazioni sul τρόπαιον di Gaio (Eusebio, “Historia Ecclesiastica”, II, 25, 5-7)», Annali di Storia dell ’esegesi 22 (2005), p. 145-160 e P. De Santis , Sanctorum Monumenta. ‘Aree sacre’ del suburbio di Roma nella documentazione epigrafica (IV-VII secolo), Bari, 2010, p. 9-17 con ulteriore bibliografia. 44.  Euseb. Caes. Historia Ecclesiastica III, 31, 2-5 (= SC 31, 141-142); in particolare III, 31, 4: «Nel dialogo di Gaio, menzionato poco sopra, Proclo, con cui era in disaccordo, riporta la stessa versione della morte di Filippo e delle sue figlie, concordante con ciò che abbiamo fin qui riferito: ‘Dopo di lui, quattro profetesse, figlie di Filippo, giungono a Ierapoli, città dell’Asia; qui si trova la loro tomba (τάφος) e quella del loro padre’. Questo è quanto egli racconta» (traduzione italiana da: Eusebio di Cesarea, Storia Ecclesiastica/1, intr. a cura di F. Migliore, trad. e note

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Il termine τρόπαιον in questo contesto polemico indica una realtà monumentale ben definita, una struttura architettonica con funzione memoriale in relazione alle tombe apostoliche – di Pietro e di Paolo – al fine di evidenziarle ed enfatizzarle. 45 A questo proposito è significativo che Gaio, nel rivolgersi a Proclo, impieghi espressioni particolarmente efficaci nell’indicare apparati sepolcrali ben visibili (ἔχω δεῖξαι) e identificabili (εὑρήσεις).  4 6 Dunque la comunità, nell’ambito della seconda metà del II secolo, per la prima volta realizza un polo d’attrazione materiale finalizzato a dare visibilità alla memoria dell’apostolo Pietro (lo stesso deve essere accaduto nel caso di Paolo) 47 e ciò accade in un momento in cui si osserva un processo di graduale consolidamento della ‘chiesa’ di Roma che cominciava ad elaborare un embrionale concetto di ‘primato’: 48 un processo strettamente connesso all’emergenza graduale dell’episcopato monarchico, intervenuta a Roma tra gli ultimi decenni del II secolo e l’inizio del III, con un certo ritardo rispetto ad altre chiese. 49 Il recupero e l’elaborazione di Libri I-IV a cura di S. Borzì, trad. e note Libro V a cura di F. Migliore, Roma, 2001, p. 179). Sulla recente scoperta della tomba e del santuario dell’apostolo Filippo a Hierapolis si veda F. D’A ndria, «Il Santuario e la tomba dell’Apostolo Filippo a Hierapolis di Frigia», Rendiconti Pontificia Accademia romana di Archeologia 84 (2011-2012), p. 1-52. 45.  Per un’analisi più approfondita del termine τρόπαιον cf. De Santis , «Denominazione dei “santuari”» e De Santis , Sanctorum monumenta, p. 9-17. 46.  È interessante ricordare che già nel 1943 A. Ferrua così si esprimeva in proposito: «Si trattava ad ogni modo di un monumento visibile, che concretava agli occhi dei Romani il ricordo personale dell’Apostolo» (Ferrua, «Sulle orme di s. Pietro», p. 356). 47.  Per una sintesi della bibliografia connessa all’interpretazione dell’assetto primitivo del sepolcro paolino cf. De Santis , «Denominazione dei “santuari”», p. 147 e nota 11; V. Fiocchi Nicolai, «Vocazione funeraria della basilica di s. Paolo sulla via Ostiense (Roma)», Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 85 (2009), p. 320-321 nota 24. Cf. anche la sintesi nel recente contributo di G. Filippi, «Un decennio di ricerche e studi nella basilica ostiense», in U.  Utro (ed.), San Paolo in Vaticano. La figura e la parola dell ’Apostolo delle Genti nelle raccolte pontificie, Todi, 2009, p. 29-40. 48. Cf. E. Z occa, «Pietro e Paolo nova sidera. Costruzione della memoria e fondazione apostolica a Roma fra I e IV secolo», Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 75/1 (2009), p. 235-240; E. P rinzivalli, «Le origini della chiesa di Roma in contesto: alcuni elementi di riflessione», Vetera Christianorum 50 (2013), p. 279290, con bibliografia precedente e indicazione delle fonti scritte. 49. M. Simonetti, «Presbiteri e vescovi nella chiesa del I e II secolo», Vetera Christianorum 33 (1996), p. 119-132; M. Simonetti, «L’età antica», in Enciclopedia dei Papi, I, Roma, 2000, p. 10-15; M. Simonetti, «Roma cristiana tra vescovi e presbiteri», in V. Fiocchi Nicolai-J. Guyon (edd.), Origine delle catacombe romane, Atti della giornata tematica dei seminari di Archeologia Cristiana (Roma, 21 marzo 2005), Città del Vaticano, 2006, p. 29-37; P rinzivalli, «Le origini della chiesa di Roma», in particolare p. 287-290.

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una memoria culturale che fonda su Pietro e Paolo la doppia apostolicità della ‘chiesa’ di Roma traspaiono da diverse testimonianze, come sottolinea lo stesso Gaio: “andando infatti al Vaticano o lungo la via Ostiense, vi troverai i ‘trofei’ di coloro che hanno fondato questa Chiesa”. 50 In questo senso la monumentalizzazione dei sepolcri apostolici, come primo segno di legittimazione, impulso e sviluppo di una memoria martiriale, sembra esprimere una scelta consapevole da parte della ‘chiesa’ romana che intendeva offrire un segnale di forte legittimità apostolica e tale doveva apparire anche in relazione alla sua visibilità e tangibilità, in direzione di un processo di consolidamento delle istituzioni ecclesiastiche e di coesione della comunità. 51 La testimonianza di Gaio, dunque, documenta un momento di passaggio epocale nella vita della comunità cristiana di Roma connesso alla comparsa delle prime ‘aree sacre’ e ai relativi processi che contribuirono a determinarne l’affermazione come ‘luoghi della memoria’. Nella descrizione delle testimonianze materiali rinvenute nel cd. ‘campo P’ si è volutamente evitato di utilizzare l’espressione ‘tomba di Pietro’, preferendo riferirsi ad un ‘luogo connesso alla memoria di Pietro’, intendendo quindi sottolineare che dalle indagini e dagli studi in alcun modo sono emersi “dati positivi” 52 circa l’esistenza di un sepolcro vero e proprio attribuibile all’apostolo, elemento che – a mio avviso – rimane secondario. In prospettiva storica, l’aspetto rilevante è l’individuazione di tracce riconducibili alla volontà di un gruppo di collegare un determinato ‘spazio’/‘luogo’ al nome di Pietro. La costruzione di un ‘luogo della memoria’ è strettamente connessa ad un processo di trasmissione che coinvolge la memoria collettiva; in questa prospettiva, la commemorazione dei martiri, antropologicamente vicina a quella dei defunti, costituisce “il paradigma di una memoria che ‘isti-

50.  Euseb. Caes. Historia Ecclesiastica II, 25, 7 (= SC 31, 93; traduzione italiana da: Eusebio di Cesarea, Storia Ecclesiastica/1, intr. a cura di F. Migliore, trad. e note Libri I-IV a cura di S. Borzì, trad. e note Libro V a cura di F. Migliore, Roma, 2001, p. 133). Simonetti, «Presbiteri e vescovi», p. 130-131; Simonetti, «L’età antica», p. 10; Simonetti, «Roma cristiana», p. 29-33; P rinzivalli, «Le origini della chiesa di Roma», p. 280-286. 51.  In questa fase la comunità romana è attraversata da spinte destrutturanti e da una molteplicità di sollecitazioni culturali e dottrinali anche divergenti tra loro; per uno sguardo d’insieme M. Simonetti, «Roma cristiana tra II e III secolo», Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989), p. 115-136; M. Simonetti, «La riflessione dottrinale a Roma nei primi secoli», in L. Pani Ermini-P. Siniscalco (edd.), La comunità cristiana di Roma: la sua vita e la sua cultura dalle origini all ’Alto Medioevo (Roma, 12-14 novembre 1998), Città del Vaticano, 2000, p. 49-63; Simonetti, «Roma cristiana tra vescovi e presbiteri», p. 32-37; M. Simonetti, «Uno sguardo su alcune comunità cristiane nel II secolo», Vetera Christianorum 49 (2012), p. 199-201. 52.  Ferrua, «Nuove scoperte», p. 236.

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tuisce comunità’”. 53 Attraverso questo legame memoriale con i martiri, la comunità si riconosce in una dimensione identitaria; riveste un ruolo determinante la ‘memoria comunicativa’, cioè la capacità di trasmettere oralmente un ricordo ‘biografico’ attraverso poche generazioni, colmando così il ‘vuoto’ che separa l’episodio vissuto dalla sua condivisione simbolica e partecipata da parte del gruppo di riferimento. 54 È quello che probabilmente accade per la memoria di Pietro in Vaticano (così come per quella di Paolo sull’Ostiense) dove, dopo poco più di cento anni dalla morte dell’apostolo, si sperimenta per la prima volta l’interrelazione tra ‘spazio’/‘luogo’ e ‘memoria’.

53. J. A ssmann, La memoria culturale. Scrittura, ricordo e identità politica nelle grandi civiltà antiche, Torino, 1997, 37 in cui si riprende una citazione da K. Schmidt, Gedächtnis, das Gemeinschaft stiftet, Freiburg im Breisgau, 1985. 54.  Su questi temi la bibliografia è molto ampia, non si può però prescindere da: M. H albwachs , La topographie légendaire des Évangiles en Terre Sainte: étude de mémoire collective, Paris, 1971; M. H albwachs , La memoria collettiva, a cura di P. Jedlowski, Milano, 1996; A ssmann, La memoria culturale, in particolare p. 23-50 in cui si sottolinea che la ‘memoria comunicativa’ è condivisa dal gruppo in uno spazio temporale corrispondente a circa 80-100 anni, cioè tre o quattro generazioni (25). Cf. Liverani-Spinola-Z ander , Le necropoli vaticane, p. 54. Sul tema del rapporto tra modalità di trasmissione e memoria in riferimento ai testi evangelici cf. le recenti riflessioni di A. Destro -M.  P esce , Il racconto e la scrittura. Introduzione alla lettura dei vangeli, Roma, 2014, in particolare le pagine 49-60 con analisi critica del ricco apparato bibliografico di riferimento.

CENSUS DECLARATIONS, BIRTH R ETURNS, AND M ARRIAGE CONTRACTS ON PAPYRUS AND PAUL’S I DEAS ON T HESE M ATTERS P.  A rzt-Grabner Papyrus is understandably extremely sensitive to dampness. Because of that, the initial papyrus finds (about 130 years ago) were limited to the desert areas of Egypt. More recently, papyri have also been found at various places outside of Egypt: 1 in Israel and Jordan, 2 Syria, 3 Iran, 4 and Afghanistan. 5 Some papyri and tablets were originally written in Asia Minor, 6

1.  Cf. E. G. Turner , Greek Papyri: An Introduction (Paperback edition) (Oxford, 1980); H. M. Cotton-W. E. H. Cockle-F. G. B. M illar , “The Papyrology of the Roman Near East: A Survey,” Journal of Roman Studies 95 (1995) 214-235 (listing 609 papyrus documents from outside Egypt). 2.  P.Murabba‘ât (most of them II ce), P.Masada (Papyri and Ostraca, most of them 66-73/74 ce), P.Yadin and P.Hever (archives of two Jewish women, Babatha and Salome Komaïse, daughter of Levi; documents written in Maḥoza/Roman province Arabia; the women brought these archives with them when moving to En Gedi during the Jewish revolt under the leadership of Bar Kochba; both early II ce), P.Jud.Des.Misc. (Jericho) 4-6; 16-19; (Naḥal Ḥever) 4; (Naḥal Mishmar) 2; (Naḥal Ṣe’elim) 4 und 5, P.Petra (152 carbonized papyri found in a room near byzantine basilica; VI ce). – Abbreviations according to J. F. Oates et al., Checklist of Editions of Greek, Latin, Demotic and Coptic Papyri, Ostraca and Tablets (5th ed.; Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists Supplements 9; Oakville-Oxford, 2001; the current version is accessible online: J. D. Sosin et al., Checklist of Editions of Greek, Latin, Demotic, and Coptic Papyri, Ostraca, and Tablets, papyri.info/docs/ checklist). 3.  P.Dura (from Dura Europos, II-III ce), P.Euphrates (documents from Roman province Syria Coele, especially from Beth Phuraia, on papyrus or leather; 232-256 ce [no. 1-5 = SB 22.15496-15500]), Palmyra (c. 60 unpublished papyrus fragments in Greek and Palmyrene, found in the tower of Kitot, built in 40 ce; according to the writing dating to II-III ce). 4. Two deeds on parchment from Kopanis (Avroman): Jur.Pap. 36 (October 20-November 18, 88 bce); JHS 35, 1915, p. 22-65, no. 2 (ed. Ellis H. Minns; 22-21 bce). 5.  SB 22.15765: tax receipt on leather from Bactria, II bce . 6. From Side/Pamphylia: P.Turner 22 with BL 12, p. 284 (142 ce; sale of slave); BGU 3.887 with BL 1, p. 77 and 350, 3, p. 15, 6, p. 16 and 7, p. 36 (July 8, 151  ce; sale of slave), Myra/Lycia: BGU 3.913 with BL 1, p. 82 and 4, p. 6 (June 12, 206 ce; sale of slave), Bithynia: P.Münch. 3.63 (May 8, 248 ce; fragment with From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 335-372.

© F  H  G

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Syria,7 Rhodes, 8 or Italy 9 and sent to Egypt, where they have been found in modern times. Last but not least, ostraca and wooden or waxed tablets have been excavated not only in Egypt, but also in Libya, 10 Crete, Romania, 11 Italy, 12 Switzerland, 13 and Great Britain. 14 Surely Egypt has ceased to be the only locus of papyri and other perishable documents from the Roman Empire. A corollary of this is that the material from Egypt can now be collated with similar material discovered elsewhere, and often shown not to be unique to that province. Thus, the information obtained from the Egyptian material also serves to understand various aspects of Roman government and society elsewhere in the Roman Empire. From documentary papyri, it is not difficult to reconstruct the life of an inhabitant of ancient Egypt, and in many and manifold aspects also of a hypothetical inhabitant at least of one of the Eastern provinces of the Roman Empire where Paul of Tarsus founded and/or visited the communities of some early Christ groups. In this article, I will cover the general papyrological evidence of three major events or issues that had a significant impact on the life of a freeborn or freed individual throughout the Empire: the census, the birth of a child, and marriage. I will present sevdate Philippus Arabs and Philippus II), Pompeiopolis/Paphlagonia: P.Mich. 9.546 with BL 7, p. 113 and 9, p. 162 (207 ce; copy of sale of slave, original drawn up in Pompeiopolis), Caria: especially three letters to Zenon: P.Cair.Zen. 1.59037 (after June 12, 258 bce; business letter); 59036 with BL 3, p. 37 (February 1, 257 bce; letter); 59056 (March 14, 257 bce; private letter), Cappadocia(?): Ch.L. A. 11.477 (I-III ce; letter[?] of a veteran in Latin), Mysia-Kyzikos(?): SB 3.6260 with BL 8, p. 324 (before June 13, 230 ce; administrational[?] letter). 7.  P.Lond. 2.229 (p. XXI) (Seleucia Pieria, May 24, 166 ce; sale of slave). 8.  P.Oxy. 50.3593 (238-244 ce; sale of slave); 3594 (prob. 238-244 ce; subject not clear). 9.  Rome: P.Mich. 8.487, 491 and 501 (all II ce; private letters); BGU 1.27 with BL 12, p. 10 (II-III ce; private letter); P.Mich. 8.490 (Portus Ostia, II ce; private letter); SB 6.9557 with BL 6, p. 155 (Rome, 264-282 ce; business letter by a Christian), Misenum: BGU 2.423 with BL 8, p. 27 and 9, p. 20 (and probably 632 with BL 1, p. 58) (II ce; private letter), Puteoli: P.Oxy. 18.2191 with BL 5, p. 81 (II ce; private letter), Nea Polis: P.Lond. 3.1178 (p. 214) with BL 1, p. 290, 3, p. 96, 8, p. 186 and 9, p. 141 (200-212 ce; diploma), Ravenna: SB 3.6304 (wax tablet; c. 151 ce ; sale of slave). 10.  O.Bu Njem: Latin ostraca; III ce . 11. T.Dacia: wax tablets from Alburnus Maior/Dacia Superior, II ce; two slave sale contracts (tablets 6 and 7) reprinted as CIL 3, 936-939, no. VI (139 ce); p. 940-943, no. VII (142 ce). 12.  Tablets from Pompeji: T.Jucundus and T.Sulpicii, wax tablets from Herculaneum: T.Hercul., Ravenna: Ch.L. A. 12.547 (after February 22, 433 ce); P.Rainer Cent. 166 (VI-VII ce). 13.  T.Vindonissa (= C.Epist.Lat. 16-71): wax tablets; first half I ce . 14.  Vindolanda (Hadrian’s Wall): T.Vindol. (wooden tablets, late I/early II ce), Luguval(l)ium (Carlisle): C.Epist.Lat. 3.88bis,1-43 (wooden tablet, Flavian time), Londinium: C.Epist.Lat. 1.87-88.

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eral important documents and document types dealing with those issues, but my intention is not to focus on law and legal details or traditions (by the way, we do not know of any member of an early Christ group who was an advocate or a jurist); my interest is to find out how, and to what extent, common people were affected by the principles, modes, and intentions that we detect in the census system, in birth returns, and in marriage contracts, e.g., what was obligatory, and what could be arranged – more or less – freely and individually according to personal interests. In a short conclusion, I want to link my observations to the way how Paul of Tarsus deals with marriage, birth, and the system of the Roman poll tax in some of his letters. In doing so, I will – exemplarily – hint at the important background that the papyri from Egypt and elsewhere provide for a better understanding of Paul’s world and the world of the early Christ groups with which he had to deal with. Before doing so, it is important to take account of an essential observation. As Joachim Hengstl has remarked at several occasions, 15 the GrecoHellenistic legal practices are represented by the scribes who were responsible for writing the documents, and caring for the records in the archives. 16 The scribes did not rely on a profound juridical education, but they had been trained through practice – like an apprentice in a craft. 17 We can be sure that they were already literate before beginning to specialize in writing legal documents. Their training must have consisted of copying appropriate formulae, special clauses, formulae of dating, again and again. Later on, in their daily routine, they could still rely on formularies. 18 But they did not only copy from exemplars, or simply complete a standard form by 15. See, most recently, J. H engstl , “Rechtsterminologie in den griechischen Papyri und ihre Bedeutung für die Interpretation neutestamentlicher Texte,” in J.  H erzer , ed., Papyrologie und Exegese: Die Auslegung des Neuen Testaments im Licht der Papyri (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 2/341; Tübingen, 2012) 19-45 (see also the bibliography on p. 19 n. *). 16. Cf. H engstl , “Rechtsterminologie in den griechischen Papyri” (n. 15), 24: “Träger der griechisch-hellenistischen Rechtspraxis waren die Urkundenschreiber. … Schreiber – oder wer sonst? – müssen das Urkunden- und Archivwesen in den griechischen poleis getragen haben, welches sich im Nahen Osten so prägend ausgewirkt hat. Überlieferungsbedingt berichten hierüber fast nur die Papyri des griechisch-römischen Ägypten. Damit erlauben sie zugleich vorsichtige Rückschlüsse auch auf die außerägyptischen Regionen der Diadochenreiche und folglich auf die dortige Rechtspraxis.” 17. Cf. H engstl , “Rechtsterminologie in den griechischen Papyri” (n. 15), 25: “Die Urkundenschreiber hatten keine juristische Schulung. Gleich Handwerkern lernten sie durch die Praxis.” 18.  See, e.g., SB 6.9226 (Soknopaiu Nesos?/Arsinoites, II-III ce), preserving several paragraphs of a “Formularbuch” of a νομογράφος; O.Brux. 14 (Upper Egypt, 38-39 or 42-43 ce), a formulary for epikrisis declarations or birth returns (on the discussion see below); P.Oxy. 33.2677 (Oxyrhynchites?, II ce), a formulary for a deposit (parathesis); P.Berl.Cohen 3 (Soknopaiu Nesos/Arsinoites, late II-early III

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filling in the personal names of the parties, at least not very often. 19 As we observe regularly – and I will offer reasonable evidence for that in the following chapters –, the scribes were capable of using clauses and formulae according to the particular document type, and, at the same time, of modulating the arrangements in a way so that they met the interests of the respective party. 20 By way of comparing documents of a particular type or particular clauses and conventions, found in these documents, with one another (e.g., distinguished arrangements in marriage contracts, see below), it is possible to figure out if, and to what extent, those interests are met in the documents. It is my thesis that a broad variety of forms, formulations, and extensions of particular arrangements in one and the same genre is concurrent with a large space in everyday life – be it on a simple and basic level, be it on a more sophisticated level – to discuss the issues and express one’s personal ideas in the form of advice, dissuasion, blame, admonition, rebuke, consolation, praise, or exhortation to a particular way of life. A uniformity in particular arrangements, on the other hand, coincides with a very limited or non-existent option to address the issues in question differently and individually. And, finally, those matters that do not show up in legal arrangements, obligations, or prohibitions were completely open to be discussed by the people – freely and individually. 21 1. Th e C e nsus S ys t e m Every government is in need of money and has to collect taxes, otherwise governments don’t work. The Roman government of Egypt was no exception. But to collect taxes, you have to know, what you can tax. In the case of the Romans it was people. And, so they had to know, who the people were. The Roman census system served exactly that purpose, and was carried out – not accidentally – every 14 years. Every man between the ages of 14 and 60 had to pay an annual tax to the government. Therefore, Romans set out to know ecaxtly who the men were, who were between the ages of 14 and 60. And so every 14 years, so that nobody would ever ce),

a formulary for receipts for the bull tax (φόρος βοῶν); SB 20.15004 with BL 10, p. 232 (Arsinoites, 146-147 ce), a formulary for a report of a legal guardian. 19.  This might have been the case with, e.g., P.Turner 22 with BL 12, p. 284, a slave sale contract from Side/Pamphylia (142 ce), where we find male forms although they refer to a slave girl. 20. See H engstl , “Rechtsterminologie in den griechischen Papyri” (n. 15), 25-26. 21.  This is, of course, only true under the condition that we have documents preserved that deal with the general topic (e.g., with marriage).

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escape, they made everybody fill out census declarations. The evidence for the census, that we get from the papyri, is very good and, meanwhile, more or less complete. 22 We have not only lots of census declarations, 23 but we are able to reconstruct the whole process that is connected with the census. We know that the first census in Egypt was taken under Augustus in 11/10 bce . 24 In the early times of the Roman census we find a sevenyear cycle, and the declarants had to file their declarations (in the form of an ἐπίκρισις or an ὑπόμνημα) a year before the authorities formed the registers; 25 those registers were called ἀπογραφαί. 26 From 19/20 ce 27 onwards we find the 14 year cycle in Egypt that lasted until mid III ce . The process of a particular census started with an edict by the Roman governor, like the one preserved in P.Lond. 3.904, col. II (p. 125) with BL 3, p. 94, 5, p. 54, and 11, p. 112 (Alexandria, June 25-July 24, 104 ce). In this document, C. Vibius Maximus, the prefect of Egypt, declares that – 22.  See L. Wilcken, Grundzüge und Chrestomathie der Papyruskunde, vol. 1, Historischer Teil, 1. Hälfte: Grundzüge (Leipzig, 1912; reprint Hildesheim, 1963) 192-196; S. L. Wallace , Taxation in Egypt from Augustus to Diocletian (Princeton, 1938; reprint New York, 1969) 96-115; R. Taubenschlag, The Law of GrecoRoman Egypt in the Light of the Papyri 332 bc-ad  640 (2nd  ed.; Warszawa, 1955; reprint Milano, 1972) 611-613; O. Montevecchi, “Il censimento romano d’Egitto: Precisazioni,” Aevum 50 (1976) 72-84; M. Hombert-C.  P réaux, Recherches sur le recensement dans l ’Égypte romaine (Papyrologica Lugduno-Batava 5; Leiden, 1952); R. S. Bagnall-B. W. Frier , The Demography of Roman Egypt (Cambridge Studies in Population, Economy and Society in Past Time 23; Cambridge, 1994); B. Palme , “Die ägyptische κατ’ οἰκίαν ἀπογραφή und Lk 2,1-5,” Protokolle zur Bibel 2 (1993) 1-24; idem, “Neues zum ägyptischen Provinzialzensus: Ein Nachtrag zum Artikel PzB 2  (1993) 1-24,” Protokolle zur Bibel 3 (1994) 1-7; idem, “Alltagsgeschichte und Papyrologie,” in E. Specht, ed., Alltägliches Altertum (Frankfurt a.M.-Berlin, 1998) 155-205, here 171-183; for a survey of inscriptions related to the provincial census see P. A. Brunt, “The Revenues of Rome,” in idem, Roman Imperial Themes (Oxford, 1990) 324-346, here 329-335 (with tables 345-346). 23. See Bagnall-Frier , The Demography of Roman Egypt (n. 22), 179-312; additions in A. Papathomas , “Drei unveröffentlichte Papyri aus der Sammlung der Griechischen Papyrologischen Gesellschaft,” Archiv für Papyrusforschung 42 (1996) 179-207, here 201. 24.  According to SB 20.14440 with BL 11, p. 230 (Theadelphia/Arsinoites; January 22 [?], 12 ce), the declarations had to be submitted in 11/10 bce for the first time; the registrations took place in 10/9 bce . From then onwards we find a seven year cycle of declarations and registrations until 19/20 ce . 25.  I.e. declaration in 4/3 bce and registration in 3/2 bce , declaration in 4/5 ce and registration in 5/6 ce , declaration in 11/12 ce and registration in 12/13 ce . See R. S. Bagnall , “The Beginning of the Roman Census in Egypt,” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 32 (1991) 255-265; Palme , “Neues zum ägyptischen Provinzialzensus” (n.  22), 5-6; W.  G.  Claytor-R. S. Bagnall , “The Beginnings of the Roman Provincial Census: A New Declaration from 3 bce ,” Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 55 (2015) 637-653. 26. Cf. Palme , “Neues zum ägyptischen Provinzialzensus” (n.  22), 5. 27.  Cf. P.Oxy. 2.254 with BL 10, p. 137-138 and 11, p. 143 (c. 13-26 ce).

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the house-to-house census (ἡ κατ’ οἰκίαν ἀπογραφή) having begun – it is necessary that all persons, who for any reason whatsoever are absent from their home districts, be alerted to return to their own hearths, so that they may complete the customary formalities of registration and apply themselves to the farming for which they are responsible. Only those people from the countryside, who prove their presence in Alexandria to be necessary, shall receive signed permits to stay, but all others are to return home within thirty days. 28 This is probably the most important document to illuminate Luke’s account in 2:1-3 as it illustrates that for the census all were proceeding to register to their place of origin. 29 The papyri from Egypt not only illustrate the whole procedure of the Roman census, they 28.  P.Lond. 3.904, col.  II (p.  125) 20-39 with BL 3, p.  94 and 11, p.  112: τῆς κατ’ οἰ[κίαν ἀπογραφῆς ἐ]νεστώ[σης] | ἀναγκαῖόν [ἐστιν πᾶσιν τοῖ]ς καθ’ ἥ[ντινα] | δήποτε αἰτ[ίαν ἀποδημοῦσιν ἀπὸ τῶν] | νομῶν προσα[γγέλλε]σθαι ἐπα[νελ]|θεῖν εἰς τὰ ἑαυ[τῶν ἐ]φέστια ἵν[α] | καὶ τὴν συνήθη [οἰ]κονομίαν τῆ[ς ἀπο]|γραφῆς πληρώσωσιν καὶ τῇ προσ[ηκού]|σῃ αὐτοῖς γεωργίαι προσκαρτερήσω[σιν]. | εἰδὼς μέντο[ι ὅ]τι ἐνίων τῶν [ἀπὸ] | τῆς χώρας ἡ πόλις ἡμῶν ἔχει χρε[ίαν] | βούλομ[αι] πάντα[ς τ]οὺς εὔ[λ]ο̣γ̣ ον δο[κοῦν]|τα[ς] ἔχειν τοῦ ἐνθάδε ἐπιμένιν [αἰ]|τίαν ἀπογράφεσ[θ]αι παρὰ Βουλλ[ατίῳ] | Φήστῳ ἐπάρχω[ι] εἴλης, ὃν ἐπὶ το[ύτῳ] | ἔταξα, οὗ καὶ τὰς [ὑ]πογραφὰς οἱ ἀποδ[εί]|ξαντες ἀναγκ[αίαν α]ὑτῶν τὴν παρου[σίαν] | λήμψοντα[ι κατὰ τ]οῦ[τ]ο τὸ παράγγελμ[α] | ἐντὸς [τῆς τριακάδος τοῦ ἐν]εσ[τ]ῶτος μη|νὸς Ἐ[πείφ, τοὺς δὲ ἄλλους ἐ]πανελθεῖν | μεθ’ ἧ[ς λήψονται ἐπὶ τόποι]ς ὑπογραφῆ[ς] τοῦ ἐπὶ τ[ῇ λαογραφίᾳ. – Cf.  A. Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East: The New Testament Illustrated by Recently Discovered Texts of the Graeco-Roman World (new and completely revised edition with eighty-five illustrations from the latest German edition, translated by L. R. M. Strachan; London, 1927), 271. See also P.Gen. 1 (2nd ed.).16 (October 12, 207 ce) with a reference to the edict of Subatianus Aquila in lines 18-21; on this edict P. Schubert-I.  Jornot comment in P.Gen. 1 (2nd ed.), p. 72: “Dans notre document (17-21), les paysans font référence aux ordres du préfet Subatianus Aquila les enjoignant de rester dans leur ἰδία, c’est-à-dire vraisemblablement le village où ils étaient enregistrés pour le recensement. L’édit dont il est question ici, attribué aux empereurs Septime Sévère et Caracalla dans SB 14284 (207 ap. J.-C.), ne fait malheureusement pas partie de ceux qui nous ont été conservés. Les édits renvoyant les gens dans leur ἰδία étaient généralement promulgués en vue d’un recensement, comme par exemple P.Lond. III 904 (p. 125; = W.Chr. 202; 104 ap. J.-C.), ou à la suite de troubles, comme BGU II 372 (= W. Chr. 19; 154 ap. J.-C.). U.  Wilcken, dans l’introduction de W.Chr. 354, a rapproché 16 du recensement de 201/2. Comme notre document (18-21) fait allusion à l’édit du préfet Subatianus Aquila, lequel est en fonction entre 206 et 211, il faut considérer que l’édit est promulgué non pas en vue du recensement, mais après le recensement.” 29.  Cf., e.g., Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East (n. 28), 270-271: “Perhaps the most remarkable discovery of this kind in the new texts is a singular parallel to the statement in Luke ii. 3, which has been so much questioned on the strength of mere book-learning, that on the occasion of the enrolment for taxation made by Cyrenius, ‘all went to enrol themselves, everyone to his own city.’ That this was no mere figment of St. Luke or his authority, but that similar things took place in that age, is proved by an edict of G. Vibius Maximus, governor of Egypt, ad 104.”

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also have proven that – contrary to Luke’s account – the census was not exacted at the same time throughout the Empire but at different times in the provinces: the census under the Roman legate Quirinius in Syria (including Judaea), that is referred to in Luke 2:1-3, was the first one that was operated in that province, in the year 6-7 ce , so one year later than the census in Egypt. A census declaration itself is usually very simple: it says who the people are who completed it, where they lived, what type of property they lived in, and who was in the household. That’s how we learn about who the people were in Roman Egypt – the head of the household, if he had a wife, or sometimes the head of the household was a woman who was divorced, or widowed, or simply living by herself. We discover if there were children; whether there were grandparents, aunts, uncles, slaves, or others taken in as lodgers, and just about anyone else who might happen to be living in the house. And from this we find out as well, where they had scars or marks on their bodies because this was included to help identify them, and how old they were: e.g., how old they were when they got married and had their first children, and how old people lived to be. We learn that the average age of life was not very long, certainly by our standards it was pretty bad. At birth your chances were to live to about 23, 24, 25 years of age. But what that meant was that half of the population who were born today would be dead in five years. Most of the others would tend to their thirties, forties and fifties, some to their sixties and seventies, few even to their eighties or early nineties. The earliest example of a preserved census declaration so far is SB 20.14440 (with BL 11, p. 230) which was written in Philadelphia/ Arsinoites in the year 12 ce , probably on January 22.

Ἰσιδώρῳ κωμογραματῖ Θεαδελφήας παρὰ Ἁ̣ ρ̣θ̣ώτου

5 10 15

τοῦ Μαρηους δημ[ό]σις γεωργος καὶ εἱερευς Τοθοήους θεοῦ̣. ἔχω ἐν Θεαδελφήᾳ οἰκίαν ἐντὸς περιβόλου ε[ἱ]εροῦ, ἐν ᾗ ἐγὼ αὐτὸς Ἁρθώτης μητρὸ[ς] Ἐσερσύθεος (ἐτῶν) πεν[τή]κοντα πέ[ν-] τε, Ἁρπατ̣οθοηου̣ς υἱὸς (ἐτῶν) ἐννέα μητρὸς Τ̣α̣ αν̣ χορίφιος καὶ ἡ μήτηρ μου Ἐσερσῦθ[ι]`ς´ Πασίωνος ἐτῶν {ἐτῶν} ο. Ἁρθώτ[η]ς ὡ πρωγεγραμέν[ο]ς ὠμνύω Καίσαρ̣α̣ [Α]ὐ̣ [τ]οκράτ̣ [ο]ρα Ἐλ̣ ε̣υ̣θέρ(ιον) θεοῦ Δία Σεβ̣αστὸν̣ ἶ μὴν ἐξ ὑγιοῦς καὶ ἐπʼ ἀρηθέας ἐπι-

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δεδωκέναι̣ τὸ προκ̣ ίμενον ὑπόμνημα μηδὲν ὑποσ̣ τ̣ ειλάμενος. εὐ̣ορκοῦν̣τι μέν μοι εὖ ἴη, ἐφιορκοῦντι δὲ τὰ ἐναντία. Ἁρθώτης Μαρήους ὡ πρωγεγραμένος κ (ἔτους) (ἐτῶν) νε οὐ(λὴ) φακῷ μήρω ἀριστερῶ. Ἁρπατοθοῆς ϛ (ἔτους) ὡς (ἐτῶν) θ. κατακεχώρ(ισται) (ἔτους) μα Καίσαρος Τῦ̣β[ι?κ]ϛ. Apparatus 1. l. κωμογραμματεῖ 1-2. l. Θεαδελφείας 3. l. Μαρρήους, δημοσίου 3-4. l. γεωργοῦ 4. l. ἱερέως 5. l. Θεαδελφείᾳ 6. l. ἱεροῦ 9. l. Ἁρπατοθοῆς 13. l. ὁ προγεγραμμένος ὀμνύω 15. l. ἦ 16. l. ἀληθείας 17. l. προκείμενον 20. l. εἴη, ἐπιορκοῦντι 22. l. Μαρρήους, ὁ 22-23. l. προγεγραμμένος 23-24. l. μήλου 24. l. ἀριστεροῦ

“To Isidoros, village scribe of Theadelphia, from Harthotes, son of Marres, public farmer and priest of the god Tothoes. I have in Theadelphia a house inside the enclosure of the temple, in which (live) I myself, Harthotes, whose mother is Esersythis, fifty-five years old, my son Harpatothoes, nine years, whose mother is Taanchoriphis, and my mother Esersythis daughter of Pasion, 70 years. I, Harthotes, the aforewritten, swear verily by Caesar Imperator Eleutherios, son of the god Zeus Augustus, that I have submitted the previous declaration salutarily and truthfully, reserving nothing; if I have sworn truthfully may it be well with me, if falsely, the opposite. “Harthotes, son of Marres, the aforewritten, in the twentieth year (of registratµathoes, in sixth year (of registration?), 30 about 9 years. “Registered in year 41 of Caesar, Tybi [?2]6.” 31 30.  On κ (ἔτους) in line 23 and ϛ (ἔτους) in line 25 see Bagnall, “The Beginning of the Roman Census in Egypt” (n. 25), 263: “It is difficult to know how to interpret κ L . The L sign can hardly indicate the age, which follows shortly afterward. Nor can it indicate the regnal year of birth or first registration, since the figure for the son (line 25) is fourteen lower than for the father. If it cannot refer either to age or to regnal year, the only possible solution seems to be that we should take it as κ (ἔτει) in the case of the father, ϛ (ἔτει) in the case of the son, i.e., twentieth year and sixth year respectively. These figures might mean, e.g. ‘twentieth year of registration’ in the father’s case.” See Palme, “Neues zum ägyptischen Provinzialzensus” (n.  22), 5: “Das aber bedeutet: der Sohn Harpathotes war bereits sechs Jahre zuvor, 5/6  n. Chr. im Register verzeichnet worden und hatte sich demnach das erste Mal 4/5  n. Chr. deklariert – in jenem Jahr, in dem eine ‘Epikrisis’ nachgewiesen ist. Sein  Vater war zwanzig Jahre zuvor registriert worden (10/9 v. Chr.), hatte sich also 11/10 v. Chr. erstmals deklariert.” 31. Translation based on Bagnall , “The Beginning of the Roman Census in Egypt” (n. 25), 262.

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A dramatic example of such a census declaration is the one filed by a certain Peteamunis on July 23, 175 ce – SPP 20.11: Peteamunus is the head of the household, he declares that he is the son of Peteamunis and Tamasis, 75 years of age, and a grave digger in the village Moithymis in the Memphite nome. He registers himself and the following people to Apollonios, the strategos of the Memphite nome, and before listing everyone by name and age, he declares that all are homeless: Ammonas, son of the deceased mother Senamunis, grave digger, 45 years old; Ammonas’ wife whose name is not preserved, daugther of Isas, unemployed, 40 (?) years old; their daughter, 4 years old; Ammonas’ brother Horos, grave digger, 36 years old; Horos’ wife Taoris, daughter of Horos, unemployed, 31 years old; their daughter Amunis, 4 years old; Horos’ brother whose name is not preserved, grave digger, 30 years old; and, finally, a woman with the fragmentarily preserved name -asis, unemployed, daughter of the deceased Pasion the son of Horos, and Ammonarion, 19 years old. After a written oath that all information is correct, a certain Athres declares that he has written for Peteamunis because he is illiterate. Peteamunis follows his obligation to include every member of his household in the document, no matter if a particular person has to pay the poll tax or not. According to the regulations mentioned above, three of the declared men are obliged to pay the tax at the time of this particular census: Ammonas who is 45 years old, Ammonas’ brother Horos who is 36 years old, and Horos’ brother who is 30 years old (the other members are either female or too old to be reliable to pay the poll tax); all three are grave diggers in a small village, and their wives are unemployed, but nevertheless they have to pay the poll tax which was collected at the same rate per head. 32 It is easy to imagine, how and why people took to fleeing to another nome – a case well represented in the papyrological evidence – where the rate of the poll tax was, hopefully, lower. The authorities took the declarations seriously as we find out from census registers. Such registers were built, after collecting the declarations and arranging them according to the quarters or streets of the village or city, by glueing them together to a scroll, a so-called tomos synkollesimos, that was kept in the corresponding archive. Several census registers have been preserved, some are from I ce: P.Lond. 2.297 a (p. xxviii; 89-104 ce); P.Oxy.Census with BL 12, p. 155 (91-92 ce?); 33 P.Lond. 2.257 (p. 19; with BL 1, p. 244, 7, p. 83-84, 8, p. 175, 9, p. 127 and 12, p. 100)  3 4 and 32.  Cf. P. A rzt-Grabner , “Christlicher Alltag anhand der Papyri aus dem 2. Jahrhundert,” in W. P ratscher-M.  Öhler-M.  L ang, eds, Das ägyptische Christentum im 2. Jahrhundert (Studien zum Neuen Testament und seiner Umwelt Neue Folge 6; Wien-Berlin, 2008) 101-123: here 107-109. 33.  See the images on plate 1-13. 34.  See the images on plate 36-42.

344

P. ARZT-GR ABNER

259 (p. 36; with BL 1, p. 244, 5, p. 51, 7, p. 84 and 9, p. 128; both 94-95 ce); 258 (p. 28; with BL 1, p. 244 and 10, p. 98; ca. 94-95 ce); 265, verso (p.  xxv; with BL 9, p. 128; I ce); 3.901 (p. 23; with BL 1, p. 273-274 and 9, p. 132; late I-early II ce). BGU 13.2228 with BL 8, p. 55 (Soknopaiu Nesos/Arsinoites, 175-188 ce) is the extract of a census register giving the following information: ἐκ β̣[ιβλ(ιοθήκης)] δη(μοσίων) λό̣γων ἐξ εἰκο(νισμοῦ) ιδ̣ [(ἔτους) ἐν κ]ώ̣ (μῃ) Σοκνο(παίου) Νήσο(υ) κ[ολ(λήματος) ̣ ̣] ̣ δ φυλ(ῆς) μέρος π̣ ατρ̣ ι̣ κῆς 5 οἰκ(ίας) (δίμοιρον) κ̣ [αὶ] α̣ὐ̣ λ(ῆς) καὶ αἰθ(ρίου) συνέχ(ων) ἀλλήλ(αις) Στοτοῆτις Ἀγχώφεως τοῦ Στοτοήτεως μητ(ρὸς) Τεσενούφεως τῆς Ὀννώφρεως (ἐτῶν) κϛ 10 ἄση(μος) ιγ (ἔτει) (ἐτῶν) κγ̣ ἐπ̣ (εκρίθη) (ἐτῶν) κδ οὐ̣ λ̣ (ὴ) μετώ[(πῳ)] ἐκ δεξιῶν [–] ̣ ̣α [–]η̣ ς̣ Π̣ ετμούεις δοῦλ(ος) τοῦ [– Φανομ]γεὺς Στοτοήτεως εγμ ̣ ̣ ̣ 15 [–] ̣[–] ̣ Apparatus 9. cf.  BL 8, p.  55: “κϛ: Schreibfehler für κδ” “From the Archive of Public Affairs, from the census register containing the declarations of year 14 in the village of Soknopaiu Nesos. Column … Of phyle 4, of the part Patrike (?), two thirds of a house and a courtyard and a light-well attached to one another. Stotoetis, son of Anchophis the son of Stotoetis, his mother being Tesenuphis, the daughter of Onnophris, 26 years old, without particular marks on his body, in year 13, 23 years old, he was declared to be 24 years old, with a mark on his right forehead. … Petmuis, slave of … Phanomgeus, son of Stotoetis …” (then the papyrus brakes off).

Most probably, this extract was handed out for official reasons. It illustrates how thoroughly the authorities kept records, in particular how – in this extract – they provide not only the personal data of the year of the most recent census but also of the year before, thus detecting (and giving information about) an inconsistency concerning Stotoetis’ age. 35 35. Cf. Palme , “Die ägyptische κατ’ οἰκίαν ἀπογραφή” (n.  22), 11-12; A rztGrabner , “Christlicher Alltag anhand der Papyri” (n. 32), 110-111. P. J. Sijpesteijn, “Extracts from a Census Register,” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 57 (1984) 119-120, here 120, assumes that “the scribe made a mistake and wrote at the end of line 9 (ἐτῶν) κϛ instead of (ἐτῶν) κδ.” Similar documents are, e.g., BGU

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345

An almost touching evidence for the authorities’ accurateness is preserved in the private letter P.Lond. 2.324 (p. 63; with BL 1, p. 245 and 10, p. 98-99) that was written on March 24, 161 ce , and includes the copies of two extracts from census registers, the first one referring to the census of year 131-132 ce , and the second one referring to the follow up census of year 145-146 ce . Both declarations together evidence that the sender and the recipient of this private letter are brother and sister from the same mother – lines 32-33: εἰς ἀπόδειξιν τοῦ εἶναί με  | [ὁ]μομ[ήτ]ριόν σου ἀδελφ[ό]ν. 2 . B i rt h R et u r ns The first document that we may encounter at the beginning of a person’s life is a birth return. The documents in question have also been called “declarations of birth”, “birth certificates”, or “applications to register a child.” 36 There is no specific term that is applicable to all sorts of these documents as they differ in some details from nome to nome. What is common to all of them is the fact that they are typically Roman, the earliest are dating back to mid I ce. 37 In this chapter I focus at the birth returns of Greco-Egyptians. 38 The following tables list all preserved documents that have been edited so 1.124 (with BL 1, p. 22, 8, p. 19 and 10, p. 12; after 187-188 ce), and P.Amh. 2.76 (with BL 1, p. 2; II-III ce). 36. On the discussion see C. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως: the Greco-Egyptian Birth Returns in Roman Egypt and the Case of P.Petaus 1-2,” Archiv für Papyrusforschung 56 (2010) 91-129, here 94 (with bibliographical references in n. 8), who uses the term “birth returns.” The term “application to register a child in a privileged order” has first been brought forward by Bo Frid in his edition of P.Ups.Frid. 6 (cf. also Andrea Jördens using the term “Registrierungsgesuch” for P.Bingen 105); the term explains best the function of the Oxyrhynchos documents. – On the administrational precedure concerning birth returns see also especially Th. K ruse , Der Königliche Schreiber und die Gauverwaltung: Untersuchungen zur Verwaltungsgeschichte Ägyptens in der Zeit von Augustus bis Philippus Arabs (30 v.Chr.-245 n.Chr.), 2 vols (Archiv für Papyrusforschung Beiheft 11/1 and 2; München and Leipzig, 2002), 171-176 (with bibliography on p. 171 n. 326). 37. P.Tebt. 2.299 with BL 11, p. 278 (Tebtynis/Arsinoites, after 49-50 ce): Psyphis registers the birth of his son Pakebkis, born in the tenth year of Claudius, with Areios, the village scribe of Tebtynis. 38.  I distinguish from those – as is usually done – and therefore leave aside in this documentation a different type of birth returns that is covered by Latin documents of which some are explicitly submitted by Roman citizens (an early example is P.Mich. 3 p. 154-156 [wax tablet; Alexandria, July 23, 62 ce]).

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P. ARZT-GR ABNER

far,39 beginning with the Arsinoite nome from where we have the earliest documents, followed by the birth returns from Oxyrhynchos, and finally by those from Antinoopolis which represent a unique genre.  4 0  3 9

Table 1: Birth Returns of Greco-Egyptians from Arsinoites 41 [] = reconstructed n.p. = not preserved tw. m./f. = twins, one male, one female Document

Origin

Year

Recipient

Declarant Gender

Age

P.Warr. 2

Arsinoites

72

amphodarch

father

male

3

BGU 11.2020 with BL 6, p. 19-20

Arsinoites

124

n.p.

mother

male male tw. m./f.

6 5 4

SPP 22.37 with BL 11, p. 268

Nilopolis and Soknopaiu Nesos

184

village scribe

father

male

3

CPR 15.24 with BL 11, p. 72

Ptolemais Euergetis

119

beginning is lost, but parents following census declaration is addressed to strategos, basilikos grammateus, scribes of the metropolis, exegetes, tax collectors of the metropolis, amphodarch, and?

male

4

BGU 1.110 with BL 1, p. 21

Ptolemais Euergetis

138-139

scribes of metropolis

parents

male

2

BGU 1.111, col. II with BL 1, p. 21

Ptolemais Euergetis

138-139

scribes of metropolis

parents

male male

4 2

P.Gen. 4.162

Ptolemais Euergetis

138-143

[scribes of metropolis]

parents

male

6

P.Gen. 1 (2nd ed.).33

Ptolemais Euergetis

155

scribes of metropolis

parents

male

4

39. To the list which has been compiled by Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36), 92-93, the following documents are added: P.Fam.Tebt. 30 and 34; SB 16.12743; P.Diog. 2-4; P.Stras. 7.634; P.Ant. 1.37; P.Oxy. 74.4993-4995; 4999. 40.  On the different features see also Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n. 36), 98-114; on different remarks made by public officials in the birth returns see p. 128. 41. Several data in the list of Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n. 36), 109-110, are incorrect; they are corrected and updated here.

347

CENSUS DECLAR ATIONS, BIRTH RETURNS

Document

Origin

Year

Recipient

Declarant Gender

Age

SB 26.16803

Ptolemais Euergetis

II

scribes of metropolis

parents

n.p.

n.p.

P.Petaus 1 and 2

Ptolemais Hormu

185

village scribe royal scribe

parents

female

8

SPP 22.100 with Soknopaiu BL 11, p. 268 Nesos and 12, p. 279

147-148? or 170171

village scribe

parents

male

1?

SPP 22.18 with Soknopaiu BL 2.2, p. 116, Nesos 8, p. 479 and 11, p. 268

149

village scribe

father

male

[2] or [3]

SPP 22.38 with BL 8, p. 481

Soknopaiu Nesos

155

village scribe

parents

male

6

P.Berl.Cohen 12 (= SB 24.16074)

Soknopaiu Nesos

178-179 or 210211

village scribe

parents

female

1?

BGU 1.28 with Soknopaiu BL 1, p. 9 and 6, Nesos p. 10

183

village scribe

parents

female

7

P.Tebt. 2.299 with BL 11, p. 278

Tebtynis

after 49-50

village scribe

father

male

n.p.

P.Fay. 28

Theadelphia 150-151

scribes of metropolis

parents

male

1

The documents from the Arsinoite nome, more or less, follow the same pattern. Most documents are submitted by both parents, only a few either by the father or the mother of the child who – at the time of the birth return – is between one and eight years of age. In two cases, two or more children are announced to the authorities. The description of the parents follows the usual form how a person is generally identified, giving the person’s name, the names of parents and grandfathers, the age of the person, and if this person had scars or marks on his or her body. The birth returns from the Arsinoites are addressed to the responsible local official: in Ptolemais Euergetis and Theadelphia to the scribes of the metropolis, in Soknopaiu Nesos, Ptolemais Hormu 42 and Tebtynis to the village scribe, and in one case that cannot be attributed to a particular village or city (P.Warr. 2) to the amphodarch, the head of a quarter. The following early example of a birth return from the Arsinoite nome (P.Warr. 2 with BL 8, p. 196), drawn up on July 11, 72 ce , represents the

42.  On the special case of P.Petaus 1-2 see also below.

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common pattern (the translation of lines 1-2 can partly be reconstructed from line 16): 5 10 15 20

[  ̣   ̣   ̣   ̣   ̣]   ̣   ̣[  ̣   ̣   ̣   ̣   ̣   ̣   ̣   ̣   ̣   ̣ἀμφό-] [δου] Ἀράβω[  ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣  ̣  ̣  ̣  ̣  ̣  ̣  ̣  ̣] παρὰ Ἡρακλε̣ίου τοῦ Σαμβ̣[ᾶ] τοῦ Σοκέως μη τ̣ ρὸ̣ς Ἡρακλοῦτος τῆς Διφίλου ἀναγρα̣(φομένου) ἐπʼ ἀμφόδου Ἀράβωι. ἀπογρά(φομαι) τὸν ἐπιγεννηθέν τ̣ α̣ μ̣ο̣[ι] ἐκ τῆς συν̣ ούσης μοι γυναικὸς Ταμάρωνος τῆς Ἡρακλήου υἱὸν Ἡρακλήδην γεγεννημ̣ έ(νον) τῶι β ἔτει Αὐτοκρά̣ τ̣ ορος Καίσαρος Οὐεσπασιανοῦ Σεβαστοῦ καὶ ὄντα (ἐτῶν) γ ἐπιδίδω(μι) τὴ(ν) ἀπογ(ραφήν). (Hand 2) Ἀπολλώνιος ἀμφοδ(άρχης) σε[σ]η̣μείωμαι̣ περὶ ἐπιγεγεν̣ημένου. ἔτ̣ ους τετάρ(του) Αὐτοκράτορος Καίσαρος Οὐεσπασιανοῦ Σεβαστοῦ Ἐφὶπ ιζ. Apparatus 10. l. Ἡρακλείου 11. l. Ἡρακλείδην

“[To Apollonios, the amphodarch of the] Arabs[-quarter] … from Heracleios, son of Sambas the son of Sokeus, his mother being Heraclus, daughter of Didymos, registered in the Arabs-quarter. I return my son Heracleides born to me by my wife Tamaron, daughter of Heracleios, born in the second year of Imperator Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, and now 3 years old. I deliver the return. (Hand 2) Apollonios, the amphodarch, I have signed about the born son. Fourth year of Imperator Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, Ephip (= Epeiph) 17.”

It is obvious from the evidence of these documents that, until mid III they are more or less clearly related to the house-to-house census (κατ’ οἰκίαν ἀπογραφή), 43 thus being used to update the census records. But as ce ,

43.  A clear reference to the census is, e.g., preserved in BGU I 111, col. II 12-15 (Ptolemais Euergetis, after October 1, 138 ce): ἀπογραφόμεθα [τ]οὺς γεννηθ(έντας) ἡμεῖν | με[τ]ὰ τὴν τοῦ ιϛ (ἔτους) θεοῦ Ἁδ[ρι]ανοῦ | κατʼ οἰκ(ίαν) [ἀπο]γραφὴν ἐξ ἀλλήλ(ων) υἱοὺς | τῷ μὲν κ (ἔτει) θεοῦ Ἁδριανοῦ (“we register the sons, who were born to us jointly after the house-to-house registration of the sixteenth year of the God Hadrianus in the twentieth year of the God Hadrianus”).

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349

almost all preserved birth returns are filed by privileged people,  4 4 their intention was also to register the privileges for the child. From P.Mich. 11.603 (Ptolemais Euergetis, February 4, 134 ce) we learn that scribes were not only drawing up the registration from the census but also lists of katoikoi, lists of minors, and of those excluded from the tax estimate (lines 6-10: συν|θ̣ εῖναι μόνα ἀντίγραφα λαογραφιῶν  | [κ]α̣τ̣ ʼ ἄνδρα καὶ λόγους κατοίκων καὶ  | ἀ̣ πολογισμοὺς ἀφηλίκων καὶ ἐκτὸς̣  | συνόψεως). 45 Few birth returns are preserved for daughters, two from Soknopaiu Nesos (P.Berl.Cohen 12 [178-179 or 210-211 ce]; BGU 1.28 with BL 1, p. 9 and 6, p. 10 [October 11, 183 ce]), and one from Ptolemais Hormu (P.Petaus 1-2 [February 14, 185 ce]); another document from the Arsinoites, BGU 11.2020 (with BL 6, p. 19-20 [December 24, 124 ce]), returns the births of two sons and of twins, one male and one female. The birth returns for daughters clearly testify that fiscal privileges were not the only issue of those applications, as females were generally exempted from the poll tax. What privileges or rights were addressed in these cases is not clear. John R. Rea refers to girls who were often required to prove their privileged status before marriage,  4 6 or parents could have been interested in registering the child’s legitimate status. 47 We know that a girl of a priestly family had special rights in the temple 48 which could explain the existence of BGU 1.28 (with BL 1, p. 9 and 6, p. 10; October 11, 183 ce), a birth return concerning the daughter of a local priest in Soknopaiu Nesos. Or should we think of an analogy to census declarations for which it was obligatory to include females although they were exempted from poll tax liability? 49 An important contribution to our knowledge was the edition of two the documents from Ptolemais Hormu, P.Petaus 1 and 2. Preserved on these papyri are two copies of the registration of the girl Taesis who – at the time of the application (i.e. February 14, 185 ce) – was already eight years old. But Taesis’ parents were not privileged as they are identified as “fatherless” (i.e., their father was not known) and, therefore, could not prove their paternal ancestors. For sure, they belonged to the non-privi44. Cf. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36), 110114. 45. Cf. Bagnall-Frier , The Demography of Roman Egypt (n. 22), 27; SánchezMoreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36), 102-104. 46.  Cf. J. R. R ea in P.Oxy. 43, p. 109. 47. Cf. K ruse , Der Königliche Schreiber (n. 36), 173: “Möglicherweise wollte man auf diesem Wege ein zusätzliches Beweismittel für die legitime Geburt des Kindes in die Hand bekommen.” 48. Cf. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36), 121. 49. Cf. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36), 120: “We should also take into account again that the census did not exclude women, despite their non-liability from the poll tax.”

350

P. ARZT-GR ABNER

leged population of Ptolemais Hormu. 50 Nevertheless, “the form used in the document is the same” as in other documents, and “the structure is strikingly similar to other examples from the nome” Arsinoites. “The only difference is that in the case of P.Petaus 1-2 the typical reference to the residential quarter and to descent are absent because of the context – a village with essentially unprivileged inhabitants, not a metropolis with privileged people whose main concern was to preserve their status.” 51 Why did Taesis’ parents, nevertheless, file a birth return for their daughter? As already mentioned, P.Petaus 1 and 2 are two copies of the same birth return, both written on the same day. One copy is addressed to the village scribe of Ptolemais Hormu as the local official which relates this document to the other birth returns from the Arsinoite nome, but P.Petaus 2 is addressed to the royal scribe of the Heracleides part of the Arsinoite nome and, moreover, contains an order by the βασιλικὸς γραμματεύς, written below the birth return and addressed to the village scribe of Ptolemais Hormu, “to follow the usual procedure” – lines 13-14: τὸ ἐπὶ τῶν | ὁμοίων ἀκόλ(ουθον) ἐπιτέλ(ει). According to Thomas Kruse, the duty of the village scribe was to verify the informations given in the birth return by the declarants, and eventually to register the child in the local population records. 52 It is probable, that P.Petaus 1 and 2 do not cover an exception but the usual procedure, at least in the Arsinoite nome: that the declarant(s) had to submit two copies of a birth return, one to the local official and one to the βασιλικὸς γραμματεύς who added his order to the subordinate in the local administration and had this copy sent to him. After fulfilling his duties, the local official stored both copies in his archive as, again, becomes evident from P.Petaus 1 and 2: both documents were found in the archive of the village scribe Petaus. 53 SPP 4 p. 62-78 (with BL 3, p. 235 and 12, p. 267) may serve as another reference to this procedure. It is a large part of a register of many single documents, collected and assembled to a large papyrus roll by a certain Heracleides, amphodarch of the Ἀπολλωνίου Παρεμβολῆς quarter of the Arsinoite metropolis Ptolemais Euergetis in the fifth year of Vespasian (i.e., 72-73 ce). The preserved part contains several lists of different 50. Cf. K ruse , Der Königliche Schreiber (n. 36), 173. Notice also SánchezMoreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36), 123-124: “The only way to accept that they had some interest in proving their privileged status is that they had acquired membership in the privileged orders (either metropolitai or the apo gymnasiou) by concession of the public powers, but unfortunately we do not have any evidence in this case.” 51.  Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36), 122. 52. Cf. K ruse , Der Königliche Schreiber (n. 36), 175. 53. Cf. K ruse , Der Königliche Schreiber (n. 36), 175-176.

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351

groups of taxpayers, among them those liable for the poll tax, minors (i.e., those under 14 years of age who are not yet liable to pay the poll tax), and privileged people. 54 At the end of some of these lists, Heracleides notes that he has sent a copy of the respective account or list to the royal scribe, in two cases an additional copy to the scribe of the metropolis. A list that was sent to the royal scribe is preserved on the recto of P.Ross.Georg. 5.20, written 150 years later in 222-223 ce in the village of Korphotoi in the Heracleopolite nome. 55 What becomes evident is the administrational procedure: the local officials were responsible to collect and verify the data, sometimes or often explicitly ordered to do so by the βασιλικὸς γραμματεύς (as, e.g., at the end of P.Petaus 2), and they arranged and assembled the returns and declarations to lists of distinguished groups of taxpayers as well as minors and privileged people (as in SPP 4, p. 62-78) before sending copies of particular lists (like P.Ross.Georg. 5.20, recto) to the royal scribe who was the responsible authority in the nome to register the population lists that formed the basis for calculating the estimated amount of poll tax and other taxes. 56 Carlos Sánchez-Moreno Ellart wonders whether P.Petaus 1-2 could be the only preserved birth return that was kept in a public archive (that of a village scribe), whereas all other documents that we have so far and that concern privileged people could be copies that were ordered and kept in private family archives to prove the privileged status whenever needed. And he concludes: “Perhaps we should consider the possibility that the birth returns might be widely extended. By this I mean that this procedure would be compulsory in some circumstances, perhaps some years before the new census (it is difficult to be more precise) … In this case they would be used both by privileged and common people.” 57 54.  A more detailed overview of the register is presented by K ruse , Der Königliche Schreiber (n. 36), 272-274. 55. See K ruse , Der Königliche Schreiber (n. 36), 276-279. 56. Cf. K ruse , Der Königliche Schreiber (n. 36), 276: “Darüberhinaus ist für unseren Zusammenhang festzuhalten, dass – zumindest für die Zeit, in der Herakleides seine Akten zusammenstellte – auf der Ebene der Gauverwaltung der βασιλικὸς γραμματεύς offenbar der allein zuständige Beamte für die Registrierung solcher seitens der untergeordneten Verwaltungsbehörden übersandter Akten war und damit die maßgebliche administrative Instanz des νομός, bei der die fiskalisch relevanten Informationen über die Gaubevölkerung zusammenliefen.” 57.  Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36), 126; cf. p. 129: “Perhaps we have a document that in the villages might be more widespread than we thought, and of which, due to the hazard of archaeological discovery, we did not have any example: common people did not have any reason to keep a copy of their birth returns because they did not need them in any procedure to claim a privilege. That is why the only birth return filed by Egyptians is

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Table 2: Birth Returns of Greco-Egyptians from Oxyrhynchos [] = reconstructed h. = house m. = month(s) n.p. = not preserved y. = years Document

Origin

Recipient

Declarant

Gender

Age

P.Oxy. 38.2858

Oxyrhynchos 171

Year

scribe of polis

parents and owner of h.

male

4

P.Bingen 105

Oxyrhynchos 201-202

scribe of polis

owner of h. = father

male

3

P.Oxy. 10.1267

Oxyrhynchos 209

ἀμφοδογραμ­μ ατεύς

owner of h. = father

male

3 y., 5 m.

P.Oxy. 12.1552 with BL 8, p. 247

Oxyrhynchos 214-215

ἀμφοδογραμ­μ ατεύς

owners of h. male

1

P.Col. 8.231

Oxyrhynchos 249-261

phylarch

owners of h. n.p.

n.p.

PSI 12.1257

Oxyrhynchos 249-250

phylarch

owners of h. male male

6 2

P.Oxy. 74.4993

Oxyrhynchos 253-254? phylarch

n.p.

male

n.p.

P.Oxy. 74.4994

Oxyrhynchos 254

phylarch

owner of h. = father/ parents

male

2

P.Oxy. 74.4995

Oxyrhynchos 254

phylarch

[owner of h.] = father

male

13

P.Köln 2.87 with BL 7, p. 73

Oxyrhynchos 271

phylarchs

[owner of h.] = father

male

n.p.

P.Ups.Frid 6

Oxyrhynchos 273

n.p.

owner of h. = father/ parents

male

13

P.Oxy. 46.3295

Oxyrhynchos 285

phylarchs

father

male

11

PSI 3.164 with BL 1, p. 391 and 8, p. 393

Oxyrhynchos 287

systates

uncle

male

n.p.

Oxyrhynchos 291 P.Corn. 18 (cf. BL 2.2, p. 49 and 8, p. 90)

systates

father

male male female female

13 5 15 7

the only one that might be in the public archives or perhaps had same connection with them. Indirectly, those who belonged to the privileged status might have some interest in keeping a copy for future procedures to verify that status; and those are the cases we have preserved.”

353

CENSUS DECLAR ATIONS, BIRTH RETURNS

Document

Origin

Recipient

Declarant

Gender

Age

P.Oxy. 38.2855

Oxyrhynchos 291

Year

λαογράφος

friend

male

13

P.Oxy. 43.3136

Oxyrhynchos 292

n.p.

father

female

17

P.Oxy. 44.3183

Oxyrhynchos 292

systates

father

male male

8 7

P.Oxy. 74.4999

Oxyrhynchos 292

λαογράφος

friend

male

12

P.Oxy. 43.3137

Oxyrhynchos 295

systates

father

male male

n.p. n.p.

P.FuadUniv. 13 with BL 3, p. 61 and 4, p. 32

Oxyrhynchos 297-298

systates

father

male

n.p.

P.Oxy. 65.4489

Oxyrhynchos 297

systates

mother

male

13

P.Oxy. 64.3754

Oxyrhynchos 320

logistes

grandfather

male

n.p.

The particular form of the Oxyrhynchos documents is an “application to register a child” (“Registrierungsgesuch”). 58 The earliest example is from August 23, 171 ce (P.Oxy. 38.2858); it is submitted by the parents of the child and by the female owner of the house in which the family lives. Within the next 100 years following this document, all applications are submitted by the owner(s) of the house in which the child had been born. In several cases, the owner was identical with the father; in two cases the owners can be identified with both parents. 59 By the end of III ce this feature is not strictly followed anymore; it seems that the applications have to be submitted by a man who is either the father or in some way responsible, be it the grandfather, an uncle, or a friend. In one case (P.Oxy. 65.4489 [August 5, 297]) the application is submitted by the child’s mother. Two applications are submitted (also) for daughters (P.Corn. 18; July 24, 291 ce] concerning two sons and two daughters; P.Oxy. 43.3136 [June 21, 292 ce] for one daughter). Up to mid III ce the child is between 1 and 6 years old at the time of the application’s submission, later on, starting with 254 ce , the given age increases to 5-17 years. The early documents are addressed to the scribe of the polis (γραμματεὺς πόλεως) or of a quarter (ἀμφοδογραμματεύς), during the second half of III ce the applications are submitted to a phylarch or the phylarchy, in late III ce to the systates or λαογράφος. The latest document is submitted to a logistes. During the fourteen-years cycle of the census declarations, the applications are more or less clearly related to the census system. 60 That the 58.  Cf. B. Frid in his edition of P.Ups.Frid. 6; A. Jördens in her edition of P.Bingen 105. 59.  In the case of P.Ups.Frid 6 the parents are divorced. 60. Cf. Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36) 104108.

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P. ARZT-GR ABNER

documents do not vanish after the disappearance of the fourteen-years cycle seems to confirm that the people who filed the documents continued to get their privileges 61 registered for their children by submitting those applications. Maybe it is no coincidence that the applications for girls in Oxyrhynchos “appear precisely at this moment, i.e., after the end of the fourteen-years cycle.” 62 I present the complete text and translation of the earliest document from Oxyrhynchos – P.Oxy. 38.2858 (August 23, 171 ce): 5 10 15 20 25 30

Θέωνι γρ(αμματεῖ) πόλ(εως) παρὰ Πετεσούχου Χαιρήμονος τοῦ Πε[τε]σ̣ ούχου μητρὸς Ταυσίριος καὶ τ̣ῆ̣ ς̣ γ̣ υναικ̣ [ὸς] Βέρειτος τῆς καὶ Δημητρίας Ἀπολλωνίου τοῦ Θεοξένου μητρὸς Βέρ̣ειτ̣ [ος] ο̣[ὔ-] σης ὁμογνησίας ἀ̣ δ̣ ε̣λφῆς τοῦ ἀ̣ [ν]δ̣ ρ̣[ὸς Ἀ]π̣ ο̣[λ-] λωνίου μετὰ κυρίου τοῦ ὁμογνησίου ἀδελ(φοῦ) Ἀγήνορος τοῦ καὶ Θεοξένου καὶ παρὰ Ταύριος Πα̣υ̣σιρίωνος τοῦ Δημᾶτο̣ς μητρὸς Τααρμιύσιος μ̣ ε̣τὰ κυρίου τοῦ πατρὸς Παυσιρίωνος Δ̣ η̣ μ̣ ᾶτος μητρὸς Ε̣ ρ̣    ̣  ̣  ̣  ̣ος πάντων ἀπʼ Ὀξυρύγχων πόλεως̣. βουλόμεθα ἀπὸ τοῦ νῦν ἀναγραφῆναι ἐπὶ τοῦ ὑπάρχοντος τῇ Ταύρει ἐπʼ ἀμφόδου Μητρῴου πρότερον Διογένους Διογένους τοῦ Ἰσχυρίω(νος) τρίτου μέρους οἰκίας τὸν τοῦ Πετεσούχου καὶ τῆς Βέρειτος υἱὸν Θέωνα ὄντα εἰς τὸ ἐνεστὸς ια (ἔτος) ἐτῶν τεσσάρω(ν) (δωδεκάδραχμον) ἀπὸ γυμνασίου. διὸ ἐπιδίδομεν τὸ ὑπόμνημα ὡς καθήκει. (ἔτους) ια Αὐτοκράτορος Καίσαρος Μάρκου Αὐρηλίου Ἀντωνίνου Σεβαστοῦ Ἀρμενιακοῦ Μηδικοῦ Παρθικοῦ Μεγίστου, Μεσορὴ λ (hand 2) Πετσοῦχος Χαιρήμωνος ἐπιδέδωκα τὴν ἀπογραφὴν τοῦ υἱοῦ μου Θέωνος ὡς πρόκειται. (hand 3) Βέρις ἡ καὶ Δημητρία Ἀ̣ π̣ ο̣ λ̣ λωνίου συνεπιδέδωκ̣ α τὴν ἀπογραφὴν τοῦ υἱοῦ μου Θέωνος ὡς πρόκειται. Ἀγήνωρ ὁ καὶ Θεώξενος ἐπιγέγραμμαι τῆς ὁμογνησίας μου ἀδελφῆς κύριος καὶ ἔγραψα ὑπὲρ αὐτῆς

61.  On the privileged classes from Oxyrhynchos see Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36) 106-109. 62.  Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36) 109.

CENSUS DECLAR ATIONS, BIRTH RETURNS

35 40

355

μὴ εἰδυίης γράμματα. (hand 4) Ταῦρι̣ς̣ Παυσιρίωνος συνεπι̣δέδωκα. Παυσιρίων Δημᾶ[τ]ο̣ ς {ς} ἐπιγέγραμαι τῆς [θ]υγατρός μου κῦρις καὶ ἔγραψα ὑπὲρ αὐτῆς μὴ εἰδυίης γρ̣ά̣ [μματ]α.

Apparatus 38. l. ἐπιγέγραμαι 39. l. κύριος 41. l. εἰδυίας “To Theon, scribe of the polis from Petesuchos, son of Chairemon the son of Petesuchos, his mother being Tausiris, and from his wife Bereis aka Demetria, daughter of Apollonios the son of Theoxenos, her mother being Bereis who is the blood sister of her man Apollonios, with her blood brother Agenor aka Theoxenos as her guardian, and from Tauris, daughter of Pausirion the son of Demas, her mother being Taarmiysis, with her father Pausirion, son of Demas, his mother being Er-, all from the city of Oxyrhynchos. We wish that from now on Theon, son of Petesuchos and Bereis, should be registered at the one third part of a house which belongs to Tauris in the Metroos quarter, formerly to Diogenes, son of Diogenes the son of Ischyrion; in the present eleventh year he (i.e. Theon) is four years old, subject to the twelve drachma tax and member of the gymnasium. Therefore we hand in the memorandum as is fitting. In the eleventh year of Imperator Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus Armenicus Medicus Parthicus Maximus, Mesore 30. (Hand 2) Petsuchos, son of Chairemon, I have handed in the declaration for my son Theon as prescribed. (Hand 3) Beris aka Demetria, daughter of Apollonios, I have handed in the declaration for my son Theon together as prescribed. Agenor aka Theoxenos, I  am registered as my blood sister’s guardian and have written for her as she is illiterate. (Hand 4) Tauris, daughter of Pausirion, I have handed in together. Pausirion, son of Demas, I am registered as my daughter’s guardian and have written for her as she is illiterate.”

This document is handed in by the child’s parents together with the owner of their accomodation. The parents are mentioned before the owner at the head of the document, and they sign before the owner at the bottom, whereas in later documents that were written before 285 ce father or parents only function as applicants when they are owners of the house or of the respective part of a house at the same time. It is not impossible that earlier birth returns from Oxyrhynchos were submitted by the father or by both parents, like in the Arsinoite nome, and that P.Oxy. 38.2858 was written at a time when it had already become important to have a child registered at a particular place within the city for which the personal confirmation of the owner of that accomodation was compulsory. Unfortunately, we do not have birth returns from Oxyrhynchos from I or early II ce . But maybe it is important to observe that the owner’s personal confirmation is part of the birth returns only up to some time before 285 ce .

356

P. ARZT-GR ABNER

Table 3: Birth Returns of Greco-Egyptians from Antinoopolis d. = day(s) m. = month(s) y. = year(s) Document

Origin

Recipient

Declarant Gender

Age

P.Fam.Tebt. 30 with BL 8, p. 198

Antinoopolis 133

Year

βουλή

father

male male

7 y. 1 y.

P.Fam.Tebt. 33 (cf. P.Fam.Tebt. 34)

Antinoopolis 151

nomarch

father

male

20 d.

SB 12.11103

Antinoopolis 155

βουλή

father

male

10 m. and 10 d.

SB 16.12742 Antinoopolis 157 (cf. SB 16.12743)

nomarch

parents

male

25 d.

?

P.Diog. 2

Antinoopolis 197+

father

male

6 m.

P.Stras. 7.634 with BL 8, p. 427

Antinoopolis 206-211 βουλή

parents

male

5 y.

P.Ant. 1.37 with BL 3, p. 6, 4, p. 2 and 8, p. 9

Antinoopolis 208-209 ?

parents

male

11 m.? and 29 d.

P.Diog. 3

Antinoopolis 209

certificate by scribe of βουλή

father

male

1 y.

P.Diog. 4

Antinoopolis 212-217

certificate by βου­ λ̣ ευτὴς βι̣β̣ λιοφύλαξ π̣ όλεως

father

male

1 y.

P.Vind.Bosw. 2 with BL 3, p. 101, 6, p. 66 and 7, p. 93

Antinoopolis 247-248 ?

parents

male

25 d.

Birth returns from Antinoopolis are thus far preserved from II ce and the first half of III ce , the earliest was written on May 5, 133 ce (P.Fam. Tebt. 30 with BL 8, p. 198), i.e., soon after Hadrian had founded the city at an older Egyptian village in commemoration of his deified beloved Antinous. All documents follow a unique pattern that is related to the so-called fundationes alimentariae, special alimenta programs that had been installed also by Hadrian. P.Fam.Tebt. 33 and SB 16.12742 mention this fund for the maintenance of children as proclaimed by the praefectus Aegypti Petronius Mamertinus, that, to receive the benefits, it was obligatory to enrol a child within 30 days after birth, to prove the citizenship of the parents, and to present an ἀπαρχή (that is how the declaration was called) to the βουλή of the city. The declaration had to be con-

CENSUS DECLAR ATIONS, BIRTH RETURNS

357

firmed by three witnesses. All preserved birth returns from Antinoopolis concern sons. It seems that the procedure consisted of two steps: 1. submission of an application for enrolment by the father or both parents, and 2. issue of a certificate containing the core of the application (in the form of ), confirmed a few days later and signed by the responsible official. In two cases, both documents are preserved: P.Fam.Tebt. 33, written on February 9, 151 ce , is the application for enrolment of the 20 days old son Heracleides aka Valerius, and P.Fam.Tebt. 34 is the certificate, issued on February 24 of the same year, i.e. fifteen days later; SB 16.12742, written on September 28, 157 ce , is the application for enrolment of the 25 days old son Philantinoos aka Isidoros, and 12743 is the certificate, issued on October 27 of the same year, i.e. almost a month later. Of the other documents, P.Stras. 7.634 (with BL 8, p. 427), P.Ant. 1.37 (with BL 3, p. 6, 4, p. 2 and 8, p. 9), and P.Vind. Bosw. 2 (with BL 3, p. 101, 6, p. 66 and 7, p. 93) 63 seem to be applications, whereas P.Fam.Tebt. 30 (with BL 8, p. 198), SB 12.11103 and P.Diog. 2-4 are obviously certificates. If we look at the list of documents, we learn that the condition to submit an application within 30 days after the child’s birth was not complied often. Recently, Carlos Sánchez-Moreno Ellart has analysed O.Brux. 14 (Thebes, 38-39 or 42-43 ce) in relation to Greco-Egyptian birth returns.  6 4 Obviously, this ostracon preserved a formulary for scribes in Thebes to write a specific type of document in copying the text and filling in the personal names. The text reads as follows: 65 5

Σαραπίωνι βασιλ(ικῷ) γρα(μματεῖ) Κοπ(τίτου) καὶ Περὶ Θ(ήβας) παρὰ ὁ δῆν(α) τοῦ δῆ(ος) ⟦α    ̣    ̣    ̣⟧ τῶν ἀπὸ Δ(ιοσπόλεως) τῆς μεγάλη(ς). ἀπογρά(φομαι) εἰς τὸ γ (ἔτος) τοὺς γεγενημένους μου παῖδα(ς) μετὰ τὴν ἐπίκρισιν τοῦ κ (ἔτους), ὧν ὁ δῆ(να) τοῦ δῆ(ος) ὡς (ἐτῶν)· Σποδῆς κομογρα(μματεύς). Apparatus 2. l. παρὰ τοῦ δεῖν(ος) τοῦ δεῖνος 6. l. ὁ δεῖ(να) τοῦ δεῖ(ος) 7. l. κωμογρα(μ­μ ατεύς)

63.  It has been doubted that P.Vind.Bosw. 2 is an ἀπαρχή (see A.  Jördens in P. Bingen, 391). 64. See Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36) 126127. 65. According to Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n. 36) 126.

358

P. ARZT-GR ABNER

“To Sarapion, the basilikos grammateus (royal scribe) of Kopites and Peri Thebas, from N. N., son of N. N. … of those from the great city Diospolis. I register for the third year my children 66 who have been born after the epicrisis of the twentieth year, of whom N. N., son of N. N., about … years of age. Spodes, village scribe.”

Sánchez-Moreno Ellart argues – following Thomas Kruse 67 – that this ostracon served as “a formulary probably drawn up with the aim of showing the way to declare a birth”, 68 and that μετὰ τὴν ἐπίκρισιν in line 5 refers to the house-to-house census and “possibly alludes to the census of ad 33/34.” 69 Indeed, a reference to a previous κατ’ οἰκίαν ἀπογραφή with a μετά clause can be found in two birth returns from the Arsinoite nome: BGU 1.111, col. II 12-14 (Ptolemais Euergetis/Arsinoites, after October 1, 138 ce): ἀπογραφόμεθα [τ]οὺς γεννηθ(έντας) ἡμεῖν  | με[τ] ὰ τὴν τοῦ ιϛ (ἔτους) θεοῦ Ἁδ[ρι]ανοῦ  | κατʼ οἰκ(ίαν) [ἀπο]γραφὴν ἐξ ἀλλήλ(ων) υἱούς; P.Gen. 4.162,9-12 (Ptolemais Euergetis/Arsinoites, 138143 ce): ἀπογρα̣ [φόμεθα τὸν γεγονότα]  | ἡμεῖν ἐξ ἀλλήλων μ̣ ε̣[τὰ τὴν τοῦ ιϛ ἔτους]  | θεοῦ Ἁδριανοῦ κατ᾿ οἰκ̣ ί̣[αν ἀπογραφὴν υἱὸν]  | Ἀχιλλᾶν γεννηθέν[τα τῷ   ̣    ̣ ἔτει]. So far, we do not have any preserved birth returns following this formulary, but we do not have any birth returns from Upper Egypt either. Presumably, we have here an evidence for an early birth return from Upper Egypt, even earlier than the earliest reference from the Arsinoite nome so far (P.Tebt. 2.299 with BL 11, p. 278 [Tebtynis, after 49-50 ce]), and in a form similar to that of the Arsinoites. As it is addressed to the royal scribe, a similar administrational procedure as in P.Petaus 2 (see above) seems to have been usual also in other nomes besides the Arsinoites and, presumably, from the earliest birth returns onwards. As a summary, Sánchez-Moreno Ellart writes: “this document makes one contribution to our knowledge, that the practice might have been more widespread than we can deduce from the documents filed by privileged people in the capitals of the nomes.” 70 Together with P.Petaus 66.  The male form τοὺς γεγενημένους μου παῖδα(ς) probably refers only to sons, but as this document is a formulary, i.e. a genre that uses male forms throughout (cf. again P.Turner 22 with BL 12, p. 284, a slave sale contract where we find male forms although they refer to a slave girl; see above n. 19), a male form can refer to anyone. 67. See K ruse , Der Königliche Schreiber (n. 36), 174. 68.  Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36) 126. – Former editors of this ostracon suggested that it could represent a formulary for an epicrisis declaration as the term is literally mentioned in line 5, but the formulary is not about registering boys for the epicrisis but to register them in a time which is after the epicrisis of the twentieth year (i.e., of year 33-34 ce). 69.  Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36), 127. 70.  Sánchez-Moreno Ellart, “Ὑπομνήματα ἐπιγεννήσεως” (n.  36), 127; cf.  K ruse , Der Königliche Schreiber (n. 36), 174: “Dass bisher keine weiteren an den

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1-2, we have two references that hint in the direction of a widespread, and compulsory practice of submitting birth returns. What the birth returns from all nomes, cities, and villages obviously have in common is the fact that people clearly tended to submit them at a later time, and not very soon after the birth of a child. Even the applications from Antinoopolis show this tendency. Obviously due to high infant mortality, an earlier submission was not at all advisable. 3. D ocu m e n ts

of

M a r r i ag e

Marriage, in general, and before the time of the Roman emperor Diocletian, was a private matter and not regulated by any public, administrational, or religious authority. But nevertheless, the arrangements concerning a marriage could be defined in a written document. As far as we learn from papyrus documents, there was no fixed form of marriage contract, and a marriage contract was not the only type of document that could be filed on that occasion. Uri Yiftach-Firanko, in his historical and legal study of Marriage and Marital Arrangements, 71 distinguishes between Ekdosis Documents (widely used in Greco-Roman societies, containing a clause recording the “giving away” of one’s daughter for the purpose of marriage), 72 Marriage Sunchoreseis (from Augustan Alexandria, filed by bridegroom and bride who declare “to have come together”), Dowry Receipts, Loan Contracts (from Oxyrhynchos), Paratheke Documents (deeds of deposit listing objects “deposited” on the occasion of marriage), Dowry Inventories, several unique documents, and unclear cases. 73 And, Königlichen Schreiber adressierten Geburtsanzeigen bekannt geworden sind, ist wohl lediglich auf den Zufall der Überlieferung zurückzuführen, denn offenbar war es auch in anderen Gauen üblich, solche Anzeigen an den βασιλικὸς γραμματεύς zu richten”. 71. U. Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements: A History of the Greek Marriage Document in Egypt. 4th century bce-4th century ce (Münchener Beiträge zur Papyrusforschung und antiken Rechtsgeschichte 93; München, 2003). 72.  On the formulaic features see table 1 in Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71), 271-272. 73.  Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71), 14-20. – On marriage and marriage documents in the papyri see – in addition to YiftachFiranko – especially O. Montevecchi, “Ricerche di sociologia nei documenti dell’ Egitto greco-romano, II. I contratti di matrimonio e gli atti di divorzio,” Aegyptus 16 (1936) 3-83; I. A rnaoutoglou, “Marital Disputes in Greco-Roman Egypt,” Journal of Juristic Papyrology 25 (1995) 11-28; D. I nstone-Brewer , Marriage & Divorce Papyri of the Ancient Greek, Roman and Jewish World: A Collection of Papyri from 4th C bce to 4th C ce (2000; published online: http://www.tyndalearchive.com/ Brewer/MarriagePapyri/Index.html, January 15, 2016); R. E. K ritzer in P. A rztGrabner et al., ed., 1. Korinther (Papyrologische Kommentare zum Neuen Testa-

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in addition to these various documents dealing with marriage, we find a broad variety of clauses and arrangements within one and the same document type. 74 What they all have in common is – as Hans Julius Wolff 75 and Uri Yiftach-Firanko have observed – “that marriage documents were composed not for recording the formation of marriage, but rather for documenting property arrangements connected with marriage, whenever, in the course of joint life, these arrangements became sufficiently important to be committed to writing.” 76 The core of all marriage documents is formed by arrangements concerning the dowry, the parapherna (consisting of the woman’s personal chattels), and the prosphora (consisting of land and slaves). 77 It is therefore understandable that many couples did not file a document at all. If there was no property worth or necessary to meet arrangements, there was no reason for a written contract. In general, marriages without a written document (ἄγραφος γάμος) share the same value or status with marriages with a written contract (ἔγγραφος γάμος). 78 Sometimes the contracts were filed in a notary’s office, 79 and they were registered in the record office or grapheion, where they were also stamped in order to attach complete legal validity. 80 The private and freely regulated status of ancient marriages, very much different from marriages in modern societies, has to be kept in mind also when interpreting New Testament texts about marriage or divorce.

ment 2 Göttingen, 2006) 247-253. – The most complete list of marriage documents has been compiled by Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements, 9-13. – On Latin marriage documents see, e.g., M. L eiwo -H.  H alla-A ho, “A Marriage Contract: Aspects of Latin-Greek Language Contact (P. Mich. VII 434 and P. Ryl. IV 612 = ChLA IV 249),” Mnemosyne 55 (2002) 560-580. 74.  See below the different arrangements in case of divorce. 75.  H. J. Wolff, Written and Unwritten Marriages in Hellenistic and Postclassical Roman Law (Lancaster, 1939). 76.  Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71),104 (see the full discussion, 81-104). 77.  On the papyrological evidence of the dotal system in the Roman period see Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71) 129-182 (and tables 3-11 on 276-311). 78.  This did not keep individuals from debating occasionally a different status, cf. SPP 20.4 (= CPR 1.18 with BL 1, p. 113; Ptolemais Euergetis?/Arsinoites, April 13, 124 ce) and P.Oxy. 2.237 (with BL 1, p. 317-319, 6, p. 96 and 8, p. 233-234; Oxyrhynchos, after June 27, 186 ce), and the commentary to these two documents by Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71) 84-91. 79. Cf. H. J. Wolff, Das Recht der griechischen Papyri Ägyptens in der Zeit der Ptolemäer und des Prinzipats, vol. 2: Organisation und Kontrolle des privaten Rechtsverkehrs (Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft 10/5/2; München, 1978) 136-137 n. 2, and 177-178. 80.  Such a stamp is preserved, e.g., on P.Dime 3.39 (cf. K. Vandorpe in P.Dime 3, 437).

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With the contract P.Ryl. 2.154 (with BL 3, p. 160; Bakchias/Arsinoites, October 19, 66 ce) a certain Chairemon, son of Apollonios, 34 years old, agrees to Sisois, son of Peteesis, 71 years old, to receive from him for his daughter Taisarion the dowry that is described in every detail. As soon as Taisarion is mentioned for the first time at the beginning of the contract and called Sisois’ daughter, she is also described as προούση[ι] κ̣ [αὶ] συνούσηι τοῦ Χα[ιρήμονος] γ̣ υ̣ ν̣ α̣ ι̣κ̣ ί (line 4: “being already before and being together with him as Chairemon’s wife”). We clearly see that Chairemon and Taisarion were already living together as husband and wife in a marriage without a contract (ἄγραφος γάμος), and that only now a contract is filed between Taisarion’s husband and her father on the occasion of Sisois handing over the dowry which, obviously, had not been handed over when the couple began to live together, thus starting their marriage. 81 In the draft (or copy) of a contract from Oxyrhynchos (P.Oxy. 49.3491 with BL 10, p. 154), drawn up in 157-158 ce , the parents of a certain Chairemonis declare that they have given their daughter to Dionysapollodoros as wedded wife, and that they have been living together for nine years according to a cheirographon 82 which is now cancelled as they are contenting themselves with the new public contract. We also learn that the couple has already (at least) four children. The major part of the contract deals with the dowry, and – in addition – with matters of inheritance. 83 As far as the general issues are concerned, this contract may serve 81.  Contracts like this one, that transform an ἄγραφος γάμος into an ἔγγραφος γάμος, are often filed between husband and wife, see PSI 1.36a (with BL 1, p. 390, 6, p. 172 and 12, p. 248; Oxyrhynchos or Arsinoites, October 29-November 27, 11 ce , or October 28-November 26, 12 or 13 ce); BGU 1.183 (with BL 1, p. 24-25, 5, p. 10, 7, p. 10, 8, p. 20 and 12, p. 11; Soknopaiu Nesos/Arsinoites, April 26, 85 ce); P.Oxy. 2.265 (with BL 1, p. 319, 2.2, p. 94, 6, p. 96 and 9, p. 179; Oxyrhynchos, 81-96 ce); BGU 1.252 (Ptolemais Euergetis/Arsinoites, December 24, 98 ce); 232 (Arsinoites, October 28-November 26, 108 ce): this contract explicitly states that the wife “has been before and is together with him as his wife according to the laws” (lines 3-4: τῇ προούσῃ κ[αὶ συν]ούσῃ αὑτῷ κατὰ | νόμους γυναικεί). 82. The cheirographon (which literally means “handwritten contract”) is the most used contract in private law; on this type of contract see especially Wolff, Organisation und Kontrolle des privaten Rechtsverkehrs (n. 79) 106-114; M.  A melotti-L.  M igliardi Zingale , “Συγγραφή, χειρόγραφον – testatio, chirographum: Osservazioni in tema di tipologie documentali,” in G.  Nenci-G.  Thür , eds, Symposion 1988: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Siena-Pisa, 6.-8. Juni 1988) – Comunicazioni sul diritto greco ed ellenistico (SienaPisa, 6-8 Giunio 1988) (Köln-Wien, 1990) 297-304; cf. also Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East (n. 28) 281. 83.  What is preserved of this contract is a large fragment (fr. 1) with 24 lines, and three other fragments with several fragmentary lines each; fr. 4 (with small parts of six lines) shows part of the lower edge with a blank margin and a short last line which appears to be the end of the text (cf. Adam Bülow-Jacobsen in P.Oxy. 49, p. 191). How many lines are lost between fr. 1 and fr. 4 remains uncertain, but

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as a typical example. I present fr. 1 and fr. 4 of the Greek text, and a translation of lines 1-20 (based on the editor’s translation): ἐξέδοντο Ἡρ̣α̣ κ̣ λ̣ ε̣[ί]δ(ης) Σ̣ ε̣ῶτ(ος) τοῦ Ἡρακλεί(δου) μητ(ρὸς) Ταοννώφριο(ς) καὶ ἡ γ(υνὴ) Διονυσία Ἁρποκρατίω(νος) τοῦ Ἡρακλείδ(ου) μητ(ρὸς) Μασσαλείνης ἀμφότ(εροι) ἀπ’ Ὀξ(υρύγχων) πόλ(εως), [ἡ Διον(υσία) μετὰ κυρίου το]ῦ̣ ἀνδ(ρὸς) Ἡρακλείδ(ου), τὴν ἀμφοτ(έρων) θυγ(ατέρα) Χαι̣ρ̣η̣ [μο]ν̣ [ί]δ̣ (α) Διονυσαπολλοδώρῳ Διονυσίου τοῦ καὶ Χρησίμ(ου) Διονυσίου ἀπὸ τ(ῆς) α(ὐτῆς) πόλ̣ (εως) [μητ(ρὸς) 10-15 letters Ἀπο]λλωνίου τοῦ Ἱέρακ(ος) ἀστ(ῆς) ᾧ προσύνεστιν κατὰ 〚χρηματις〛 χειρόγραφον συνγραφὴν γεγονυῖαν τῷ ιβ (ἔτει) Ἀντωνίνου̣ [Καίσαρος τοῦ κυρίου ἣν] ἀνέδοσαν ἀλλήλ(οις) εἰς ἀκύρωσιν ἀρκούμενου τῇδε τῇ διὰ δημοσίου συνγραφῇ ἐν ἀγυιᾷ [–] 5   γ(υναῖκα) γαμετήν, ἐφ’ ᾗ ἔσχ[εν –] ὁ γαμῶν ἅμα τῇ συνελε(ύσει) παρὰ μὲν τοῦ πατ(ρὸς) Ἡρακλείδ(ου) ἐν φερνῇ ἀργ(υρίου) (τάλαντον) α καὶ χεροψέλλιο(ν) καὶ ̣ ̣ ̣ φ̣ [ ̣ ̣ ̣] ἀμφότ(ερα) χρ(υσοῦ) σταθμῷ Ὀξ(υρυγχίτῃ) μναιαίων β ἐν συντειμήσει (δραχμῶν) χ `καὶ ἱμάτια ἐν συντειμ(ήσει) (δραχμῶν) τ´, γείνονται ἐπὶ τὸ α(ὐτὸ) τῆς φε(ρνῆς) (τάλαντον) α καὶ (δραχμαὶ) 〚ω〛 ϡ κεφα(λαίου), αἷς οὐδὲν προσῆκται, παρὰ δὲ τῆς μ[ητρὸς] Διον(υσίας) ἐν παρα̣φ̣ έ̣ ρ̣νοις ἐνωτίων χρ(υσῶν) ζε(ῦγος) (τετάρτης) α , κ̣ α̣ ὶ̣ π̣ άλλιον χρωμάτ(ινον), κασσιτέρου ἐνεργ(οῦ) ὁλκ(ῆς) μνᾶς ιε, ζῴδιον Ἀφροδ(ίτης), στάμνον, κάτοπτρον δίπτυχ(ον) κασ̣ ιω[τικόν,] διφρ[ca. 20 letters] ̣[ ̣ ̣] μ̣ υ̣ ρ̣ο̣θήκ(ην) ξυλίνη̣ [ν ca. 10 letters] ̣ ̣ μ̣ () δίφρο〚ν〛`υς´ γυναικείους ̣[ ̣ ̣] ̣ ̣ ̣αρτ() δὲ τὰ γενόμ(ενα) τοῖς γαμο(ῦσιν) ἐξ ἀ̣ λ̣ λ̣ή̣ (λων) τέκνα Ἀθην ̣[–] [ ̣ ̣] καὶ Διον() κ̣ α̣ ὶ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ [ ̣] κ̣ α̣ ὶ̣ Η ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ (vac.) οἱ δ’ α(ὐτοὶ) τῆς γαμο(υμένης) γονεῖς Ἡρακλείδ(ης) καὶ Διον(υσία) [ ̣ ̣] προσμερίζει μετὰ τὴν ἑα(υτῶν) τελευτὴν τῇ θυγ(ατρὶ) Χαιρημονίδι, 10   ἐὰν ζ̣ῇ̣ , ε̣ἰ̣ δὲ μὴ, τοῖς οὖσι καὶ ἐπεσομ(ένοις) α(ὐτῇ) ἐκ̣ τοῦ γαμοῦ   ντ(ος) τέκνοις, ὁ μὲν πατὴρ Ἡρακλ̣ (είδης) (vac.) τὰς ὑπαρχο(ύσας)   α(ὐτῷ) πε̣ρὶ μὲν Σ̣ ε̣νεψα`ὺ´ ἐκ τοῦ Διονυσοδώρου [ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣] ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣] ̣ ̣[ ̣] ̣[ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ Ν]ε̣τρὼ ἐκ τοῦ Φίλωνος κλή(ρου) (ἄρουραν) α (ἥμισυ), καὶ ἐκ τοῦ Βακχυλ() καὶ Κ[α]ράβου (ἀρούρης) (ἥμισυ) (τὲταρτον) (ὄγδοον), [ἡ δὲ] μήτ(ηρ) Διον(υσία) τὴν ὑπάρχο(υσαν) αὐτῇ ἐν κ[ ̣ ̣ ̣]

out of the 30 lines, represented by fr. 1 and fr. 4, 23 are dealing with the dowry and matters of inheritance. – An image of this contract is accessible online at http://163.1.169.40/cgi-bin/library?a = q&r = 1&hs = 1&e = p-000-000-0POxy00-00-0-0prompt-10-4-0-1l-1-en-50-20-about-00031-001-001-0utfZz-8-00&h  = ded&t = 1&q = 3491 (January 15, 2016).

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[ca. 35-40 letters] ἕξει δὲ ὁ γαμ(ῶν) ἐφ’ ὅσον σύνεστ(ιν) τῇ γαμο(υμένῃ), ὡς καὶ προέσχ(ε), εἰ̣[ς] τὴν κοινὴν βιοτείαν καὶ ἀπὸ τοῦ ἐνεστ(ῶτος) κα (ἔτους) τὴν κ̣ [ ̣ ̣] [ca. 35-40 letters] ̣() τῇ γαμουμ(ένῃ) ὑπὸ τοῦ πατ(ρὸς) (ἀρουρῶν) ε (ὀγδόου), καὶ `τὴν´ ἐνοίκ(ησιν) `καὶ ἐνοίκ(ια)´ τῆς μερισθ(είσης) αὐτῇ ὑπὸ τῆς μητ(ρὸς) οἰκίας καὶ αἰθρίου `καὶ τοὺς προσ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ () α(ὐτ) τόκ(ους) τοὺς ἐν ἀργ(υρίου) (δραχμαῖς) ̣ ̣´, οὐκ ἐξόντος τοῖς γαμο(ῦσιν) [οὐδὲ] ἃ ἐμέρισαν ὡς πρόκ[ειται ὑπ]ο̣τίθεσθ(αι) οὐδ’ ἑτέροις μερίζειν οὐδ’ ἄλλ(ως) κατα̣ [χρη]ματίζειν οὐδὲ ἀφαιρεῖσθ(αι) τὴν καρπε(ίαν) καὶ ἐνοίκη(σιν) καὶ ἐνοίκια. (vac.) 15   [ca. 30 letters] ̣ης συνγρ(αφῆς) τὰ ὑπάρχοντα α(ὐτ) ἐν μὲν Ὀξ(υρύγ   χων) πόλ(ει) ἐπ’ ἀμφόδ(ου) Λυκίων Παρεμβολ(ῆς) ` ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣´ οἰκίαν   καὶ αὐλ(ὴν) καὶ χρηστήρια, περὶ δὲ [ca. 30 letters] καὶ ἀμπελικὸν κτῆμα, ὅσων ἐὰν ἦν (ἀρουρῶν), καὶ τὰ τούτου ὑδρε(ύματα) καὶ χρηστήρια καὶ ἐποίκ(ιον) καὶ ἡλ̣ ιαστήριον, οὐκ ἐ[ξόντος ca. 20 letters κα]ταχρηματίζε̣ι̣ν̣ χωρὶς εὐδοκή(σεως) τῆς γαμο(υμένης). συνβ[ι]ούτωσαν ἀλλήλ(οις) ἀμέμπτως οἱ γαμοῦντ(ες) καὶ χορηγείτω ὁ γ[α]μ̣ (ῶν) [τῇ γαμουμ(ένῃ)] κ̣αὶ τοῖ̣ς̣ [ἐ]ξ̣ [ἀλλήλ(ων) τέκνοις τὰ δέο]ντα κατὰ δύναμ(ιν). ἐὰν δὲ διαζυγῶσιν ἀλλήλ(ων) οἱ γαμοῦντ(ες) οὐκ ὄντ(ων) αὐτοῖς ἐξ ἀλλήλ(ων) τέκ̣ν̣ω̣ ν̣ ἀ̣ π̣ ο̣δ̣ό̣[τ]ω̣ [ὁ] γ̣ α̣ μ(ῶν) τ̣ [ὰ] [μὲν παράφ]ερνα παραχρῆ(μα), οἷα ἐὰν ἦν, μηδεμιᾶς πρ[ὸ]ς αὐτὸν τρείψε(ως) μηδὲ ἀπο(υσίας) ἐνλογουμ(ένης), ἐπὶ δὲ τῶν ἐν αὐτοῖς ἱματίων [20 letters] 20  [ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣] (ταλαντ-) α 〚ενη̣ 〛 (δραχμ-) ϡ ἐν ἡμέραις ξ ε ̣[ ̣ ̣] ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣   ̣π̣ ε̣ρ̣ι̣ ̣ ̣ ̣[ ̣] ̣ ̣[ ̣ ̣ ̣] ̣σης (vac.) [–] [ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣] ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣[ ̣]ωσταθ() ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣[–] [ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣] γαμ() ̣ ̣ λ̣ () ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ [ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣] ̣[–] [τὰ παρ]άφερνα ὡς ἐπάνω δεδ[ήλωται –] [ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣] ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ γαμου ̣[–]   – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – Fr. 4   – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – 33  [–] ̣ [ ̣] ̣ ̣[–] [– π]α̣ ρ̣αλημψ ̣[–] 35  [–] ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣μ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣η̣ [–] [–] ̣ ̣ αυτη η̣ τὰ τέκνα δια ̣[–] [–] ̣ ἐὰν ἡ γαμο(υμένη) τὰ τέκν[α –] [–]ν̣ομ() αὐτῆς πάντα (vac.) [–] Apparatus 4. l. ἀρκούμενοι 5. l. χειροψέλλιο(ν) 6. l. συντιμήσει, συντιμ(ήσει) 9. l. προσμερίζουσι 19. l. τρίψε(ως)

364

P. ARZT-GR ABNER

“Heracleides, son of Seos the son of Heracleides, his mother being Taonnophris, and his wife Dionysia, daughter of Harpocration the son of Heracleides, her mother being Massalina, both from the city of the Oxyrhynchi, Dionysia having with her as guardian her husband Heracleides, have given their daughter by each other, Chairemonis, as wedded wife to Dionysapollodoros, son of Dionysios alias Chresimos the son of Dionysios, from the same city, his mother being …, an Alexandrian, daughter of Apollonios the son of Hierax, with whom she (i.e. Chairemonis) has been living previously in accordance with a cheirographon concluded in the twelfth year of Antoninus Caesar the lord, which contract they have given up to each other for cancellation contenting themselves with this public contract, executed in the street. With her the bridegroom has received at the time of their coming together, first, from the father Heracleides as dowry, 1 silver talent and an armlet and a …, both of gold, of 2 mnaeia by the Oxyrhynchite standard, valued at 600 drachmas, and clothing valued at 300 hundred drachmas, as principal, to which no addition has been made, and second, from the mother Dionysia as parapherna, a pair of golden ear-rings of 1 quarter of a mnaeion, a dyed cloak, 15 minas by weight of wrought tin, a statuette of Aphrodite, a jar, an inlaid(?) mirror of two leaves, chair(s?) …, a wooden unguent-box, …, … women’s chairs. … the children born to the couple by each other Athen – and Dion – and … and … And after their death the said parents of the bride, Heracleides and Dionysia, apportion to their daughter Chairemonis, if she is alive, if she is not, to her existing and future children by the groom, first, the father Heracleides, the (so many) aruras that belong to him at Senepsay of the allotment of Dionysodoros …, and at Netro of the allotment of Philon the 11/2 aruras, and of the allotment of Bacchyl() and Carabos 1/2 (+) 1/4 (+) 1/8 (= 7/8) of an arura, second, the mother Dionysia, the (house) which she owns in the village (?) of … The bridegroom shall have, as long as he lives with the bride, as he had before, for their common livelihood, also from the present twenty-first year, the use of the 51/8 aruras … (apportioned) to the bride by the father, and the right of occupation and the rent of the house apportioned to her by the mother, and of the light-well, and the … interest … to the amount of … silver drachmas, the couple having no power to mortgage or apportion to others or in any way dispose of the property which the parents have allotted in the aforesaid manner, or to appropriate the use or the right of occupation or the rent. (He/she/they also give[s] through the present?) contract the house and courtyard and appurtenances which belong to him/ her/them in the city of the Oxyrhynchi in the Lycians’ Camp quarter …, and at … and a vineyard, of however many aruras it may be, together with the water sources and appurtenances and farmstead and sunning-ground, the bridegroom having no power to … or dispose of (these) without the consent of the bride. The couple shall live together blamelessly, and the bridegroom shall supply to the bride and to their children by each other whatever is necessary according to his means. But if the couple should separate from each other and have no children by each other (surviving?),

CENSUS DECLAR ATIONS, BIRTH RETURNS

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the bridegroom shall restore the parapherna at once, in whatever condition they happen to be, without any liability accounted against him for wear or loss, and in the case of the clothing …, … the one talent and nine hundred drachmas in sixty days …”

Except the special type of the so-called συγχώρησις that was common in Augustan Alexandria and filed by bridegroom and bride who agree “to have come together”, 84 marriage contracts were usually filed by the bride’s parents (or the bride’s father, her mother, or her guardian) and the bridegroom as the bride’s parents had a major interest to make the arrangements concerning dowry etc. according to their will – even beyond their death. The bridegroom was the one to receive the dowry only for usufruct. After both parents’ death their daughter alone – or her children, if she was no longer alive – would inherit all the property; in this matter, the daughter’s husband is not even mentioned in P.Oxy. 49.3491 with BL 10, p. 154. Only two lines of this contract address moral issues, so-called terms of joint life: 85 that the couple should live together blamelessly, and that the husband should supply to his wife and to their children whatever is necessary according to his means. Other contracts included additional obligations of the husband, to whom it was prohibited to found a house different from the home which he was sharing with his wife, to have children from another wife, and to introduce another wife into the joint house. These prohibitions had two objectives: “protecting the family resources from embezzlement and guarding the exclusivity of the union.” 86 The wife, on the other hand, was not allowed to have sex with another man, to cause any shame to her husband, or to ruin the common home, which “probably means a ruin caused by lax moral conduct.” 87 The terms concerning the wife also established her “active participation in the management of the family estate throughout the marriage”, but also instructed her “to abide by, and show obedience to, her husband.” 88 The documents themselves show a broad variety of forms and a remarkable individuality in the selection of obligations to be included in a contract. 89

84.  Cf., e.g., BGU 4.1052, col. I with BL 1, p. 92 (April 15, 13 bce); 1050 with BL 1, p. 92 (12-11 bce); 1051 with BL 8, p. 39; 1099 with BL 7, p. 18 (both 30 bce14 ce). For more references see Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71), 16. 85. See Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71) 182-195. 86.  Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71) 190. 87.  Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71) 191. 88.  Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71) 191. 89.  A good evidence for this is given in table 12 of Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71) 312-317, covering every single contract.

366

P. ARZT-GR ABNER

Many marriage documents already address the case of a possible divorce. 90 P.Oxy. 49.3491 with BL 10, p. 154 has preserved the main clauses of an Oxyrhynchite variant. A variant that was common in the Arsinoite nome is preserved, e.g., in P.Ryl. 2.154 (Bakchias/Arsinoites, October 19, 66 ce), where we read in lines 24-30: ἐὰν δὲ διαφορᾶς αὐτοῖς γεναμένης  | [χ]ωρίζονται (r.  χωρίζωνται) ἀπʼ ἀλλήλων, ἤτοι τοῦ Χαιρήμονος ἀποπέμποντος τ[ὴ]ν Θαισάριον ἢ καὶ αὐτῆς ἑκουσίω[ς  | ἀ] παλλασσομέν[η]ς [ἀ]πʼ αὐτοῦ, ἔστω{ι} τοῦ τῆ[ς] Θα[ι]σαρ[ί]ου πατρὸς Σισόιτος, ἐὰ[ν] δ̣ ὲ̣ [ο]ὗτος μὴ περιῆι, αὐ[τῆς] Θ̣ [α]ισαρί[ου  | ὁ] σημαινόμενο[ς κλῆρ]ος τῶν ἀρουρῶν δ[έκα] ἡμίσους τετάρτου καθὼ[ς] πρόκειται· ἔτι δὲ καὶ προ[σα]πο|δώσιν αὐτῆι ὁ Χ[αιρ]ήμων καὶ τὴν προγ[εγρα]μμένην φερνὴν καὶ τὰ παράφερνα οἷα ἐὰν ἐκ τῆς τρί|ψεως ἐγβῆι (r. ἐκβῆι), ἐπ[ὶ μὲν] τῆς ἀποπομπῆς πα[ραχρῆ]μα, ἐπὶ δὲ {του}τῆς ἑκουσ[ίο]υ ἀπαλλαγῆς ἐν ἡμέρα[ι]ς τριά|[κο]ντα ἀ̣φ̣ʼ ἧς ἐὰ[ν ἀπαι]τηθῆι (“but if any difference arises between them and they separate the one from the other, either Chairemon divorcing Thaisarion or Thaisarion withdrawing of her own free will, then the before-mentioned holding of ten [and] a half [and] a quarter [= 103/4] aruras shall belong to Thaisarion’s father Sisois, or, if he be no longer living, to Thaisarion herself; and Chairemon shall also restore the dowry aforesaid and the parapherna as they emerge from wear and tear, in the case of divorce at once, and in the case of voluntary withdrawal within thirty days from the day on which he is demanded to do so”). We find different forms in different nomes, and several times the scribes who draw up the contracts seem to use variants by themselves. Even if we look at the regulations about when and how the dowry and the parapherna have to be handed back in case of divorce or in case of the wife’s voluntary withdrawal, we find different time frames not only between nomes but also within the borders of the same nome or a single village as can be shown in the following tables. 91 Table 4: Divorce Arrangements in Greek Marriage Contracts from the Arsinoites, I-III ce I Time frame to hand back the dowry in case of the husband’s sending away his wife. II Time frame to hand back the dowry in case of voluntary withdrawal by wife (if distinguished from I). The time frames are referring to dowry and parapherna (if they are mentioned) together, except SPP XX 15. 90.  On the papyrological evidence for the Roman period see especially YiftachFiranko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71) 205-219. 91.  With some differences compared to, and some updates to the data given by, Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71), 207 (incl. n. 40 and 41) and 209 (incl. n. 45-47). – An inventory of marriage documents (not only marriage contracts) by provenance, including documents from outside Egypt, has been compiled by Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements, 27-32.

367

CENSUS DECLAR ATIONS, BIRTH RETURNS

Document

Provenance

Year

I

II

P.IFAO 1.30,22-26

Arsinoites

138-160

at once (restored)

60 days 92

SPP 20.7,22-24

Arsinoites

158

at once

30 days

PSI 1.36 a,15-18

Arsinoites (?)

11-13

at once

? days 94

P.Bodl. 1.61 d,9-11

Arsinoites (?)

101-200

at once

at once

BGU 4.1045, col. I 21-26

Alabanthis

154

at once

? days

P.Ryl. 2.154,24-30

Bakchias

66

at once

30 days

SB 16.12334,1-5

Philadelphia

late II

at once (restored)

30 or 60 days 95

BGU 1.252,7-9

Ptolemais Euergetis

98

at once

30 days

CPR 1.28,6-7 with BL 1, p. 116

Ptolemais Euergetis

110

SB 24.16256,20-25

Ptolemais Euergetis

117-118(+)

at once (restored)

60 days

SPP 20.5,27-31 96

Ptolemais Euergetis

136

at once

30 days

P.Mil.Vogl. 2.71,11-13

Ptolemais Euergetis

172-175

at once

60 days

SPP 20.15,16-20 with BL 8, p. 461

Ptolemais Euergetis

189

dowry: at once

30 days

 97

 93

ce

at once

parapherna: at once P.Hamb. 3.220,11-13

Ptolemais Euergetis

223-224

BGU 1.251,5-6 98

Soknopaiu Nesos

81

CPR 1.236,7-8 with BL 1, p. 453

Soknopaiu Nesos

81-96

at once (restored)

60 days 60 days

at once

not preserved

92.  The clause ἐν ἡμέραις ἑξήκ[ο]ν[τα ἀφʼ ἧς ἐὰν ἀπαιτηθῇ] in line 26 refers to handing back the dowry and the parapherna (cf.  lines 24-25: [τὴν προκειμένην φερνὴν καὶ τὰ παρά]|φερνα). Therefore, I  doubt the reading of the edition suggested for line 26 (following [ἀπαιτηθῇ]): [τὰ δὲ παράφερνα παραχρῆμα], because there is nor reason to mention the parapherna again. 93.  Also Oxyrhynchos is under discussion. Because of the particular form of the clause the Arsinoite nome seems to be more plausible. 94.  Only ]υσίας ἀπαλλαγῆς ἐν ἡμ[ is preserved in line 17. The editor restores ἐν ἡμ[έ|ραις τριάκοντα] (“within 30 days”) but ἑξήκοντα (60) would be possible as well. 95.  Lines 4-5: [ἐπὶ μὲν τῆς ἀποπομπῆς παραχρῆμα ἐπὶ δὲ τῆς ἑκουσίας ἀπαλλα]γ̣ ῆς̣ [ἐν ἡμέραις τριά]κ̣ο̣ντα ἀφʼ ἧς ἐὰν ἀπε|[τηθῇ]. 96.  Duplicate: CPR 1.25 + 26 with BL 1, 114-116. 97. According to line 20 of this contract, the parapherna would have to be handed back at once without any distinction of cases. The distinguishable cases concern only the dowry (cf. lines 17-20). 98.  Duplicate: BGU 3.719 with BL 1, 62 and 12, 15.

368

P. ARZT-GR ABNER

Document

Provenance

Year

BGU 1.183,8 with BL 1, p. 25

Soknopaiu Nesos

85

PSI 10.1117,39-43 with BL 6, p. 184

Tebtynis

138+

Tebtynis

152

60 days

Tebtynis

162

30 days

Tebtynis

II

at once

Theadelphia

114

30 days, but unclear if distinguished 101

PSI 10.1115,17-18 Pap.Choix. 10,23-25 P.Tebt. 2.514,9-10

 100

SB 12.10924,16-19

 99

ce

I

II 30 days no time frame or not preserved

not preserved

When we look at the data, we see a great variety of options even within one and the same city or village, and at about the same time. In the Arsinoite metropolis Ptolemais Euergetis, some people distinguished between the husband’s sending away his wife and the wife’s voluntary withdrawal, others did not and arranged that the dowry and the parapherna should be handed back at once in the case of divorce. Of those who did distinguish between the cases, some arranged a time frame of 30 days in the case of the wife’s voluntary withdrawal, others a time frame of 60 days; in case of the husband’s divorce, dowry and parapherna should be handed back at once. In one instance (SPP 20.15,16-20 with BL 8, p. 461) the parties made a distinction only regarding the dowry (at once / 30 days), but they did not regarding the parapherna that should be handed back at once in any case. Concerning Soknopaiu Nesos, we have three contracts with three different arrangements. What is new in comparison with the documents from Ptolemais Euergetis is the time frame of 30 or 60 days when no distinction is made between the husband’s sending away his wife and the wife’s voluntary withdrawal (the arrangement in the one contract from Ptolemais Euergetis was “at once”). The contracts from Tebtynis do not present any additional option, but each of the four contracts contains different arrangements. 99.  This contract is filed by the bridegroom’s mother, a certain Herus, who acknowledges to the bride’s mother that she has received from her a dowry upon her daughter who is married to Herus’ own son. In case of divorce she agrees to hand back the dowry and the parapherna within 30 days (cf. lines 23-25). 100.  Edited by Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71) 339-340. 101.  From line 15 onwards the papyrus is very fragmentary, the edition of lines 16-20 reads: [ἐὰν δὲ] διαφο[ρᾶς αὐτοῖς γεν]α̣ μένη̣ ς̣ χ[ω]ρ[ίζονται ἀ]πʼ ἀλλήλ[ων | οἱ γα]μ̣ ο̣ [ῦντες – ca.11 -]τ̣ ω   ̣ν Ταμ[- ca.11 -] αὐτῆς   ̣   ̣[ – | – ]   ̣ς̣   ̣[ – ] ἀπο[δό]τω{ι} ὁ [Μύστης τῇ Ταμαρ]εῦτι τὰς  ̣[ – | – ]  ̣φ  ̣[ – ἐν ἡμέραις τρι]άκοντα [ – | –]ε   ̣[ – ]   ̣   ̣[ – παρα]χρῆμα [ – ]. As [παρα]χρῆμα is mentioned after the thirtydays-clause, which would be completely unusual within the respective clauses, it may rather refer to a different regulation.

369

CENSUS DECLAR ATIONS, BIRTH RETURNS

Table 5: Divorce Arrangements in Greek Marriage Contracts from Oxyrhynchos, I-III ce III Time frame to hand back the dowry in case of the couple’s separation (ἐὰν ἀπαλλαγή (τῶν γαμούντων) γένηται) and if not explicitly mentioned that it is the wife’s ἀπαλλαγή and also not mentioned that the time frame to hand back the dowry starts with the day on which the husband is asked to do so IV Time frame to hand back the dowry in case it is clear that it is the wife’s ἀπαλλαγή and/or it is mentioned that the time frame to hand back the dowry starts with the day on which the husband is asked (by the wife) to do so Document

Provenance

Year

ce

III parapherna / dowry

IV

P.Oxy. 2.372,13-15 102

Oxyrhynchus

74-75

not preserved

not preserved

P.Oxy. 2.265,17-18

Oxyrhynchus

81-96

–

not specified/ not preserved?

P.Oxy. 3.497,4-6

Oxyrhynchus

101-125

–

60 days

127

–

? days

P.Oxy. 3.496,8-9 with BL Oxyrhynchus 6, p. 98 P.Oxy. 3.604,10-13 103

Oxyrhynchus

early II

not preserved

not preserved

P.Oxy. 49.3491,18-20

Oxyrhynchus

157-158

at once / 60 days 104

–

SPP 4 p. 115-116,19-22

Oxyrhynchus

169-176

–

60 days 105

P.Oxy. 6.905,11-14

Psobthis/Oxyrhynchites

170

at once / 60 days

–

P.Oxy. 10.1273,25-28

Oxyrhynchus

260

60 days 106

60 days

102.  Edited by Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71), 327-331. 103.  Edited by Yiftach-Firanko, Marriage and Marital Arrangements (n. 71) 331-333. 104.  Lines 18-20: ἐὰν δὲ διαζυγῶσιν ἀλλήλ(ων) οἱ γαμοῦντ(ες) οὐκ ὄντ(ων) αὐτοῖς ἐξ ἀλλήλ(ων) τέκ̣ν̣ ω̣ ν̣ ἀ̣ π̣ ο̣δ̣ό̣[τ]ω̣ [ὁ] γ̣ α̣ μ(ῶν) τ̣ [ὰ | μὲν παράφ]ερνα παραχρῆ(μα), οἷα ἐὰν ἦν, μηδεμιᾶς πρ[ὸ]ς αὐτὸν τρείψ(ως) (r.  τρίψε(ως)) μηδὲ ἀπο(υσίας) ἐνλογουμ(ένης), ἐπὶ δὲ τῶν ἐν αὐτοῖς ἱματίων [-ca.20 -] | [    ̣    ̣    ̣    ̣    ̣    ̣] (ταλαντ ) α ⟦ενη̣ ⟧ (δραχμ ) ϡ ἐν ἡμέραις ξ. 105.  Line 21: [ – ]τουμε̣νη̣ ς τὴν δὲ φερνήν  (ed.) can be restored to [–αἰ]τουμένης τὴν δὲ φερνήν (A rzt-Grabner), thus referring to the wife. 106.  Line 25: ἐ̣[ὰν δ]έ̣ , ὃ [μὴ ε]ἴ̣η, ἐκ διαφορᾶς ἀπα[λλαγὴ τῶν γ]αμούντων γένηται is case III, but lines 27-28: ἐν ἡμέρ]αις ἑξήκοντα ἀφʼ ἧς ἐὰν | α[ἴτη]μ̣ α̣ γ̣ έ̣ν̣ητ̣ α̣ ι would be case IV. I  wonder if ἀ[παλλα]γ̣ ὴ̣ γ̣ έ̣ν̣ητ̣ α̣ ι could be restored

370

P. ARZT-GR ABNER

In the contracts from Oxyrhynchos we find two main groups: people did either not distinguish between the husband’s sending away his wife and the wife’s voluntary withdrawal, but wrote about the couple’s separation, or they included a clause in the contract which explicitly mentioned the wife’s will to withdraw (e.g., in P.Oxy. 3.497,5: καὶ βούληται Ἀμμωνοῦς ἀπαλλάσσεσθαι ἀπὸ Θέωνος – “and Ammonus wishes to withdraw from Theon”). If preserved, we find a 60 days time frame for the latter case. Also if the contract contains only a clause about the couple’s possible separation, 60 days seem to be the standard time frame concerning the dowry. If dowry and parapherna are distinguished, the parapherna would have to be handed back immediately in case of divorce. Compared with the contracts from the Arsinoite nome, the Oxyrhynchos documents show a smaller variety of options and a seemingly standardized time frame of 60 days. Some of the contracts have been crossed out (e.g., the demotic and greek “Ehefrauenurkunde” P.Dime 3.40 [Soknopaiu Nesos/Arsinoites, August 15, 28 ce?]; Pap.Choix 10 [Tebtynis/Arsinoites, June 25 – July 24, 162 ce]) which is a clear hint that the respective contract was cancelled, i.e., the marriage was divorced, and the dowry had been handed back. 4. C onclusions I have presented the general papyrological evidence of only three major events or issues that had a significant impact on the life of a freeborn or freed individual throughout the Roman Empire: the census, the birth of a child, and marriage. In my conclusions I want to ask inasmuch the papyrological evidence from Egypt may also be true for cities where Paul of Tarsus founded or visited some of the early Christ groups, and how the frames and limits, that were set by the census system, birth returns, and marriage documents, may have correlated with particular Pauline texts. The Roman census system, being a profound fiscal basis for the Empire, was strictly regulated, and did not leave open space for popular discussion. It is understandable, that in the Jesus tradition as well as in the writings of Paul of Tarsus we do not find any resistance against it. To rebel against the census meant to revolt against the emperor and his empire, and was persecuted and severely punished. 107 The Synoptic tradition has Jesus talk to some Pharisees and some Herodians concerning the census, to give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, i.e., the poll tax (Mark 12:14-17 parr.). which would be the same formula (and thus case III) as in P.Oxy. 6.905. No image available. 107.  Cf., e.g., the revolt of Judas the Galilean which is also evidenced in Acts 5:37.

CENSUS DECLAR ATIONS, BIRTH RETURNS

371

And also for Paul it is no doubt that τέλος and φόρος should be given to Rome (Rom 13:6-7). The early Christ groups, founded by Paul or visited by him, simply had to live with the census. Those who were liable to pay the poll tax, and presumably most of them were, filed their census declarations, paid their taxes, and were issued receipts to confirm their payments. Maybe few members of such groups were privileged, whether they were Roman citizens or for other reasons, and thus exempted from poll tax liability, but still they were familiar with the system and the procedure. Not only, but also because of the house-to-house census (ἡ κατ’ οἰκίαν ἀπογραφή), everybody knew right away what an οἶκος was and of which “house” one was part. The Christ group in Corinth knew who was part of the “house” of Stephanas (1Cor 1:16), and how many people they were. Another impact of ἡ κατ’ οἰκίαν ἀπογραφή on Paul could have been that he deliberately did not speak of ἡ κατ’ οἰκίαν ἐκκλησία as the community meeting in the house of one of its members, but of ἡ κατ’ οἶκον ἐκκλησία, in order to distinguish it clearly from any administrational terminology. 108 Concerning birth returns, the papyrological evidence for I ce is not very broad, but it seems possible that submitting birth returns was widely common and compulsory right from the beginning of this process, and that privileged people only additionally took the chance to have their privileges registered for their children. We do not know, whether and how the inhabitants of the Roman provinces in Asia Minor or Greece, whether of cities like Colossae, Ephesus, Philippi, Thessalonike, or Corinth, had to submit birth returns to the local authorities. If so, the circumstances for early Christ groups might have been in some way similar to those of the census, i.e., that they filed such returns, and that some had their privileges registered for their children (2Cor 12:14 may reflect this option). If they did, we can be sure that they did not submit the birth returns soon after the birth of a son or daughter, but some reasonable time later as the rate of infant mortality was more or less as high as in the province of Egypt. Paul only rarely speaks about little children (cf. Phil 2:22 and 1Thess 2:7, 11) wich, of course, is not something special, but throughout Greco-Roman antiquity little children were not meant to receive much appreciation. Yet, it could be asked why they did in the Jesus tradition but not in Paul’s letters. When, on the contrary, Paul uses the terms υἱός and θυγάτηρ, he obviously talks about grown boys and girls, or even more grown ups. As “sons and daughters of God”, the members of early Christ groups are of privileged status which they share with all members of the community, whether or not they are privileged concerning their fiscal or social status. Marriage documents, finally, show clearly that the parties were mainly concerned with matters of the dowry and the parapherna. Although Paul, 108.  See P. A rzt-Grabner , Philemon (Göttingen, 2003) 165-166.

372

P. ARZT-GR ABNER

in 1Cor 7, dedicates several long paragraphs to marriage and divorce, he never speaks about money and property. We read nothing about the dowry etc., but Paul addresses exactly those issues that were more or less freely arranged in marriage documents, or not even mentioned. He writes about moral matters, about the so-called terms of joint life. According to Paul, every man should have his wife, and every woman should have her husband, which means that they should live together as married couples, be it with a written contract or not. According to Paul, they should marry to live their sexuality in unity and happiness. In marriage documents, the idea of sexual unity realized in marriage is expressed in the terms of joint life. We can be sure that this idea was not very new to people in Corinth. Paul also talks about sorrows caused by marriage, about virgins and widows, if they should get married or get married again. And, he talks about divorce. As expressed in many marriage documents, divorce is – also for Paul – something that should not happen, but, like the people filing the marriage documents, also Paul knows very well that relationships do not always work out as well as bride and bridegroom wish at the time of their wedding. Contrary to marriage documents, Paul is – again – not interested in dowry arrangements in case of divorce or of the wife’s voluntary withdrawal but he deals with different situations that should not or may lead to divorce. It is remarkable, that Paul addresses most of all the wife’s attitudes concerning divorce, whereas marriage documents either speak of divorce by both, or they distinguish between the husband’s sending away his wife and the wife’s voluntary withdrawal. The marriage documents do not explicitly speak against divorce, but Paul does, although not unconditionally. Yet, we find nothing in Paul’s letters to be inconsistent with arrangements expressed in marriage documents, but, on the other hand, all of Paul’s ideas could be more or less well represented in a marriage document filed by members of an early Christ group.

T HE DEATH OF JAMES THE JUST ACCORDING TO H EGESIPPUS (EUSEBIUS OF C AESAREA, ECCLESIASTICAL H ISTORY 2,23,10-18) Narrative Construction, Biblical Testimonia and Comparison with the Other Known Traditions C. A ntonelli 1. A i m

of t h e

P r e se n t S t u dy a n d a B r i e f I n t roduct ion to H ege si ppus ’ Pa s sag e

Hegesippus’ account of James’s death is one of the five known ancient sources relating this event. The four others are Flavius Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews 20,IX,1 [= 20,197-203]; Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions  I,66-70; Second Apocalypse of James NH V,4 61,15-63,32; Clement of Alexandria’s fragment of Hypotyposeis 7 quoted by Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 2,1,5; First Apocalypse of James (Codex Tchacos II, 29,18-30,26 et NH V,3 42,20-44,10). 1 It must be preliminarily noticed that almost every expression or phrase used by Hegesippus in his account can be analysed and commented to bring forward the origin and ideological meaning of each element in his report. However, since it is not possible to make such a comprehensive analysis here, we will concentrate on the most significant aspects and refer the reader to our forthcoming broader study about Hegesippus for a global interpretation that will take into account all the elements of the text. 2 1.  References to the critical editions will be indicated in the third part of the present contribution, along with the study of these texts. 2.  The analysis presented here constitutes a preliminary study for the monograph on Hegesippus’ fragments – text and translation, with an introduction and commentary – that I will publish in the foreseeable future. Some of the most important points made in this monograph are based on my PhD thesis, I  Frammenti degli Ὑπομνήματα di Egesippo. Edizione del testo, traduzione, studio critico (Rome-Geneva, 2012), which is being completed and re-elaborated to provide this new study of Hegesippus’ fragments. Among the currently available collections of Hegesippus’ fragments, including a more or less extended commentary, the most From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 373-401.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117948

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The present contribution aims at analysing some of the main points of Hegesippus’ narrative, in order to find out how he wrote his account and with which ideological and theological preconceptions in mind. Therefore, we will read this text closely in light of our questions on its sources and the background it reflects. We will also briefly compare various elements of his account of the facts with the four other versions, in order to show how such a comparison helps our understanding of this author. The text studied here is Hegesippus’ first fragment as found in Eusebius of Caesarea’s Ecclesiastical History (hereafter referred to as EH), who quotes it in 2,23,4-18. 3 It was originally part of the fifth book of Hegeimportant ones are, in chronological order: (1) M. J. Routh, Reliquiae sacrae: sive auctorum fere jam perditorum secundi tertiique saeculi post Christum natum, quae supersunt. Accedunt synodi et epistolae canonicae nicaeno concilio antiquiores. Editio altera, I-V, Oxonii, Typographeum Academicum, 1846 (reprinting: HildesheimNew York, 1974), I, 203-284 (fragments, 205-219, and remarks, 220-284). (2) T.  Z ahn,  ed., Forschungen zur Geschichte des neutestamentlichen Kanons und der altkirchlichen Literatur, I-X (Leipzig, 1881-1929) VI, Apostel und Apostelschüler in der Provinz Asien; Brüder und Vettern Jesu, 1900, 228-249. (3) E. P reuschen, Antilegomena. Die Reste der ausserkanonischen Evangelien und urchristlichen Überlieferungen, (Giessen, 19052) 107-113 (adopting Schwartz’s critical text: see Preuschen’s preface, ibid., V-VI). (4) H.J, L awlor , “The Hypomnemata of Hegesippus”, in I d. ed., Eusebiana. Essays on the Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius Pamphili, c. 264ad  349, Bishop of Cesarea: preceded by Essays on the Hypomnemata of Hegesippus, c.  ad  120-180, with Publication of the remaining Fragments of the Memorials, and on the Heresy of the Phrigians, with Critical and Historical Notes, an Index of Passages referred to and a General Index, (Oxford, 1912; reprinting: Amsterdam, 1973) 1-107, text of the fragments at 98-107. See also E. Cocco, “I frammenti degli Ὑπομνήματα di Egesippo”, in L.  Cirillo -G. R inaldi, eds, Roma, la Campania e l ’Oriente cristiano antico. Giubileo 2000. Atti del Convegno di studi. Napoli 9-11 ottobre 2000 (Napoli, 2004) 327-396. For a more recent translation of Hegesippus’ fragments, see now also S.  Morlet, “Hégésippe. Hypomnèmata”, in B. Pouderon-J.-M.  Salamito -V. Z arini, eds, Premiers écrits chrétiens. Édition publiée sous la direction de Bernard Pouderon, Jean-Marie Salamito et Vincent Zarini (Paris, 2016) 983-990 (translation), 1432-1436 (introduction and notes). 3.  E.  Schwartz-T. Mommsen, eds, Eusebius Werke, zweiter Band. Die Kirchengeschichte. Herausgegeben im Auftrage der Kirchenväter-Commission der Königl. Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften von Dr.  Eduard Schwartz. Die lateinische Übersetzung des Rufinus bearbeitet im gleichen Auftrage von Dr.  Theodor Mommsen (Leipzig, 1903-1909), I, 1903, 164-173. I fundamentally agree with F. S. Jones , “The Martyrdom of James in Hegesippus, Clement of Alexandria, and Christian Apocrypha, including Nag Hammadi: A Study of the Textual Relations”, in D. J. Lull , Society of Biblical Literature 1990 Seminar Papers,  ed. D.  J. Lull (Atlanta, 1990) 322-335 [reedited in F. S. Jones , ed., Pseudoclementina Elchasaiticaque inter Judaeochristiana. Collected Studies (Leuven-Paris-Walpole, 2012) 291-305] 323-325 [292294 of the original edition]) with bibliography, who defends the authenticity of Hegesippus’ text as transmitted by Eusebius, against Schwartz, who considered it

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sippus’ Hypomnèmata – which I will translate by Annotations or Notes 4 (cf. 23,3). In line with Eusebius’ usual treatment of his sources, Hegesippus’ text is actually quoted in a literal and reliable way. Nonetheless, in his introduction and presentation of the fragment, in 2,23,1-3, Eusebius sums it up and explains its content, in order to lead the reader to adopt what he holds to be the correct interpretation, as he very often does. In 23,4-7, at the beginning of the quotation itself, Hegesippus mentions James’ election as the leader of the Jerusalem Church “together with the apostles”. 5 Hegesippus describes him with the traditional epithet “the Brother of the Lord” and gives him Levitical and sacerdotal features, while also giving information about his two other designations, “the Just” and “Oblias”. The reversal of the situation is featured in 23,8-9, which will lead to James’

to be interpolated (through what he called “dittographies”). Further arguments can be produced in favour of Jones’ position, but they will not be detailed here. For the importance of the Latin and oriental versions of the HE, neglected by Schwartz according to Jones, cf. ibid., 327 [296-297]. 4.  For a first analysis of the different meanings of ὑπόμνημα in order to establish the most probable significance of this word in relation to Hegesippus’ work, see C.  A ntonelli, “Hégésippe chez Eusèbe, Histoire Ecclésiastique, IV, 21-22: Διαδοχή et origine des hérésies”, Apocrypha: revue internationale des littératures apocryphes 22 (2011) 185-232, mainly “Les Hypomnèmata: nature de l’ouvrage”, 210-214, with bibliographical references. A  larger commentary to this title will be given in the monograph (cf. note 2). 5. Two different authoritative systems can be detected in Hegesippus’ fragments, respectively related to the Churches of Jerusalem and Palestine in the second half of the first century and to the Churches of Corinth and Rome about a century later, at Hegesippus’ own time. According to the first system, the legitimacy of the authority is granted by the blood relationship with the family of the Saviour; in the second one, it is assured by the transmission of the messianic κήρυγμα from master to disciple through the apostles, that also constitutes the fundament on which the episcopal succession is based and legitimised. The passage about James’ succession related in HE 2,23,4 shows Hegesippus’ effort to harmonize the both systems to one another, through describing James’ access to his position by use of the “technical” terminology of the διαδοχή, inherited from the philosophical schools and better suited to describe the Corinthian and Roman situation. See C. A ntonelli, “La mémoire des “origines” chez Hégésippe: Jérusalem et la famille de Jésus, Corinthe et Rome et ses apôtres et disciples”, in S. Butticaz-E.  Norelli, eds, Memory and Memories in Early Christianity (Tübingen, 2018) 219-257, for a broader argumentation and a detailed analysis of the concerned passages. As the summary joined to this article explains, three different chronological and geographical stages of the “construction of the memory” of Christian origins can be detected in the fragments: Hegesippus’ sources, Hegesippus, Eusebius; each reformulates the information from his predecessor(s) in order to build his own interpretation and description of the narrated events.

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death. Hegesippus explains that the “seven sects (αἱρέσεις)” 6 of the Jewish 7 6. According to Hegesippus’ heresiological model, the attack the Jewish sects perpetrate on the members of Jesus’ family at the head of the Jewish-Christian group in Jerusalem and Palestine (James the Just, Simon of Jerusalem, the grandsons of Jude; for the references to the passages see below) constitutes the first of the four phases of the spread of Christian heresies, as retraced by A.  L e Boulluec , La notion d ’hérésie dans la littérature grecque. IIe-IIIe siècles, I-II (Paris, 1985), I, mainly Le schéma hérésiologique d ’Hégésippe, 92-112. For a summary of Le Boulluec’s main points, with some developments, see C. A ntonelli, “Hégésippe chez Eusèbe”, mainly “Διαδοχή, saine foi et origine des hérésies”, 215-222 (particularly ibid., 218-220 for the four phases of the development of heresy), with bibliographical references. In fact, Hegesippus’ scheme attests an archaic form of “Supersessionism” typical of the milieus of Jerusalem and Palestine, from which he inherits accounts and traditions: second century gnostic Christian heresies (αἱρέσεις) opposing the “Great Church” would descend from the Jewish “sects” (also αἱρέσεις) which had attacked Jesus’ relatives, heirs of the Tribe of Judah, heads of the “Jewish-Christian” faction. The parting of the people into two groups – an upright one, which remains loyal to God, and a corrupted and unfaithful one – would derive from the ancient separation between the Tribe of Judah and all the others, which was itself connected to the division between a Northern and a Southern Kingdom. This kind of pattern had already been applied to the distinction between true and false prophecy. The new comparison I proposed between Hegesippus’ and Justin’s lists of the Jewish “sects” brings out deeply different perspectives: according to Justin, “Christianity” and “Judaism” are distinct and opposed entities, with their own (presumed) “legitimate doctrinal form” and deviations from it, i.e. “heresies”; on the other hand, according to Hegesippus, the “Jewish-Christian” group remains within “Judaism”, as well as its opposing “sects/heresies”, and constitutes the only representative of the “authentic Israel” that is able to recognise the Messiah. The conflict that takes place in James’ time in Jerusalem is not yet a conflict between “Jewish” and “Christians”, but is still a conflict between the “good” and the “evil” part of Israel. For all these topics, see C. A ntonelli, “Il modello eresiologico di Egesippo e le sue radici nella storia d’Israele. Dalle αἱρέσεις giudaiche a quelle cristiane”, in G. D. Cova-C.  Neri-E.  Norelli, eds, Proceedings of the International Conference: “Parting of the Ways and/as Supersessionism: Second and Third Century” – Bologna, 3-4.11.2016 (Prahins, forthcoming), with a global reading of Hegesippus’ heresiological system in terms of Supersessionism, as well as a broader analysis and explanation of each of the various mentioned aspects (the summary delineated here retraces the one joined to this article). 7. Discussions are currently underway with regard to the terminology to be employed to refer to the concepts of “Judaism”, “Jewish”, and so on. The vocabulary adopted to refer to the ancient Palestinian milieu and inhabitants of the first Christian centuries, characterised by an essentially ethnical and geographical connotation, should be distinguished from the designations related to Late Antiquity and the so-called “rabbinic Judaism”, which contain a stronger religious dimension. Therefore, for the Greek word “ἰουδαῖος” the translation “Judean”  (“judéen” in the masculine singular in French, “Judäer” in German, “Giudaita” in Italian, and so on) has been suggested, to refer to the earlier period, whereas the usual term “Jew” and his parallels (“juif ” in French, “Jude” in German, “giudeo” in Italian, etc.) have been considered as more suitable from Late Antiquity onwards. In the present study, for the sake of readability, the more usual terminology will be employed,

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people started asking James about what was “the door of Jesus”, and that “he said that he was the Saviour”. Some of them believed that Jesus was the Messiah, but none believed in his resurrection or in his coming for the final judgment. It follows the proper account of the Just’s martyrdom that extends to the end of chapter 23, i.e. 2,23,10-18. The last paragraph, 23,19, contains Eusebius’ conclusion of the passage, including the explicit interpretation of James’ death as the cause for the siege of Jerusalem by Vespasian, an interpretation implicitly suggested in Hegesippus’ final phrase in 23,18 “and at once Vespasian besieges them”. 2 . Th e Way i ts

t h e N a r r at i v e i s C once i v e d , i ts S ou rce s , I deologica l a n d Th eologica l A i m

Analysing Hegesippus’ account of James’ death should allow us to demonstrate, as a main point, that one of its primary aims is to convey an image of him akin to a “new Jesus” and as an intercessor on behalf of the people. A series of literary devices are used: almost every detail, every word or phrase, as well as the very order of the events, are given an ideological, conceptual and theological significance. Our goal is to detect some of the most relevant of these devices and procedures to explain how Hegesippus and his sources built the narrative about James. 2.1. James as a New Jesus. The Use of Narrative and Lexical Elements that recall Episodes from the Gospels. The Literary Construction of James’ Death in Hegesippus and of Stephen’s in the Book of Acts Preliminary remarks about the narrative structure will help delineate the logical and chronological connections Hegesippus establishes between the different steps in the narrated episode. In § 10-12, scribes and Pharisees still show a positive attitude towards James and ask him to convince the people that Jesus is not the Christ – which implies contradicting his own previous teachings. They drive him to stand on the pinnacle of the Temple, so that everyone may hear him. Of course, James reaffirms Jesus while keeping in mind the current reflection on this issue. See also C. A ntonelli, “La mémoire des «origines» chez Hégésippe”, with various references, including W. Stegemann, Jesus und seine Zeit (Stuttgart, 2010), especially 180-207, II.6, “Jesu “kollektive Identität” als Jude/Judäer”, with an in-depth bibliography (ibid., 180181), mainly 189-201, II.6.2, “Jesus – ein Judäer aus Galiläa” (an Italian edition also exists: Id., Gesù e il suo tempo (Brescia, 2011) [Italian translation by F. Bassani] 211-242 for II.6; 222-235 for II.6.2). See also S. C. M imouni, Le judaïsme ancien du VIe siècle avant notre ère au IIIe siècle de notre ère: des prêtres aux (Paris, 2012) 22-24, in the first chapter, entitled “La terminologie” (21-38).

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to be the Messiah, who sits in Heaven “on the Right of the Great Power” and will soon come “on the clouds of Heaven” (§ 13). This leads scribes and Pharisees to change their attitude towards James (§ 14) and they start accusing him (§ 15), which will ultimately lead to his death. James is thrown from the pinnacle of the Temple (§ 15), then stoned (§ 16) and finally beaten to death by a fuller with the club he used to full clothes (§ 18), after a Rechabite tried in vain to save him (§ 17). James thus “accomplishes his testimony” (“καὶ οὕτως ἐμαρτύρησεν” 8) and is then buried on the spot, near the Temple. Ensues Vespasian’s siege of Jerusalem (§ 18). Now, a closer observation of this account and of the different details it includes shows that several elements express the author’s intention (or the intention of his sources and milieu) to depict James as Jesus’ direct and legitimate heir and delegate, to the point of describing him as a new Jesus. Various traits probably also aim at the same goal and recall the description and context of Stephen’s death in Acts. This similarity between James’ death and Stephen’s also has other implications, as we will see later.

2.1.1. James as a New Jesus 1) The section in Eusebius’ § 10-14 bears a resemblance with the narration of Jesus’ entrance in Jerusalem in Jn 12, and other strong lexical similarities to the Gospels in general can be retraced. The scene opens with scribes and Pharisees worried about the many conversions James had caused (EH 2,23,10 “καὶ γραμματέων καὶ Φαρισαίων λεγόντων, ὅτι κινδυνεύει πᾶς ὁ λαὸς Ἰησοῦν τὸν Χριστὸν προσδοκᾷν”; 12 “ὁ λαὸς πλανᾶται ὀπίσω Ἰησοῦ τοῦ σταυρωθέντος”), 9 the same way it happened about Jesus ( Jn 12:19, where these figures worry 8.  The term needs to be translated this way here, and not in the later technical and unilateral sense of “he was martyred”, even if in Hegesippus’ time, the late second century, this expression’s specific meaning was already used (cf. for instance Polycarp’s Martyrdom 1,1; 19,1; 21,1; Irenaeus, Against Heresies 3,3,3 e 3,3,4; Clemens of Alexandria, Stromates 4,4, mentioned by G. W. H. L ampe , A  Patristic Greek Lexicon, Oxford, 1968, 828, s.v. μαρτυρέω, II. A. “be martyred, suffer martyrdom”). Indeed, the original allusion to the testimony given (through one’s own death) was still perceived at that time, and it is advisable to maintain it in modern translations of the word. 9.  EH 2,23,10 “[…] and the scribes and Pharisees saying that all the people was in danger to wait for Jesus, the Christ [= in his final coming]”. This translation takes into account the fact that in other passages it is possible to detect an allusion to Jesus’ παρουσία, like in § 8 where the “door of Jesus” as “the Saviour” is mentioned, as we will see below, and more explicitly in § 13, where James announces openly that Jesus will come “on the clouds of Heaven”. Another possible translation is “[…] and the scribes and Pharisees saying that all the people were in danger to expect that Jesus was the Christ”, which, less convincing, does not underline the aspect of the new coming in glory. EH 2,23,12 “the people are going astray after

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about the conversions and miracles Jesus accomplishes); they insist on their failure to prevent the people from believing in Jesus through James (2,23,14 “τότε πάλιν οἱ αὐτοὶ γραμματεῖς καὶ Φαρισαῖοι πρὸς ἀλλήλους ἔλεγον· ‘Κακῶς ἐποιήσαμεν τοιαύτην μαρτυρίαν παρασχόντες τῷ Ἰησοῦ·, κ.τ.λ.’.”). 10 In both cases a large crowd of gentiles (Greeks in Jn 12:20) and Jews had gathered for the Easter Feast (2,23,11 “διὰ γὰρ τὸ πάσχα συνεληλύθασι πᾶσαι αἱ φυλαὶ μετὰ καὶ τῶν ἐθνῶν” 11). Like in Jn 12:42, it is stated in 2,23,10 that even some of the chiefs start believing (“πολλῶν οὖν καὶ τῶν ἀρχόντων πιστευόντων”; but in John they do not admit it, being afraid of the Pharisees). On the other hand, the messianic acclamation to the “Son of David” in 2,23,14 (“καὶ πολλῶν πληροφορηθέντων καὶ δοξαζόντων ἐπὶ τῇ μαρτυρίᾳ τοῦ Ἰακώβου καὶ λεγόντων· ‘Ὡσαννὰ τῷ υἱῷ Δαυὶδ’.” 12) reminds of the one in Mt 21:9-10; James’ preaching causes the same kind of trouble among the people as Jesus’ messianic entrance in Jerusalem. As a last example, we may also mention the literal quotation of Lk 23:34 “ὁ δὲ Ἰησοῦς ἔλεγεν· πάτερ, ἄφες αὐτοῖς, οὐ γὰρ οἴδασιν τί ποιοῦσιν”, in James’ prayer for his murderers after his falling down from the pinnacle and the beginning of his stoning in 2,23,16, “ἀλλὰ στραφεὶς ἔθηκε τὰ γόνατα λέγων· ‘Παρακαλῶ, κύριε θεὲ πάτερ, ἄφες αὐτοῖς· οὐ γὰρ οἴδασιν τί ποιοῦσιν’.”, where James invokes God as “Father” just like Jesus had, using almost the very same words. Therefore, the events leading to James’ death seem inspired by those linked to Jesus in the Gospels. Various messianic features seem to be implied; the presence of all tribes gathered with the gentiles refers to the “παρουσία” and to an eschatological context, perhaps with a reference to Ps 71,17 LXX (“εὐλογηθήσονται ἐν αὐτῷ πᾶσαι αἱ φυλαὶ τῆς γῆς, πάντα τὰ ἔθνη μακαριοῦσιν αὐτόν”) which mentions the blessing of all tribes on earth “in him” i.e. the Messiah, and the fact that “all people” will call him Jesus who has been crucified”; for the use of the verb πλανάω and the possible echo of Dt 13:2-6 I refer to the monograph (cf. note 2). 10.  EH 2,23,14 “[…] then again (πάλιν) (coming back from their previous position), the scribes and Pharisees said to one another: ‘We did wrong to procure such a testimony to Jesus, etc.’. ”. The particular meaning πάλιν probably has here is attested for instance in R. W. Danker , ed., A  Greek English lexicon of the New Tenstament and other early Christian Literature. A  Translation and Adaptation of Walter Bauer’s Griechisch-Deutsches Wörterbuch zu den Schriften des Neuen Testaments und der übrigen urchristlichen Literatur, by William  F. Arndt and F.  Wilbur Gingrich (Chicago-London, 20003) s. v. “πάλιν”, 752, 1. “pert[aining] to return to a position or state”. 11.  EH 2,23,11 “In fact, because of the Passover, all the tribes gathered, together also with the gentiles”. 12.  EH 2,23,14 “Since many were completely convinced and praised unto James’ testimony and they said: ‘Hosanna to the Son of David’, etc.”.

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blessed. This psalm, read as a messianic prefiguration of Jesus, might have been seen as referring also to James, perhaps via the Gospel of John. 2) The attribution to James of the scriptural feature of “answering to no one” also contributes to connect him to the Saviour. In fact, in Lk 20:21, where the expression is identical to the one in 2,23,10 (“πρόσωπον οὐ λαμβάνεις”), but also in the parallels, this feature is conferred to Jesus when asked about the legitimacy to pay the tribute to Caesar. The expression is already used in many passages of the Old Testament LXX (Lv 19:15, Ps 82:2, Sir 4:4,22.27; 35:12-13; 42:1, Ml 1:8 and 2:9), where it refers to the importance of impartiality in judgments, particularly about contenders from a different social status (excepted for Malachi, where the feature refers [1:8] to the difficulty to obtain God’s benevolence – “εἰ λήμψεται πρόσωπόν σου” – for those uncaring or offensive towards him, or [2:9] to the priests’ indifference, partiality or uncaring attitude toward God’s law – “ἐλαμβάνετε πρόσωπα ἐν νόμῳ”). Testament of Job 43,13 already used προσωποληψία with the same reference to God it had in the Old Testament texts. This passage can be compared to 4,8, where the opposite term ἀπροσωπόληπτος is employed to express a similar notion of God’s impartiality, who provides blessings and goods to those who have obeyed him. 13 In canonical Job 42:8 the expression “ὅτι εἰ μὴ πρόσωπον αὐτοῦ λήψομαι” refers to God’s positive response towards Job’s intercession on behalf of his persecutors, who will be saved thanks to his prayer. In 1 Esd LXX 4:39 the expression “καὶ οὐκ ἔστι παρ᾿ αὐτὴν λαμβάνειν πρόσωπα” is referring to the truth (ἀλήθεια). The same locution, or the connected noun and verb προσωπολη(μ)ψία and προσωπολη(μ)πτέω, are then employed by Paul in Gal 2:9 and Rm 2:11, but also in Ac 10:34 and 1  Pt 1:17, and refer to God’s impartiality (cf. Col.  3:25 and Eph 6:9). Jas 2:1.9 use the same terms to describe the impossibility to maintain one’s faith in Jesus Christ if practising favouritism. In Didachè 4,3 14 the form “οὐ λήψῃ πρόσωπον” is used to express an order in a prescriptive context. It is also interesting to see that Poly-

13. S. P.  Brock , “Testamentum Jobi. Edidit S. P. Brock”, in S.  P.  BrockJ.-C. P icard, eds, Testamentum Jobi. Edidit S. P. Brock. Apocalypsis Baruchi Graece. Edidit J.-C.  Picard (Leiden, 1967) 1-59, 53 for 43,13 and 21 for 4,8. 14.  G. Visonà, ed., Didachè. Insegnamento degli apostoli. Introduzione, testo, traduzione e note di Giuseppe Visonà (Torino, 2000) 300-301 for 4,3. A.  M ilavec , ed., The Didache. Text, Translation, Analysis, and Commentary (Collegeville, 2003) 12-13. W. Rordorf-A.  Tuilier , eds, La doctrine des douze apôtres (Didachè). Introduction, texte, traduction, notes, appendice, annexe et index par Willy Rordorf et André Tuilier. 2e édition revue et augmentée (Paris, 19982) 158-159.

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carp, Letter to the Philippians 6,1, 15 will employ the term in the context of prescriptions to presbyters (which partially echoes 1  Tm 3:1-7 and its precepts to the bishop; for impartiality see 1  Tm 5:21, but without the literal expression we are analysing here): Polycarp orders them, among other things, not to practice “προσωποληψία”. Therefore, for both Jesus and James, this expression seeks to remind of the well-known feature of impartiality, which can already be found in the Old Testament and which is linked to righteousness. It could have been attributed to Jesus first, and then assigned also to James, thus following Jesus’ model in a milieu wanting to emphasise the importance of James’ role and figure. Moreover, it is attributed to James in a polemical context that is similar to Jesus’: some of the notables among the people try to make the protagonist fall into a trap, asking him a treacherous question (about the tribute to Caesar in Jesus’ case, about Jesus himself for James). 3) One more similarity between James’ history and the Gospels lies in the passage right before the death account. In fact, it is quite probable that the dialogue between the scribes and Pharisees and James in HE 2,23,10 about the door of Jesus is a narrative development of Jesus’ teaching about the Good Shepherd in Jn 10:1-21, mainly 10:7-21. Scribes and Pharisees ask James what is “the door of Jesus”, through which they likely ask for an explanation of Jesus’ statement to be “the door (of the sheep)” in Jn 7 and 9. 16 James gives the required clarification, answering, “he [i.e. Jesus] is the Saviour”, that is, when rephrased, “the door through which one obtains salvation”. In fact, more specifically, 2,23,8 seems to be a dialogical-narrative rewriting of Jesus’ statement in Jn 10:9. Jesus’ declaration “I am the door” is used to become the scribes and Pharisees’ question “What is the door of Jesus?”. The following explanation “If anyone enters through me, he will be saved, etc.” is summarised in James’ answer “He is the Saviour”, which is further clarified in the following paragraph stating that “in consequence of this [i.e. of James’ answer], some believed that Jesus was the Christ”. Such a construction of the narrative is entirely coherent with Hegesippus’ composing technique (or his sources’), as can be detected in some of the following passages about James’ martyrdom: as we will see 15.  P. T. Camelot, ed., Ignace d ’Antioche. Polycarpe de Smyrne. Lettres. Martyre de Polycarpe. Texte grec, introduction, traduction et notes de P.  Th.  Camelot. Réimpression de la 4e édition revue et corrigé (Paris, 20074) 184-185. P. H artog, ed., Polycarp’s “Epistle to the Philippians” and the “Martyrdom of Polycarp”. Introduction, Text, and Commentary. Edited by Paul Hartog (Oxford, 2013) 86-87. 16.  A.  Schwartz ,  ed., Eusebius Werke, I, 1903,168, refers to Jn 10:9; G.  Bardy, ed., Eusèbe de Césarée. Histoire ecclésiastique. Livres  I-IV. Texte grec, traduction et annotation par Gustave Bardy (Paris, 1952) (and reprints) 87, note 15, refers to Jn 10:7, observing that, in this gospel, Jesus in person is the door.

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below, various Old Testament passages or verses, mostly prophetic ones, are given a narrative form in order to construct James’ story. 17 It appears that Hegesippus’ source narrated the death of James, and maybe his whole story, with words, expressions, narrative schemes and sequences apt to immediately remind of events and features connected to Jesus and narrated in the Gospels that were to become canonical (with a frequent reference to the Gospel of John). James himself takes on various messianic features that lead to compare him to the Saviour in person. Moreover, the events leading to his death remind of various elements of Jesus’ passion, with a particular attention to the blasphemous statement of his being the Messiah and Son of God.

2.1.2. The Death of James, Jesus and Stephen Let us go a step further in our comparative analysis of Hegesippus’ passage. Indeed, some of the narrative and literary features of James’ death account recall not only those concerning Jesus, but also the ones about Stephen as related in Ac 6-7, sometimes in a very clear way. First of all, as Claudio Gianotto has already observed, the passage of Acts may have constituted a model for the structure of all accounts of James’ death in ancient Christian sources, including Hegesippus. 18 Moreover, some specific elements seem to have been identically or almost identically employed in Acts and in our source. In fact, the same expression in Lk 23:34 we mentioned above, seems to be also used in Ac 7:60, where it is said that Stephen “θεὶς δὲ τὰ γόνατα, ἔκραξεν φωνῇ μεγάλῃ, κύριε, μὴ στήσῃς αὐτοῖς τὴν ἁμαρτίαν ταύτην. καὶ τοῦτο εἰπὼν ἐκοιμήθη”: both for Stephen and for James, the prayer for their murderers is expressed while kneeling through their stoning, with a similar or identical vocabulary. 19 17.  As I will explain in more details in the monograph (cf. note 2), the passages transmitted in EH 2,23,4-6 also seem to contain scriptural references, from both Jewish and Christian texts, that have been given a narrative form. 18.  The influence of the early Christian writings which were to become canonical on the various ancient Christian accounts of James’ violent death, including Hegesippus, has been brought forward by C. Gianotto, Giacomo, fratello di Gesù (Bologna, 2013) particularly 72-74. He mainly stresses the recurrence of the climax structure of the three moments of increasing tension in all the accounts (preliminary situation; James’ speech provokes turmoil; James’ killing) and he observes the strong and close analogy with Stephen’s death in Ac 6-7 (I d., ibid., 72-73); he also observes the existence of common themes with Jesus’ passion, mainly as related in the Synoptic accounts (ibid., 73-74). It is also interesting to notice that the analogy between Jesus’ and James’ sufferings is explicitly mentioned in First Apocalypse of James 25,10-20; 30,12-32,25 (see ibid., 74). 19.  The accusers’ cries are expressed through the verb κράζω – 2,23,15 “καὶ ἔκραξαν λέγοντες, κ.τ.λ.”, Ac  7:57 “κράξαντες δὲ φωνῇ μεγάλῃ,  κ.τ.λ.”; the ston-

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Likewise, James’ statement in 2,23,13 (“‘Τί με ἐπερωτᾶτε περὶ τοῦ υἱοῦ τοῦ ἀνθρώπου, καὶ αὐτὸς κάθηται ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ ἐκ δεξιῶν τῆς μεγάλης δυνάμεως, καὶ μέλλει ἔρχεσθαι ἐπὶ τῶν νεφελῶν τοῦ οὐρανοῦ;’.”) 20 reminds immediately of Stephen’s vision of the open heavens and of the Son of Man at the right of God in Ac 7:56. Both passages seem to aim at attesting to the accomplishment of Jesus’ own prediction in Mk 14:62 “‘καὶ ὄψεσθε τὸν υἱὸν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου ἐκ δεξιῶν καθήμενον τῆς δυνάμεως καὶ ἐρχόμενον μετὰ τῶν νεφελῶν τοῦ οὐρανοῦ’.” (see also the parallel, Mt 26:64). In fact, all these examples seem to suggest similar use of pre-existing traditional material, employed respectively for Stephen and for James, rather than a strict literary dependence between both texts. Specifically, our last example shows how both heroes attest to Jesus being the Messiah expected to come on the clouds of heaven and be at the right of God: Stephen through the vision he receives, James through his solemn declaration, which might be interpreted as a vision too. This association of characteristics seems to derive from a joint exegesis of Dn 7:13, where the coming on the clouds of heaven for the final judgement is explicitly referring to the Son of Man, and Ps 110 (109 LXX):1, where the sitting at the right of God may have been also attributed to the Son of the Man, through a joint reading of both passages. Therefore, both texts must have been read as a messianic prefiguration and then ascribed to Jesus. This attribution to Jesus of the epithet “the Son of Man”, with the specific features linked to it, is considered as blasphemous by scribes and Pharisees, and is probably the main cause of their anger at having provided James with the occasion to give “such a testimony to Jesus” (2,23,14 “‘κακῶς ἐποιήσαμεν τοιαύτην μαρτυρίαν παρασχόντες τῷ Ἰησοῦ, κ.τ.λ.’.”). A  possible reference to a pre-Christian association of both verses, with a messianic meaning, can be found in 1 Enoch, The Book of Parables 61,8, where the Lord of Spirits places the Son of Man, here called the Elect one, “on the throne of glory”, and 49,2, where is said that he “stands before the Lord of Spirits”, and that his glory and might will last forever. 21 A messianic interpretation of Ps 110 (109 LXX, 1) also ing through (κατα)λιθοβολέω – 2,23,17 “οὕτως δὲ καταλιθοβολούντων αὐτὸν”, Ac 7:58 “καὶ ἐκβαλόντες ἔξω τῆς πόλεως ἐλιθοβόλουν”, 7:59 “καὶ ἐλιθοβόλουν τὸν Στέφανον”, even if in Hegesippus also through λιθάζω, see 2,23,16 “  ‘λιθάσωμεν Ἰάκωβον τὸν δίκαιον’, καὶ ἤρξαντο λιθάζειν αὐτὸν, κ.τ.λ.”; the kneeling followed by the prayer for the persecutors through “τιθέναι τὰ γόνατα”. 20.  EH 2,23,13 “Why do you ask me about the Son of Man? Here is that he is sitting in person in heaven on the right of the Great Power, and he is going to come on the clouds of Heaven”. 21.  E.  I saac , “1 (Ethiopic Apocalypse of) Enoch (Second Century bc-First Century ad.). A New Translation and Introduction By E. Isaac”, in J. H. Charlesworth, ed., The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. Expansions Of The “Old Testament”

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features clearly in Mk 12:36 (Mt 22:44; Lk 20:42), where Jesus himself reads it as referring to the Messiah. Therefore, according to both Acts and Hegesippus’ sources, Jesus is the Son of Man and he is going to come for the final judgement. Nevertheless, in Ac 7:55-56 he is standing “on the right of God”, whereas in Hegesippus’ version he sits in heaven “on the right of the Great Power” (the expression is here closer to Mk 14:62 and Mt  26:64, “on the right of the Power”, and Lk 22:69, “on the right of the Power of God” – in fact, Luke’s expression seems to be a combination between the form of the other two Synoptics and the one used in Acts). To conclude, the facts depicted here seem to confirm that Hegesippus or his sources employed pre-existent material of the Jerusalem HebrewChristian milieu to describe James and emphasise his role as their leader. This milieu probably made use of various theological and literary devices and images that had already been used about Stephen by other groups with the same goal in mind. The historical elements of the account of James’ death, such as the stoning (see further for the probable historicity of Flavius Josephus’ account of James’ stoning) must have been reintroduced in such an ideological and theological construction that probably aimed at describing him: 1) with the features of the archetypal sacrifice of Jesus; 2) with the traits that permitted to acknowledge in James the “first martyr” of the Jerusalem Church of Hebraic background, just like Stephen had been the “Protomartyr” of the “Hellenistic” group. We may even suggest that the connection established between James and Stephen must be linked to the aforementioned need to turn him into a kind of new Jesus. Just like Stephen had been depicted through various characteristics that corresponded to those of Jesus in order to make him the “new Jesus” of the “Hellenists” of Jerusalem, the same characteristics have been employed about James, to make of him the “new Jesus” of the “Hebrews” (cf. Ac 6,1), then of the “Jewish-Christians” 22 of the same city. By doing so, an account parallel – and concurrent – to Stephen’s had been created in order to affirm in a clear and definitive way James’ primacy and Legends, Wisdom and Philosophical Literature, Prayers, Psalms, and Odes, Fragments of Lost Judeo-Hellenistic Works, I (New York, 1983) 5-89 (5-12 introduction; 13-89 English translation), respectively 42 and 36 for the mentioned passages. 22.  Among the most recent contributions on the complex and much disputed problem of a clear definition of the concept of “Jewish-Christianity”, see O. Skarsaune-R. Hvalvik ,  ed., Jewish Believers in Jesus (Peabody, 2007) particularly the Introduction, 3-52, which includes an overview of research history. In the present contribution, we will employ the terms “Jewish-Christianity”, “Jewish-Christian”, and so on, to refer to phenomena and realities concerning the Christians of Judean origin situated within the cultural and religious Hebrew background, in particular connection with Hegesippus’ milieu, as opposed to the Christians of gentile origin.

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over Christianity, particularly in Jerusalem and in the Judeo-Palestinian area. According to those groups’ interpretation, the death of each leader should be seen as a prelude to the condemnation of those in Israel that had refused the Saviour, his preaching and, above all, his offer of salvation in him. 2.2. Biblical Figures Are Used in the Narrative in Order to Convey the Underlying Meaning of the Narrated Events to His Group and Milieu

2.2.1. Why Does a Rechabite try to Save James? James’ Role as Protector and Intercessor on Behalf of the People A second literary device is the insertion of characters, usually of biblical origin, with a pronounced theological role and easily identifiable by Jewish-Christian groups in Jerusalem and Palestine. The enigmatic figure of 2,23,17, “one of the priests of the Sons of Rechab, Son of Rachabeim, about who testifies Jeremy the Prophet”, is one of them: this partially corrupted expression 23 indicates his belonging to the sacerdotal group of the Rechabites. His presence is part of a larger set of elements which show that the catalyser and main manifestation of James’ justice – expressed with the epithet designating him as “the Just” 24 – is his ability, which is rooted in 23.  A.  Schwartz ,  ed., Eusebius Werke, I, 1903, 170: «ῥαχαβεὶμ AT1RB ῥηχαβεὶμ TcED ῥηχαβεῖν M Rachabin Λ ῥαχαεὶμ Synk; υἱῶν Ῥηχάβ altes Glossem zu Ῥαχαβείμ, das durch υἱοῦ verkehrt mit dem Text verbunden ist». E. P reuschen, Antilegomena, 109, eliminates «υἱῶν Ῥηχὰβ υἱοῦ» and writes «τῶν [υἱῶν Ῥηχὰβ υἱοῦ] Ῥαχαβείμ». See also G. Bardy, ed., Eusèbe de Césarée. Histoire ecclésiastique. Livres  I-IV, 88 note 26, who notices that there is a repetition and that “Sons of the Rechabites” glosses “Son of Rechab” without explaining it. See also the variants in Jer 42 LXX (= Jer 38), particularly Jer 42,2-3.5, and the apparatus, presenting “Αρχαβιν” (probably a Greek form for the Hebrew noun and its article “harekhabîm”), but also “Ῥαχαβειν  / Ῥαχαβιν” and “Ῥηχαβιται” in Symmachus. See the Göttingen Septuaginta, J. Ziegler ,  ed., Ieremias, Baruch, Threni, Epistula  Ieremiae edidit Joseph Ziegler (Göttingen, 20063) 386. See the monograph (cf. note 2) for a larger and more detailed philological reflection and explanation. 24.  As is well known, the epithet is traditional for James. Hegesippus adopts the three known attributes of James, namely “the Brother of the Lord”, “the Just” and “Oblias” (“ὠβλίας”). The first one, “the Brother of the Lord”, is in Gal 1:19 and Hegesippus in Eusebius, HE 2,23,4. The second one, “the Just”, is in Gospel of the Hebrews 7, Gospel of Thomas 12, Hegesippus in Eusebius, HE 2,23,4.7.16, First Apocalypse of James (NH V,3) 32,2-3, Second Apocalypse of James (NH V,4) 44,14(-15); 59,22; 60,12(-13); 61,14(-15). See R. Bauckham, Jude and the Relatives of Jesus in the Early Church (Edinburgh, 1990) 14. A. D. Deconick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation. With a Commentary and New English Translation of the Complete Gospel (London, 2006) 81, adds or specifies also: Epiphanius, Panarion 78,7,7; 78,14,1; First Apocalypse of James (NH V,3) 31,30 (and 32,1); 32,(6.7)12; 43,19(-21); Second Apocalypse of James (NH V,4) 49,9. We can add Clement

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his unchallenged integrity recognised even by his murders, to intercede for the people and thus to delay their final judgment. These elements are both internal and external to the fragments themselves. Let us briefly recount them. 1) First, we will notice the possible implicit parallelism between James, who saves Jerusalem, and perhaps the whole of Israel or the entire world, thanks to his justice (as we will see below), and Abraham, who fails to save Sodom and Gomorra in Gen 18:22-33 precisely because of the lack of righteous men within these cities. We may also remember the role of Moses, who allows Israel to prevail on Amalek extending his arms in Ex 17:8-16. 2) As a second argument, a Jewish traditional conviction affirms that the world would be able to subsist thanks to the existence of at least one or more tsaddiqim, as shown in Babilonian Talmud, Yoma III,38b (Rabbi Hija ben Abba says that the world would subsist even thanks to only one “just”); 25 Sanhedrin XI,97b 26 and Sukkah IV,45b 27 (according to these two texts, the 36 “righteous ones” of each generation would guarantee the perpetuation of the world). In fact, the case of Abraham may be considered as a particular case of this “general rule”: God promises him to save Sodom if at least ten righteous men can be found inside it. 3) Thirdly, with a closer and more direct connection to James, this type of conviction is probably the origin and background of the logos 12,1-2 of the Gospel of Thomas: “1. The disciples said to Jesus, ‘We know that you are going to leave us. Who will be great upon us?’ 2. Jesus said to them, ‘No matter where you come from, you should go to James the Righteous of Alexandria, Hypotyposeis 6-7 in Eusebius, EH 2,1,3-5 (about this passage, see below), and also Origen, Against Celsus 1,47; 2,13, to be compared to his Commentary on Matthew 10,17 which insists on James’ «δικαιοσύνη», referring to Flavius Josephus. For the third epithet, “ὠβλίας”, which is found only in Hegesippus in Eusebius, HE 2,23,7, see below, and the notes 30 and 31. 25.  L.  Yung, Yoma. “Translated into English with Notes, Glossary and Indices by Leo Yung”, in I. Epstein, ed., The Babylonian Talmud. Seder Moʿed. III. Yoma. Sukkah. Beẓah. Translated into English with Notes, Glossary and Indices under the Editorship of Isidore Epstein (London, 1978) XI-XIV (introduction), 1-441 (English translation), 443-481 (indexes), 180. 26.  J. Shachter-H. Freedman, “Sanhedrin. Translated into English with Notes, Glossary and Indices by Jacob Shachter (chapters I-VI), H. Freedman (chapters I-VI)”, in I. Epstein, ed., The Babylonian Talmud. Seder Neziḳin. III. Sanhedrin. Translated into English with Notes, Glossary and Indices under the Editorship of Isidore Epstein (London, 1978) XI-XVI (introduction), 1-781 (English translation), 783-863 (indexes), 659. 27.  I. W. Slotki, “Sukkah. Translated into English with Notes, Glossary and Indices by Israel W. Slotki”, in Epstein, ed., The Babylonian Talmud. Seder Moʿed. III. Yoma. Sukkah. Beẓah, V-VI (introduction), 1-277 (English translation), 279304 (indexes), 210.

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One, for whose sake heaven and earth exist’.”. This explicitly presents James the Just as the final cause of existence of heaven and earth. Once again, through various rabbinic writings, also April DeConick demonstrates how, according to the tannaim, the existence of even only one righteous man is worth the entire world, and she considers this conception to be drawn upon Pr 10:25. 28 In the rabbinic culture the righteous man can be even seen as God’s collaborator in the act of creation. 4) As a fourth point, the siege of Jerusalem by Vespasian that immediately follows James’ death (EH  2,23,18) is quite clearly introduced by Hegesippus or his source as a consequence of murdering the Just One. We will come back later on this point for a wider examination and we will see how the dependency of one event on another may be the result of considering James to be “the Just one” who protects Jerusalem, Israel or the whole world from their own ruin. As Jonathan Bourgel 29 has already observed, as long as James was praying incessantly for the forgiveness of the people, like the high priest did on Yom Kippur (“Day of Atonement”), Jerusalem could not be conquered by her enemies; after James had been killed, Vespasian besieged the city. 5) As a fifth point, the expression “rampart of the people” is employed to translate or explain the famous and mysterious epithet “ὠβλίας”, attributed to James in 2,23,7. 30 Regardless of its exact original form and meaning, it was understood as alluding to James’ protecting role as rampart, walls or defence of the city of Jerusalem at the time of Rome’s attack, as showed by Bourgel. 31 6) As a sixth argument, James is described in 2,23,5-6 as being specifically dedicated to God, 32 with features akin to those of Nazirites (cf. Nm 28.  A.  Deconick , The Original Gospel of Thomas, 80-83 for Gospel of Thomas, logos 12,1-2, particularly 81. 29.  J.  Bourgel , “Jacques les Juste, un Oblias parmi d’autres”, New Testament Studies 59 (2013) 222-246. 30.  Here is the aforementioned text of EH 2,23,7: “διά γέ τοι τὴν ὑπερβολὴν τῆς δικαιοσύνης αὐτοῦ ἐκαλεῖτο ὁ δίκαιος καὶ ὠβλίας, ὅ ἐστιν Ἑλληνιστὶ περιοχὴ τοῦ λαοῦ, καὶ δικαιοσύνη ὡς οἱ προφῆται δηλοῦσιν περὶ αὐτοῦ”; “Rightly because of the pre-eminence of his righteousness, he was called “the Just” and “Oblias”, which means in Greek “Rampart of the people and righteousness”, as the prophets show about him”. 31.  A long-lasting and still not completely solved problem concerns the exact meaning of the attribute “ὠβλίας”, a likely corrupted form of a Semitic expression that should be connected to the idea of protection and defence. There is no place to develop a complete panorama of the different possible interpretations here. Once again, for a broader presentation, I refer to my upcoming publication about Hegesippus’ fragments (cf. note 2), which also contains a thorough bibliography on the subject. 32.  This passage must be compared to James’ description in Epiphanius, Panarion, 78,7-8 (K. Holl-J.  Dummer , eds, Epiphanius. Herausgegeben im Auftrage

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6, mainly Nm 6:1-5), and already attributed to John the Baptist (Lk 1:15), to Paul (cf. Ac 18:18), and previously to various eminent Old Testament figures, like Samson ( Jdg 13:4), or Samuel (1  Sam 1:11). Moreover, he is given the characteristics of Levites and (high) priests (such as having the exclusive permission to enter the sanctuary, or the wearing of linen clothes – cf. Ex 29:39 or 28:42-44) – some of these features being shared by the nazîr (for instance, the abstention from wine and inebriating substances, cf.  Lev 10:9 about the priests’ obligation to respect this law). Levites and priests are social figures that have by definition an intercessory role with God and, more specifically, in 2,23,5-6 James himself is depicted as tirelessly committed to praying in the Temple for the forgiveness of the people. 7) More generally, as Bauckham noticed, the epithet “the Just” itself, usually attributed to James, is not only a sign of his personal quality and piety, but it also assumes a wider significance and value, because of his traditional use to describe a small number of biblical figures, first of all Abraham himself, but also Enoch and Noah, to which only the high priest Simon the Just can be compared in historical times, “legendary in Jewish memory as the last truly righteous high priest whose ministry had been blessed with the constant evidence of divine favor”. 33 8) We must also remember that the epithet “the Just” is already ascribed to Jesus before being assigned to James and it is one of the most ancient attributes of the Saviour. We find it for instance in Ac 3:14-15, where it is associated with Jesus’ sanctity and his ability to give life, but also in 7:12 der Kirchenväter-Commission der Königlichen Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften von D.  Dr.  Karl Holl. Zweite, bearbeitete Auflage herausgegeben von Jürgen Dummer, III, Panarion haer. 65-80. De fide (Leipzig, 1915-19331) Berlin, 19852 , 57-458), possibly more or less freely derived from Hegesippus according to L awlor , “The Hypomnemata of Hegesippus”, 4-18 about EH 23,4-18, particularly p. 11-12 (and p. 98-99 for Epiphanius’ text). I  will propose a detailed comparison in the monograph (cf. note 2), as well as a complete analysis of the whole passage of EH 2,23,1-19 dedicated to James, including his description in 2,23,5-7, of which the understanding and interpretation of various points are quite difficult, if not really obscure. 33.  See R. Bauckham, “James and the Jerusalem Community”, in SkarsauneHvalvik , eds, Jewish Believers in Jesus, 68. This figure is usually identified to Simon I, son of Onias I and high priest in the first half of the third century bc (sometimes also with Simeon II, son of Onias II, who lived around the end of the same century). For a list of succession of the high priests in the concerned period, see for example E. Schürer , Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes im Zeitalter Jesu Christi, I-III (Leipzig, 19014) I, 181-182, with the note 3, including references to the ancient sources, mainly Flavius Josephus, Jewish Antiquities, 1 and 2 Maccabees, Sirach, as well as to other sections of the same work where the same figures are mentioned; see in particular Id., ibid., II, 352 and 355 for Simon I, who is indeed designated as “Simon I der Gerechte” by Schürer.

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and 22:14.  3 4 This is one more element we may add to the list of the similarities between the figures of James and Jesus we studied above. 9) Moreover, in Hegesippus’ understanding of Christian origins, mainly in Jerusalem but also more generally in Judea and Galilee, not only James, but also the other Saviour’s relatives seem to inherit the same function of defender of the people, which had been linked to the main figures of the Old Testament. This aspect can also be connected to Hegesippus’ model of the beginning of Christian “heresies”, as retraced by Alain Le Boulluec. 35 As long as Simon, the son of Clopas and Jesus’ cousin, guides the Jerusalem Church 36 as James’ successor, heresies could not freely spread out. This becomes possible only after his death (see EH 4,22,4-5). As Israel was protected by its most eminent figures from enemies and dangers, so is Jerusalem preserved by James from the attack of the Roman army; in the same way, the “true faith” and “right doctrine” of the (Jewish-) Christian Church – that is the only true heir of the good part of Israel according to Hegesippus – is able to subsist thanks to the presence of Simon at the head of the Jerusalem Church so that “heresies” and “error” may not get in. The failure of the accusation against Judas’ grandsons by the “sects” (probably some Jewish non-Christian sects in Hegesippus’ model of narration 37) under Domitian (EH 3,19-20; 3,32,5-8, mainly 3,32,6), during Simon’s leading period, also gives evidence for this lecture. 38 34.  See Deconick , The Original Gospel of Thomas, 80. 35.  For Hegesippus’ heresiological model, and a reading of it in terms of Supersessionism, see above, note 6. For his “construction of memory” and his reference to different authoritative systems he finds, respectively, in the Churches of Jerusalem and Palestine and of Corinth and Rome, see above, note 5. 36.  The term “community” is still often employed referring to the group of those who believe in Jesus living in Jerusalem during the first and early second century. Nonetheless, the concept of “community” for the early Christian period needs to be discussed and defined, as shown, for instance, by E. R. Urciuoli, Un’archeologia del “noi” cristiano. Le “comunità immaginate” dei seguaci di Gesù tra utopie e territorializzazioni (I-II sec. e.v.) (Milano, 2013). Terms like “group” or “Church” – ἐκκλησία is the designation usually employed in the ancient sources of the concerned period – are now often preferred. In favour of the concept of “group”, see for example A. Destro -M. Pesce , Il racconto e la scrittura. Introduzione alla lettura dei vangeli (Roma, 2014) 81-83. 37.  In EH 3,32,4, it is said that, when the descendants of the royal tribe of the Jews where searched for, Simon’s accusers were also arrested as members of that group, which indicates that they had to be Jewish (see A ntonelli, “Hégésippe chez Eusèbe” 219, in line with Le Boulluec). 38.  I will detail a complete analysis of these passages in the monograph (cf. note 2). Nevertheless, some of the main results of my research on them have already been indicated in my paper “La rencontre des petits-fils de Jude avec l’empereur Domitien. Construction littéraire et éléments historiques dans le récit d’Hégésippe chez Eusèbe, Histoire ecclésiastique III, 19-20 et III, 32,5-8”, first presented in Paris, Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, conferences “Gnose et manichéisme” 27th May,

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Even if Hegesippus does not say it explicitly in the remaining fragments, we could suppose that the absence of Jesus’ direct relatives in Jerusalem and Palestine after the age of Trajan is the condition that allows the “heretic error” to worm itself within Christianity in the fourth and last phase of the development of “heresies” (in the first three moments, according to Hegesippus, the error had remained external to the Christian group). Therefore, the presence of Jesus’ relatives at the head of the Jerusalem Church would have absolutely prevented the “heretic error” first from spreading, and then from causing a break up within the Christian Church. The “error” would have remained out of it, until the reign of Trajan, when the lives of the last relatives of Jesus, and thus their mandate at the head of the Galilean and Judean Christian groups, came to an end. 39 10) The presence of a Rechabite during James’ murdering may easily be added to this list, as a last element that completes this picture. He is the only one who acknowledges James’ role as an intercessor, underlining the fact that he is praying for his killers; he also tries in turn to intercede and have the stoning of “the Just” stop. This figure has not been chosen by chance. In Jer 35 (= Jer 42 LXX), the Rechabites, descendants of Jonadab son of Rechab (cf. also 2  Kgs 10:15-16), form the only part of Israel that accepts Jeremy’s preaching. If Jude and Jerusalem receive their punishment because of their infidelity, the Rechabites will always stay close to God thanks to their obedience ( Jer 35:17-19). Also, their description fits well with James’: they are ascribed an abstemious way of life and fidelity to the ancestral and authentic traditions of Israel (they have no homes and do not drink wine); and an extreme sense of justice, fidelity to God and observance of his precepts. If a Rechabite has been chosen, instead of a Levite or another authoritative figure, it is probably because the environment in which James’ myth had developed, valued the existing traditions about Rechabites, as they are attested for example in the History of the Rechabites.  4 0 This people is here 2014 and “Origines du christianisme” 12th June, 2014; then in Geneva, Université de Genève, meeting of the Romance Swiss section of the Association pour l ’étude de la littérature apocryphe chrétienne (AELAC), 12th March, 2016. 39. See again A ntonelli, “Il modello eresiologico di Egesippo e le sue radici nella storia d’Israele” (cf. note 6). 40.  The extant version of this text is transmitted in Ethiopian, Syriac and Greek and it may go back to the sixth century ad, even if it surely collects and draws on more ancient narrative units. It is the result of a Christian reworking of an original non-Christian text. For an English translation of the Syriac manuscripts with notes, see J. H. Charlesworth, “History of the Rechabites”, in I d., ed., The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, II, 1985, 443-461, 443-449 for a general introduction, 444445 for the dating, original language and origin; 445-446 for possible linkage to other ancient works. Greek critical text with an English translation in Id.,  ed., The History of the Rechabites. I. The Greek Recension. Edited and Translated by James H. Charlesworth (Missoula, 1982), introduction at 1-11; Greek text and English trans-

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described as living on the Isle of the Blessed, carried there by the angels in Jeremy’s age, thanks to their careful listening to the prophet’s exhortation to repent, to stop God’s anger against Israel. In chapter 8,6 (probably belonging to a section – 8-10 – containing traditions going back to second-century Palestine) the Rechabites state: “‘And he [the Lord] heard our prayer, and turned away his anger from the city of Jerusalem. And mercy from the Lord came [lit.: and there was mercy from the Lord] to the city of Jerusalem; and he was merciful to his people, and turned away his death-bearing anger’.”. 41 So, the Hegesippian Rechabite recognises James’ role as similar to the one his own group had had in Jeremy’s times, and he takes action to make the people acknowledge it; the same people reject the Lord’s delegate, just like they had rejected Jeremy. Precisely, Jeremy’s model of the “just persecuted” must have been applied to James, but this point will not be explored here. 42 It is also interesting to notice that from a certain time onwards, the presence of the Rechabite, his part and the meaning attached to him, were not understandable anymore: in Epiphanius’ report about James’ death in Panarion 78,14, probably drawing on Hegesippus, there is no reference to the Rechabite and it is James’ future successor Simeon who tries to stop the stoning. 43

2.2.2. Which Historical Context for the Origin of Such a Tradition about James? A probable context for the birth of such an image of James is the group of believers in Jesus in Jerusalem, predominantly from a Jewish background and of which James was undoubtedly the authoritative leading figure, as attested by Paul in Gal 2:9, when referring to James as

lation at 13-107. For a status quaestionis, with bibliography, see also A.-M. Denis et al, eds, Introduction à la littérature religieuse judéo-hellénistique. Albert-Marie Denis et collaborateurs. Avec le concours de Jean-Claude Haelewyck, I-II (Turnhout, 2000) I, 486-487. 41.  Cf.  Charlesworth,  ed., The History of the Rechabites, 52-53, with slight modifications. 42.  As I showed in my PhD thesis, several elements allow to connect James’ figure and role to Jeremy’s (failed exhortation to the people to convert, cf. Jer 4; 27:1-11; as a consequence, the fall of Jerusalem, after being attacked respectively by Nebuchadnezzar and by Vespasian and Titus; life-threatening conflict with the authorities, cf. for instance Jer 26:1-16; connection to the Rechabites, etc.). A wider analysis will be offered in the above-mentioned monograph (cf. note 2), including the use about James of more general traditional schemes on the opposition between true and false prophecy. 43.  Holl-Dummer , eds, Epiphanius, III, Panarion haer. 65-80. De fide, 464465.

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one of its “pillars”.  4 4 At first, Jesus’ return in glory was probably expected to happen soon; for a comparison, see for example 1  Ts 4:15, where Paul expresses his certainty that he will still be alive at Jesus’ παρουσία. When it became apparent that it would take more time than initially expected, James’ presence in Jerusalem – while he was still alive – might have been seen as able to delay the Lord’s new coming and so the Last Judgment. By his presence, James was considered to grant the city and the part of Israel which had not acknowledged the Messiah yet (and even possibly all mankind) extra time to repent, thus allowing the accomplishment of God’s promise of salvation to his people. Possible evidence of this notion may be found in Paul, 2  Ts  2:6-7, where something or someone, the famous “κατέχον/κατέχων”, is indicated as being the cause for the eschatological enemy to delay his coming, which Christ’s παρουσία should follow. 45 Even if James has not necessarily to be identified with the very same “κατέχον/ κατέχων” Paul is speaking about (this possibility would need to be further investigated through a deep specific analysis), Paul’s letter attests that such a figure was entirely conceivable in the early Christian context we are dealing with. After James’ martyrdom, since Jesus was still delaying his advent, a new interpretation of the events had to be adopted: James’ intercession had been able to preserve the Holy City from destruction, but now no one could prevent it any more. Vespasian’s siege could take place, perhaps initially interpreted as the starting point of the events that would bring the world to its final Judgment.  4 6 James’ killing by the Jewish sects others than the Jewish-Christian one, and particularly by scribes and Pharisees (even if the first group is not strictly a sect), may thus have been read by Hegesippus and his sources – and by Eusebius who quotes him – as one of the crimes committed by the “evil part” of the Jewish people – for Eusebius, from the “Jewish people” 44.  I will not enter here the discussion on the meaning of this terminology, nor will I take into account all the abundant literature about James’ leading role, and refer to the monograph (cf. note 2) for a complete presentation of these problems and themes. 45.  Countless contributions on the problem of the «κατέχον/κατέχων» in this passage exist, including all commentaries of this letter from Paul and several studies of the early Christian eschatology. I will only mention here a rather recent work of reference: P. M etzger , Katechon. II Thess 2,1-2 im Horizont apokalyptischen Denkens (Berlin-New York, 2005). 46.  As I will explain in detail in the monograph (cf. note 2), various traditions and texts, such as Jesus’ discourse in Mk 13, may be taken as other examples of the interpretation of catastrophic events – and particularly the Judaic War – as premonitory signs of the final times of the world in a context where such a definitive end would hypothetically be expected soon, but is in fact slow to come. See for instance J. Dupont, Les trois Apocalypses synoptiques: Marc 13; Matthieu 24-25; Luc 21 (Paris, 1985), mainly the first chapter about Mk 13 (ibid. 9-47) and the problem of the “sign” of the end of times in Mk 13:7-8.14-20 (ibid. 17-20).

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itself – which would finally lead them to their ruin with the falling of the Holy City of Jerusalem (EH 2,23,1.19). Besides, if Flavius Josephus’ perception of Jerusalem’s siege as a punishment for Jews’ offence against James the Just is surely a Christian construction, it nonetheless shows that this interpretation had to be quite widespread in the Jewish-Christian milieu of the late first century – EH 2,23,20, which conveys this idea and is attributed by Eusebius to Flavius Josephus, is absent in Josephus’ manuscripts and must be considered as a Christian interpolation. 47 2.3. The Transposition of Biblical Expressions into a Narrative Form. The Use of Testimonia to “Construct” the Story: Is 3:10 and Other Linked Passages But let us go on with our analysis of the means Hegesippus uses to build his narrative. A well-known device in ancient Christianity consists in reading a biblical verse, a testimonium, as a prefiguration of the narrated events. The latter can so be interpreted as an accomplishment of the divinely inspired Scriptures (that is, the writings later identified as the “Old Testament”) that had already mentioned them. It could also happen that scriptural verses, words, expressions and parables that had been read as referred to a particular character or event in the story (or even to the story as a whole), were transposed into a narrative form, thus adding new elements to the original account in order to give it a particular meaning or to strengthen the adopted interpretation of it. 48

47.  See for example M. Simonetti,  ed., Flavio Giuseppe, Storia dei Giudei da Alessandro Magno a Nerone (“Antichità giudaiche”, libri XII-XX),  837-838, note 131. Jones , “The Martyrdom of James in Hegesippus”, 322 [291], even wonders if the fact that “the onslaught of the Romans immediately followed James’ martyrdom” […] “was later transferred from James’ martyrdom to the death of Jesus”. 48.  Such a composing technique has been observed in other ancient Christian texts, for instance in the Ascension of Isaiah and in the apocryphal literature about Mary the mother of Jesus, both studied in detail by E. Norelli, L’A scensione di Isaia. Studi su un apocrifo al crocevia dei cristianesimi (Bologna, 1994); I d., Marie des apocryphes: enquête sur la mère de Jésus dans le christianisme antique (Genève, 2009). But we can already find the same narrative construction (the reworking in a narrative form of originally non-narrative texts) in the accounts of Jesus’ Passion. Just an example: the sharing of Jesus’ clothes in Mk 15:24 and Jn 19:24, clearly constitutes a narrative rewriting of Ps 22:19. This kind of literary device has not been studied in a general, systematic and comprehensive way for Hegesippus yet, but R. Bauckham started following this trail and suggested an interpretation of the passage about James as depending on the themes and structures of Ps 118 (“James and the Jerusalem Community”, 68-69; I d., “For what offence was James put to death?”, in B. Chilton-C. A. Evans , eds, James the Just and Christian origins (Leiden, 1999) 199-232.

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In Hegesippus’ environment, the search for testimonia concerning James, with a particular focus on his “justice”, was probably widespread: in EH 2,23,7 the epithets “the Just” and “Oblias” are explicitly explained as attributed to James “ὡς οἱ προφῆται δηλοῦσιν περὶ αὐτοῦ”. Even the development of Christian heresies was described as foreseen and explained by the way of testimonia (Ps 2:2), as Hegesippus’ passage in EH 4,22,6-7 shows. 49 Different examples could be given for our text, but we will limit ourselves to just one, and refer to the monograph (cf. note 2) for a broader demonstration. In EH 2,23,15, the verse Is 3:10 is clearly read as referring to the death of James, the quintessential “Just One” (2,23,15 distinctly affirms that scribes and Pharisees “fulfilled the Scripture attested in Isaiah”). Is 3:10 is quoted in its “Christian” form, “ἄρωμεν τὸν δίκαιον”, “let’s take away the Just”, which is different from the LXX usual one, “δήσωμεν τὸν δίκαιον”, “let’s bind the Just”. 50 We find the same form in Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 136,2 and 137,3-4, where the verse is connected to the person of Jesus and his death. 51 Once again, this parallelism is a sign of the particular way Hegesippus understands James, as some kind of “new Jesus” who demonstrates the same features. It is not impossible that this “Christian form” had originated in a kind of gezera shava connecting different passages mentioning “the Just”: Is 3:10, Pr 1:12 and Wis 2:12. The verbal form “ἄρωμεν” could derive from Pr 1:12 LXX, where the ungodly men are presented as instigating the people against “the Just”, “ἄνδρα δίκαιον”, suggesting to “take away”, or “remove” the memory of him from the earth, “ἄρωμεν αὐτοῦ τὴν μνήμην ἐκ γῆς”. Through this kind of “enchained exegesis” a link could also have been made with Wis 2:12 LXX, which contains the very same words as Is 3:10, save for a different verb: “ἐνεδρεύσωμεν τὸν δίκαιον ὅτι δύσχρηστος ἡμῖν ἐστιν, κ.τ.λ.”, “let us set an ambush to the Just, because he is inconvenient to us, etc.” (once again, Wis 2:12-20, which has surely been connected to Jesus’ Passion, may also have inspired the accounts about James). Once connected, all these passages about “the Just” could have easily been read as a prefiguration of James’ death.

49.  See A ntonelli, “Hégésippe chez Eusèbe”, 220 and the note 100; see also the forthcoming publication (cf. note 2) for a more detailed analysis. 50.  L e Boulluec , La notion d ’hérésie dans la littérature grecque. IIe-IIIe siècles, I, 93, note 212 and, before him, W. Telfer , “Was Hegesippus a Jew?”, Harvard Theological Review 53 (1960) 134-153; 146. 51.  For Justin’s quotations of the Old Testament following the LXX or some alternative textual form, see O. Skarsaune , The proof from prophecy. A study in Justin Martyr’s proof-text tradition (Leiden, 1987) 25-92; for Is 3,10 and other Isaiah passages: ibid. 30-32; for the use of the same form than Is 3,10 in Justin and Hegesippus, referring respectively to Jesus and to James: ibid. 290.

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Finally, we can observe that the choice of Is  3:10 in its specific form containing the verb “αἴρω” could have been motivated by the wordplay between both meanings of the verb: “raise” and “rid (oneself) of somebody”. But there is more. The very existence in the Scriptures of a verse speaking of a just “of whom they rid themselves of ” could have helped to build an account in which James was thrown from the pinnacle, thus playing on the double meaning of the verb “αἴρω”. This process would have provided the basis for a linkage between the biblical passage and the death of James, interpreted as its accomplishment. The falling from a high place, which could probably be historical (since it is associated to the stoning), is thus highlighted and emphasized, thanks to its connection to the pinnacle of the Temple and to its prophetic announcement. 3. Th e C ompa r i son w i t h O t h e r A nci e n t S ou rce s R e fe r r i ng to t h e S am e E pi sode a s a n I ns t ru m e n t to U n de r s ta n d H ege si ppus ’ F or m of t h e A ccou n t The Three Ways James dies: thrown from the Pinnacle of the Temple, stoned and beaten by a Fuller’s club. A  Transposition into a Narrative Form of the “Parable of the Murderous Tenants”? This last consideration leads us to a final question to which the studied text must confront: why did Hegesippus describe James’ death in such a complex way that includes three different kinds of execution? I will suggest that this description, even if partially based on historical elements, is once more the result of an “ideological construction” of the account, which is built on the application to James of the “Parable of the Vineyard” or “of the Murderous Tenants” (Mk 12:1-12; Mt 21:33-45; Lk 20:9-19). Indeed, if it is quite clear that Hegesippus tries to put together different traditions in a more or less coherent and reliable way, it is important to determine the reasoning he follows while doing this. To achieve this, it will be helpful to keep in mind the other ancient accounts of the events. 52 52.  All these accounts have newly been collected by S. C. M imouni, Jacques le Juste, frère de Jésus de Nazareth, et l ’histoire de la communauté nazoréenne-chrétienne de Jérusalem du Ier au IVe siècle (Montrouge, 2015) 219-236. The author offers a succinct analysis of each source, with reference to some of the scholars’ studies and opinions about James’ death. He also offers a summary and a global interpretation of the available data (236-240) and an excursus about the connection between James’ death and the siege of Jerusalem in the ancient sources and traditions, particularly those by Origen. Jones , “The Martyrdom of James in Hegesippus”, particularly 328-334 [297-304], considers all the extant accounts of James’ death as depending on Hegesippus (including what he calls “an unevaluated Coptic text containing the martyrdom of James”, ibid., 334 [304]). The overall complex

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Flavius Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews 20,IX,1 [= 20,197-203], 53 also related by Eusebius, EH 2,23,21-22, is the most ancient source and probably the closest to the historical facts. As a non-Christian Jew, Josephus did not have any particular reason to relate the events in an ideological or partial way, and so he likely writes them as he knows them. 54 He only mentions the stoning (20,200), the usual way of punishing a blasphemy crime in the Judaism of that time, which is probably one of the reasons why James was condemned. 55 According to Josephus’ account, the new high priest Ananus the Younger, who received his office in 62 from the king Herod Agrippa, and who was a Sadducee “bold in his temper, and very insolent” (“θρασὺς ἦν τὸν τρόπον καὶ τολμητὴς διαφερόντως”, 20,199), took advantage of the period of transition of the office of governor of Judea and he “καθίζει συνέδριον κριτῶν καὶ παραγαγὼν εἰς αὐτὸ τὸν ἀδελφὸν Ἰησοῦ τοῦ λεγομένου Χριστοῦ, Ἰάκωβος ὄνομα αὐτῷ, καί τινας ἑτέρους, ὡς παρανομησάντων κατηγορίαν ποιησάμενος παρέδωκε λευσθησομένους”, “assembled the Sanhedrim of judges, and brought before them the brother of Jesus, who was called Christ – James was his name – and some others; and after creating an accusation against them as if they had broken the law, he delivered them to be stoned”. 56 Josephus does not provide any particular details regarding James’ killing: he only says that he was stoned, along with other people (about whom we have no more information, neither here nor from other sources), for being accused “to have broken the law”. Clement of Alexandria alludes to the falling from the pinnacle and to the fuller, with no reference to the stoning. The note is part of a larger passage in Clement’s Hypotyposeis 6-7 quoted by Eusebius, EH 2,1,3-5 (to which Eusebius refers in 2,23,3, in his introduction to our passage). In EH 2,1,5 (from Hypotyposeis 7), Clement says: “δύο δὲ γεγόνασιν Ἰάκωβοι, εἷς ὁ δίκαιος, ὁ κατὰ τοῦ πτερυγίου βληθεὶς καὶ ὑπὸ γναφέως ξύλῳ πληγεὶς εἰς θάνατον, ἕτερος δὲ ὁ καρατομηθείς”, “and the “Jameses” were two: the first one, the Just, the one who was thrown from the pinand important problem of the literary dependences of the sources in question will be discussed in our larger study on Hegesippus (cf. note 2). 53.  Critical edition in B. Niese ,  ed., Flavii Iosephi opera edidit et apparatu critico instruxit Benedictus Niese. 4. Antiquitatum iudaicarum libri XVI-XX et vita (Berolini, 1890). 54.  See also M imouni, Jacques le Juste, 222. 55.  About the reason of James’ condemnation, see Bauckham, “For what offence was James put to death?” (which M imouni, Jacques le Juste, 87-88, also refers to). 56.  For this passage, see Niese ,  ed., Flavii  Iosephi opera. 4. Antiquitatum iudaicarum libri XVI-XX et vita, p. 309-310; my English translation. See also the Italian translation by M, Simonetti,  ed., Flavio Giuseppe, Storia dei Giudei da Alessandro Magno a Nerone (“Antichità giudaiche”, libri XII-XX). Introduzione, traduzione e note a cura di Manlio Simonetti, 546-547.

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nacle and was beaten to death with a fuller’s club; the other one, the one who was beheaded”. 57 It is therefore reasonable to think that Hegesippus aimed, among other things, to combine (at least) two pre-existent and rivalling traditions, the stoning (attested by Flavius Josephus) – possibly including the falling from the pinnacle, as we will see – and the beating to the head (attested by Clement of Alexandria together with the falling). Besides, Clement is more recent than Hegesippus and he may even have employed him as his own source. Nevertheless, it would be difficult to explain why, if Clement had known Hegesippus, he would have chosen two torments – being thrown and beaten up – excluding the third one, i.e. the stoning, which was in addition the one also related by Flavius Josephus. It is more probable that Clement had another source, which was not Hegesippus, from which he received the note about the fall and the fuller, possibly the same kind of source Hegesippus had used. The First Apocalypse of James (Codex Tchacos II, 29,18-30,26 and NHC V,3 42,20-44,10) 58 is quite difficult to compare to the other texts 57.  Schwartz ,  ed., Eusebius Werke, I, 1903, 104. For Clement’s Hypotyposeis, see B. G. Bucur , “The Place of the Hypotyposeis in the Clementine Corpus: An Apology for “The Other Clement of Alexandria”, Journal of Early Christian Studies 17 (2009), 313-335; see also I d., Angelomorphic Pneumatology. Clement of Alexandria and Other Early Christian Witnesses (Leiden, 2009). Critical edition of the extant fragments in O. Stählin-L.  Früchtel-U.  Treu, eds, Clemens Alexandrinus, herausgegeben von Otto Stählin. Band 3. Stromata Buch  VII und VIII. Excerpta ex Theodoto. Eclogae propheticae. Quis dives salvetur. Fragmente. Herausgegeben von Otto Stählin. In 2. Auflage, neu herausgegeben von Ludwig Früchtel. Zum Druck besorgt von Ursula Treu (Berlin, 19702) 198-199 (text of fragments 10-EH 2,1,3-and 13-EH 2,1,4-5) and XVI-XVII (commentary). Clement’s Hypotyposeis were probably a concise exegesis of passages from the Ancient and New Testament. According to Paul Nautin, followed by Bogdan G. Bucur, they would originally have been part of the conclusive section of Clement’s Stromateis: in fact, the materials that are nowadays in Stromateis 8,9,25,1-33,9, Excerpta ex Theodoto and Eclogae propheticae would derive from the Hypotyposeis, which would have followed the current Stromateis. See P.  Nautin, “La fin des «Stromates» et les «Hypotyposes» de Clément d’Alexandrie”, Vigiliae Christianae 30 (1976) 268-302; now also Bucur , Angelomorphic Pneumatology, 8-21. A  wider study of Clement’s passage will be made in the monograph (cf. note 2). Z ahn,  ed., Forschungen zur Geschichte des neutestamentlichen Kanons, VI, Apostel und Apostelschüler, 232, observes that Clement had probably already mentioned the martyrdom of both “Jameses” in a previous passage from Hypotyposeis, likely commenting the book of Acts. 58.  For the text of the Codex Tchacos, which is much better preserved than the other one, see R. K asser -G.  Wurst-M.  M eyeR-F.  Gaudard, eds, The Gospel of Judas. Together with the Letter of Peter to Philip, James, and a Book of Allogenes from Codex Tchacos. Coptic text edited by Rodolphe Kasser and Gregor Wurst; introductions, translations, and notes by Rodolphe Kasser, Marvin Meyer, Gregor Wurst, and François Gaudard (Washington, D. C., 2007) 115-117 (introduction); 119-161 (Coptic text and English translation); 163-176 (French translation); 159-161 for the martyrdom passage. For the Nag Hammadi text, see W. R. Schoedel , “The (First)

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because of its fragmentary form, particularly in the martyrdom section. Nonetheless, it seems to mention the stoning only. The Second Apocalypse of James 61,15-63,32, 59 even if depending on Hegesippus (see the analysis by F. Stanley Jones 60) or on a common JewishChristian source (as assumed, for example, by Richard Bauckham 61) Apocalypse of James V, 3: 24,10-44,10” in D. M. Parrot, ed., Nag Hammadi Codices: V, 2-5 and VI with Papyrus Berolensis 8502, 1 and 4 (Leiden, 1979) 65-149 (65-67 introduction; 68-103 Coptic text on the even pages and English translation on the odd ones), 101-103. See also A. Veilleux, La première apocalypse de Jacques (NH V,3). La seconde apocalypse de Jacques (NH V,4), texte établi et présenté par Armand  Veilleux (Québec, 1986) 19-114, La (première) Apocalypse de Jacques. NH V,3 (24,10-[44],10), Coptic original (even pages) and French translation (odd pages), with a commentary; for our passage 59-63. Revised Veilleux’s French translation in Id.,  “Deux Apocalypses de Jacques (NH V,3 et 4)”, in J.-P. M ahé et  al., eds, Ecrits gnostiques. La bibliothèque de Nag Hammadi. Edition publiée sous la direction de Jean-Pierre Mahé (Paris, 2007) 59-760. 59.  C. W. H edrick , “The (Second) Apocalypse of James V, 4: 44,11-63,32” in Parrot, ed., Nag Hammadi Codices: V, 2-5 and VI with Papyrus Berolensis 8502, 1 and 4, 105-149, for our passage 143-149. Hedrick, ibid., 105 explains: “The fourth tractate in Codex V has been given the modern title The (Second) Apocalypse of James in order to distinguish it from V, 3, since both documents have the same ancient title (44,8-12)”; he also adds that the twenty pages (44-63 in the codex) of the work are transmitted in a fragmentary form and that the lower part of each page is missing (excepted 53/54 and 63); in the last section (53-63, including the martyrdom account, which is ibid., 143-179), the top of the page is also variously damaged. See also Veilleux, La première apocalypse de Jacques (NH V,3). La seconde apocalypse de Jacques (NH V,4), 115-198, La (seconde) Apocalypse de Jacques. NH V,4 ([44],11-63,32), 153-157. Cf. Id., Deux Apocalypses de Jacques (NH V,3 et 4), 774-776. For a previous edition with commentary, see W. P. Funk , Die zweite Apokalypse des Jakobus aus Nag-Hammadi-Codex  V. Neu herausgegeben, übersetzt und erklärt von Wolf Peter Funk (Berlin, 1976), with the Coptic original (even pages) and the German translation (odd pages). See ibid., 44-49 for James’ martyrdom and his final prayer; ibid., 171-192 for a commentary including comparisons with Hegesippus. For a German translation edited with a subdivision in chapters and paragraphs (instead of only indicating the page and line of the Nag-Hammadi codex), see ibid., 77-86, 85-86 for the martyrdom. 60.  F. S. Jones , An Ancient Jewish Christian Source on the History of Christianity: Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions 1.27-71 (Atlanta, 1995). See the extended chapter Isolation of the Source Material, 111-155, about the pre-existent text upon which Recognitions would be based, particularly 138-150, Relations to Jewish and Other Early Christian Writings, mainly 142-146 for potential common sources and literary dependence between Recognitions, Hegesippus in Eusebius EH 2,23,4-18 and Second Apocalypse of James 61,12-62,16. See also the aforementioned I d., “The Martyrdom of James in Hegesippus”. Along the same line, Veilleux, ibid., 178-179, “Tout le récit s’inspire foncièrement de la tradition d’Hégésippe, à laquelle plusieurs détails ont été ajoutés, empruntés à la tradition rabbinique”. 61.  In favour of a common tradition from which Hegesippus and the Second Apocalypse of James would independently derive, see Bauckham, Jude and the Relatives of Jesus, 29. He says of Second Apocalypse of James that “its account of the martyrdom of James the Lord’s brother (61:1-62:14) is probably independent from

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contains elements that could reflect the customs of the first and second centuries, albeit in an enriched narrative way. The falling, the blows and the stoning seem to constitute different moments of the stoning itself, which, according to Mishnah, Sanhedrin VI,42b-45b, began with the fall of the convict from a high place (about this point, see VI,45a-45b). 62 Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions  I, 66-70 have a completely rewritten account of the events, in which James does not even die (the Enemy in person, here identified with Paul, makes him fall from the staircase of the Temple – the “high place” in this version; he is certain to have killed him, but it is not the case, so that his companions can bring him to safety). 63 Therefore, Hegesippus (or his sources) probably tried to combine different pre-existing traditions, all ultimately deriving from the actual stoning; but before that, he also added the Christological debate between James and the notables, and he read the entire sequence in light of Jesus’ experience. The interlacing of the three moments of James’ death may work well in this logic, if explained as a narrative rewriting of the parable of the Murderous Tenants. First, it is totally understandable that Hegesippus’ group, considering itself as the only legitimate heir to the Chosen People, had no Hegesippus’ account but derived ultimately from the same Jewish Christian tradition”. For this conclusion Bauckham (see his note 83) follows S. K. Brown, “Jewish and Gnostic Elements in the Second Apocalypse of James (CG V,4)”, Novum Testamentum 17 (1975) 225-237, particularly 227-231 and W. P ratscher , Der Herrenbruder Jakobus und die Jakobustradition (Göttingen, 1987) particularly 241-251 and 255. Bauckham also underlines the gnostic and anti-Jewish character of the work. 62.  See Bardy, ed., Eusèbe de Césarée. Histoire ecclésiastique. Livres  I-IV, 88 note 25 with a reference to Schürer , Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes im Zeitalter Jesu Christi, I, 582, note 46. A description of the procedure can be found also in J. J. Rousseau-R.  A rav, eds, Jesus and His World. An Archaeological and Cultural Dictionary (London, 1996) 264. For the text, see Shachter , Sanhedrin (chapters I-VI), 275-299, particularly p. 295-299 for the mention of the high place. 63.  As is well known, Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions are only transmitted in Syriac and in the Latin translation by Rufin, both from a Greek original; a few Armenian fragments are also available. A critical edition of the Latin text can be found in B. R ehm, ed., Die Pseudoklementinen, herausgegeben von Bernhard Rehm. Zweite verbesserte Auflage von Georg Strecker. II, Rekognitionen in Rufins Übersetzung (Berlin, 1994 2). For the Syriac text, see W. Frankenberg,  ed., Die syrischen Clementinen mit griechischem Paralleltext. Eine  Vorarbeit zu dem literargeschichtlichen Problem der Sammlung, von Wilhelm Frankenberg (Leipzig, 1937), including a back-version in Greek by the author. For a synoptic English translation of the Syriac text and of the Latin one, as well as of the Armenian fragments when available, with an introduction, see the previously cited F. S. Jones , An Ancient Jewish Christian Source, 51-109, with Recognitions  I, 66-71, ibid., 101-109. About the problem concerning the connection and relationship between the different textual forms, see ch. 2, The Latin and Syriac  Versions and the Lost Greek Recognitions, p. 39-49. See also R. E. Van Voorst, The Ascents of James: History and Theology of a JewishChristian Community (Atlanta, 1989).

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difficulties to use for itself the image of the vineyard traditionally applied to Israel (for example cf. Is 5:1-7). Moreover, high priests, scribes, Pharisees and Elders are exactly the ones to whom the parable is addressed as “murderous tenants” of the vineyard, according to the different Synoptic versions: it was quite easy to connect them to the scribes and Pharisees who finally kill James. These characters are missing in Josephus and in all the other sources and may have been inserted by Hegesippus on purpose, to make both accounts match on this point. Furthermore, the image of the suffering servant (the servants, then the son of the Lord of the vineyard), sent by the Lord but rejected, mistreated and even killed by the ruling classes, fits very well with James’ description. Likewise, the imminent return of the Lord to avenge his servants and son, as announced in the parable, is well understandable in a context of eschatological expectation like the one we have supposed for James’ time. That way, James would also belong to the series of persecuted righteous figures and prophets, of which Jesus himself came to be part. The very way James dies may be explained by means of this parable. In Mt 21:35 we find the exact same tortures Hegesippus describes for James, save for the falling down, to which there is no specific reference: “ὅν μὲν ἔδειραν, ὅν δὲ ἀπέκτειναν, ὃν δὲ ἐλιθοβόλησαν”, “and they beat one, killed another, and stoned another”. Nonetheless, about the son it is said that “λαβόντες αὐτὸν, ἐξέβαλον ἔξω τοῦ ἀμπελῶνος καὶ ἀπέκτειναν”, “they caught him, and cast him out of the vineyard, and killed him”, with the idea of a violent physical expulsion of the victim. Mk 12:4 explicitly mentions the blow to the head to one of the servants, “κἀκεῖνον ἐκεφαλίωσαν”. The  three torments suffered by James may retrace the triple killing described in the Matthean form of the parable, by parting the two likely historical moments of the stoning – the falling from the pinnacle and the stoning itself – into two separate tortures, as seen above. We have also already observed that the beating itself may have been part of the historical stoning procedure, which may have further facilitated the fusion of the parable and of the historical facts into the new account of James’ death as constructed by Hegesippus. Moreover, in the Lives of the Prophets (anonymous version), the same kinds of death are used in relation to the holy men: in 2,1 Jeremy is stoned; in 7 Amos is killed “with a club, by striking him on the temple”, after being tortured.  6 4 According to Solomon of Basra, Book of the Bee 32, 64.  Greek critical edition in T. Schermann.  ed., Prophetarum vitae fabulosae, indices apostolorum discipulorumque Domini, Dorotheo, Epiphanio, Hippolyto aliisque vindicata, inter quae nonnulla primum edidit recensuit Schedis  Vir.  Cl. Henr. Gelzer usus prolegomenis indicibus testimoniis apparatu critico instruxit Theodorus Schermann (Lipsiae, 1907) 68-98, 71-74 for Jeremy, 81 for Amos. For an English translation, see D. R. A. H are , “The Lives of the Prophets”, in Charlesworth, ed.,

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the last death corresponds to Joel’s (and not to Amos’): in spite of its late date (thirteenth century), this varying attribution of a same torture could be a sign of the tendency to transfer a particular kind of death or “martyrdom” from certain holy figures to others. 65 Reading James’ experience in light of the parable of the Murderous Tenants made it also possible to ascribe to him some of the various ways a prophet was supposed to die. 4. C onclusion (s) To conclude, we will sum up in a few lines the overall results of our analysis, referring to our forthcoming study of Hegesippus’ fragments (cf. note 2) for a more thorough and comprehensive evaluation of the passage about James, in dialogue with the other extant passages from the same author and with the other available sources about the Brother of the Lord. There are many different literary devices at work in Hegesippus’ Hypomnèmata, and probably already in his sources and environment. Such devices allow him to combine historical elements, traditional convictions, biblical features and Christological characteristics to form a new and rather original, even if not always totally coherent, account. Through this, he aims at building and conveying a particularly powerful and authoritative image of James the Just, the Brother of the Lord, and of his death, which is read as a strong and impressive testimony to Jesus the Messiah.

The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, II, 379-399, 386-388 for Jeremy, 391 for Amos. About the complex and numerous problems connected to the literary history and the textual transmission of the Lives of the Prophets, see Denis et al., eds, Introduction à la littérature religieuse judéo-hellénistique, I, 577-607, with a rich introduction and bibliography. For an Italian translation, with introduction and notes, see G. Lusini, “Vite dei Profeti”, in P. Sacchi,  ed., Apocrifi dell ’Antico Testamento (Brescia, 2000) 527-570. 65.  E. A. Wallis Budge ,  ed., The Book of the Bee.  The Syriac Text Edited from the Manuscripts in London, Oxford, and Munich, with an English Translation by Ernest  A. Wallis (Oxford, 1886) 1-142 for the English translation, 69 for the note about Joel. An Arabic version of the Book of the Bee exists, and is also studied in this work. Throughout its 55 chapters, Solomon discusses different themes, among which Creation, the natural elements, various biblical episodes and figures of the history of salvation (patriarchs, prophets, kings, etc.), facts concerning Jesus according to canonical but also apocryphal narratives, the apostolic and Church era, the final coming of the Antichrist and the final resurrection.

IV. Early Christian Groups and Literature

T HE G OSPEL OF T HOMAS AND PAUL Status Quaestionis, Historical Trajectories, Methodological Notes Andrea A nnese Since the discovery of the complete Gospel of Thomas (hereafter Th) at Nag Hammadi, scholars have examined the possible relationship of this gospel with other early Christian, Jewish, Hermetic, and Middle Platonist texts and traditions, trying to identify its sources, or at least some telling parallels of its logia. For decades, this field of the Thomas-Forschung has heavily focused on the canonical gospels, with different approaches and conclusions. 1 For what concerns the attempts to identify other sources, a well-known example is the (particularly systematic) three-source hypothesis proposed by Gilles Quispel (although it has not gathered broad consensus). 2 In this scenario, far less space has been dedicated to the Pauline (and deutero-Pauline) epistles. This issue, though, is now emerging as a new research path. Until the first decade of the twenty-first century, practically no specific study appeared, and the relationship between Th and Paul was addressed only in a few works, as a part of broader discourses and regarding simply some conceptual similarities; by contrary, in the last ten years (since 2008), several studies that deal directly with the topic “Th and Paul,” and which investigate the possibility that some Pauline passages could represent the source of some Th’s logia, have been published. This essay aims at summarizing and discussing these new researches, as well as 1.  Useful reviews, on this and other issues, are: F. T. Fallon-R. Cameron, “The Gospel of Thomas: A Forschungsbericht and Analysis,” in Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II 25.6 (1988) 4195-4251; N. Perrin, “Recent Trends in Gospel of Thomas Research (1991-2006): Part I, The Historical Jesus and the Synoptic Gospels,” Currents in Biblical Research 5  (2007) 183-206; N. Perrin-Ch.W. Skinner , “Recent Trends in Gospel of Thomas Research (1989-2011). Part II: Genre, Theology and Relationship to the Gospel of John,” Currents in Biblical Research 11 (2012) 65-86; P. P iovanelli, “«Un gros et beau poisson». L’Évangile selon Thomas dans la recherche (et la controverse) contemporaine(s),” Adamantius 15 (2009) 291306. 2.  The most recent formulation of Quispel’s thesis can be read in his “The Gospel of Thomas Revisited” [or. ed. 1981], now in J. van Oort, ed., Gnostica, Judaica, Catholica. Collected Essays of Gilles Quispel (Leiden-Boston, 2008) 175-225 (with an “Additional Note,” 224-225). From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 405-427.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117949

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some of the earlier studies, and at proposing some considerations (on the pertaining historical context, the circulation of the Pauline epistles, and the composition of Th) which also may outline further research tracks. 3 1. Th e E a r ly S t u di e s 1. One of the first studies to have dealt with the relationship between Th and Paul is an article by Peter Nagel, often overlooked by the studies on this specific issue, probably because of its general title: “Erwägungen zum Thomas-Evangelium” (1969). 4 In effect, it is not a specific study on “Th and Paul,” but it provides some interesting elements. Comparing Paul’s usage of Deut 30:12-14 in Rom 10:5-8 (where Paul modifies Deut) with Th 3, 5 Nagel identifies some similarities between the Pauline formulation and the Thomasine one, concluding that Paul must have known the saying attested in Th 3 (“der Spruch muß Paulus bekannt gewesen sein”) while writing Romans. 6 Then, Nagel analyzes the relationship between Th 17 7 and 1 Cor 2:9, another case in which Paul would make a “Paraphrase eines alttestamentlichen Textstückes.” Again, Nagel argues that Paul knew the saying in Th 17 and was influenced by it. According to Nagel, Paul (as well as the author of the Apocalypse of John) knew some of Th’s logia, 3.  As for the status quaestionis, this article will be inevitably selective: it is not possible to consider every reference to Paul in the literature on Th (e.g., simple mentions of parallels or brief considerations, in the commentaries or other works); the studies that will be discussed are those which have a (more or less) specific focus on the matter. It is worth also notifying that this contribution has been submitted for publication at the end of 2017, then it does not survey literature published after that date (except for one piece of work, briefly mentioned). 4. P.  Nagel , “Erwägungen zum Thomas-Evangelium,” in F. A ltheimR. Stiehl , ed., Die Araber in der alten Welt, V/2 (Berlin, 1969) 368-392. 5.  The Coptic version of Th 3 reads: “Jesus said, If those who lead you say to you, ‘See, the kingdom is in the sky,’ then the birds of the sky will precede you. If they say to you, ‘It is in the sea [Greek: ‘under the earth’],’ then the fish will precede you. Rather, the kingdom is inside of you, and it is outside of you” (trans. Th.O. L ambdin, “The Gospel According to Thomas,” in B. L ayton, ed., Nag Hammadi Codex II,2-7 together with XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4926(1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655, I [Leiden, 1989]). The saying continues by making reference to “knowing oneself ” and knowing to be “sons of the Father.” 6. P.  Nagel , “Erwägungen zum Thomas-Evangelium,” in F. A ltheimR. Stiehl , ed., Die Araber in der alten Welt, V/2 (Berlin, 1969) 371; cf. 375, 378, and 385: “[U]nter den Sprüchen des Thomas-Evangeliums sich solche befinden, die mit Sicherheit Paulus bei der Abfassung seines Römer-, des ersten Korinther- und Galaterbriefes bekannt waren” (385). 7.  “Jesus said, ‘I will give you what no eye has seen and what no ear has heard and what no hand has touched and what has not ascended into the heart of man’” (trans. mine).

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that is, sayings that were very old, contemporary to the first phase of the formation of Q (mid-first century). This would mean that Paul’s knowledge of Jesus’ logia was greater than it was supposed: Paul had access to a wider “pool” of sayings. These considerations show Nagel’s perspective, which in its focus on the sayings’ tradition could be compared with Stephen Patterson’s one, as we will see. However, from these and other data (e.g. mistranslations in the Coptic version), Nagel concludes that Th had an “aramäische Vorlage,” that its original text was an Aramaic one. 8 At least some of Th’s logia, then, would come from an early phase of the tradition, maybe from a very old collection. 9 Nagel wants to demonstrate that Paul’s formulations (Rom 10; 1 Cor 2) are later than those of the sayings transmitted by Th, and that are influenced by them. 10 It should be noticed that Nagel never says here (as far as I can see) that Paul knew the Gospel of Thomas, but says that he knew some sayings which are attested in the Gospel of Thomas. Those logia were perhaps part of the Aramaic substratum of Th, but this is not the same as maintaining that Th as a (complete) gospel existed in the fifties of the first century, and that Paul had knowledge of it. 2. Among scholars who hinted at similarities between Paul and Th, one could also mention Stevan Davies (see especially his book The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Wisdom, 1983, and his article “The Christology and Protology of the Gospel of Thomas,” 1992). 11 But Davies is not interested in tracing genetic relations between texts, or in reasoning about who 8. P.  Nagel , “Erwägungen zum Thomas-Evangelium,” in F. A ltheimR. Stiehl , ed., Die Araber in der alten Welt, V/2 (Berlin, 1969) 392; see also 379, 384-385. On the idea of a Semitic substratum for Th (proposed already by Antoine Guillaumont in the late 1950s) see recently A. D. DeConick , Recovering the Original Gospel of Thomas: A History of the Gospel and its Growth (London-New York, 2005) 232-235, who supports the thesis that “the Gospel of Thomas was composed in Aramaic dialect(s) rather than Greek” (232). 9. Cf.  P. Nagel , “Erwägungen zum Thomas-Evangelium,” in F. A ltheimR. Stiehl , ed., Die Araber in der alten Welt, V/2 (Berlin, 1969) 387: “Es hat sich gezeigt, daß das Thomas-Evangelium gattungsmäßig in der Nachfolge der ältesten Sprüche steht. Und weiter: daß zumindest eine Reihe seiner Sprüche auf diese älteste Sammlung zurückgeführt werden kann.” 10.  For a criticism of Nagel’s hypothesis, see S. Gathercole , “Paul and the Gospel of Thomas,” in I d., The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas: Original Language and Influences (Cambridge, 2012) 227-249: 233, n. 15, who maintains that Nagel’s observations demonstrate the similarities between Th’s and Paul’s versions (as for Th 3 and Rom 10), but are not sufficient to demonstrate dependence; he also rejects Nagel’s argument for “Paul’s dependence on Th” in 1 Cor 2:9 (ibidem, p. 242, n. 38). 11. S. Davies , The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Wisdom (New York, 1983); I d., “The Christology and Protology of the Gospel of Thomas,” Journal of Biblical Literature 111/4 (1992) 663-682.

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influenced whom, nor carries out a specific comparison of texts. For example, in his 1983 book, Davies speaks of similarities between Th 3 and Gal 3:26-29; 4:6-9 (on being a “son of God” and being “known by God”); 12 between some of Th’s and Paul’s ideas on baptism (analyzing in particular Th 22); 13 between Th and some passages from the deutero-Pauline Colossians. 14 In the 1992 article, dealing with the issues of “Jesus as Image” and “man after the image,” Davies writes that “Thomas offers a view of Christian transformation not terribly different from the Pauline view. For Paul, Christ is the Image of God (cf. 2 Cor 4:4) and the ‘second Adam’ who is the man of heaven.” 15 Davies refers to 1 Cor 15:45-49 as well, on bearing the image of the man of heaven, who is Jesus, the Image of God. Then he quotes Col. 1:15 and 3:9-11, on restoring the original image, and concludes: “Insofar as Paul believes that people can (or will soon) attain to the condition of Christ the image of God and thus replace the condition of Adam of Genesis 2 with the condition of the image of God of Genesis 1, Thomasine and Pauline ideas are similar.” 16 Afterward, Davies describes other “points of agreement” between Th and Paul: for instance, both would conceive the Kingdom as the establishment in the world of the original condition of the image of God; both would share “the idea of an end that is a return to the beginning,” although Th’s eschatological perspective (in contrast to Paul) is that of actualized eschatology. 17 Davies is aware of the theological differences between Th and Paul (he also mentions the Pauline focus on the cross), but according to him “even such substantial differences should not obscure the points of agreement between them.” 18 As for the dissimilarities – and to understand Davies’ way to approach the issue “Th and Paul” – chapter eight of his 1983 volume is telling: it is titled “Thomas and First Corinthians,” but it does not deal with a comparison of these two texts, nor speculates on dependence/ independence. Davies’ concern, here, is to show that “ideas like those in Thomas were present in Corinth when Paul wrote his first letter,” without 12. S. Davies , The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Wisdom (New York, 1983) 48-50. 13. See ibidem, 127-135, esp. 130: “Thomas apparently knows nothing of the specifics of Pauline theology. This is especially evident in those places where Thomas most clearly reflects the baptismal reunification formula. Thomas never gives any indication of knowledge of baptism as death and resurrection, an idea which surely was one of Paul’s major contributions to subsequent Christianity. Still, Paul and Thomas seem to share some ideas regarding baptism derived from common primitive tradition.” 14.  Ibidem, 105-106, 132-133, 135. 15. S. Davies , “The Christology and Protology of the Gospel of Thomas,” Journal of Biblical Literature 111/4 (1992) 668. 16.  Ibidem, 669. 17.  Ibidem, 679-680. 18.  Ibidem, 677.

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assuming that “the Gospel of Thomas was actually in use in Corinth,” which is “impossible to claim.” 19 1 Cor 1-4 would testimony “to the antiquity of many of the central ideas” of Th (Davies dates Th at 50-70 ce). 20 Paul, in these chapters, would argue against Christians who held “Thomasine-like” ideas: an actualized eschatology, in which the baptismal liturgy was understood in terms of “the full acquisition of Christian Kingdom and treasure in the present.” 21 More recently, Andrew Crislip (in an article of 2007) has quoted Davies’ statement about a similar view of transformation in Th and Paul, as an example for supporting the possibility of a “Pauline-Thomasine connection”: for Crislip, Th 7 is an allegorical treatment of the issue of resurrection, an issue which is Paul’s concern in 1 Cor 15. 22 Risto Uro also pointed out some similarities between Th’s and Paul’s views of the resurrected body; 23 however, as said above, these studies are not interested in verifying the possibility of a relationship of dependence between those texts. 2 . S t e ph e n Pat t e r son : Pau l , Thom as , t h e S ay i ngs Tr adi t ion

and

Patterson’s studies could be listed in between the early and the new ones, not only for chronological reasons (his first works on this topic dates back to 1990/1991, but he updated them in 2013), but also because, in his more recent publications, he briefly deals with one of the proponents of the “new perspective” on Th and Paul. Patterson provides some useful data, in highlighting similarities between Th and Pauline passages, but his interest is not specifically in “Th and Paul,” but in “Paul and the sayings tradition,” i.e. in the possible relationship between Paul and transmission trajectories of Jesuanic sayings. This was clear already in the Introduction to Th that Patterson wrote for the Q-Thomas Reader (1990), a paragraph

19. S. Davies , The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Wisdom (New York, 1983) 144-145. 20.  Ibidem, 145. For Davies’ dating of Th, see ibidem, 3, 146-147. 21.  Ibidem, 141. 22.  “It is not surprising that a logion in the Gospel of Thomas should speak in terms evocative of, although not necessarily dependent on, Pauline theology. Such a Pauline-Thomasine connection is by no means unsupported in Thomas studies” (A.  Crislip, “Lion and Human in Gospel of Thomas Logion 7,” Journal of Biblical Literature 126/3 [2007] 595-613: 608). 23. R. Uro, Thomas: Seeking the Historical Context of the Gospel of Thomas (London, 2003) 74-77.

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of which was titled “The Gospel of Thomas and Paul.” 24 This, basically, corresponds with part of his article “Paul and the Jesus Tradition” (1991, revised ed. 2013), where Patterson argues that Th “may help us to better understand the relationship between Paul and Jesus movement,” 25 enlarging our view of the Jesus tradition: Paul could have known various streams of tradition, various trajectories, not only those which flowed into the Synoptics. In particular, Th would show a development of the sayings tradition that Paul did not agree with, and this could contribute to explain why he “ultimately shied away from making extensive use of the sayings tradition.” Here, Patterson explicitly refers to the polemic that emerges in 1 Cor 1-4: the “wisdom theology” of the group that Paul is quarreling with is similar to the theology represented in some Thomasine logia (saving power of wisdom, l.  1; the metaphor of “reigning”, l.  2; the presence of the reign, l.  3, etc.). 26 In this context, Patterson discusses 1 Cor 2:9-10a, where Paul quotes a saying that is paralleled in Th 17. 27 Do those similarities indicate that Paul’s opponents in Corinth were “Thomasine Christians”? Patterson does not think that this is the case. But, for him, Th shows “the potential of the sayings tradition to produce precisely the sort of views Paul was combating in Corinth.” 28 This would explain why Paul came “to reject the tradition of Jesus’ sayings,” though on other issues he had agreed with the sayings tradition, i.e. in terms of “social radicalism.” Another part of this Patterson’s essay, in fact, aims to show that “certain sayings in Thomas suggest how Paul may have arrived at some of his classic positions, such as the annulment of circumcision for Gentiles, 24.  S. J. Patterson, “The Gospel of Thomas. Introduction,” in J. S. K loppenet al., ed., Q-Thomas Reader (Sonoma [CA], 1990) 77-123: 108-114. 25. S. J. Patterson, “Paul and the Jesus Tradition: It is Time for Another Look” [or. ed. 1991], in I d., The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins (Leiden, 2013) 237-260: 245. 26. Rightly, Patterson (ibidem, 254) recalls that already H. Koester (“One Jesus and Four Primitive Gospels,” Harvard Theological Review 61/2 [1968] 203247: 230) highlighted this point. We have seen a similar concern in Stevan Davies’ works. 27.  Ibidem, 252-254. In the 1991 version, Patterson had written “Paul quotes a saying from the Gospel of Thomas” (S. J. Patterson, “Paul and the Jesus Tradition: It is Time for Another Look,” Harvard Theological Review 84/1 [1991] 23-41: 36): this was misleading, and in the 2013 version Patterson better explains his view – he means that “Paul quotes a saying, a version of which is also found in the Gospel of Thomas” (The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins [Leiden, 2013] 246, n. 32). 28.  Ibidem, 258. On this Corinthian “wisdom theology” and the background of 1 Cor 1-4, in its possible relationship with material that later flowed into Th, see also L. Walt, Paolo e le parole di Gesù. Frammenti di un insegnamento orale (Brescia, 2013) 181-204, 219-220, 226; on 1 Cor 2:9 and Th 17 (with other parallels), see 199-204 (however, Walt does not take a position on the issue of potential dependence/independence). borg

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the relativizing of dietary laws, and the inclusion of women as leaders in the church.” 29 As is clear, Patterson’s perspective is not the search for possible relations of dependence between Th and Paul. In the 2013 version of this essay, however, he adds some clarifications that help to understand his ideas on the matter. He considers “highly unlikely that the Gospel of Thomas might have been a source for Paul,” 30 since it post-dates all of the authentic Pauline letters (Patterson dates Th “in the last decades of the first century or the early part of the second”). Paul did not know Th, but Th contains sayings that Paul could have known. On the other hand, Patterson is skeptical about the thesis that Th might have known some Pauline epistles: he rejects Simon Gathercole’s hypothesis that Rom 2:253:2 is a source for Th 53 (I will discuss it below). 31 If anything, Patterson writes, “one could imagine indirect influence of Paul on the Jesus saying that appears in Thomas 53.” In another article, “The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Beginnings” (2006, republished in 2013), Patterson gets back on the similarities between Th and some Pauline texts. As the title clearly shows, this essay as well is not dedicated to “Th and Paul,” and those analyses are included in a paragraph that addresses the relationship between Jewish mysticism and early Christianity, working on the traces of Jewish mysticism in Paul and Th. Again, the aim of this essay is not a detailed comparison between Pauline and Thomasine texts, nor the search for influences. 32 However, Patterson’s observations are very stimulating. He touches themes such as 29. S. J. Patterson, “Paul and the Jesus Tradition: It is Time for Another Look,” in I d., The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins (Leiden, 2013) 260, cf. 246-251; cf. Th 53, 14, 114. 30.  Ibidem, 245-246, cf. 255. 31.  Ibidem, 247-248, n. 37: Patterson comments that this is possible, but unlikely. Since Th “lacks any apparent interest in Paul’s theology or themes” (such as justification by faith), it is not clear why Th’s author “would comb through Romans looking for raw materials by which to create new Jesus sayings.” Probably Patterson exaggerates some aspects of Gathercole’s thesis, speaking of an author who “combs through Rom”: see below, my analysis of Gathercole and Skinner’s theses on the direct or indirect use of Paul in Th. 32.  He wants to show that Th should be included among the other early Christian texts, to be analyzed in their plurality, to achieve a better historical reconstruction. “Understanding Thomas in itself, as part of the diversity of Early Christianity, will help us to see and understand aspects of other, better known ways of being ‘Christian’, that we have not noticed before. The idea of mystical transformation, present in Paul’s letters, and continuing on a trajectory in the Pauline school tradition, […] is an example of how the presence of something in Thomas might serve to draw our attention to that same odd something elsewhere in the more familiar texts of early Christianity” (S. J. Patterson, “The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Beginnings” [or. ed. 2006], in I d., The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins [Leiden, 2013] 261-276: 275).

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the vision of glory, the illumination (a revelatory and ecstatic experience which implies a transformation), the “image of God,” the metaphor of the light. Patterson quotes e.g. 2 Cor 3:18 and 4:4.6; Gal 3:28; Th 22, 24, 50, 61, 77, 83. 33 Commenting on 2 Cor 3:18, he writes: “What is most striking here is the idea […] that one who beholds the glory of God will be transformed by the experience into the likeness, or ‘image’ (εἰκών) of God – God’s human form.”  3 4 For Paul this is Jesus Christ, this is the Image to which all believers will conform. Regarding Th 22, Patterson states: “Thomas’ description of part-by-part bodily transformation is only a more vivid statement of what Paul speaks of as being transformed gradually, ‘from one degree of glory to another’, until finally the believer comes to share the same glorious ‘image’ as Christ (2 Cor 3:18).” 35 On “becoming like Jesus” he conveniently cites Th 108. In my opinion, it is possible to take advantage of these observations, even in the search for possible intertextuality between Th and Paul (see below, par. 3.5, on Th 83). 3. Thom as

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As said above, in the last ten years some studies specifically focused on the Pauline epistles as possible sources for Th have appeared. More than a scholar performed quite systematic analyses to verify whether, in certain logia, Th was influenced (in direct or indirect way) by some Pauline passages. 1. The first of them was Simon Gathercole, who in 2008 published his essay “The influence of Paul on the Gospel of Thomas (§§ 53.3 and 17)”; an updated version was included, as a chapter titled “Paul and the Gospel of Thomas,” in his book The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas (2012). In the two versions, Gathercole’s arguments basically remain the same – he analyzes some Th’s logia in comparison with Pauline passages, arguing that Th shows Pauline influence – although there are some little, but 33.  “These or similar ideas are all thoroughly at home in the Gospel of Thomas. Thomas also speaks of the image of God, in which there is light, and from which those who encounter it may also receive illumination (Thom 83; 61:5)” (ibidem, 271). On the “image of God” see also S. J. Patterson, “Jesus Meets Plato: The Theology of the Gospel of Thomas and Middle Platonism” [or. ed. 2008], in I d., The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins [Leiden, 2013] 33-59: 43-50; on p. 47, also 1 Cor 15 and Col. 3:10-11 are mentioned. 34.  S. J. Patterson, “The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Beginnings,” in I d., The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins (Leiden, 2013) 272. 35.  Ibidem, 273. On Th 22, in comparison with Gal 3:28, see L. Walt, Paolo e le parole di Gesù. Frammenti di un insegnamento orale (Brescia, 2013) 324-325, who highlights the differences between the Thomasine and the Pauline formulations.

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important, modifications, additions, or clarifications. The most noticeable one is the following: in the 2008 version Gathercole wrote that “the Gospel of Thomas is aware of Pauline traditions and/or literature,” 36 whereas in the 2012 one he more cautiously stated that Th “is aware of at least one Pauline epistle” (i.e. Rom), 37 since the other texts analyzed (e.g. 1 Cor) provide less certainties. The passages examined by Gathercole (searching for influence in language) are Th 53 and Rom 2:25-3:2; Th 3 and Rom 10:7; Th 17 and 1 Cor 2:9. 38 In the first instance, he sees a real case of literary influence: the linguistic similarities push him to conclude that “there is a high degree of probability that Paul [Rom 2:25-3:2] is influencing Thomas here [Th 53].” 39 Gathercole correctly notes that Th and Paul have a different view of the value of circumcision (Th “is more straightforwardly negative”): his point is that “the shared vocabulary […] is a factor which leads one to suspect an influence in one direction or the other.” Th and Rom share vocabulary as for “the advantage of circumcision,” the “circumcision in the Spirit,” and the conjunction “or” in the first sentence (here the Coptic text uses the Greek loanword, ⲏ). Moreover, those two texts share a “question-and-answer format” that, in effect, is not present in other texts that speak of “circumcision in the Spirit” (such as Deut 10:16, 30:6, or Jer 4:4). The shared use of this rhetorical device could represent another evidence of an influence. Lastly, Gathercole deals with the direction of the influence, stating that it goes from Paul to Th, for two chronological 36. S. Gathercole , “The influence of Paul on the Gospel of Thomas (§ § 53.3 and 17),” in J. Frey-E. E. Popkes-J-. Schröter , ed., Das Thomasevangelium. Entstehung – Rezeption – Theologie (Berlin, 2008) 72-94: 73. Cf. the conclusion: “To the literature subsequent to Paul which bears the marks of the apostle, we should now add the Gospel of Thomas” (94). This sentence is not present in the 2012 version. 37. S. Gathercole , “Paul and the Gospel of Thomas,” in his The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas (Cambridge, 2012) 227-249: 228. This books also contains a chapter where Gathercole (even more cautiously) hypothesizes a possible influence of Heb on Th: “The Epistle to the Hebrews and GTh 56; 80; 111,” ibidem, 250262. 38.  Th 53 runs: “His disciples said to him, ‘Is circumcision an advantage or not? [ⲡⲥⲃⲉ ⲱⲫⲉⲗⲉⲓ ⲏ ⲙⲟⲛ]’ He said to them, ‘If it were an advantage, fathers would beget (children) by their mothers already circumcised. Rather, true circumcision in the Spirit is entirely profitable’” (trans. S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas [Leiden, 2014] 420). For the text of Th 3 and 17 see above, footnotes 5 and 7. After the analysis of these three cases, in the conclusion of the 2012 version Gathercole adds: “Other possible instances, where evidence is not sufficient to establish influence, include 1 Tim. 3.16 and GTh 28.1 taken in combination with 1 Tim. 6.7 and GTh 28.3. Skinner has tentatively suggested that GTh 29, 70 and 87 may be further instances” (S. Gathercole , “Paul and the Gospel of Thomas,” in I d., The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas [Cambridge, 2012] 248, n. 55). I will resume Christopher Skinner’s article below. 39.  Ibidem, 232.

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reasons: a) “The outright rejection of circumcision is a later phenomenon than the more qualified position expressed by Paul,” and b) Rom pre-dates Th – even scholars who support an early composition of a “kernel Th” (Crossan, DeConick) consider Th 53 to be a later accretion.  4 0 Th 53, at the present state of research, is probably the most clear instance of possible Pauline influence on Th. 41 The second case, Th 3 and Rom 10, is for Gathercole a case of Thomasine reception of Paul’s “redaction”: “Paul’s use of Deuteronomy 30 in Romans 10 lies behind Thomas’s use of Deuteronomy 30, such that the reception in Thomas is mediated through the reception in Paul.” 42 Differently from the other parallels (e.g. Deut LXX; Baruch; Philo), Paul and Th share a contrast between the “heaven” and what is “below,” the “abyss” (they reinterpret the contrast between “up in heaven” and “across the sea”). Again, the direction of influence would be from Paul to Th, since Paul shows direct knowledge of Deut, whereas Th does not, and since – if the direction was the opposite – it would be difficult to imagine that Paul came to know the saying like Th 3 but then “reintroduced some of the Deuteronomic elements which the sayings tradition had dropped.” 43 However, for what concerns the Pauline influence, Gathercole assigns to this case a lesser degree of probability than that of Th 53. The third case (Th 17 and 1 Cor 2:9) is even less secure; it would be, again, an instance of Th’s reception of Pauline “redaction” – in this case, of a traditional Jewish formula. We may comment that the terminology that Th and 1 Cor share can be found also in other parallels of this saying and could originate from that unknown (Jewish?) preexisting source. But Gathercole’s main argument for the possibility of dependence is based on the context and the meaning of the saying: “Paul and Thomas use the formula in ways which are similar to each other, but not to their predecessors” (cf. Isa 64:3 LXX [64:4]; 65:16 LXX [65:17]; Pseudo-Philo’s Biblical Antiquities 26.13; etc.), and this would demonstrate the possibility (though not the certainty) that “Paul’s interpretation of the formula 40.  Ibidem. Previous quotations are from p. 230-232. 41.  See also U.-K. Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas: Original Text with Commentary (Eng. trans., Stuttgart, 2008) 135-136, who sees a similarity “almost verbatim” between Th 53 and the Pauline text from Rom.  M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso. Introduzione, traduzione e commento (Rome, 2011), although does not pronounce on which text may have influenced the other, states that the verbal similarities “sono tali da far pensare a una relazione tra i due testi come una possibilità tutt’altro che remota” (189). See, lastly, L. Walt, Paolo e le parole di Gesù. Frammenti di un insegnamento orale (Brescia, 2013) 250-256, esp. 256 on Th 53 and Rom 2-3. 42. S. Gathercole , “Paul and the Gospel of Thomas,” in I d., The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas (Cambridge, 2012) 233. For the reference to “Paul’s ‘redaction’” see 228. 43.  Ibidem, 237.

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has influenced Thomas’s usage in this respect.”  4 4 This similar usage, for Gathercole, is the meaning of “what no eye has seen etc.” as “the content of saving revelation.” A soteriological and/or revelatory meaning of Th 17 has been identified also by other scholars 45 and, though the former is less certain, it is clear that the saying attested in Th 17 has at least a revelatory meaning, as it is also in 1 Cor (vv. 7.10a), and that this meaning was not present in the earlier parallel texts. Gathercole’s argument seems to be persuasive. It should be noticed that, on this possible influence, he prudently writes that it is “not demonstrable” that Th knew 1 Cor, and that it is preferable thinking that “Thomas is influenced by Paul via an intervening stage – a source which has also been shaped by Paul’s specific usage of the formula.”  4 6 Here I cannot discuss this issue in detail, but – as I have maintained elsewhere – the possibility of an influence (direct or indirect) of 1 Cor upon Th is far from unlikely (though not certain). Moreover, in my opinion, one should add 1 John 1:1 to the possible sources of Th 17. 47 The considerations that Gathercole dedicates to the nature of the influence from Paul to Th are extremely interesting. Those pages contain some methodological elements that could be worth considering. Firstly, the idea that the influence of Pauline texts on Th should not necessarily be conceived as a direct knowledge of those texts: it could be an indirect use. 48 44.  Ibidem, 243. 45.  For the soteriological meaning, see e.g. R. Nordsieck , Das Thomas-Evangelium: Einleitung. Zur Frage des historischen Jesus. Kommentierung aller 114 Logien (Neukirchen-Vluyn, 4., erweiterte Auflage 2014 [2004]) 91-93. For the revelatory meaning, see I. Dunderberg, The Beloved Disciple in Conflict? Revisiting the Gospels of John and Thomas (Oxford 2006) 79; A. D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation. With a Commentary and New English Translation of the Complete Gospel (London-New York, 2006) 100; M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Rome, 2011) 144. Th 17 contains both meanings according to B. Gärtner , The Theology of the Gospel According to Thomas (New York, 1961) 202; U.-K.  Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas (Stuttgart, 2008) 73; probably Ch.W. Skinner , “The Gospel of Thomas’s Rejection of Paul’s Theological Ideas,” in M. F. Bird J.  Willitts , ed., Paul and the Gospels: Christologies, Conflicts and Convergences (London, 2011) 220-241: 232 (where he quotes Gathercole), cf. 237. In any case, in Th the soteriological and the revelatory meanings, far from being mutually exclusive, are closely related: see e.g. incipit and logion 1; l.  19; l.  108. 46. S. Gathercole , “Paul and the Gospel of Thomas,” in I d., The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas (Cambridge, 2012) 244. 47.  See my article “The Sources of the Gospel of Thomas: Methodological Issues and the Case of the Pauline Epistles (With a Focus on Th 17 // 1 Cor 2:9),” in Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 35/2 (2018) 323-350. Gathercole chooses to “ignore” the “additional complication of the possible relation between 1 John 1:1-4 and Thomas 17” (S. Gathercole , “Paul and the Gospel of Thomas,” in I d., The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas [Cambridge, 2012] 238, n. 24). 48. About Rom, Gathercole writes: “It is possible that the author of Thomas had heard Romans read out, or had even read it himself. But he may alternatively have received snippets of Romans-influenced tradition from somewhere else”

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Secondly, the thesis that Th uses “Pauline language for somewhat un-Pauline (though not necessarily anti-Pauline) ends”: a language influence does not necessarily imply an agreement in theological perspectives (themes and language could be adopted, but reinterpreted). 49 Thirdly, the issue of the circulation of Pauline epistles: Gathercole conveniently wonders whether Rom (for instance) was available at the stage of Th’s composition in Greek (he traces the influence there). He reminds us that, although there are no certainties about the circulation of Pauline epistles in the late first and early second centuries, it is acknowledged that they circulated (also separately) even beyond the particular communities to which they were addressed. One may consider the evidence from Ignatius of Antioch, who – as claimed by many scholars – knew some Pauline epistles: “if Romans was known there [in Antioch], this lends plausibility to the idea that Romans influenced the perhaps Syrian Thomas.” 50 Obviously, the same argument could also be valid for other Pauline (and even deutero-Pauline) epistles. I will comment this issue in the last paragraph of this essay. 2. Christopher Skinner has agreed with Gathercole’s thesis that Th was aware of Pauline traditions and/or literature and has carried on further research on the topic. In his article “The Gospel of Thomas’s Rejection of Paul’s Theological Ideas” (2011) he analyzes the relationships between some Th’s logia and passages from Rom, 1 Cor and 2 Cor.  To the three cases mentioned by Gathercole (Th 3 and Rom 10:5-8; Th 17 and 1 Cor 2:9; Th 53 and Rom 2-3), Skinner adds other three, which he considers to be “other, less clearly identifiable instances of Pauline influence on the Thomas,” 51 i.e. Th 29 and 2 Cor 4:7; Th 70 and 2 Cor 4:16-18; Th 87 and Rom 7:24. As for the first three instances, Skinner is more confident than Gathercole, arguing that Th is dependent upon Paul. For example, commenting on Th 17, Skinner explicitly states that “those responsible for the composition of Thomas knew and used 1 Cor. 2.9.” 52 Substantially, however, in these cases Skinner’s arguments for dependence are in agreement with Gathercole’s ones, which he recalls. Where he takes “a step (S.  Gathercole , “Paul and the Gospel of Thomas,” in I d., The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas [Cambridge, 2012] 245). 49.  Ibidem (quotation is from p. 245). For Gathercole, this could be the case of Th 53, and this phenomenon is paralleled in other authors/texts, such as Justin and Barnabas (ibidem, 246). 50.  Ibidem, 247. 51.  Ch.W. Skinner , “The Gospel of Thomas’s Rejection of Paul’s Theological Ideas,” in M. F.  Bird -J.  Willitts , ed., Paul and the Gospels: Christologies, Conflicts and Convergences (London, 2011) 220-241: 235. 52.  Ibidem, 232. Another noticeable difference is that for Gathercole the proverb quoted in 1 Cor 2:9 is a pre-Christian formula, whereas Skinner tends to consider Paul as “the originator of the proverb” (231).

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further” is in considering “how the Pauline traditions have been modified, reworked, or completely rejected in the light of Thomas’s peculiar theological interests.” 53 Skinner borrows from Gathercole the idea of a Thomasine usage of “Pauline language for un-Pauline ends,” but revises it, speaking of a “use of Pauline language for Thomasine ends”: according to Skinner, “in each Paul-Thomas parallel, Thomas modifies the Pauline tradition to support a theological idea that is uniquely Thomasine,” and this usage “is evidence of Thomas’s rejection of (at least some) of Paul’s theological ideas.” 54 Skinner also differs from Gathercole in adding other three cases on the basis of what he calls a usage of the “criterion of coherence”: “Material that coheres with established Pauline influences on Thomas may constitute evidence for further Pauline influence.” 55 This is one of the additional methodological observations that Skinner introduces; another significant one is the emphasis on the importance of oral transmission for early Christian documents. This might shed a new light on the relationships between Th and Paul, and helps avoiding – as Skinner writes – “the illegitimate application of a modern ‘cut and paste’ model.” 56 It is not mandatory to think that the redactor(s) of Th read the written Pauline texts, because he/they could have been acquainted with Pauline material through other ways of transmission. 57 On the other hand, a point that may be discussed is Skinner’s confidence in identifying a clear dependence

53.  Ibidem, 222. 54.  Ibidem, 238. Cf. 237-238: “The authors of Thomas decided to pick and choose elements from Paul (as well as other early Christian traditions) in order to support their theological views.” Here I mention just one of Skinner’s arguments on this point, that on Th 3 and Rom 10: since Th’s and Paul’s soteriologies are different, “when Thomas makes use of a Pauline soteriological text like Rom. 10.5-8, the material is altered in a way that will not contradict the former’s understanding of soteriology and will help support another Thomasine view – in this case, the internal presence of the ‘kingdom’” (237). 55.  Ibidem, 234. 56.  Ibidem, 224; here Skinner also recalls that “it is not always possible to establish that a relationship between two or more ancient Christian documents goes back to a written text. A given saying may have circulated widely in oral form, and the decision to incorporate that saying into a written text may have been made without recourse to a written source.” See also 228, on Th 3 and Rom 10: “we cannot know for certain that Thomas is relying upon a written text of Romans. Thomas’s use of this Pauline material may have been mediated through oral tradition.” 57.  The importance of orality for Th’s compositional process has been stressed by several studies: in particular, see the model proposed by A. D. DeConick , Recovering the Original Gospel of Thomas: A History of the Gospel and its Growth (London-New York, 2005), esp. 55-63 (and 244 on the implications of the “rolling corpus model […] for the issue of literary dependence on other early Christian literature”). See also R. Uro, Thomas: Seeking the Historical Context of the Gospel of Thomas (London, 2003) 106-133.

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of Th upon Paul, even in cases (such as Th 17) where a more cautious stance seems to be preferable. 3. In the same volume where this article by Skinner appeared, it was published another study which deals with the relationship between Th and Paul: “Death and the Human Predicament, Salvation as Transformation, and Bodily Practices in 1 Corinthians and the Gospel of Thomas,” by Joshua W. Jipp. Jipp is skeptical about any direct influence between Th and Paul, 58 and thus his perspective is different from Gathercole and Skinner’s one, approximating instead that of Davies and Patterson (though he wants to “refine” it), i.e. the analysis of themes/concepts common to Th and Paul, searching for “commonalities, differences and shared religious backgrounds.” 59 Jipp wants “to examine the relationship between Thomas and Paul, particularly 1 Corinthians, […] not as a means for discerning any direct influence (of which I am sceptical), but rather with the hope that the comparison may refine some of our comparisons between Pauline and Thomasine Christianity as well as help us to see their particular contributions to early Christianity.” 60 Jipp addresses the following themes: death, transformation, “image and light,” interpretations of Gen 1-3, bodily practices. Comparing passages from Th and 1 Cor (but also 2 Cor 3:18 and 4:4.6), Jipp concludes that, although Th and Paul employ similar language and motifs (e.g. on “‘image’, ‘light’, ‘glory’ and the primordial man”), 61 they interpret these motifs in very different ways. 62 In his view, this difference does not witness a reaction, or an influence: “If it is the case that Thomas is aware of Pauline texts and traditions, it is remarkably disinterested in direct conversation with, or polemic against, Paul’s legacy.” 63 But one could observe that Th and Paul’s perspectives on the “image” are not so different (see e.g. the aforementioned considerations by Davies and Patterson), and that some caveats might be attached to the thesis of Th’s “disinterest”: probably Th does not want to polemicize against Paul, but it could be possible to show that (the final redaction of) Th is dealing (also) with some Pauline texts and motifs, although reworking them in an autonomous way. 4. More recently, also AnneMarie Luijendijk has written on “Th and Paul”: her 2013 essay “Buried and Raised: Gospel of Thomas Logion 5 and 58.  J. W. Jipp, “Death and the Human Predicament, Salvation as Transformation, and Bodily Practices in 1 Corinthians and the Gospel of Thomas,” in M. F.  Bird J.  Willitts , ed., Paul and the Gospels (London, 2011) 242-266: 244; cf. 242, n. 2. 59.  Ibidem, 242. 60.  Ibidem, 244. 61.  Ibidem, 258. 62.  Ibidem, 264-266. Cf. 244: Th and Paul “employ similar motifs for their own ends.” 63.  Ibidem, 266.

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Resurrection” examines “different interpretations of Jesus’ resurrection” in Th, “and its possible connections to (traditions in) 1 Corinthians.”  6 4 As is known, the Greek version (P. Oxy. IV 654,27-31) of saying 5 is longer than the Coptic one (NHC II 33,14-23), for it ends in: (there is nothing) “buried that [will] no[t be raised].” It is debated whether the Coptic represents an omission, or the Greek an addition, as well as whether the differences could rely on different views on resurrection. Luijendijk argues that this final phrase (in the longer version) “alludes to or represents a tradition that Paul transmits in 1 Cor 15” and that “its combination with the synoptic saying about ‘hidden and revealed’ has both a literary and a theological component.” 65 More precisely, she contends that “the phrase in Thomas echoes the tradition that Paul presents in 1 Cor 15:4,” 66 since the juxtaposition of “to bury” and “to raise” appears rarely beyond quotations of and commentaries on 1 Cor 15:4. This possible connection between Th 5 and 1 Cor 15:4 is a new finding by Luijendijk, and supplements the (at least) six parallels previously suggested. That textual relation implies two options: “either Thomas knew the tradition that Paul refers to in this passage through oral transmission or he alludes to 1 Corinthians.” 67 Here Luijendijk cites the above-mentioned studies by Gathercole, Skinner and Jipp, cautiously concluding that Th may incorporate a tradition also preserved in 1 Cor (as in Gathercole’s view on Th 17), 68 but “yet it could also be that this new phrase strengthens the case that Thomas knew 1 Corinthians, just as it did Romans, as evidence is now compounding.” 69 5. Lastly, also the author of the present contribution has dealt with the issue “Th and Paul.” In an article published in 2017 (“Logion 83 and the ‘Image’ in the Gospel of Thomas: Relationships with Some Pauline and

64.  A. M. Luijendijk , “Buried and Raised: Gospel of Thomas Logion 5 and Resurrection,” in E. I ricinschi et al., ed., Beyond the Gnostic Gospels. Studies Building on the Work of Elaine Pagels (Tübingen, 2013) 272-296: 272. 65.  Ibidem, 288. According to Luijendijk, the Greek version of Th that circulated in third-century Egypt (Oxyrhynchus) “presumes physical resurrection, which results in a very different theology of the Gospel of Thomas than that based on the Nag Hammadi version” (295). 66.  Ibidem, 289. 67.  Ibidem, 290. 68.  It is important to remind, however, that for Gathercole that tradition was shaped by Paul, thus – ultimately – Th 17 was influenced (though indirectly, in the case of 1 Cor) by Paul. 69.  Ibidem, 291. Cf. also the prudent assertion on p. 295: “I have argued that logion 5 combines early Christian traditions present also in the Synoptics and in the Pauline corpus (whether this means dependence on those sources is a different question).”

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Early Christian Texts”), I examined Th 83, 70 one of the logia concerning the themes of “image,” “light,” “glory,” “revelation/illumination,” “transforming vision,” arguing that this saying should be related to some Pauline, deutero-Pauline and Johannine texts. My article aimed to show that logion 83 refers not only to anthropological and protological issues, but also (and significantly) to christological ones – this appeared to be a way to explain the meaning of the enigmatic expression “image of the light of the Father.” 71 This saying could be understood without relating it to Gnosticism; it seems to interact with some Pauline and Johannine motifs, and to evoke Gen 1 but also reflections on Christ as “Image,” connecting eschatology and protology. It is a complex logion which intertwines even different perspectives, or better, connects motifs coming from texts of different perspectives. The Pauline texts I referred to were mainly 2 Cor 3:14:6 (especially 3:18 and 4:4.6), 1 Cor 15:45-49, Gal 3:28, and the deuteroPauline Col 1:15-20 and 3:9-11. Th 83 does not have a specific, extensive verbal correspondence with one or all of these passages (though it does share at least some crucial words): therefore, my argument was more akin to Skinner’s additional cases or Luijendijk’s suggestion than to Gathercole’s and Skinner’s analyses on Th 3, 17, and 53. My point, in that article, was that referring to those Pauline passages (and to, e.g., John 1) is helpful 70. A. A nnese , “Logion 83 and the ‘Image’ in the Gospel of Thomas: Relationships with Some Pauline and Early Christian Texts,” in Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 34/1 (2017) 71-88. This difficult logion has been translated in very diverse ways; my attempt is: “Jesus says: ‘The images are visible to man, but the light within them is hidden. In the image of the light of the Father, it will be revealed; but his image is/remains concealed by his light’ [ⲡⲉϫⲉ  ϫⲉ ⲛϩⲓⲕⲱⲛ ⲥⲉⲟⲩⲟⲛϩ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ⲡⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲡⲟⲩⲟⲉⲓⲛ ⲉⲧϩⲏⲧⲟⲩ ϥϩⲏⲡ ϩ ⲑⲓⲕⲱⲛ ⲡⲟⲩⲟⲉⲓⲛ ⲡⲉⲓⲱⲧ ϥⲛⲁϭⲱⲗⲡ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲧⲉϥϩⲓⲕⲱⲛ ϩⲏⲡ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϩⲓⲧ ⲡⲉϥⲟⲩⲟⲉⲓⲛ]” (Coptic text: B. L ayton, ed., Nag Hammadi Codex II,2-7 together with XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4926(1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655, I [Leiden, 1989]). For similar translations, see S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 2014) 509; B. Gärtner , The Theology of the Gospel According to Thomas (New York, 1961) 202; E. H aenchen, Die Botschaft des Thomas-Evangeliums (Berlin, 1961) 29. 71.  For a christological reading of this phrase, see also F. F. Bruce , Jesus and Christian Origins Outside the New Testament (London, 1974) 144-145: “The ‘image of the Father’s light’ is presumably Christ (cf. 2 Corinthians 4.4; Colossians 1.15), who cannot be adequately perceived by those who are still in mortal body. When mortality is at last sloughed off, he will be fully manifest (cf. Colossians 3.4; 1 John 3.2).” Cf. P. Pokorný, A  Commentary on the Gospel of Thomas: From Interpretations to the Interpreted (New York, 2009) 128, although in his interpretation Th 83 has a Platonic-Gnostic background. Other scholars maintain that, in Th, Jesus is referred to as “Image,” though in other logia: in Th 50, for M. L elyveld, Les Logia de la vie dans l ’Évangile selon Thomas: A la recherche d ’une tradition et d ’une rédaction (Leiden, 1987) 107; in Th 24, for J. W. Jipp, “Death and the Human Predicament, Salvation as Transformation, and Bodily Practices in 1 Corinthians and the Gospel of Thomas,” in M. F.  Bird -J.  Willitts , ed., Paul and the Gospels (London, 2011) 264.

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(perhaps necessary) for understanding the meaning of Th 83 and the way it resonates (and deals) with Gen 1-2. In particular, 2 Cor 3-4 addresses the same cluster of issues that runs through Th 83. 72 This logion, which probably belongs to a late stage of Th’s compositional history, could deal with trajectories developed in other early Christian texts and groups; it could represent an example of theological reasoning on anthropological, christological and protological themes, interacting with its “sources.” In this sense, one may speak of a “Pauline influence” on Th 83. It should be considered, however, that this influence may also have been indirect (one should avoid a “cut-and-paste” model, thinking rather to the diverse and fluid transmission processes of early Christian texts and ideas, between textuality and orality), and that a potential Pauline influence in language or in some ideas does not imply that Th would have also shared Pauline theology: as Gathercole and Skinner have pointed out, Th (not differently from other early Christian traditions) could rework some texts and themes for its own ends. 73 4. H i s tor ica l Tr aj ector i e s , M et hodologica l N ot e s The last part of this essay will be dedicated to some methodological considerations on the historical context and the composition of Th.  The first issue to be raised is the availability/circulation of the Pauline epistles. Is it historically plausible that Th could know some Pauline epistles, or at least some passages from them? The date of Th is one of the most debated matters in Thomas research, and this is not the proper place to deal with it: in brief, a reasonable hypothesis is the first third of the second century, at least for the final redaction of this gospel (if one argues 72. A. A nnese , “Logion 83 and the ‘Image’ in the Gospel of Thomas: Relationships with Some Pauline and Early Christian Texts,” in Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 34/1 (2017) 78. On a Pauline background for Th 83, see e.g. F. F. Bruce , Jesus and Christian Origins Outside the New Testament (London, 1974) 144-145; R. Nordsieck , Das Thomas-Evangelium (Neukirchen-Vluyn, 2014) 307: “The content of this logion entirely fits into the early Christian milieu, especially in the Pauline announcement” (my trans. from German). Additional suggestions on the issues of “image,” “transforming vision” etc. may come from Patterson’s and Davies’s studies (see above), though they do not argue that Th could be influenced by Paul. 73.  I just mention here another article of mine (published when the present contribution was at proof stage) which deals with the topic “Th and Paul”: A. A nnese , “The Sources of the Gospel of Thomas: Methodological Issues and the Case of the Pauline Epistles (With a Focus on Th 17 // 1 Cor 2:9),” in Annali di Storia dell ’Esegesi 35/2 (2018) 323-350. The first part contains some considerations about the search for the sources of Th; the second is dedicated to the case of the Pauline letters, from a “general,” methodological point of view; in the third part, the specific case of Th 17 and 1 Cor 2:9 is analyzed.

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for a “stratified,” “cumulative” compositional model). 74 We have recalled above (in resuming Gathercole’s articles) that, although there are no certain data about the circulation of Pauline epistles in the late first and early second centuries, it is acknowledged that they were being circulated even beyond the particular communities to which they were addressed, and perhaps that even a Pauline corpus was emerging. 75 The possibility that Ignatius of Antioch knew some Pauline epistles would support the idea that those writings circulated in the Syrian area and could have influenced Th. 76 Another piece of information to reflect on is the hypothesis that the pseudonymous 3 Corinthians was composed “most likely in the first 74.  If one stands, rather, for the idea of compositional unity, that date (or even a later one) would represent the date of Th’s redaction tout court. This does not affect so much my argument here. For a survey of the various hypotheses and models, see S. Gathercole , The Gospel of Thomas: Introduction and Commentary (Leiden, 2014) 112-127; for some useful methodological considerations, see S. J. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins (Leiden, 2013) 12-13, 128-130. 75. See A. G. Patzia, The Making of the New Testament: Origin, Collection, Text & Canon (2nd ed.; Downers Grove [IL], 2011): “There is sufficient evidence to conclude that by the end of the first century some of Paul’s letters were being circulated and collected in various churches” (143); “A number of scholars feel confident that the collection – and the circulation as a collection – began early in the second century. Zuntz […] believes that ‘[…] c. ad  100 is a probable date for the collection and publication of the Corpus Paulinum’” (137). Thus also R. Penna, “L’origine del Corpus Paulinum: alcuni aspetti della questione,” Cristianesimo nella storia 15 (1994) 577-607 (who recalls the distinction between corpus and canon). See also H. Y. Gamble , Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts (New Haven, 1995), esp. 58-65 and 95-101; and S. E. Porter , “When and How was the Pauline Canon Compiled? An Assessment of Theories,” in I d., ed., The Pauline Canon (Leiden, 2004) 95-127: 126-127: “In any case, there is reasonable evidence to see the origin of the Pauline corpus during the latter part of Paul’s life or shortly after his death, almost assuredly instigated by a close follower if not by Paul himself, and close examination of the early manuscripts with Paul’s letters seems to endorse this hypothesis.” However, for my argument it is not necessary that Th must have known a “complete” Pauline corpus. 76.  Among scholars who maintain that Ignatius knew some Pauline epistles see C. B. Smith, “Ministry, Martyrdom, and Other Mysteries: Pauline Influence on Ignatius of Antioch,” in M. F. Bird -J.  R.  Dodson, ed., Paul and the Second Century (London, 2011) 37-56; F. Bergamelli, “La figura dell’apostolo Paolo in Ignazio di Antiochia,” in L. Padovese , ed., Paolo di Tarso. Archeologia, storia, ricezione, 3 (Cantalupa [TO], 2009) 81-97, esp. 92-93; G. Barbaglio, Paolo di Tarso e le origini cristiane (Assisi, 1985) 320-324, esp. 324: “[Ignatius] nel periodo a cavallo tra il I e il II sec., testimonia nell’area siriana, la meno aperta all’influsso paolino, una conoscenza significativa della figura di Paolo, delle sue lettere e, sempre limitatamente, anche del suo pensiero”; and the classic studies by A. E. Barnett, Paul Becomes a Literary Influence (Chicago, 1941) 152-170; H. R athke , Ignatius von Antiochien und die Paulusbriefe (Berlin, 1967). For an overview see E. Dassmann, Der Stachel im Fleisch. Paulus in der frühchristlichen Literatur bis Irenäus (Münster, 1979) 129135. En passant, we may notice that here Dassmann dismisses the issue of a Pauline influence on Th, denying it offhandedly (see 198-199).

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half of the second century in western Syria, in the area around Antioch”: 77 this would strengthen the idea of an early, considerable Syrian reception of Paul (3 Cor quotes, or alludes to, some Pauline letters, especially 1 Cor 15). 78 The fact that the most probable place of origin for Th is considered to be Edessa, not Antioch, would not be an overwhelming objection, for – as Risto Uro, basing on Drijvers’ works, pointed out – “Edessa and other eastern Syrian cities where not isolated from the exchange of cultural ideas. Edessa, in particular, was a junction of important caravan roads,” closely connected with Antioch. 79 From a wider point of view, we should think to a fluid character of transmission of ideas and texts, in early Christianity; ideas and texts circulated, especially in and through the most important cities and routes: “because of their mobility, the early groups of Jesus followers interrelated with many subjects and contributed to the circulation of images and views contained in their texts.” 80 On a different – but parallel – level, one may also think to April DeConick’s hypotheses about a “historical connection between early Alexandrian Christianity and the majority of accretions of Thomas,” 81 a connection that could take place 77. A. D’A nna, “The New Testament and the Third Epistle to the Corinthians,” in J.-M. Roessli-T. Nicklas , ed., Christian Apocrypha. Receptions of the New Testament in Ancient Christian Apocrypha (Göttingen, 2014) 133-148: 133. 78. On the reception of Paul in the Syrian area see the recent M. Casadei, “Paolo nella letteratura siriaca (I-V secolo),” in B. P irone-E.  Bolognesi, ed., San Paolo letto da Oriente (Milan, 2010) 69-86, esp. 82 and 86. For what concerns us, however, the main point is not the circulation of the Pauline epistles in Syriac language (Syriac translations, quotations in Syriac authors, etc.), but simply their early diffusion in Syria in Greek. Further suggestions might come considering the hypothesis by John Clabeaux, that the provenance of the pre-Marcionite, early second-century Pauline corpus that Marcion knew, was in the East, perhaps in Syria (Antioch): see J. J. Clabeaux, A  Lost Edition of the Letters of Paul: A Reassessment of the Text of the Pauline Corpus Attested by Marcion (Washington, 1989) 147-148. As I said, is not necessary that Th must have known a Pauline corpus – nevertheless, if such a corpus circulated early in Syria, the hypothesis of a possible Pauline influence on Th would be strengthened. 79. R. Uro, Thomas: Seeking the Historical Context of the Gospel of Thomas (London, 2003) 30. However, Antioch itself has been proposed as the place of Th’s origin: see e.g. P. P iovanelli, “Thomas in Edessa? Another Look at the Original Setting of the Gospel of Thomas,” in J. Dijkstra-J. K roesen-Y. Kuiper , ed., Myths, Martyrs, and Modernity: Studies in the History of Religions in Honour of Jan N. Bremmer (Leiden, 2010) 443-461. 80. A. Destro -M.  P esce , “The Ascension of Isaiah and the Johannist Constellation,” in J. N. Bremmer-Th. K armann-T. Nicklas , ed., The Ascension of Isaiah (Leuven, 2016) 199-234: 209-210 (cf. 207-210). See also H. Y. Gamble , Books and Readers in Early Church. A History of Early Christian Texts (New Haven-London, 1995), esp. chapter 3, on the (rapid and wide) circulation of the early Christian texts. 81.  A. D. DeConick , Recovering the Original Gospel of Thomas (London-New York, 2005) 224-225.

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through the “missionary route(s)”; 82 in the late first century, “the Syrian and Alexandrian communities were sharing ideas and texts.” 83 Hence, the hypothesis that some Pauline texts could have reached Th’s redactor(s) is historically plausible. 84 It is not necessary to think that Th knew a complete Pauline corpus, canon, or collection (nor that Th as a whole would be “dependent” on Paul), to account for its verbal/conceptual agreements with some Pauline passages. The best methodological choice is probably to proceed logion by logion. Taking Th 53 as an example, if it is the case that this logion shows the influence of Rom 2:25-3:2, this simply means that Th, at the compositional level in which l.  53 was redacted, knew of Rom, or – more prudently – that it knew that Pauline passage (whatever from a copy of Rom, an intermediate source, or oral transmission). If the evidence increases, and passages from other Pauline epistles are recognized as possible sources of certain Th’s logia, this would mean that those sayings were influenced by those Pauline passages. It is important to avoid applying to Th a redactional model according to which the redactor(s) of this gospel simply created Th’s sayings by “cutting and pasting” from a collection of writings – be they the Synoptics, John, the Pauline epistles, or other sources – that was at his/their disposal. Th’s compositional history was very complex, and complex compositional/redactional models are required. Recent studies have completely reconsidered the composition of Th, and some have pointed out the inaccuracy, or the relative nature, of a terminology that labels Th as “dependent” or “independent”, in general terms. 85 The relationships between this gospel and other texts have to be studied treating the sayings one by one, avoiding generalizations. 86 Moreover, the very concept of “dependence” must be reconsidered 82. “Peculiar Jewish-Christian-Hermetic mystical traditions from Alexandria may have traveled northeast to Syria along the missionary route. Once in Syria, the traditions were reinterpreted and reused by the community of Thomasine Christians to update the Kernel text” (ibidem, 232); “missionary routes between Syria and Alexandria allowed for the exchange of ideas and texts between these two hubs of Christianity” (240). 83.  Ibidem, 237. 84. Cf. Ch.W. Skinner , “The Gospel of Thomas’s Rejection of Paul’s Theological Ideas,” in M. F. Bird and J. Willitts , ed., Paul and the Gospels (London, 2011) 223: “There is a high degree of probability that there was a substantive body of Pauline letters in circulation prior to the emergence of the Thomas sayings tradition.” 85.  Cf. A. D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006) 18, 21, 24; M. Grosso, Vangelo secondo Tommaso (Rome, 2011) 25. 86.  See e.g. J.-D. K aestli, “L’utilisation de l’Évangile de Thomas dans la recherche actuelle sur les paroles de Jésus,” in D. M arguerat-E. Norelli-J.-M.  Poffet,  ed., Jésus de Nazareth. Nouvelles approches d ’une énigme (Genève, 1998) 373-395: 389-390; Ch. Tuckett, “Thomas and Synoptics,” Novum Testamentum 30/2 (1988)

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in the light of a more complex rendering of the Jesus’ words transmission, which cannot be described in every case simply as the verbatim “quotation” from a literary source: rather, it implies a dialectical context of orality, writing, re-oralization. The oral transmission continued, parallel to the written one; the redactor(s) of a text could have memory of a source that he/she/they had known before, in oral or written form. Even the written texts circulated in different versions. 87 Another significant issue to consider is that Th’s compositional process appears to have been stratified or cumulative, i.e., the composition of this gospel developed over a certain period of time. According to this theory – which has gathered some consensus in scholarship – Th’s composition developed over some decades, from the mid-first century (date of the oldest materials, perhaps even earlier) to the beginning or the half of the second century, until the final redaction, which would have given the collection a “definitive” arrangement. 88 One should also reflect upon Th’s literary form: a collection of logia is particularly susceptible to additions, cuts, modifications. In a stratified composition, it can be supposed a stratification of the sources as well: in a given phase may have been used some sources, which were not available in other phases. Thus, the influence of different sources can be situated at different compositional levels of a given text: as for Th, 132-157: 156-157. Although one should consider one logion at a time – especially for the source-critical analysis – this does not preclude that Th could have a “unitary” sense, since at some point the collection obtained a (quite) “fixed” form and was read in certain ways: see the interpretative keys that the text itself wants to provide, with the incipit and logion 1 (which probably are later accretions). 87.  Cf. A. D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006) 16 and 18. 88.  The thesis of a “developmental” composition has been proposed by several scholars, although in diverse ways. A first version may be found in R.  McL. Wilson, Studies in the Gospel of Thomas (London, 1960) 9, 145; other ones are represented by J. D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (San Francisco, 1991) 427-428; W. A rnal , “The Rhetoric of Marginality: Apocalypticism, Gnosticism, and Sayings Gospels,” Harvard Theological Review 88/4 (1995) 471-494; A. D. DeConick , Recovering the Original Gospel of Thomas (London-New York, 2005), who proposes her “Rolling corpus” model and surveys other compositional models (see esp. 38-63); DeConick prefers to speak of accretions, rather than layers: she considers Th as an “aggregate text” (p. 64). See also J.-D.  K aestli, “L’utilisation de l’Évangile de Thomas dans la recherche actuelle sur les paroles de Jésus,” in D. M arguerat-E. Norelli-J.-M. Poffet, ed., Jésus de Nazareth. Nouvelles approches d ’une énigme (Genève, 1998) 373-395: 392-393; S. J. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins (Leiden, 2013) 12, 94-96. See, lastly, the useful observations in R. Uro, Thomas: Seeking the Historical Context of the Gospel of Thomas (London, 2003) 118-126. For the opposite theory (Th’s compositional unity), see S. Gathercole , The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas (Cambridge, 2012).

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this explains why some of its parts/logia could be independent, while other ones may depend upon certain texts. A dependence could be hypothesized when a given logion shows knowledge of another text, for example reflecting the reception of redactional elements. That knowledge or familiarity may be direct or indirect: it may represent a case of literary dependence, or could derive from secondary orality, or even from scribal interventions. From such a balanced point of view, the idea of “complete independence” appears to be as unilateral as the idea of “complete dependence.” 89 The new compositional models proposed for Th invite us to reconsider the issue of “literary dependence,” and the relationships between this gospel and other texts. 90 Hence, the idea that Th could reflect the influence of some Pauline texts should not be regarded always as a “conservative” perspective, as if it was an attempt to subordinate Th to the “canonized” texts. Among the multiple sources (from various traditions: Synoptic, Johannine, “Jewish-Christian,” Encratite, mystical, etc.) that Th may have relied upon, one could include some Pauline letters or passages (especially from Rom, 1 Cor, 2 Cor). Some of Th’s logia appear to have a connection with Pauline trajectories and texts. Especially in a late stage of its compo89.  In current research it is quite acknowledged that, in some of its logia, Th shows influence of (redactional elements of) the canonical gospels – though there is no agreement as to whether (and in which cases) this influence is direct or indirect. Cf. S. J. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins (Leiden, 2013), esp. 98, 100, 134; J. S. K loppenborg, “A New Synoptic Problem: Mark Goodacre and Simon Gathercole on Thomas,” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 36/3 (2014) 199-239, esp. 226, 228, 231-232; A. D. DeConick , The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation (London-New York, 2006) 13-24 (see also the following note); and the works by Tuckett and Kaestli quoted above, n. 86. The perspective of these studies is different from the thesis of a substantial Synoptic influence upon Th, for which see e.g. S. Gathercole , The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas (Cambridge, 2012); M. Goodacre , Thomas and the Gospels: The Case for Thomas’s Familiarity with the Synoptics (Grand Rapids, 2012). 90.  Cf. e.g. A. D. DeConick , Recovering the Original Gospel of Thomas (London-New York, 2005) 244: “The rolling corpus model has implications for the issue of literary dependence on other early Christian literature,” esp. on the Synoptics. “[W]e can no longer make the case for the literary independence of the whole Gospel of Thomas because it is quite possible that the accretions particularly may reflect knowledge of one or more of the Synoptic Gospels. In fact, dependence is especially likely at this stage in the development of Thomas given the fact that these communities created their ideologies in response to the opinions and stances of other Christians. Certainly I am not suggesting that the entire gospel is dependent on the Synoptics […].” Actually, in her commentary on Th (The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation [London-New York, 2006]) DeConick identifies only few instances in which Th could depend on the Synoptics: in some cases, by means of secondary orality, but in one case (Th 14:5 // Matt 15:11) she even accepts the possibility of a literary dependence. However, for the argument concerned in the present article, DeConick’s model is just one of the possible examples to mention. In general, I am referring to the “developmental” compositional models.

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sitional history, Th could have been influenced by some Pauline passages and themes, that it reworked. 91 It is difficult to reconstruct how, exactly, that reception took place (i.e. whether it was direct or indirect): but it seems worthwhile to imagine a fluid model of transmission, avoiding a rigid “‘scribal’ model.” 92 Certainly, not all the similarities between Th and Pauline texts are to be considered as traces of Thomasine “dependence” upon Paul, or knowledge of that passages: in some cases, it may well be that Th is (independently) relying on a common tradition/source, prior to both. Thorough analyses of each Th-Paul parallel are required. The relationship between Th and the Pauline epistles appears as a fruitful research path which is open to further investigation.

91. There is a substantial difference between the perspective proposed in the present article and the view of those who assert the possibility of Pauline influence upon Th while arguing for Th’s compositional unity. For the latter view, it is not possible that Th was influenced by a given source in one (or some) of its compositional stages but not in others. On the contrary, I believe that the hypothesis of a stratified or developmental composition allows us to account both for the independence of some parts of Th (which rely on early, independent traditions) and for the possibility of an influence from various texts and traditions (through different stages). 92.  Cf. R. Uro, Thomas: Seeking the Historical Context of the Gospel of Thomas (London, 2003) 132.

A NEW P ERSPECTIVE ON DATING THE BOOK OF R EVELATION * T.  Witulski For the last 15 years the dating issue of the Book of Revelation has been rediscussed by both New Testament and Classics scholars. Until the 1980s it was held as a valid result of research that Revelation was written toward the final years of the reign of the Emperor Domitian, which is between 90 and 95 ce . From the 1980s onwards, an increasing number of scholars questioned this opinio communis. Some tried to reargue for the nineteenth century opinion that Revelation was written during Nero’s reign, or more specifically during the Year of the Four Emperors 68/69 ce . 1 Others tried to prove that Revelation was written in post-Domitianic times, e.g. under Nerva or Trajan. 2 Referring to the latter opinion I intend to focus on the reign of Hadrian, especially the period of time from 132 to 135 C.E, to be the most plausible time of origin of the Book of Revelation. I will walk you through my reasoning in four steps: 1. At first, I will briefly discuss the major arguments that are offered to support the Domitianic date in order to show their weaknesses. 2. Secondly, I will take a closer look at the internal evidence given by Revelation on the intentions of the author and on how he judges his own and his intended readerships’ situation. 3. In the third paragraph I will relate the internal evidence to the historical context of the seven churches of Asia addressed by Revelation, which means to the historical context of the Roman province of Asia. In order to cover the whole span of time for which the origin of Revelation can possibly be assumed, I will examine the period of time from 45/50 to 155/160 ce . This will bring up a thesis on how to actually date Revelation. 4. In the fourth paragraph I intend to prove that chapter 13 and the letter to Pergamon in Rev 2:12-17 support my thesis. *  This is the thoroughly revised and enhanced Englisch translation of my paper “Ein neuer Ansatz zur Datierung der neutestamentlichen Johannesapokalypse”, SNTU.A 30 (2005), 39-60. 1.  On this see K.  Berger , Theologiegeschichte des Urchristentums. Theologie des Neuen Testaments (Tübingen, 1994) 570-571 and T. B. Slater , “Dating the Apocalypse to John,” Bib 84 (2003) 252-258. 2. See H. K raft, Die Offenbarung des Johannes (Tübingen, 1974) 93 passim and D. E.  Aune , Revelation I, 1-5 (Dallas, 1997) lvii-lxx, cxviii-cxxxiv. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 429-449.

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1. A rgu m e n ts B rough t F orwa r d i n Favou r of t h e D om i t i a n ic D at e Those scholars who are of the opinion that Revelation was written during the reign of Domitian offer two arguments to support their hypothesis: (1) First of all, they refer to a statement by Irenaeus on the meaning of the number 666 in Rev 13:18. 3 In book V of adversos haereses, which dates to 180/185 C.E, 4 Irenaeus states: Ἡμεῖς γ’ οὖν οὐκ ἀποκιδυνεύομεν περὶ τοῦ ὀνόματος τοῦ ἀντιχρίστος ἀποφαινόμενοι βεβαιωτικῶς εἰ γὰρ ἔδει ἀναφανδὸν ἐν τῷ νῦν καιρῷ κηρύττεσθαι τοὔνομα αὐτοῦ, δι’ ἐκείνου ἂν ἐρρέθη τοῦ καὶ τῆν ἀποκάλυψιν ἑωρακότος. Afterwards he comments on the dating of both the vision and the origin of Revelation: Οὐδὲ γὰρ πρὸ πολλοῦ χρόνου ἑωράθη, ἀλλὰ σχεδὸν ἐπὶ τῆς ἡμετέρας γενεᾶς, πρὸς τῷ τέλει τῆς Δομετιανοῦ ἀρχῆς (adv.haer. 5.30.3). 5 However, this statement that seems to give unquestionable proof of the Domitianic date needs to be treated with caution for two reasons: On the one hand, Irenaeus wrote his book 90 years past the time he claims Revelation to have been written at. On the other hand the context of adv.haer. 5.30.1-4 does not evidence that Irenaeus’ statement is based on firm traditions from Asia Minor or more precisely the Roman province of Asia that could possibly have passed down the Domitianic dating to him. As a consequence it is possible that Irenaeus’ dating in adv.haer. 5.30.3 is a result of his own interpretation of his sources. This, in turn, means that Irenaeus’ statement cannot prove the Domitianic date of Revelation. If it is of any value at all, it can only be used as a secondary support in case the Domitianic date is extracted from other, more firm evidence. (2) Furthermore, some of those scholars favouring the Domitianic date refer to the persecution of Christians ordered by Domitian. They argue that the emperor aimed to strengthen his own position as dominus et deus which he had unreasonably claimed for himself within the imperium

3.  Speaking on this matter for a great number of scholars, see A.  Yarbro Col“Myth and History in the Book of Revelation. The Problem of its Date,” in B. H alpern-J. D. L evenson, eds, Traditions and Transformations. Turning Points in Biblical Faith (Winona Lake, 1981) 377-403, 381 and A. Yarbro Collins , “Dating the Apocalypse of John,” BRev 26 (1981) 33-45, 40-41. 4. See N.  Brox, Irenäus von Lyon. Adversus Haereses Vol. v (Freiburg, 2001) 9 and slightly different U. H amm, “Irenaeus von Lyon,” LACL 311 (1998), who dates adversus haereses to 174-189 ce . 5.  Text according to Brox, Irenäus, 228. lins ,

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Romanum. 6 In their opinion Revelation was written in order to comfort and encourage Christians struck by persecution. However, new research challenged this idea in two ways: On the one hand, it showed that it is anything else but proven that Christians were persecuted under the reign of Domitian. On the other hand, it made plausible that the negative judgment on the emperor’s selfdeification is not based on historical facts but is due to the intentions of historians and writers such as Suetonius, Pliny the Younger and Cassius Dio. 7 These authors belonged to or sympathized with the Senate of Rome. Because Domitian restricted the Senate’s powers in a violent and cruel manner they intended to cast a damning light on him. Therefore, they portrayed him as an emperor unreasonably deifying himself. 8 Inscriptions, however, prove this portrayal historically wrong.9 6. On this, see M.  P. Charlesworth, “Einige Beobachtungen zum Herrscherkult, besonders in Rom,” in A. Wlosok , ed., Römischer Kaiserkult (Darmstadt, 1978) 163-200, 190-191 and K. Scott, The Imperial Cult under the Flavians (Stuttgart, 1936) 102-112. 7.  On this see, amongst others, C. Urner , Kaiser Domitian im Urteil antiker literarischer Quellen und moderner Forschung (Ph.D. diss., Universität Augsburg, 1993) 321: „Das Domitianbild unterliegt einem Wandel. Aus dem grau­samen, habgierigen Tyrannen, dem haltlosen Lüstling und feigen Versager wurde inzwischen ein strenger, konsequenter, auf Provokationen hart reagierender Herrscher, ein gerechter, umsichtiger Staatsmann, ein sittenstrenger Verfechter altrömischer Werte (!) und fähiger Feldherr mit Augenmaß für Realitäten”. On the origin of the image of Domitian as a persecutor of Christians in early Christianity see P.  P rigent, “Au temps de l’Apocalypse I. Domitien,” RHPR 55 (1974) 455-483, 481: “Mais si Domitien n’a pas poursuivi les chrétiens d’une haine aussi tenace et continuelle qu’on le dit habituellement, comment se fait-il que la tradition nous le présente aussi régulièrement comme un horrible persécuteur? D’abord il faut reconnaître que sans doute sous son règne des chrétiens ont connu de graves difficultés dans leurs relations avec le pouvoir: le cas de Jean et celui des renégats dont parle Pline en sont des exemples significatifs. Mais il faut surtout prendre conscience que ce sont des chrétiens qui nous présentent ainsi Domitien. C’est un concert sans fausses notes: Néron et Domitien sont les deux premiers persécuteurs. Il vaut la peine de remarquer la forme que prend cette affirmtion chez le premier auteur qui l’exprime: Méliton, cité par Eusèbe. Le raisonnement est extrait d’une Apologie adressée à l’empereur. En voici la démarche: toi, empereur, tu ne dois pas persécuter les chrétiens. Les bons empereurs ne l’ont jamais fait. Seuls les mauvais, tels Néron et Domitien, ont agi de la sorte. Or Domitien, nous l’avons vu, jouit dans le monde de l’époque d’une exécrable réputation. Ce fut un mauvais empereur disent les historiens, et les chrétiens complètent tout naturellement: il a persécuté l’église”. 8. On this see B. L evick , “Domitian and the provinces”, Latomus 41 (1982) 50-73, 62, who amongst other things names the following criteria for evaluating Domitian’s person and his reign: First, the personal success of the inhabitants of the provinces of the Imperium Romanum. Second, the question to what extent the emperor engaged in benefits for their respective community. And third, with regard to the eastern provinces of the empire, his philhellenic tendencies: “[…], who

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As a result, the reference to Domitian as an Emperor who unreasonably deified himself and therefore persecuted Christians does not support the Domitianic dating. 2 . Th e S i t uat ion of R ev e l at ion a n d

the i ts

I n t e n de d R e ade r sh i p A u t hor ’s I n t e n t ions

of

Current New Testament research is discussing three theories on the situation of the intended readership and the intentions of its author: (1) The first theory is based on the assumption that the author responded to an extensive persecution of Christians in the province of Asia and tried to comfort and encourage his suffering readers by showing them how their fate is going to turn for the better at the end of time. 10 However, the fact that such an official and extensive persecution of Christians in the province of Asia is not evidenced by the proclamations to the seven churches in Rev 2-3 refutes this theory. Nonetheless it must be stated that the author does bring up past, pre­ sent and future sufferings and afflictions of Christians especially in the letters to the seven churches. 11 might be as contented with Domitian as they were with any other Princeps, or with Roman rule altogether; their view of him might depend too on their personal success or failure, whether they belonged to a city which he had particularly benefited, and on whether they were sensitive enough to the position of Greeks in the empire to notice his philhellenism”. 9.  On this see S. J. Friesen, Twice Neokoros. Ephesus, Asia and the Cult of the Flavian Imperial Family (Leiden, 1993) 34, with regard to Domitian’s titles: “Thus, there is no suggestion of extraordinary cultic honors for Domitian”. 10. See, for example, E. Schüssler Fiorenza, The Book of Revelation. Justice and Judgment (Philadelphia, 1985) 8. 11.  See, for example, J.-W. Taeger , “Eine fulminante Streitschrift. Bemerkungen zur Apokalypse des Johannes,” in W. Kurz et al., ed., Krisen und Umbrüche in der Geschichte des Christentums. Festschrift für Martin Greschat zum 60. Geburtstag (Gießen, 1994) 293-311, 297: “Wie sich die Lage der christlichen Adressaten des Johannes zur Zeit der Veröffentlichung seiner Schrift darstellt, läßt sich beim Autor, der sich als Zeitgenosse seiner Leser/Hörer … zu erkennen gibt …, in erster Linie den sieben Sendschreiben entnehmen (Apk 2f). Aus ihnen gewinnt man nicht den Eindruck einer vor allem unter der Nötigung zum Kaiserkult und umfassenden Nachstellungen leidenden Gemeinschaft. Im Vordergrund stehen hier innerchristliche Auseinandersetzungen und Fehlentwicklungen in einzelnen Gemeinden. Allerdings sind die Botschaften durchzogen von Hinweisen auf zurückliegende, andauernde und befürchtete Bedrängnisse und Leiden ([Rev] 2,3.9 f.13; 3,8f; vgl. 1,9) … Aber gerade die beiden letztgenannten Belege aus den Sendschreiben [i.e. Rev 2,10.13] lassen nichts von einem planmäßigen Vorgehen seitens der Staatsmacht mit verheerenden Folgen für die Gläubigen erkennen”.

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(2) The second theory is based on the idea that the author does not refer to an explicit situation of official persecution of Christians but does refer to permanent afflictions and sufferings caused by their pagan surrounding. It is argued that the author and also many of his readers perceived the situation as a crisis because it differed from how it ought to be according to their Christian faith and hopes. Hence, Revelation was written on the one hand to produce a catharsis in order to help those of his readers overcome their feelings who felt fear and resentment in view of this crisis. On the other hand, the author intended to tell those of his readers who did not perceive their situation as a crisis that it actually was one. 12 This theory brings us forward because it seriously considers the possibility that the composition of Revelation was motivated by subjective opinions, judgements and interpretations of its author. However, it does not answer the question whether there was an objective reason that suddenly made at least a part of the Christians in Asia Minor and the author of Revelation perceive their present situation as a crisis. Taking into account what the author says in Rev 2:3,9,13 and 3:8 it seems unlikely that the everyday life of Christians in a pagan surrounding gave them reason to perceive their present situation as a crisis. 13 Furthermore, it is hard to imagine that the author composed the image of the end of the world and the emergence of a καινὴ κτίσις in chapter 4-22 only for the purpose of producing a catharsis. 14 After all, the letters to the church of Thyatira (Rev 2:18-27), Sardis (Rev 3:1-6) and Laodicea (Rev 3:14-22) provide arguments against this theory. Neither do these letters support the idea that Christians in the churches of Thyatira, Sardis and Laodicea perceived their situation as a crisis nor do they indicate that the author of Revelation wanted to tell his readers that their situation was a crisis. 15 12.  See, for example, A. Yarbro Collins , Crisis and Catharsis. The Power of the Apocalypse (Philadelphia, 1984) 106-161 and elsewhere. 13.  On this thought also see P.  B. Duff, Who rides the Beast. Prophetic Rivalry and the Rhetoric of Crisis in the Churches of the Apocalypse (Oxford, 2001) 11: “Ne­vertheless, her [i.e. Yarbro Collins’] suggestions are not without their problems. For instance, if there was no objective ‚crisis‘ such as persecution, was there a specific catalyst for Revelation or did the author just decide to sit down and write it? If there was a catalyst, should we not label that some kind of ‘crisis’ and try to identify it, if possible”? 14. For example Duff, Beast 12: “Nevertheless, her [i.e. Yarbro Collins’] proposal that the reason that John created (or even heightened) terror was ultimately to alleviate it strikes me as unlikely”. 15.  Although A. Yarbro Collins , Crisis and Catharsis, 106 mentions this pro­ blem, her note: “One could say that the author himself and at least some readers were oppressed” is not sufficient to solve it. However, the problem could be solved by redefining A. Yarbro Collins’ term ‘crisis’ or by accentuating this term in a new way.

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(3) The third theory claims that the author of Revelation commented on erroneous developments within the Christian community. According to this theory he tries to keep his readers from assimilating into the pagan society in the cities of Asia Minor and from giving up essential elements of their Christian faith, especially the exclusive worship of the God of the Old Testament and Christ his ἀρνίον. 16 However, there is one question left open by this theory: Why did the author send his composition to the church of Smyrna? The letter to Smyrna in Rev 2:8-11 is concerned with the behaviour of Christians in the face of external afflictions, but it does not give attention to the pro­ blem of a too wide assimilation into the πόλις-community of Smyrna. 17 Furthermore, this theory leaves open why the author, after bringing up the problem of social assimilation of Christians in the seven letters (Rev 2-3), adds the disclosure of God’s eschatological plan in which he elaboIf ‘crisis’ would not be referred to as an “unbearable tension … between what was and what ought to have been”, but as “Entscheidungssituation, Wende-, Höhepunkt einer gefährlichen Entwicklung” (W.  Müller et al., ed., Duden Fremdwörterbuch [4th ed.; vol. 5 of Der Duden in zehn Bänden; Mannheim, 1982] 431), her approach could be maintained even in the light of the statements made in the letters to Thyatira, Sardis and Laodicea. 16.  On this see, for example, H.-J. K lauck , “Das Sendschreiben nach Pergamon und der Kaiserkult in der Johannesoffenbarung,” Bib 73 (1992) 153-182, 178-179 on Rev 18:4: “Auf eine Kurzformel gebracht, scheint mir die oft überlesene und selten gewürdigte Stelle Offb 18,4 mit einer Anspielung auf die Erzählung von Sodom und Gomorra in Gen 19,12-13 das Hauptanliegen des Verf. prägnant zu artikulieren: ‘Und ich hörte eine andere Stimme vom Himmel sprechen: ‘Zieht fort aus ihr, mein Volk, damit ihr nicht teilhabt an ihren Sünden und daß ihr nicht empfangt von ihren Plagen’’. Zieht fort! Das ist allen Christen gesagt, die einen kompromißbereiteren Kurs gegenüber der heidnischen Stadtgesellschaft steuern wollten. Was bleibt in einer Stadt wie Pergamon als Option noch übrig? Der Untergrund? Das Ghetto? Die Landkommune?”, and 181-182: “Der Apokalyptiker bleibt in diesem Punkt hart. Jeder Kompromiß widerspricht seiner Zielvorstellung, die von der Durchsetzung der Herrschaft Gottes auch auf Erden und vom Ideal der Reinheit der endzeitlichen Heilsgemeinde bestimmt wird […] Von den Gemeinden wird im wesentlichen verlangt, was Paulus in 1Kor 5,9-10 als Mißverständnis von sich weist, wenn er bemerkt: ‘Ich habe euch zwar in meinem Brief geschrieben, ihr solltet euch nicht vermischen mit Unzüchtigen, aber ich meinte damit nicht generell die Unzüchtigen dieser Welt oder die Habgierigen oder die Räuber oder die Götzendiener, denn dann müßtet ihr ja aus der Welt hinausgehen’”. 17. In view of Rev 2:10, W.  Bousset, Die Offenbarung Johannis (Göttingen, 1906 6) 209 speaks about persecution: “Da hier Gefängnis als drohende Gefahr genannt wird, so kann es sich nur um Verfolgungen handeln, bei denen, wenn sie auch von Juden ausgingen, doch die heidnische Obrigkeit beteiligt war”. Similarly J. Roloff, Die Offenbarung des Johannes (Zürich, 1984) 52. P.  P rigent, Commentary on the Apocalypse of St. John (Tübingen, 2001) 168 defines the situation as “hostile measures which might well entail imprisonment in certain cases”, H.  Giesen, Die Offenbarung des Johannes (Regensburg, 1997) 109 thinks of denunciations by Jews, inducing the Roman authorities to take measures against the Christians.

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rately writes about fate of the world until the emergence of a καινὴ κτίσις. On the basis of Rev 2:24 in my opinion it is insufficient to assume that chapters 4-22 are only meant to justify the appeal for distance towards the pagan town population in Rev 2-3 by stressing the pagan’s satanic nature. 18 Rev 2:24 mentions heretics operating in Thyatira and reflects their selfconcept. 19 The heretics of Thyatira claim to have recognised the βαθέα τοῦ σατανᾶ. 20 The text gives no reason for taking this as irony. 21 Thus, Rev 2:24 means that neither information about the satanic nature of the pagan town population could unsettle the heretics, who lobbied for assi­ milation into this very population, and their theological thinking. Whoever has recognised the βαθέα τοῦ σατανᾶ and considers himself superior cannot be argued out of his assimilating intentions by telling him that the communities of the πολεῖς are children of σατανᾶς. 22

18.  J.-W. Taeger , “Begründetes Schweigen: Paulus und paulinische Tradition in der Johannesapokalypse,” in M. Trowitzsch, ed., Paulus, Apostel Jesu Christi. Festschrift für Günter Klein zum 70. Geburtstag (Tübingen, 1998) 187-204, 198 and J.-W. Taeger , “Offenbarung 1.1-3: Johanneische Autorisierung einer Aufklärungsschrift,” NTS 49 (2003) 176-192, 191. 19.  On this see Bousset, Offenbarung, 220, who, based on the term ὡς λέγουσιν, concludes with regard to the statement ἔγνωσαν τὰ βαθέα τοῦ σατανᾶ: “Wir haben in dem Ausdruck ‘die Tiefen des Satans erkennen’ demgemäß eine Selbstcharakteristik der Irrlehrer zu sehen”. 20.  Taeger , Begründetes Schweigen, 196 remains sceptical towards an ironising interpretation of Rev 2:24: “Man wird … damit rechnen müsssen, daß die Prophetin [Isebel] und ihr Kreis eine tiefgehende Erkenntnis des Satans für sich beanspruchten und daraus ein Überlegenheitsgefühl über das Irdisch-Weltliche ableiteten, das es ihnen ermöglichte, so unbefangen inmitten der römisch-hellenistischen Gesellschaft zu leben, wie sie es tun”. 21.  For example, U. B. Müller , Die Offenbarung des Johannes (Gütersloh, 19952) 119: “Johannes unterstellt den Gegnern als eigene These ‘Satanserkenntnis’[…] Man wird jedoch berücksichtigen müssen, daß Johannes das negativ charakterisiert, was bei den Gegnern durchaus positiv und dementsprechend anders gemeint ist. Wahrscheinlich behaupten sie, die ‘Tiefen Gottes’ zu erkennen”, and U.  B.  Müller , Zur frühchristlichen Theologiegeschichte. Judenchristentum und Paulinismus in Klein­ asien an der Wende vom ersten zum zweiten Jahrhundert n. Chr. (Gütersloh, 1976) 22: “Dabei wird man berücksichtigen müssen, daß Johannes das negativ charakterisieren konnte, was bei den Gegnern durchaus positiv gedacht war. Er stellt ihre Erkenntnis als Erkenntnis des Satans hin. Wahrscheinlich aber beanspruchten sie, Gott in ausgezeichneter Weise zu kennen”. Similarly E. L ohmeyer , Die Offenbarung des Johannes (Tübingen, 19532) 29: “Das Schlagwort der Gegner […] lautet nicht τὰ βάθη τοῦ σατανᾶ – das ist bitterer Sarkasmus des Sehers – sondern τὰ βάθη τοῦ θεοῦ”, and K lauck , Sendschreiben, 168: “Die Nikolaiten haben […] von einer pneumatischen Erkenntnis der Tiefen Gottes gesprochen, die ihnen ein Überlegenheitsgefühl gegenüber den vorfindlichen Lebensbedingungen verlieh”. 22.  Taeger assumes due to Rev 2:24 that “die [in Thyateira lebende] Prophetin Isebel und ihr Kreis eine tiefgehende Erkenntnis des Satans für sich beanspruchten und daraus eine Überlegensheitsbewußtsein über das Irdisch-Weltliche ableite-

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If we want to shed light on the situation of the readers of Revelation and on its author’s intentions, it is helpful to take a closer look at Rev 12-13 23. In these two chapters the author interprets his present age as time of the final eschatological battle 24 between the σατανᾶς and his allies on ten, das es ihnen ermöglichte, so unbefangen inmitten der römisch-hellenistischen Gesellschaft zu leben, wie sie es tun” (Taeger , Begründetes Schweigen, 196). 23.  On the meaning of Rev 12-14 in the broader context of Rev 4-22 see, for example, Müller , Offenbarung, 33: “Kap. 12-14 bilden die dramatische Mitte innerhalb der Visionsberichte des apokalyptischen Hauptteils der Offb. Die für den Verfasser geschichtlich aktuellen Gegenspieler des Endgeschehens stehen in hartem Widerstreit miteinander: Satan und Christus, Römische Welt und Gemeinde des Lammes”. The structure proposed by A.  Yarbro Collins , “Revelation 18: TauntSong or Dirge?,” in J. L ambrecht, ed., L’Apocalypse johannique et l ’Apocalyptique dans le Nouveau Testament (Gembloux, 1980) 185-204, 188, corresponds with that on a technical level. Collins suggests that the “the book of Revelation is organized into two great cycles of visions, [R] 1,19-11,19 and 12,1-22,5.” This implies that the author placed the remarks in Rev 12-14 at an exposed position at the beginning of the second cycle of visions. On the structure proposed by Collins, see also A.  Yarbro Collins ., The Combat Myth in the Book of Revelation (Missoula, 1976) 19-32. A different emphasis is placed by Roloff, Offenbarung,24, who states: “Mit [Rev] 12,1 setzt deutlich ein weiterer, bis 19,10 reichender Kreis ein. Denn nunmehr erscheint eine zweite [auf die Thronsaalvision Apk 4,1-5,14 ausgerichtete] Bezugsreihe, die das negative Gegenbild zu [Rev] 4,1-11,19 ist: Gottes Widersacher und die von ihm eingesetzten dämonischen Mächte, die Christus die Herrschaft über die Welt streitig machen wollen”. 24.  On this see Müller , Offenbarung, 249, who comments on the first θηρίον: “Das Tier wirkt nicht nur in der Macht des Satans […], dessen Inkarnation es ist, es steht zudem in deutlichem Gegensatz zu Christus. Es erscheint als Antichrist”. Similarly T. Z ahn, Die Offenbarung des Johannes (Erlangen, 1924-1926; repr. Wuppertal, 1986) 450, who states, “daß [according tot he depiction in Rev 13] die aus dem Meer aufsteigende erste Bestie der Antichrist der Endzeit ist”. Accordingly, the ἀρνίον Christ is already in Rev 5 consigned to open the βιβλίον κατεσφραγισμένον σφραγῖσιν ἑπτά, the scroll with seven seals, and thereby to initiate the last phase of world history until the creation of a new world. On this see, for example, H.-P. Müller , “Die himmlische Ratsversammlung: Motivgeschichtliches zu Apc 5,1-5,” ZNW 54 (1963) 254-267, 254-255: “Dabei enthält das Buch offenbar die nach dem Ratschluß Gottes über die Welt verhängten eschatologischen Katastrophen, welche bei seiner Eröffnung [Rev] 6,1 ff. ja auch einzutreten beginnen”. According to Müller , Offenbarung, 143 “leitet der Seher [in Rev 4,1] den apokalyptischen Hauptteil seines Buches ein”, which means that the term μετὰ ταῦτα Rev 4:1, that must be interpreted eschatologically, turns everything to come into eschatological events. On this see also Müller , Offenbarung, 53-54: “Johannes schreibt Endgeschichte, wenn er als Offenbarung vermittelt, ‘was danach (bzw. in Kürze) geschehen muß’ […] Sie umgreift die Zeit zwischen der Erhöhung Jesu (12,1-5) und der Weltvollendung (21,1-22,5). Die Erhöhung Jesu, die mit dem Ziel seiner eschatologischen Funktion erfolgt (12,5), ist mit dem Sturz des Satans aus dem Himmel verbunden (12,7-9); dies sind entscheidende Akte, die zur Durchsetzung der endgültigen Herrschaft Gottes gehören. Die Erhöhung Christi gilt dabei als die Wende der Geschichte […] Weltgeschichte ist in ihr letztes Stadium eingetreten; sie ist Teil der Endgeschichte, die der letztgültigen Herrschaftsübernahme Gottes entgegengeht”.

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the one side and the God of the Old Testament, Christ his ἀρνίον and the Christians on the other side. 25 After the σατανᾶς has lost his fight against Michael and his angels (Rev 12:7) and has been hurled down (Rev 12:9), he pursues his heavenly struggle on earth, waging war against the offspring of the γυνή mentioned in Rev 12, who keep God’s commands and hold fast their testimony about Jesus, i.e. the Christians. He gives power to the θηρία appearing in Rev 13 who then antagonise the Christians in his name. As can be assumed from Rev 1:4 the author has in mind especially the Christians living in the Roman province of Asia. The statements in Rev 13:8,12,14 and also in Rev 14:9-10; 15:2[!]; 19:20; 20:4; 21:7-8 show that this present situation of war between the σατανᾶς and the θηρία on the one side and the Christians on the other side is characterised by an obviously massive and significant increase of the worship of the reigning Roman emperor. 26 A number of inscriptions such as the so-called “Kalenderinschrift” 27 or the ironic but still intended

25. See also Müller , Offenbarung, 247: “Kap. 13 entfaltet, was es heißt, daß der aus dem Himmel gestürzte Drache den Kampf gegen die Christen aufnimmt, einen letzten Ansturm gegen die, welche die Gebote Gottes halten und das Zeugnis Jesu bewahren ([Rev] 12,17)”. Similarly L. J. Lietaerd Peerbolte , The Antecedents of Antichrist: A Traditio-Historical Study of the Earliest Christian Views on Eschatological Opponents (Brill, 1995) 169: “The situation of the church is thus depicted [in Rev] as an eschatological situation in which a number of opponents act as assistants to Satan. These opponents – the Beast, the False Prophet, and the Harlot – are evidently ad hoc constructions by the author, formed out of divergent traditional materials. They personify the concrete opposition the Church experiences. This means that the author of Revelation has combined various traditions to help him shape a number of personal, eschatological opponents of Jesus Christ. He did not expect these opponents to appear sometimes in the future, but regarded their activities as present [!]. Thus, the eschatological opponents described in the Book of Revelation – the Dragon, the Beast, the False Prophet, and the Harlot – enable the author to describe his own time as an eschatological period. This eschatological period is defined by Christ’s first coming and his parousia and is characterised by opposition”. According to Lietaerd Peerbolte, a similar conception exists in 1John 2:18-27, where it is related to Christian opponents. See Lietaert Peerbolte , Antecedents, 103: “The identification of the ‘heretics’ as antichrists, and the conclusion drawn from it – that the end is near – imply that the author indeed identified the appearance of the ‘heretics’ as the appearance of the Antichrist himself ”. 26. See also T. Söding, “Heilig, heilig, heilig: Zur politischen Theologie der Johannes-Apokalypse,” ZTK 96 (1999) 49-76, 51: “ […] setzt sich die JohannesApokalypse nicht nur mit den täglichen Pressionen der heidnischen Umgebung auf die christliche Minorität auseinander, sondern auch mit der Forcierung des Kaiserkultes speziell in Kleinasien”. D.  A.  De Silva, “Honor Discourse and the Rhetorical Strategy of the Apocalypse of John,” JSNT 71 (1998) 79-110, 94 refers to Rev 13:4,8,11-18 as a “description of the emergence and enforcement of imperial cult”. 27.  See below n. 35.

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parallelisation of the first θηρίον and Christ the ἀρνίον 28 suggest that in the context of this increase of emperor worship the reigning princeps was promoted as a person of quasi-soteriological relevance in the whole province. To be more specific, he was promoted as σωτήρ or κτίστης, who did and still does great benefactions to the population of the province of Asia. In the face of this official imperial propaganda and the increase of emperor worship, the author of Revelation appeals to the Christians of the province of Asia for faithfulness and steadfastness. 29 He calls on those Christians to stand firm against any afflictions, who are subject to present or future oppressions due to their faith. 30 On the other hand, those Christians who react to the increase of emperor worship by joining it maybe even on the basis of theological justification are admonished to turn back and reject emperor worship. 31 28.  On this see P.  Barnett, “Polemical Parallelism: Some further Reflections on the Apocalypse,” JSNT 35 (1989) 111-120, 112: “’The Lamb […] as though slain’ ὡς ἐσφαγμένον, 5.6, 12; 13.8 is parallelled by ‘the [sea] beast’ one of whose heads ‘seemed to have a mortal wound’ ὡς ἐσφαγμένην, 13.3). The beast is taken to be the Roman Emperor, perhaps represented in the province of Asia in the persona of the Proconsul”. 29.  On this aspect see Söding, Heilig, 52-53: “Johannes bezieht eine entschieden andere Position [als etwa die Nikolaiten]. Er sieht den status confessionis gegeben. Ohne daß er sich den Nikolaïten gegenüber auf eine theologische Argumentation einläßt, ist für ihn doch klar, daß weder das Wissen um die Einzigkeit Gottes noch das Vertrauen auf seine Gnade noch gar die Hoffnung auf das Reich Gottes ein Grund sein können, an heidnischen Opfern, speziell am Kaiserkult teilzunehmen. Damit ist kein weltabgewandtes Sektierertum propagiert, wohl aber ein konsequentes Bekenntnis: Wo die Verehrung des Kaisers als Gott als das Opfer vor einer Staats-Gottheit für den Kaiser verlangt wird, ist nicht ein aufgeklärt-distanziertes Mitmachen angezeigt, sondern ein klares, kompromißloses Nein. Es ist nicht nur das Nein zum Anspruch eines Herrschers, der Gott seiner Untertanen zu sein, und das Nein zum Ansinnen eines Staates, die Religion seiner Bürger zu definieren; es ist auch die Absage an den verführerischen Reiz einer Kultur, deren Synkretismus alle authentische Religiosität integriert und deshalb die Konturen des Gottesbildes verschwimmen läßt”. 30.  On Rev 2:8-11 see, for example, Müller , Offenbarung, 106: “Anerkennung und Trost für die von außen bedrängte Gemeinde beherrschen das ganze Schreiben”, and on Rev 3:7-13 etwa Giesen, Offenbarung, 136: “Als Gemeinde ohne Tadel besitzt die Gemeinde in Philadelphia bereits den Siegeskranz. Da es vor der Heilsvollendung noch keine Heilssicherheit geben kann, muß jedoch auch diese Gemeinde aufgefordert werden, dran festzuhalten, was sie besitzt, damit ihr der Kranz nicht wieder genommen werden kann. Die Gemeinde und jeder einzelne in ihr muß sich in dieser Zeit noch bewähren”. 31.  This applies to the letters to Sardis Rev 3:1-6 and Laodicea Rev 3,14-22. On the former see Müller , Offenbarung, 123-124: “Man wird also die Situation in Sardes ähnlich wie in jenen Gemeinden sehen müssen, die von libertinistischen Irrlehrern bedroht waren [i.e. die Gemeinden in Pergamon und Thyateira]”, on the latter Giesen , Offenbarung, 140: “Daraus, daß Laodicea als einzige Gemeinde keinerlei Lob erfährt, sondern nur getadelt wird, ist zu schließen, daß sie Christ-

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As the statements in Rev 2-3 and 21:7-8 clearly state, this war is about all or nothing for the Christians. Whoever proves himself in this war, whoever stands firm and holds fast to his faith even in the face of sufferings and afflictions, in other words: whoever belongs to the νικῶντες will be rewarded at the end of time and will be part of the new creation that already has been promised (Rev 21-22). 32 The rise of the new creation is at hand; and so is the downfall of the Roman emperor and the whole Roman Empire represented by him (Rev 1:3; 22:10). Thus, the whole paragraph of Rev 4-22 is meant to justify the call for steadfastness and true faith that is repeatedly made in Rev 2-3. 3. The S ituation of the R eaders of R ev elation a nd the I ntention of i ts A u t hor on t h e B ackgrou n d of t h e H i s tor ica l C on t e x t of t h e R oma n P rov i nce of A si a As pointed out already, Revelation gives internal evidence that it dates to a time when emperor worship went far beyond its previous standards. liches und Heidnisches mehr als jede andere Gemeinde vermischt. Das Verhalten der Gemeinde wird folglich lau genannt, weil sie sich weithin dem heidnischen Lebensstil anpaßt […] Ihr Verhalten entspricht dem der [in Pergamon wirkenden] Nikolaiten”. The Libertinistic heretics are also mentioned in the letter to the church of Ephesus Rev 2:1-7, where they are obviously not able to do anything (Rev 2:6). However, the author blames the Christians of Ephesus of having abandoned the ἀγάπη πρώτη (Rev 2:4). On the interpretation of this accuse see G. K. Beale , The Book of Revelation. A Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand Rapids, 1999) 230: “The idea is that they [i.e. the Christians in Ephesus] no longer expressed their former zealous love for Jesus by witnessing to him in the world”. 32.  On this see Müller , Offenbarung, 94-95: “Was ist mit dem ‘Überwinden’ näherhin gemeint? Es geht um das Bestehenkönnen in der Bedrängnis der endzeitlichen Kampfsituation, um das Standhalten angesichts der Machenschaften des Satans (vgl. [Rev] 2,8 ff.; 2,12 ff.). In dieser Lage hat die Prophetie zum Durchhalten aufzurufen. Konkret kann dieses Überwinden bedeuten, daß man die Werke Christi bis zuletzt bewahrt (2,26). Im Blick steht vor allem das rechte ethische Verhalten, das Christus fordert, die Treue zu ihm. Von den ‘Überwindern’ heißt es außerhalb der Sendschreiben in visionärer Vorwegnahme ihrer Vollendung, daß sie über das Tier und sein Ebenbild, Symbolgestalten des Römischen Reiches gesiegt haben (15,2; vgl. 21,7). Sie haben den Zumutungen des Kaiserkultes getrotzt [!]. Dieses Überwinden kann in den Märtyrertod führen (12,11), wie auch Christus im Tod überwunden hat (3,21). Allerdings ist dabei nicht durchgängig an Märtyrer gedacht […], wohl aber kann sich das ‘Überwinden’ der Gläubigen im Martyrium vollenden”. More differentiated J.-W. Taeger , “‘Gesiegt! Oh himmlische Musik des Wortes!’: Zur Entfaltung des Siegesmotivs in den johanneischen Schriften,” ZNW 85 (1994) 23-46, 34-35: “Der Autor denkt dabei an den Widerstand gegen Irrlehrer ([Rev] 2,2.6.14 f.20 ff.), das rechte ethische Verhalten sowie das Bestehen in äußerer, letztlich vom Teufel bewirkter Bedrängnis (vgl. 2,9 f.13 in Verbindung mit Kap. 12 f.)”.

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A closer look at the development of emperor worship in the Roman province of Asia from 56/50 to 155/160 ce . provides us with the following overall picture: At the provincial level, emperor worship first came up when the cult of Dea Roma and Divi filius Augustus was established in Pergamon 29 bce . 33 As the so-called Kalenderinschrift tells us, the calendar system was harmonised and aligned to the reigning emperor Augustus in the context of the calendar reform in 9 ce . His birthday, 23rd September, became New Year’s Day and the first month was named Καῖσαρ in his honour.  3 4 In 26 ce a provincial cult was established for Augustus’ successor Tiberius in Smyrna. Tiberius was worshipped together with Livia, the wife of his father Augustus, and the senate of Rome. 35 Unlike the cult of Gaius 36 which had been instituted in Milet under his own command and perished soon after Gaius’ death, 37 the cults of Augustus and Tiberius 33.  On the numismatic evidence see C. Fayer , Il Culto della Dea Roma. Origine e Diffusione nell ’Impero (Pescara, 1976) 109-112 and Friesen, Twice Neokoros, 12-15. On the epigraphic and literary evidence for temples dedicated to the emperor in Pergamon Fayer , Culto, 108, n. 4 and 110, n. 9. 34. The editio princeps of the exemplar found in Priene of this inscription that was erected in all major towns of Asia has been provided with an elaborate commentary and submitted by T. Mommsen-U.  von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, “Die Einführung des Asianischen Kalenders,” MDAI.A 24 (1899) 275-293. On further editions and examinations see T.  Witulski, Die Adressaten des Galaterbriefes. Untersuchungen zur Gemeinde von Antiochia ad Pisidiam (Göttingen, 2000) 229, n. 2. A complete Englisch translation of the Priene version has been offered by R. K. Sherk , ed., Rome and the Greek East to the death of Augustus, (Cambridge, 19932) nr. 101, 124-127, partial German translations are available at A.  von H arnack , “Als die Zeit erfüllet war,” in Reden und Aufsätze 1 (Gießen, 21906) 301-302, J. L eipoldt et al., ed., Umwelt des Urchristentums II. Texte zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter (Berlin, 1967) 106-107, H.  G. K ippenberg -G.  A.  Wewers , eds, Textbuch zur neutestamentlichen Zeitgeschichte (Göttingen, 1979) nr. 102, 70-71 and – completely – at Witulski, Galaterbrief, 232-235. At the time of the editio princeps of the Priene version, fragments of the inscriptions were known from Apameia, Eumeneia, Dorylaion and Priene (see Mommsen-von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Kalender, 275). U. L affi, “Le Iscrizioni relative all’Introduzione nel 9.A. C. del nuovo Calendario della Provincia d’Asia,” Studi Classici e Orientali 16 (1967) 5-98, 8, provides evidence for an exemplar found in Maeonia. 35.  On this see Tacitus, ann. 4.15; 4.55.56. and S. J. Friesen, Imperial Cults and the Apocalypse of John (Oxford, 2001), 36-38. 36.  On the latest discussion see P.  H errmann, “Ein Cult für Caligula,” IstMitt 39 (1989) 191-196 and Friesen , Imperial Cults, 40-41. 37. See Friesen, Twice Neokoros, 25-26: “With the death of Gaius, the provincial cult in Miletus disappears from the archaeological record. No temple has been identified for the cult, and no other inscriptions mention either officials or festivals related to the cult. The reason for the silence is that this cult, like all others dedicated to the adopted son of Tiberius, was discontinued after Gaius’s assassination”. Similarly Friesen, Imperial Cults, 41: “The cult was not viable because it was tied so closely to a single figure, who reigned briefly, was immediately discredited, and ultimately did not deserve such an honor”.

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continued. Another provincial cult we know of was installed in Ephesus 89/90 ce to honour the Flavian Σεβαστοί. It was the first cult to make a whole dynasty object of worship. A remarkable thing about this cult is that the worship of the reigning emperor Domitian turned out to be quite modest compared to the worship of previous principes during their lifetime in the past. Now worship did not focus on the individual person of the emperor 38 but honoured the Flavian dynasty as a collective. 39 A provincial cult in honour of the goddess Ζεὺς Φίλιος and the emperor Trajan was granted Pergamon 113/114 ce . The emperor cult in the province of Asia thereby continued the principle of combined worship of the reigning emperor and a traditional god that had been established with the cult of Augustus.  4 0 The essential about these provincial cults in Asia Minor is that they do not outreach the framework that has been set by the worship of the Dea Roma and the Divi filius Augustus. None of the mentioned reigning emperors is worshipped more extensively and intensely than Augustus was during his reign as the founder of the principate. Only the worship of Hadrian set new standards in the province of Asia. 38.  Both the dedication to Domitian and his denotation as Σεβαστός as conveyed by the thirteen votive inscriptions (on this see Friesen, Twice Neokoros, 29-49) give evidence that he was object of a cult as reigning emperor in the ναὸς τῶν Σεβαστῶν of Ephesus (Friesen, Twice Neokoros, 34). However, the fact that the provincial cult of Ephesus is not described as a cult Δομιτιανοῦ Σεβαστοῦ καὶ θεοῦ Τίτου καὶ θεοῦ Οὐεσπασιανοῦ, but as a cult of the Σεβαστοί, supports the assumption that all three emperors who were worshipped there were worshipped equally. This gives no reason to assume that the cult was primarily adressed to Domitian with his brother and his father to be only subordinate appendage. 39.  On this see Friesen, Twice Neokoros, 49: “The repeated use of the plural ‘Sebastoi’ indicates that undue emphasis ought not to be placed on one or the other of these rulers”. Similarly Friesen , Imperial Cults, 46: “[…] nor the cult was focused on one individual”. Thus, apparently it is no longer vindicable to refer to the provincial cult of Ephesus as cult of Domitian. Anders M. Dräger , Die Städte der Provinz Asia in der Flavierzeit. Studien zur kleinasiatischen Stadt- und Regionalgeschichte (Frankfurt, 1993) 122-142. 40.  A coin from Pergamon struck under Trajan shows a four-columned temple front with depictions of Trajan in front of Ζεὺς Φίλιος on his throne in the centre (recto) and another four-columned temple front with depictions of Divus Augustus and Dea Roma (verso). On this coin, see B.  P ick , “Die Neokorie-Tempel von Pergamon und der Asklepios des Phyromachos,” in A. Cartellieri, et al., ed., Festschrift Walther Judeich zum 70. Geburtstag überreicht von Jenaer Freunden (Weimar, 1929) 32: “Die Zusammenstellung der beiden Typen bestätigt, daß der neue Neokorietempel durchaus als Gegenstück des alten aufgefaßt werden sollte”; for other numismatic evidence see 32. With regard to the architecture of the two temples erected for the purpose of provincial emperor worship in Pergamon, as it can be construed from numismatic and archaeological evidence, Pick states: “[…]; die Stadt Pergamon scheint also bei der Begründung ihres zweiten Provinzialtempels auch äußerlich den ersten zum Muster genommen zu haben” (33).

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(1) Hadrian was the first emperor in whose honour three provincial cults were established: the provincial cult in Smyrna (123/124 ce), 41 in Ephesos (about 130 ce) 42 and in Cyzicus (138 ce). 43 In Ephesus, Hadrian 41.  On this see the inscription ISmyrn 594 and G.  P etzl , ed., Die Inschriften von Smyrna (Vol. 2.1. of Die Inschriften von Smyrna; ed. G.  P etzl; Inschriften Griechischer Städte 24.1; Bonn, 1987) 74-77. The dating arises from the mention of the “Konsuln des Jahres 124” (75) in lines 5-6. 42. On this see the inscription IEph 428 (C.  Börker-R.  M erkelbach, eds, Die Inschriften von Ephesos II. Nr. 101-599 [Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 12; Bonn, 1979]); on the dating see M.  Wörrle , “Zur Datierung des Hadrianstempels an der ‘Kuretenstrasse’ in Ephesos,” AA 3 (1973) 470-477, 475; see also 471 with reference to C. H abicht et al., ed., Die Inschriften des Aklepieions (Berlin, 1969) 54, n. 24. 43.  On this see an inscription described by T. R einach, “Lettre à M. le Commadeur J. B. De Rossi au sujet du Temple d’Hadrien à Cyzique,” BCH 14 (1890) 517-545: 532. A transcription that can be ascribed to Cyriacus of Ancona (Text at B.  A shmole , “Cyriac of Ancona and the Temple of Hadrian at Cyzicus,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 19 [1956] 179-191, 187) says: ΕΚΔΑΠΕΔΟΥ ΜΩΡΘΩΣ ΕΝΟΛΛΗΣΑΣΙΑΣ ΑΦΘΟΝΙΗ ΧΕΙΡΩΝ ΔΙΟΣ. ΑΡΙΣΤΕΝΟΤΟΣ. Reinach transribes it in Latin as follows: Totius impensis Asiae me surgere jussit Innumeris manibus divus Aristenetus (532). A shmole , Cyriac of Ancona, 187 regards the reconstruction of Reinach as tolerably certain; in his view it “indeed can be regarded as tolerably certain“; similarly A. Schulz-E.  Winter , “Historisch-Archäologische Untersuchungen zum Hadrianstempel von Kyzikos,” in E.  Schwertheim, ed., Mysische Studien (Bonn, 1990) 37-41. Referring to HA, vita Hadriani 13,6: eodemque modo per Asiam iter faciens templa sui nominis consecravit and considering Hadrian’s interests, they regard it imaginable that the temple of Cyzicus was consecrated during Hadrian’s lifetime (see 41). “Da erst die offizielle Einweihung eines Tempels seine Existenz begründete und das Bauwerk von einer weltlichen in eine religiöse Sphäre hob, besaß Hadrian zweifellos ein berechtigtes Interesse an der Einweihung dieses Tempels zu seinen Lebzeiten”. J.  M arquardt, Cyzicus und sein Gebiet (Berlin, 1836) 143-144 and D.  M agie , Roman Rule in Asia Minor (Princeton, 1950) 1472 suggest 135 ce to be the date of consecration. Differently, for example, A shmole , Cyriac of Ancona, 180, who, based on the assumption that there is a connection between the consecration of the temple and the beginning of the Olympics at Cyzicus, dates it to 139 ce: “It [i.e. the temple] seems to have been completed in 139, because the era of the Olympian games connected with it, honouring Hadrian an the thirteenth Olympian deity, begins on that date”. Similarly F.  W. H asluck , Cyzicus (Cambridge, 1910) 187-188, who, with reference to A. Boeckh and the suggestion he made in his commentary on CIG 3674 to date the games related to the temple to 139 ce , argues for the consecration to have been taken place in that very year. Differently C.  A.  Behr , Aelius Aristides and the Sacred Tales (Amsterdam, 1968) 101, n. 20: “The era of the Cyzicene Olympiad is as yet unknown”. On this discussion see Schulz-Winter , Hadrianstempel, 41, n. 80 and especially A.  Barattolo, “The Temple of Hadrian – Zeus at Cyzicus,” IstMitt 45 (1995) 57-108, 60-63. However, as a matter of principle it remains doubtful whether the date of the first Cyzicene

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was the first emperor after Gaius to be worshipped individually and not together with a traditional θεὸς σύνναος. (2) In many parts of the province of Asia the worship of Hadrian reached a supra-provincial dimension when the institution of the Πανελλήνιον  4 4 was brought into life in connection with the dedication of a temple to Ζεὺς Ὀλύμπιος in Athens 45 in 132 ce . The churches of Sardes and Thyatira were definitely members of this institution,  4 6 and it can at least be considered probable that Ephesus, Pergamon and Smyrna were members as well. (3) Furthermore, in connection with the consecration of the temple of Ζεὺς Ὀλύμπιος in Athens, family altars were ordered to be established throughout the Roman province of Asia. These family altars were supposed to be dedicated to Ἁδριανὸς Ὀλύμπιος and to worship him as σωτὴρ καὶ κτίστης. 47 They were placed outside the house at the roadside. 48 On the occasion of festivals every householder was to sacrifice to the emperor on his altar as the procession passed. 49 By this regulation the Olympics is connected with the date of the temple consecration at all; see SchulzWinter , Hadrianstempel, 41. 44.  As one example for the elaborate research literature on the institution of Πανελλήνιον, see A. J. S. Spawforth, “The Panhellenion Again”, Chiron 29 (1999) 339-352; A. J. S. Spawforth-S. Walker , “The World of the Panhellenion I: Athens and Eleusis,” JRS 75 (1985) 78.104; A. J. S. Spawforth-S.  Walker , “The World of the Panhellenion II: Three Dorian Cities,” JRS 76 (1986) 88-105; D.  Willers , Hadrians panhellenisches Programm: Archäologische Beiträge zur Neugestaltung Athens durch Hadrian (Basel, 1990). 45.  For a description of this temple see Pausanias I 18,6, on the date of its consecration see inscription IG IV 2.384 (M. Fraenkel , ed., Inscriptiones Argolidis [IG 4; Berlin, 1902]. 46.  Spawforth-Walker , Panhellenion I, 79-80 name the following members of the Πανελλήνιον: from the province of Achaia the cities of Athens, Sparta, Argos, Epidauros, Methana, Korinth, Megara, Chalkis, Akraephniae Amphikleia (?), Hypata and Demetrias; from the province of Macedonia Thessaloniki, from the province of Thracia Perintus, from the province of Asia the cities of Aezani, Tralles, Milet, Apamea, Synnada, Thyateira, Sardes, Magnesia on the Maeander and Rhodos, and finally from the province of Creta et Cyrene the cities of Lyttos, Gortyn, Hierapytna, Kyrene and Apollonia. 47.  To name only one of many examples, see A. S.  Benjamin, “The Altars of Hadrian in Athens and Hadrian’s Panhellenic Program,” Hesperia 32 (1963) 57-86. 48. On the exact place where these altars were erected within the house see L. Robert, “Sur un Decret d’Ilion et sur un Papyrus concernant des Cultes Royaux,” in A. E. Samuel , ed., Essays in Honour of Bradford Welles (New Haven, 1966) 188: “Deux places sont normales pour ces autels privés: devant la porte et sur la terasse”. 49.  On this see A. Hupfloher , Kulte im kaiserzeitlichen Sparta. Eine Rekonstruktion anhand der Priesterämter (Berlin, 2000) 172 with reference to L. Robert,

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task of emperor worship, which usually had been performed by priests re­presenting the community, was (re-)delegated to the families. 50 Therefore, the cult of Hadrian outreached the framework that had been set by the cult of Augustus by far, as for the first time the individual family became performer of emperor worship. As a consequence, it became visible to the public if someone did or did not participate in the imperial cult. Thus, the risk of being accused grew for those Christians who refused participation. To summarise, the emperor worship, that attached quasi-soteriological relevance to the person of the princeps, increased significantly in the province of Asia under the reign of Hadrian after 132 ce . This is way more plausible to be the time of origin of Revelation than any other phase in the history of imperial cult between 45/50 and 155/160 ce . The author of Revelation obviously perceived Hadrian as the first θηρίον that has been armed by σατανᾶς himself to be the earthly antagonist of Christ the ἀρνίον. Under Hadrian’s successor Antonius Pius, whose reign began in 138 ce , the worship of the reigning emperor was retained in the context of the institution of Πανελλήνιον. However, it is remarkable that the provincial imperial cult was decreased and fell back into or even below the standard that had been set by the cult of Augustus. There is no evidence for any erection of family altars dedicated to Antonius Pius. Like Augustus, Tiberius and Trajan, Antonius Pius had only one cult established in his honour, namely shortly after his enthronement in Sardes. 51

Décret: “L. Robert hat an epigraphischen und literarischen Quellen hellenistischer Zeit gezeigt, wie die Bürger beim Besuch des Königs und bei regelmäßig wiederkehrenden Gedenkfesten vor ihrer Haustüre auf Altären Rauchopfer vollziehen, während die Festprozession passiert”. See also S. R. F.  P rice , Rituals and Power. The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge, 1990) 112: „The involvement of the whole community [!] was […] expressed by the regulation that householders should sacrifice on altars outside their houses as the procession passed”. 50.  The official character of these sacrificial acts conducted by nonofficial persons is emphasised by Hupfloher , Kulte, 172: “Das Opfer wird nicht an einen öffentlich bestellten Beamten oder Priester delegiert, sondern vom einzelnen Haushaltsvorstand selbst vollzogen. Ort der Kulthandlung ist öffentlicher Raum, die Straße, und doch nicht der große, gemeinsame Altar beim Tempel“. Robert, Décret, 208 characterises these sacrificial acts and their privately-official dimension as “à la fois domestique et public”. 51.  P rice , Rituals and Power, 260. Price equates the temple of the emperor with the temple of Artemis in Sardis and assumes that „Antoninus Pius and Faustina in Artemision“ were worshipped. Similarly W. E.  M ierse , in George M.  A. H anfman et al., ed., Sardis from Prehistoric to Roman Times (Cambridge, 1983) 120. It is also possible that Antoninus Pius and Faustina were worshipped in the Artemision of Sardis together with the θεοὶ σύνναοι Ζεύς and Ἄρτεμις. This is the outcome of a discussion with Prof. Dr. R. Ascough, Kingston (Ontario), and Prof. Dr. D.-A. Koch, Münster (Germany), at a visit in Sardis during the field trip “Die

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The outcome of the development of emperor worship in the province of Asia as pictured above is that the book of Revelation must have been written between 132 and 135 ce . 4. H i s tor ica l I n t e r pr etat ion of R ev 13; 2:12-17 a n d Va l i dat ion of my D at i ng A historical interpretation of Rev 13; 2:12-17 offers significant support to my thesis that Revelation was written between 132 and 135 ce . I would like to outline some aspects: (1) If Hadrian is identified as the first of the two θηρία depicted in Rev 13, one can easily relate the second θηρίον to his travelling companion, advisor and friend, 52 the orator and sophist Antonius Polemon. 53 If seen through the eyes of the inhabitants of the province of Asia, Hadrian rose ἐκ τῆς θαλάσσης (Rev 13,1), whereas Polemon, who was born in Laodicea and now lived in Smyrna, is the θηρίον ἐκ τῆς γῆς that came out of the earth, from the province of Asia itself. (2) Rev 13:4 depicts the worship of the δράκων, which is the σατανᾶς (Rev 12:9) and the first θηρίον. This reflects the combined worship of the god Ζεὺς Ὀλύμπιος and the emperor Hadrian at the temple of Ζεὺς Ὀλύμπιος in Athens. (3) The second θηρίον is characterised as a creature who ἐλάλει ὡς δράκων (Rev 13:11). This corresponds to the position of Antonius Po­lemon as the most outstanding sophist of his time. (4) The relationship between the two θηρία 54 as depicted in Rev 13:12 matches the relationship between Hadrian and Antonius Polemon. hellenistisch-römische Welt und das frühe Christentum im westlichen Kleinasien” from March 28 to April 8 in 2004, led by Prof. Dr. D.-A. Koch. 52. See A.  von P remerstein, Das Attentat der Konsulare auf Hadrian im J. 118 n.Chr. (Leipzig, 1908) 60. Similarly I. Romeo, “Das Panhellenion: Der Begriff des Griechentums im Sinne einer ethnischen Identität zur Zeit Hadrians,” in W.-D. H eilmeyer , ed., Die Griechische Klassik: Idee oder Wirklichkeit (Mainz, 2002) 676: “Die Freundschaft zwischen Polemon und Hadrian ist durch viele literarische Quellen belegt“. Due to this friendship the sophist temporarily adopted the „Rolle […] als Mentor des Kaisers” (676). See also the exceedingly benevolent description of Hadrian’s eyes by Antonius Polemon in de physiognomonia 148: Sunt certe oculi Hadriani imperatoris huius generis nisi quod luminis pulcri pleni sunt atque charopi acres obtutu, cum inter homines visus not sit quisquam luminosiore praeditus oculo, and the respective note by M.  W.  Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome (Princeton, 1995) 45: “Indeed, Polemo has attributed to Hadrian, Spaniard though he was, eyes of perfect Hellenic type”. 53.  On Antonius Polemon see Philostratos, v.soph. I  25 (530-544). 54.  On this see Bousset, Offenbarung, 366: “Es [i.e. the second θηρίον] übt die Macht des ersten Tieres vor seinem Angesicht aus, es bringt die dem ersten Tier

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Although the latter did not have any imperial ἐξουσία, as Hadrian’s friend and mentor he had considerable influence in the province of Asia and beyond it. It is even possible that Hadrian authorised Antonius Polemon to make decisions and proclaim them in his presence. (5) A large number of exegetes agree that it is plausible to identify the θρόνος τοῦ σατανᾶ in Rev 2:13 as the temple that was built at the acropolis of Pergamon and consecrated to Ζεὺς Φίλιος and the emperor Trajan around 129 ce . 55 However, they usually refer to the common Domitianic dating of Revelation to prove this interpretation wrong. My thesis on the dating of Revelation, however, allows it to identify the θρόνος τοῦ σατανᾶ as the temple. This is supported by the fact that the statue in the temple depicts Ζεύς sitting on his throne with the emperor Trajan bowing to him. Hence, the term θρόνος that refers to the throne chair or stool in the book of Revelation, 56 corresponds to the throne chair of Ζεύς as its historical equivalent. To sum up: The development of imperial cult in the Roman province of Asia between 45/50 and 155/160 ce suggests that Revelation was written between 132 and 135 ce . Historical interpretation of Rev 13 and Rev 2:12-17, as outlined above, supports this dating. Considering that the dating issue of Revelation is being newly discussed as an open question by recent scholarship, my Hadrianic dating of Revelation offers a serious proposal. In the light of the development of imperial cult in the Roman province of Asia, the Hadrianic dating matches the historical context of Revelation far more than any other dating. gegebene ἐξουσία zum Vollzug und zur Verwirklichung”. Similarly Müller , Offenbarung, 253. Differently Beale , Revelation, 708. 55.  See, for example, K lauck , Sendschreiben 161: “Der weithin sichtbare Trajanstempels, der auf dem Berggipfel thront, gäbe von der Bildvorgabe her einen vorzüglichen Kandidaten [for the identification of the θρόνος τοῦ σατανᾶ] ab”. Because Klauck adheres to the Domitianic dating of Revelation, in his opinion this temple cannot serve as reference for that term. See also 161, n. 34. A relation between this term and the temple of Ζεὺς Φίλιος/Iuppiter Amicalis and the princeps Traian is also assumed by Taeger , Streitschrift 300: “[…] – wobei sich übrigens für den ‘Thron des Satans’ besonders gut das Trajaneum anbieten würde”, und von A. Yarbro C ollins , “Pergamon in Early Christian Literature,” in H. Koester , ed., Pergamon. Citadel of Gods (Harrisburg, 1998) 172-173. 56.  In the Book of Revelation the term θρόνος does not only occur in Rev 2:13 but also in Rev 1:4; 3:21 (twice); 4:2 (twice),3,4 (three times),5 (twice),6 (three times),9,10 (twice); 5:1,6,7,11,13; 6:16; 7:9,10,11 (twice),15 (twice),17; 8:3; 11:16; 12:5; 13:2; 14:3; 16:10,17; 19:4,5; 20:4,11,12; 21:3,5; 22:1 (twice),3, related to God (Rev 1:4; 3:21; 4:2,3,4,5,6,9,10; 5:1,6,7,11,13; 6:16; 7:9,10,11,15; 8:3 [?]; 12:5; 13:2 [?]; 14:3; 16:17; 19:4-5; 20:11-12; 21:3,5; 22:1,3) related to the ἀρνίον Christ (Rev 3:21; 7:17; 22:1,3), related to the first θηρίον (Rev 13:2 [or even to σατανᾶς]; 16:10) or related to the twenty-four πρεσβύτεροι (Rev 4:4; 11:16). The appendant genitive attribute marks the one to whom the respective θρόνος belongs or who sits on the respective θρόνος.

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5. R ece n t D i scus sion At first, I would like to thank my colleagues Luca Arcari and Daniele Tripaldi for their contructive answers on my thesis at the CISSR Incontro annuale sulle Origini Christiane from 1-4 October, 2015. Furthermore, I express my gratidude to my colleague Mauro Pesce for giving me the opportunity to answer these recent contributions. As Luca Arcari objects, it is necessary to keep in mind not only the historical but also the sociological dimensions of the interpretation of the Book of Revelation. This requires a broader view on Rev which takes into account the social diversity of the communities of Early Christanity and especially the communities addressed by Rev. Arcari particularly refers to the statements made in the letters to the seven churches (Rev 2-3). In this respect I totally agree with Arcari’s objection, however it is not appropriate to seriously question my dating of Rev. 57 With reference to my interpretation of Rev 11,3-13 in the context of the Bar Kokhba revolt, Daniele Tripaldi comments on particular text-critical and exegetical problems brought forth by my reasoning. However, he misunderstands my interpretation of Rev 11, 3-13 as primary evidence for my dating of Rev. Thus, I would like to make clear that my reasoning is based on other and way more firm ground whereas my interpretation of Rev 11,3-13 is nothing more than a consequence (and additional proof) of my dating. Nonetheless, Tripaldi’s objections are quite substantial. However, his effort to interpret the phrase τὴν μαρτυρίαν αὐτῶν (Rev 11,7) as testimony of Jesus fails, because the text does not offer the syntagma μαρτυρία Ἰησοῦ. The term μαρτυρία can be interpreted in a formally general sense which means that Rev 11,7 allows the relation of the two martyrs (Rev 11,3-13) to Bar Kokhba and the priest Eleazar. After the discussion of Daniele Tripaldi’s objections I would like to refer to a study by Robert Mucha released in 2015. 58 He seriously questions my dating because beyond Rev there is no evidence that the emperor Hadrian was interpreted as demonic power. 59 Murcha’s reasoning, how57.  The same is true for the objection recently raised by C. R. Koester , Revelation. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (New Haven-London, 2014) 79, that Rev “also deals with disputes over the accommodation of GrecoRoman religious practices and complacency due to wealth”. This is correct but, at the same time, does not present an argument against the understanding that Rev 13 refers to the figure of the ruler of the imperium Romanum and against the theory put forward frequently in scholarship that the cultic-religious worship of the Roman emperor is at least one of the central topics of Rev. 58.  R.  Mucha, Der apokalyptische Kaiser. Die Wahrnehmung Domitians in der apokalyptischen Literatur des Frühjudentums und Urchristentums (Frankfurt/Main et al., 2015). 59. See Mucha , Kaiser, 137.

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ever, is not convincing. If it is true that Rev has its origin in a minority within Early Christianity, as suggested by Mucha himself, it is an inevitable consequence that the majority or even the whole of Early Christianity keeps a positive memory of Hadrian. Finally, it is necessary to discuss an important methodological challenge against dating Rev to the time between 132 and 135 as e.g. put forward by Craig R. Koester in his commentary on Rev in 2014. According to him, it is not possible to develop a theory on the dating of Rev on the basis of Rev 2,13; 13,1-18 because the author uses imagery here, that “does not allow one-to-one correlations with particular figures or structures“. 60 However, this objection is contradicted by the fact that the author makes such a one-to-one correlation in Rev 13,18. For in this verse, he says: ὧδε ἡ σοφία ἐστίν. ὁ ἔχων νοῦν ψηφισάτω τὸν ἀριθμὸν τοῦ θηρίου, ἀριθμὸς γὰρ ἀνθρώπου ἐστίν, καὶ ὁ ἀριθμὸς αὐτοῦ ἑξακόσιοι ἑξήκοντα ἕξ. Regardless of the question to which figure this number ἑξακόσιοι ἑξή­ κοντα ἕξ refers to or how this number is to be interpreted 61 – beyond all differences, there is the broad consensus in today exegetical scholarship “that the number 666 in Rev 13:18 is a clear biblical example of gematria […], a form of coded wordplay in which the letters of the alphabet are assigned numerical values based on their position in the alphabet“ 62 60.  Koester , Revelation, 79. 61.  Koester , Revelation, 79. 62.  D. E. Aune , Revelation II, 6-16 (Dallas, 1998), 771; but see: H. Ulland, Die Vision als Radikalisierung der Wirklichkeit in der Apokalypse des Johannes. Das Verhältnis der sieben Sendschreiben zu Apokalypse 12-13 (Tübingen-Basel, 1997) 311, who, as one of few, rejects the application of the method of Gematria to the interpretation of the number ἑξακόσιοι ἑξήκοντα ἕξ at first with this argument: Although the first of the two in Rev 13 occurring θηρία shifts from an image of the imperium Romanum as a whole to an image of the Roman emperor only in Rev 13,3a.12, according to Ulland, this shift is taken back in Rev 17 (“Die in [Rev] 13,3a.12 vorliegende Synekdoche wird [in Rev 17] zugleich manifestiert und aufgesprengt”). This objection is merely appropriate as the figure of the (first) θηρίον, which appears in Rev 17, can be consistently interpreted as referring to the Roman ruler. Moreover, Ulland points to the semantic content of the verb ψηφίζω in Rev 13,18, which, according to him, makes the application of the gematric method impossible in respect to the number ἑξακόσιοι ἑξήκοντα ἕξ. Such far-reaching conclusions can merely be drawn from the meaning of the verb ψηφίζω. Finally, the fact that the numerous attempts of a gematric interpretation on the basis of the number ἑξακόσιοι ἑξήκοντα ἕξ have led to totally different outcomes cannot be used to categorically discredit the application of this method. The first recipients of Rev have surely been able to solve the riddle in Rev 13,18 without uncertainty; cf. e.g. T. Witulski, Die Johannesoffenbarung und Kaiser Hadrian. Studien zur Datierung der neutestamentlichen Apokalypse (Göttingen, 2007) 186. Ulland’s proposal to understand the remarks in Rev 17,9ff, which are also to be characterized as a riddle, as a “formale Lösung” of the riddle in Rev 13,18 (Vision, 314; cf. also 312: “Der Text gibt also eine Lösung des Rätsels innerhalb seiner selbst, welche nicht die Auflösung des Rätsels als einen konkreten Namen beinhaltet, sondern an

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– the call alone addressed at the recipients of Rev to decode this number makes it necessary to assume that the author wanted to develop a one-toone correlation between the figure of the first θήριον and a contemporary figure, i.e. a figure living at the time of the composition of Rev, that could also be deciphered, in his opinion, by the recipients of his work. 63 Thus, his imagery turns out to be transparent for crucial contemporary figures, events and circumstances. Rev 13,18 shows that the author does not only allow for, but also requires an interpretation that is zeitgeschichtlich, refers to concrete events and persons and, thus, deciphers the imagery of Rev. As far as I know, until now the whole discussion on the dating of Revelation has not brought forth any reason that seriously questions the Hadrianic dating at all.

deren Stelle ein anderes Rätsel steht, denn wer der achte König und damit auch das Tier ist, wird nicht gesagt”), fails because of the fact that Rev 13,18 can be merely interpreted as a call for a “Sprung vom νοῦς zur σοφία” (Vision, 312)“ – after all, Rev 13,18 does neither implicitly nor explicitly call for gaining wisdom, as Ulland interprets this verse –, which takes place in Rev 17,9 or rather which is gained in Rev 17,9 (cf. Vision, 312). 63. This is also especially implied by the remarks stated by C. R. Koester , Revelation. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (New HavenLondon, 2014) 605: “John continues to challenge his readers by means of a riddle, inviting those who have a mind to calculate the number of the beast, which is 666 […] A riddle challenges people to see something the way the author sees it. The person who poses the riddle is initially in the position of having superior knowledge. Those who take up the challenge seek to demonstrate that they are equally knowledgeable by solving the riddle […] The subject matter needs to be familiar enough for the hearer or reader to have a change of working out the solution [!], but the riddle maker poses the question in a manner that requires people to see the familiar in an unexpected way”. Cf. e.g. H. Giesen, Offenbarung, 315, who puts it more explicitly: “Ursprünglich kann sich die Zahl nur auf eine zeitgeschichtliche Persönlichkeit beziehen, was eine spätere Aktualisierung nicht ausschließt”, cf. also U.  B.  Müller , Offenbarung, 256: “Aufgabe des Lesers ist es also, aus der angegebenen Zahl den Namen zu bestimmen”.

HOW JEWISH IS THE (ETHIOPIC) A POCALYPSE OF P ETER? M. Sommer Certainly, the late antique Alexandria was a place of opportunities; a cultural melting pot enabling the exchange of a multitude of different ideas and thought patterns. This imagination stands in the back of the majority of introductions to the (Ethiopic) Apocalypse of Peter. The discussion surrounding the text can be summarised very fast, because most of the time researchers struggled with the text’s origins. Besides  E. Norelli and R. Bauckham, who believed the text would stem from Palestine reflecting the Bar Kohbah crisis, 1 most scholars suggest the text was written in Alexandria under the reign of Trajan. The main argument therefore are connections between so-called “Pagan” thoughts related to the area around Alexandria, and Jewish ideas within the text’s storyline. 2 Anyhow, some scholars like T. Nicklas (and also M. Himmelfarb) particularly emphasised the Jewishness of this Christian. 3 Especially, T. Nicklas read the text as a highly critical response to the huge Alexandrian streams 1.  R.  Bauckham, The Fate of the Dead. Studies on Jewish and Christian Apocalypses (Leiden-Boston, 1998) 160-258; E. Norelli, “Situation des apocryphes pétriniens,” Apocrypha 2 (1991) 31-83, 34-62; E. Norelli, “Pertinence théologique et canonicité. Les premières apocalypses chrétiennes,” Apocrypha 8  (1997) 147-164, 157-158. 2.  According to Jan Bremmer, orphic traditions have influenced the tour of hell, and Wolfgang Grünstäudl believes the motif “Weltenbrand” has Greco-Egyptian roots. In the eyes of Thomas Kraus, the materialistic descriptions of idols and idolism point to Alexandria, too. I myself tried elsewhere to unveil parallels between the Christology of the Apocalypse and pictures used by the provincial politics of Trajan. To me, a lot of Alexandrian coins overlap with the depiction of Christ in the first two chapters, but this is not the point to discuss today. J.  Bremmer , “The Apocalypse of Peter. Greek or Jewish,” in J. Bremmer-I. Czachesz , eds, The Apocalypse of Peter (Leuven, 2003) 1-14; J Bremmer , “Orphic, Roman, Jewish and Christian Tours of Hell. Observations on the Apocalypse of Peter,”, in T. Nicklas et. al, eds, Other Worlds and Their Relation to This World. Early Jewish and Ancient Christian Traditions (Leiden/Boston, 2010) 305-321. See W.  Grünstäudl , „Petrus, das Feuer und die Interpretation der Schrift. Beobachtungen zum Weltenbrandmotiv im Zweiten Petrusbrief,“ in L. Neubert-M. Tilly, eds, Der eine Gott und die Völker in eschatologischer Perspektive. Studien zur Inklusion und Exklusion im biblischen Monotheismus (Neukirchen-Vluyn, 2013) 183-208. 3.  M. Himmelfarb , Tours of Hell. An Apocalyptic Form in Jewish and Christian Literature (Philadelphia, 1983). From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 451-460.

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of anti-Judaism. In this regards, his early approaches focused on the character of judgement and bodily resurrection in chapter 4. He particularly underlines in how far the judgement scene would rely on Israel’s prophetic writings, but he mentions the day of the Lord, a very important motif in this passage, only very briefly. 4 I want to fill this gap in the first two passages of the paper. Starting from there, I hope to be able to expose further aspects of the Jewishness of this Early Christian text. Thereby, I want to question one of T. Nicklas’ main points in the last section. Especially his opinion that “questions of proper Tora observance do not play any role in this text” 5 has to be reconsidered, at least in my eyes. In contrast, I believe that the ethical categories in the visions of hell totally rely on the Tora or at least on the reception of a particular idea of righteousness that is based on at least some laws of the Tora. I try to comprehend the ethics of hell in a political and cultural situation of Egypt loaded with conflicts between Romans, the Greco-Egyptian society and the Jews of Alexandria. 6 1. Th e D ev e lopm e n t

of t h e

Day

of t h e

L or d Tr adi t ion

The day of the lord is very vivid tradition, 7 but many of his witnesses have a common framework. This allows to isolate three mainlines of the tradition describing its evolution. 8 1.1. Eschatology and Messiansm Already the scriptures of Israel characteristically indicate multiple changes of the day of the lord. Very early texts like Amos 5 or Jes 2 define 4.  T. Nicklas , “Resurrection – Judgement – Punishment. Apocalypse of Peter 4,” in G.  van Oyen-T. Shepherd, eds, Resurrection from the Dead. Biblical Traditions in Dialogue. Resurrection des morts. Traditions bibliques en dialogue (Leuven, 2012), 461-474; Further T. Nicklas , “Insider und Outsider. Überlegungen zum historischen Kontext der Darstellung ‚jenseitiger Orte‘ in der Offenbarung des Petrus,” in W.  A meling, ed., Topographie des Jenseits. Studien zur Geschichte des Todes in Kaiserzeit und Spätantike (Stuttgart, 2011) 35-48. 5.  T. Nicklas , “Jewish, Christian, Greek? The Apocalypse of Peter as a Witness of Early Second Century Christianity in Alexandria” [publication in preparation]. 6.  A history of research regarding the social history of the Alexandrian society gives. S. P feiffer , „Die Entstehung und Entwicklung einer multikulturellen Gesellschaft im griechisch-römischen Ägypten. Forschungsbericht,” Jahrbuch der historischen Forschung (2004) 15-26. 7. A longer debate about how to define the tradition itself is mirrored by Y. Hoffmann, “The Day of the Lord as a Concept and a Term in the Prophetic Literature,” ZAW 93 (1981) 37-50. 8.  Of course, their roots lie in the pre-exilic Israel, and they were shaped in a process that haven’t been finished in the second century.

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the great day as an event taking place within history. God intervenes in a situation of injustice, and restores justice for his people. However, since the exile, god’s day got more and more eschatological features. It did not take very long, and texts began to mark the end of history by using the motif. In this regards, the tradition melted with messianic ideas. This was foreshadowed in the scriptures, but, however, broke through during the second temple period. Of course, this enabled and disburdened the Christian reception of the tradition. 9 1.2. Expansion of Contents In very early texts, the motif of the day itself is centred to a very high degree. This changed in the second temple period, and the motif lost its central role of a fully describe key motif. It was more and more used as a kind of date specification signalising the end of history. Thus, space was created within the tradition to fill the eschatological date with different contents, which were not connected with the day of the lord in the early stage of the tradition. For instance, juridical ideas like a court or a judgment scene (1 Hen 1:7-8; 10:6; 19:1; 22:4; 63:8; 92:4; 97:3; aber auch PsSal 15:12; TestLev 1:1; 3:2.), the resurrection of the dead (PsSal 2:31; 3:12; 13:11; v.a. 14:9-10) or fuller sceneries of punishment. Joel 4 and Mal 3 prefigure this development, but it was only elaborated in later times. At the beginning of Christianity, this was progressed so far that the great day could not be divided from judgement and resurrection anymore (Mt 10:15; 11:22.24; 12:36; 1 Thess 4:13-18; 2 Pet 2:9; 3:7; 1 Joh 4:17; Jud 1:6 Offb 20:11-15; 2 Bar 49-51; OffbPetr 4). 10 1.3. Individualisation and Universalisation The juridical perspective of the tradition developed, and defined mechanism being able to influence the behaviour of readers or listeners came to birth. Since the second temple period, Israel and the gentiles are not the only addresses of god’s judgement, but smaller groups of sinners and righteous ones mark the inside and outside of a text’s identify

9.  The scriptures tell that god takes advantage of helpers to effect the immanent world, and in the time of the second temple, the day of the lord was the day of God’s sending of the messiah. See M.  Sommer , Der Tag der Plagen. Studien zur Verbindung der Rezeption von Ex 7-11 in den Posaunen- und Schalenvisionen der Johannesoffenbarung und der Tag des Herrn Tradition (Tübingen, 2015) 160-165. 10.  N.  Wendebourg, Der Tag des Herrn. Ein Beitrag zur Gerichtserwartung im Neuen Testament auf ihrem alttestamentlichen und frühjüdischen Hintergrund (Neunkirchen-Vluyn, 2003), 129.

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profile. Since the first and second century, this perspective was even more individualised. 11 2 . Th e Day

of t h e

L or d

in the

A poca lypse

of

P et e r

A quick look in the first and second century shows that a lot of Christian texts having very Jewish characteristics mirror all those stages of the day of the lord tradition. 12 In this regards, the Apocalypse of Peter is nothing special, because the great day is connected with messiah and a juridical judgement scene as well. The most eye-catching difference is that the text calls the day of the lord the “day of god”! Let me explain this in greater detail: After the exile, the ban of images influenced the tradition, and made colourful theophany elements pale. Very rich and broad descriptions of concomitants of the day were shortened to a minimum, and texts also avoided to use the name of god. For instance, the tetragramm in the expression ‫ יום יהוה‬disappeared. The LXX translated Jom Adonai with ἡ ἡμέρα κυρίου, and set a milestone for the further reception. Mostly, however, god’s name was replaced by an expressive adjective or noun. Day of wrath, day of the battle, day of judgement or just the great day are just a few examples. 13 This had a great impact, and caused very long-lasting effects. 14 Even Christian texts do not directly portray a day of god, but use ἡμέρα κρίσεως; ἡμέρα τῆς ὀργῆς h`me,ra, ἡμέρα πολέμου and, of course, due to their Christology ἡ ἡμέρα τοῦ κυρίου. I  have not found one single text that mentions the day of Adonai, except 2Petr 3:12, but according to W. Grünstäudl, 2Peter is dependent on the Apocalypse of Peter. 15 11. See T.  Nicklas/M. Sommer , “’Der Tag des Herrn ist schon da‘ (2 Thess 2,2b). Ein Schlüsselproblem zum Verständnis des 2. Thessalonicherbriefs,” HBS 71 (2015). 12.  For instance, the Revelation of John links the very tiny passage describing the day of the lord with the juridical passages depicting a court scene and the resurrection of the dead. Nearly every Christian text I know expects the arrival of the messiah, the resurrection and the coming judgement at the day of the lord. Of course, every text filled these motifs with different contents, but the clustering is very similar in a huge number of texts. They share at least a rough group of common motifs. 13.  M. Sommer , Der Tag der Plagen. Studien zur Verbindung der Rezeption von Ex 7-11 in den Posaunen- und Schalenvisionen der Johannesoffenbarung und der Tag des Herrn Tradition (Tübingen, 2015) 166-171. 14.  By the way, there are even voices counting those texts not to the day of the lord tradition, because the phrase ‫ יום יהוה‬does not appear there. 15.  (Even this passage speaks about a day of Parousia of God, and not about a day of god like the Apocalypse. Usually, texts avoid this formulation on purpose).

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Why does a text like the Apocalyse of Peter, a text with a very Jewish appearance, mention a day of god; a phrase that nearly died out since the second temple period? This title is such a striking exception that its use must have been a conscious decision. This gets even clearer when one respects that the Apocalypse mentions “day of god” just as an introduction, and soon after that the text turns to a more common terminology like day of judgement, day of the decision or the great day. One the one hand, day of god is an untypical Jewish language form, but, on the other hand, it is neither typical Christian. In my eyes, the reason for that is the text’s Jewish Christology, which is a very strong form of subordination. 16 Perhaps, the text wanted to point to the fact that god is superior in the end of the time, and that Christ is nothing more than a helping figure or an assistant at the day of the god. 3. R igh t eous n e s s a s B e nch ma r k of J us t ice of t h e D ay of t h e L or d Certainly, T. Nicklas new approach reads the Apocalypse in a very refreshing and extraordinary progressive way, but, however, his draft leaves many open questions. First and foremost, he highlights the influence of Israel’s scriptures on the apocalypse, but, nevertheless, he values the role of the Tora or Tora-based ideas in the Apocalypse of Peter very carefully. 17 Also W. Grünstäudl is very dubious about the Tora as an ethical benchmark of the text’s judgement passages. 18 However, a lot of scholars have noticed that the motifs of the Αpocalypse of Peter are highly influenced by the prophetic literature. The prophets stand behind its conception of judgement. I will argue that the ethics of the text which is dependent on the Day of the Lord has also a lot of in common with prophetic ideas. I try to understand the text’s ethics in front of the political situation of Alexandria. Regarding the text’s Jewish ethics, Nicklas is quite silent. He only values the text not to have any anti-Jewish polemics. I go a little further, because I believe that its ethics is very Jewish, and must have been a “thorn in the flesh” for any form of anti-jewish politics.

16.  The first two chapters reveal that the messiah is absolutely depended on the legitimation of a powerful and omnipotent god. 17.  T. Nicklas , “Jewish, Christian, Greek? The Apocalypse of Peter as a Witness of Early Second Century Christianity in Alexandria,” [publication in preparation]. 18. In his eyes, the inner core of the text’s ethics are everyday life trespasses done by a social underclass. Grünstäudl’s article is in preparation at the moment.

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3.1. The situation of the Jews in the First-Ventury Alexandria Indeed, the Jewish history of Alexandria is a very complex issue. Because of their reduction to a social status equal to Egyptians, they had to pay the capitation tax. This was surely one of the reasons for conflicts with the Hellenistic citizens of Egypt. Although they were the first counterpart of the conflicts, the Romans got soon involved. 19 On the one hand, Claudius confirmed in the first conflict of the years 38-41 ce that the Jews are foreigners. On the other hand, the bloody riot of 66 ce boiled up, because the prefect could not settle down the disturbances. Of course, the Alexandrian conflict of 66 ce had other reasons than the Roman-Jewish war in Palestine (66-70 ce), but the Alexandrines used the chance to portray the Jews as enemies of Rome. Even if the report of Flavius Josephus about the events around the reaction of the Alexandrian Jews in 73 ce indicates that the Jews of Alexandria accepted their minor status, and made an effort to align to the Romans, the political relations were intensely damaged. 20 Certainly, the Fiscus Judaicus made a subliminal contribution to the tense situation. 21 The Jews who saw the capitation tax as an attack on their social role had to pay a further tax assigning them a minor status. Surely, all these events in sum stood in the background of the revolts under the Emperor Trajan, 22 but even after the revolt, the Alexandrian Anti-Jewish-Traditions did not cede (e.g. Celsus Alethes Logos; Epistle of Barnabas). 23 However, this also means that a text providing a very Jewish form of ethics implicitly gives a political statement. Anyhow, if the Apocalypse of Peter was written in Alexandria (before or after the revolt), its Jewish ethics must have had a political potency, even if the texts looks like an unpolitical text. 19.  The literary documents showing conflicts, in which they mutually offended the other party as Egyptians, highlights that the core of the conflict was the recognition of the Jews to be a part of the society equal to the Hellenists. For the Roman stereotypes of Egypt, see M. Clauss , “Quellen zum Ägyptenbild der Römer,” in H.  Beck , Ägypten Griechenland Rom. Abwehr und Berührung (Tübingen, 2005) 392-397. 20. See S.  P feiffer , “Die alexandrinischen Juden im Spannungsfeld von griechischer Bürgerschaft und römischer Zentralherrschaft. Der Krieg des Jahres 66 n. Chr. in Alexandria,” Klio 90 (2008) 387-402. 21.  For the fiscus judaicus, see M. H eemstra, The Fiscus Judaicus and the Parting of the Ways (Tübingen, 2010). 22. See M.  P ucci Ben Ze’ev, “Greek Attacks against Alexandrian Jews during Emperor Trajan’s Reign,” JSJ 20 (1989) 31-48. 23.  T. Nicklas , “Jewish, Christian, Greek? The Apocalypse of Peter as a Witness of Early Second Century Christianity in Alexandria,” [publication in preparation].

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3.2. Rigtheousness in the Apocalypse of Peter and the Day of the Lord The depiction of the day of the lord expounds that righteous ones are separated from evil doers (Chapter 3-6), 24 but only the tour of hell reveals what the text means with justice and righteousness. Righteousness is very important for the text, and also the key to its ethics. The vision of hell explains the text’s understanding of this idea by degrees. It is clearly noticed that prophetic ideas have influenced the text. This gets especially clear, if the laws are not interpreted singularly, but if they are summarized to a group. Thus, it is necessary, to look at different conceptions of righteousness in the prophetic writings.

3.2.1. The Prophetic Literature It is absolutely clearly that the ethical language of the Apocalypse mentions widows and orphans in combination with righteousness. This cluster of words appears in many other texts of Israel’s traditions, and there it has a very clear function. 25 It often builds a bridge to the Deuteronomy. Widows and Orphans are a kind of legal preamble in Deuteronomy explaining the scope of god’s legal framework (Dtn 10:18; 16:11-14.18-20; 24:17-21; 26:12-14.15-19; 27:19). Prophetic texts often refer to that by mentioning widows and orphans. 26 They create an idea of righteousness by recalling the external design of Deuteronomy’s legal order, and by filling it with various ideas. Of course, texts thereby regularly pick up laws of the Tora. Three examples shall come to word: a) Rigtheousness in Isaiah 1 Righteousness in in the cult critics of Isa 1 is unfolded by mixing laws of the Decalogue with and various laws of the Toras in conncetion with the text signal widows and orphans. Laws of the Decalogue – Thievery Ex 20,15; 21,16.37; 22,1.6.7; Lev19,11; Dtn 5,19; 24,7

Various Laws of the Tora (esp. the Deuteronomy)

– Corruption Ex 23,8; Dtn 10,17; 16,19; 27,25

– Disrespecting orphans and widows Ex 22,21; Dtn 10,18; 24,17; 27,19 24.  Chapter 3 mentions that god divides sinners from righteous people in the judgement of his great day. 25.  M. Sommer , “Weltenbummler und Schriftkundige. Eine Grundsatzstudie zum Zusammenhang zwischen Witwen, Identitätsbildung und Schrifthermeneutik im frühen Christentum,” in N. Rupschus-J. Frey, eds, Frauen im antiken Judentum und frühen Christentum (Tübingen) [in print]. 26. See M.  Sommer , “Witwen in 1Tim 5. Eine subkulturelle Annäherung aus der Perspektive der Schriften Israels und ihrer Auswirkungen auf das frühe Christentum,” AES 32 (2015) 287-307.

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b) Rightheousness in Jer 7 Right and righteousness in Jer 7 is explained similarly, but the reception of the Tora laws emphasize the Decalogue to a higher degree as in Isa 1. 27 Laws of the Decalogue – Idolatry Ex 20,3; Dtn 5,7; 6,14; 7,14; 8,19; 11,16.28; 13,14; 28,14.36; 29,25; 30,17; – Murder Ex 20,13; Dtn 5,17 – Thievery Ex 20,15; Dtn 5,19 – Adultery Ex 20,14; Dtn 5,18 Various laws of the Tora (esp. the Deuteronomy) – Bloodshed Dtn 19,10 – Disrecpecting orphans and widows Ex 22,21; Dtn 10,18; 24,17; 27,19 c) Ezekiel and the Laws of Levity However, the notion of right in the Book of Ezekiel is more influenced by ideas of purity coming from Leviticus, but his legal order is build similar to Jer 7; 22 and Isa 1 by mixing laws similar to the Decalogue and laws of the Tora. Laws similar to the Decalogue – Idolatry Lev 26,30; Dtn 29,16 – Cursing father and mother Ex 21,17; Lev 20,9 – Violations of the shabbath Ex 31,14; – Murder Lev 19,16 – Sexual intercourse with Ex 20,17; Lev 20,10; Dtn 5,21 the wife of the neighbour Various laws of the Tora – Bloodshed Num 35,33; Dtn 19,10 – Disrecpecting orphans Ex 22,21; Dtn 10,18; 24,17; – and widows 27,19 Sexual uncleaness (according to Leviticus 18) – Infamous actions Lev 18,17; 19,29; 20,14 – Exposure of the shame Lev 18,6.7; 20,11of the father – intercours with a woman Lev 18,19 during her menstural cycle – intercourse with the Lev 18,15; 20,12 daughter in law – intercourse with the sister Lev 18,11; 20,17; Dtn 27,22

27. By the way, the definition of in Jer 22 is very close to Jer 7, but not as detailed.

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– I could go on with Mal 3, Zech 7 or the psalms. The template is very similar. Widows and orphans refer to Deuteronomy’s legal framework that is filled with different laws of the Tora. In this way, the text creates a new idea of right and righteousness. Even the wisdom literature and, to a minor degree, some Christian writings contain traces of this pattern, 28 but I do not need to go into greater details.

3.2.2. The Ethics of the Tour of Hell – The conception of righteousness in the Apocalypse of Peter is not so far away from the prophetic principle, in case we put all pieces of the visions of hell together to a scheme. To me, this is not so far away from Tora based ideas of righteousness of the prophetic literature. I grouped the Ethiopic tour of hell to reveal the definition of righteousness. – Laws similar to the Decalogue – Blasphemy (9) Ex 20,7 – Idolatry (10) 29 Ex 20,3; Dtn 5,7; 6,14; 7,14; 8,19; 11,16.28; 13,14; 28,14.36; 29,25; 30,17; – Honouring father Ex 20,12; Ex 21,17; Lev 20,9; Dtn 5,16 and mother (11) – Murder (7) Ex 20,13; Dtn 5,17 – Neglect of the Ex 20,7 commandments – Fraud (9)

Various laws of the Tora

Unfair interest rates (10) Lev 25,36 Homosexuality (10) Lev 18 Prostitution/ Dtn 23,18.19 harlotry (7; 8) Sorcery (12) Lev 19,26; Dtn 18,10 Disrespect of widows Ex 22,21; Dtn 10,18; 24,17; 27,19 and orphans (9)

Commandments from other traditions

– Premarital sex (11)

28. See M.  Sommer , “Weltenbummler und Schriftkundige. Eine Grundsatzstudie zum Zusammenhang zwischen Witwen, Identitätsbildung und Schrifthermeneutik im frühen Christentum,” in N. Rupschus-J. Frey, eds, Frauen im antiken Judentum und frühen Christentum (Tübingen) [in print]. 29.  I do not focus on the worshiping of animals due to text critical problems. R.  Bauckham, The Fate of the Dead. Studies on Jewish and Christian Apocalypses (Leiden/Boston, 1998) 160-258. For further information of the role of animals in Alexandria, see S.  P freiffer , “Der ägyptische Tierkult im Spiegel der griechischlateinischen Literatur,” in A nnetta A lexandridis et. al., eds, Mensch und Tier in der Antike. Grenzziehung und Grenzüberschreitung. Akten der Internationalen Altertumswissenschaftlichen Tagung an der Universität Rostock vom 7.4.-9.4. 2005, (Wiesbaden, 2008), 373-393.

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– Disobedient slaves – Abortion / spoilage of god’s creation / – Neglect of the commandments (8)

Of course, the text adopted also elements that have no roots in Israel’s traditions, but this doesn’t exclude that its addressees could draw parallels to Israel’s traditions. In my opinion, the cluster of motifs in the vision of hell is an obvious adaption of prophetic righteousness conceptions that was made suitable for a cultural melting pot. 4. C onclusion No one does question that the apocalypse of peter is influenced by prophetic motifs to a very high degree. The Day of the Lord tradition just adds a single point to many other already discussed issues. Nevertheless, Israel’s tradition have also influenced the ethics of hell. This is important to know, because Jewish history of Alexandria is a very complex issue with a branched constellation of power. A lot of political and cultural factors in sum stood in the background of the revolts under the Emperor Trajan, 30 but even after the revolt, the Alexandrian Anti-Jewish-Traditions did not cede (e.g. Celsus Alethes Logos; Epistle of Barnabas). 31 An ethical draft like the one of the Apocalypse of Peter could have been interpreted as an offense against all cultural tendencies to decrease a Jewish lifestyle. Even if topics like Sabbath or circumcision are missing. However, this also means that a text providing a very Jewish form of ethics implicitly gives a political statement.

30. See M.  P ucci Ben Ze’ev, “Greek Attacks against Alexandrian Jews during Emperor Trajan’s Reign,” JSJ 20 (1989) 31-48. 31.  T. Nicklas , “Jewish, Christian, Greek? The Apocalypse of Peter as a Witness of Early Second Century Christianity in Alexandria” [publication in preparation].

SHEPHERDS AND G OOD SHEPHERD Text and Image in Pastoral Metaphors G.  M archioni 1. I n t roduct ion This work aims at analysing the relationship between Early Christian visual culture and Christian literary sources, with special attention to pastoral metaphors and bucolic language. The central question of this paper concerns the representation of the so-called Good Shepherd in Early Christian visual arts, and its interpretation as Jesus Christ. In Early Christian art studies, the shepherd kriophoros is called Good Shepherd, an expression drawn from the Gospel of John, where Jesus says of himself: “I am the good shepherd” (John 10:11). The use of such an expression to describe the Christian representation of kriophoroi on one hand is deceptive, since these don’t display anything that could identify them with Jesus: “good shepherd”, for it is drawn from the Gospel of John, shall be used only for representations of Jesus Christ. On the other hand, this expression is reductive, since it would only recall the fourth Gospel, without taking into account other literary and cultural influences actually involved in the interpretation of the Christian kriophoros. This study will show the possible relations between Christian texts and the representations of the shepherd in a wide cultural perspective. To do this, it is first necessary to show the misinterpretation of the so-called Good Shepherd in visual art, and make a distinction between Christian kriophoroi, that is to say representations of ram-bearers in Christian contexts, and Christological Shepherds, thus the shepherd portraits of Jesus. The Johannine expression “good shepherd” is incorrect for the pastoral representations of Jesus, since their interpretation requires to the observer a knowledge that exceeds the boundaries of the fourth Gospel and goes back to other synoptic Gospels and even to Old Testament tradition. This work aims at reshaping the one-to-one relation of images and texts into one of the kind many-to-many: “[…] les textes sont trop souvent pris comme des documents archéologiques au premier degré, comme s’ils pouvaient livrer, sans égard aux divers genres auxquels ils appartiennent, des renseignements de première main sur les œuvres d’art qu’ils évoquent à From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 461-475.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117952

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l’occasion”. 1 These words written by Jean-Claude Schmitt shall remind that the interpretation of an image, whatever it is, cannot rely only upon a single text, even if it can be considered as the source: first, because the image never fits its source completely; for example, the source of the mosaic representing the separation of the sheep from the goats in Sant’Apollinare Nuovo (Ravenna beginning of the sixth century) is undoubtedly the Gospel of Matthew: “When the son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on the glorious throne. All the nations will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left” (Matt 25, 31-33). Nevertheless, the Gospel does not describe the image in all its details: Jesus is not sitting on a throne and the six animals synthetically represent the ‘people’: the number of the animals, the colours of the angels and the clothes of Jesus do not correspond to the literary source. There is not, and there cannot be, an exact correspondence of images to text. The distance of the image from its source is determined by the medium of the image itself, such as the material components of the image (glass tesserae, pigments, stone, etc.); moreover, contextual and semiotic factors influence the interpretation of the image. Given this distance, the image of Christian kriophoros should be approached in another way than the seeking of its literary source, focusing on its interpretation rather than its creation. Any investigation of the origins of the kriophoros would be inconsistent for the purpose of this study, since the representations of a ram bearers go back up to the archaic Greek period, and even beyond; 2 be it sufficient to note that this figure was surely not created after the Gospel of John. It is hence useful, rather necessary, to focus on the interpretation of the Early Christian kriophoros, and to search the possible literary and non-literary elements that have influenced it, since, as I do believe, Early Christian kriophoros seems not to have any particular ‘source’, its interpretation, as we shall see, does not rely upon a single text. The Early Christian kriophoros is not a narrative image, even if it can be part of a bucolic vignette; it is rather often isolated and framed, therefore it can be considered as an emblem: the ostensive character of this image, according to Carlo Ginzburg, is the visual counterpart of the noun phrases that characterize some chapters of the Bible. 3 This shows that 1. J.-CL. Schmitt, “Rituels de l’image et récits de vision”, Testo e immagine nell ’alto Medioevo: settimane di studio del Centro italiano di studi sull ’alto Medioevo 41 (1994) 419. 2.  For the archaeology of the kriophoros, see V. Muller , “The Prehistory of the ‘Good Shepherd’”, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 3 (1944) 87-90. 3. C. Ginzburg, “Ecce: sulle radici scritturali dell’immagine di culto cristiana”, in I d., Occhiacci di legno. Nove riflessioni sulla distanza (Torino, 2011) 100-117, 111.

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actually there is a relation of images and texts, but this relation is structural rather than based upon contents. The kriophoros 4 is not an illustration of a given source, it’s rather the visual product of a literary conceptualization, that prefers ‘visions’ to accounts. To analyse this structural relation I will first try to gather the literary texts that could have shaped the Early Christian shepherd imagery, in order to understand the predictable values of contemporary viewers of kriophoros representations. Then, I will show two case studies of bucolic representation and shepherd metaphors of Jesus, trying to understand their relations to literary texts and to the Gospel of John. These case studies are the sarcophagus of San Lorenzo Fuori le Mura (Rome, fourth century; Figure 1) and the mosaic of the Good Shepherd in a lunette of the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia (Ravenna, fifth century). 2 . Th e S ou rce s In the Ancient Near East the shepherd imagery was often associated with kingship and guidance. 5 In Old Testament, Gods and kings were called “shepherds of the people” (Gen 49: 24; Jer 23: 1-4; 31: 10; 49: 20; Mic 5: 4; 7: 14). The shepherd’s role is especially prominent in exilic salvation prophecies and in Genesis 49:24 Yahweh is called the “shepherd” for the first time. 6 In Psalm 23, the psalmist (David) presents a multifaceted God using the multi-layered shepherd-metaphor: Abraham M. Antony’s study on Psalm 23 highlights the undertones of the shepherd metaphor, such as guidance – closely related to protection -, loving care and sovereignty. “In Israel the title evoked special memories of God’s own leading and protecting role in the wilderness (Psalms 77: 20; 78: 52-53; 80: 1) and in the return from the Exile (Isa 40: 11; 49: 9-10). With this background, the thought of God as shepherd would flood the informed and sensitive reader’s mind with evocations too deep for words”. 7 The binomial concept of shepherd-king in Old Testament is used with regards to King David too: he actually was a shepherd and became the appointed servant to guide Yahweh’s flock in accordance with His will (Ezekiel 34: 23). 8 4.  From now on, with ‘kriophoros’ I’ll mean ‘the Christian representation of the kriophoros’. 5. C. Young, Jesus as the eschatological Davidic shepherd: studies in the Old Testament, Second Temple Judaism, and in the Gospel of Matthew (Tübingen, 2006). 6.  And in Psalm 23; Zech 11; Mic 2. See previous note. 7. A.  A ntony, “Jesus the Shepherd in the Gospel of Matthew”, in P.Vadakumpadan-J. Varickasseril , eds, Shepherding: Essays in Honour of Pope John Paul II (Shillong, 2005) 143-185, 62. 8.  Moses in Exod 14, 31 is called shepherd too.

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In New Testament the Davidic shepherd role of guide and leader is acquired by Jesus Christ. Jesus is the appointed eschatological Davidic shepherd who fulfils the Old Testament prophecies of salvation and restoration. Joel Willitts argued that Matthean Jesus Christ was expected to be a political leader, 9 while Abraham Antony enlarges Matthew’s Christology, underlining a wider spectrum of undertones: Jesus is not only the promised messianic shepherd-leader of Israel, but also the compassionate shepherd, the judge and the therapeutic son of David; 10 “concentrating on just one designation or a single motif at the expense of others or in isolation from the narrative whole can distort Matthew’s Christology”. 11 The identification of Jesus as the Shepherd is explicit in the fourth Gospel where, according to John, Jesus speaks the words: “I am the Good Shepherd”. In this pericope, Jesus gives a symbolic representation of himself using an allegory and not while telling a story (parable). In John’s Gospel, Jesus’s long speeches are revelations that establish a symbolic image for Jesus into reader’s/listener’s mind, at the expenses of his biography and the account of his miracles. The need for vivid speech is, according to Gabriele Pelizzari, “il punto di contatto più significativo tra letteratura e iconografia protocristiane; entrambe sono laboratori di “immagini di fede” composti mentre si celebra il mistero di Cristo, non mentre lo si argomenta […] i punti di contatto tra materiali evangelici e iconografia cristiana non sono prioritariamente di ordine contenutistico ma strutturale”. 12 This vivid speech is emphasized by the use of first person and the present tense show the intention of the Evangelist to set the story of Jesus into the reader/listener’s time. 13 Many Church Fathers and Early Christian Authors refer to the parable of the lost sheep reported in Matthew 18: 12-14 and in Luke 15: 4-6 as the “parable of the good shepherd”, even if none of the two Evangelists actually speak of a shepherd, much less of “good shepherd”, 14 they 9. J. Willitts , Matthew’s messianic shepherd-king: In search of the lost sheep of the house of Israel (New York, 2007). 10.  ‘Son of David’ is a royal messianic title that in Matthew’s Gospel is connected to healing activities and firmly anchored in the messianic tradition of the second Temple period. L. Novakovic , Messiah, the Healer of the Sick: A Study of Jesus as the Son of David in the Gospel of Matthew (Tübingen, 2003) 7. 11. A.  A ntony, “Jesus the Shepherd in the Gospel of Matthew”, in P.Vadakumpadan-J. Varickasseril , eds, Shepherding: Essays in Honour of Pope John Paul II (Shillong, 2005) 185. See also A.  Destro -M.  P esce , Come nasce una religione: Antropologia ed esegesi del Vangelo di Giovanni (Bari, 2000) 3. 12. G. Pelizzari , Vedere la parola, celebrare l ’atesa: scritture iconografia e culto nel cristianesimo delle origini (Cinisello Balsamo, 2013) 120; 218. 13.  See B. M aggioni, La brocca dimenticata: I dialoghi di Gesù nel vangelo di Giovanni (Milano,1999). 14. Origen, Hom. Num. 19, 4 (GCS, 184,16); Hom. Gen. 9:3 (SC 7b, p. 250, 49-54); Tertullian, Pud., 7, 1-4 (CC 2, p. 1292, 1-18). Jerome, In Is., 14 (53, 5-7), CC 73, 590, 34-37.

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only speak of a generic person, compared to a shepherd. Early Christian fathers moved on to the blend of the distinctive elements deduced from three gospels: the sheep on the shoulders from Luke, the descent from the mountain from Matthew, and the definition of the shepherd as the “good shepherd” from John. So the parable of the lost sheep, from paradigm of a good behavior, became an allegory of Christ in the interpretations of early Church Fathers and Christian authors. 15 Beyond the parable of the lost sheep and the four Gospels, “shepherd” appears in the New Testament as a title for Christ (Hebrews 13: 20; 1 Peter 2: 25; 1 Peter 5: 4) and in Church’s Fathers the shepherd often describes Jesus Christ, as Tertullian who interprets the shepherd looking for lost sheep of the parable as Jesus; 16 similarly, Jesus is the Shepherd in Clemens of Alexandria’s Hymn to Christ the Saviour (Paed. 3.101.3, line 30) and in the famous Inscription of Abercius, dated second century, where the bishop of Hieropolis describes himself as a disciple of the holy shepherd; similarly in the Martyrdom of Polycarp (19,7) Jesus is the shepherd-guide of the Church. 17 Nevertheless the shepherd metaphor is not bestowed exclusively upon Jesus Christ: the Epistle to the Philadelphians of Ignatius of Antioch is one of the earliest Christian texts in which we can see the designation of bishops as shepherds. 18 Aleksander Gomola affirms that the metaphor bishop-shepherd “became quickly a standard conceptualization describing the division of roles in the Church and is used extensively by patristic writers. Tertullian in his De Fuga says that bishop should avoid the getaway in order to be like the good shepherd. 19 A good illustration of how radical the elaboration of this blend might be is Augustine of Hippo’s (354-430) Sermon on Pastors, where he justifies bringing sinners back into the Church even against their will, employing imagery from the Hebrew Bible (Jeremiah 23: 1-4 and Ezekiel 34: 1-8)”. 20 The shepehrd metaphor is the basis of the Herma’s book The Shepherd, where the shepherd is the angel of repentance, the guide of the protago15.  For a wide perspective of the interpretations of the parable in Early Christian authors See M. DULAEY, “La Parabole de la brébis perdue dans l’Église ancienne: de l’exégèse à l’iconographie”, Revue des Études Augustiniennes 39 (1993) 3-22. 16. «A parabolis licebit incipias, ubi est ovis perdita a Domino requisita et humeris sius revecta» (Tertullian, Pud., 7, 1, in A. Capone , ed., Scrittori Cristiani dell ’Africa Romana, Tertulliano, Opere Montaniste: Il Velo Delle Vergini; Le uniche nozze; Il digiuno,Contro gli psichici; La pudicizia; Il pallio (Roma, 2012) 278. 17. P. Corby Finney, “Shepherd, Good”, in E. Ferguson, ed., Encyclopedia of Early Christianity (New York, 1990) 1055-1056. 18. Ign.  Phld., 2. 19. F. Bisconti, “Buon Pastore”, Temi di iconografia paleocristiana (2000) 138139; 138. 20. A.  Gomola, “Conceptual Blends with Shepherd(s)/Sheep Imagery in Selected Patristic Writings”, Studia Religiologica 47 (2014) 275-284; 278-279.

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nist, that makes its first appearance in Vision 5; moreover, there is another shepherd, the angel of punishment (Sim. 6.3.2; 7.1-2). It is clear that the shepherd metaphor from early centuries is ubiquitous to describe not only Christ, but also bishops, apostles and other figures. As seen, the shepherd metaphor can describe different “characters” within the Bible, and even for one and same character, e.g. Jesus, each author gives his own interpretation and overtone to the metaphor. Given such a literary and cultural background, it is clear how the Christian visual representations of kriophoroi and shepherd metaphors had so many undertones that they could not be understood in an exclusive way. Thus, when the shepherd is unequivocally Christ, it can be allusive for the Resurrection and simultaneously for the holy sacrifice of he who lays down his life for the sheep (John 10). 21 When applied to bishops, the shepherd metaphor had of course the primary meaning of guide, but it could have many nuances: bishop-shepherds were decision-makers and the laity were sheep, expected to be obedient in matters of doctrine and discipline. 22 Pastoral imagery and metaphors were part of a wider system of communication and vivid speech in literature; visual representations of shepherds had their own history, that – at a certain point – joined this Christian literary tradition. 3. Th e I mage s Bucolic elements have always been part of Roman visual culture: on Roman sarcophagi Both Christian and non-Christian artists and customers used bucolic landscapes, pastoral themes, kriophoroi characters, sheep and other animals, to evoke and represent pastoral idylls and paradises. Shepherds and their flocks often appeared on mythological sarcophagi, providing the bucolic setting of the episode: on a sarcophagus at Louvre Museum (dated 230 ce) 23 a sitting shepherd on the left hand of the relief is looking at the central scene of Selene visiting her sleeping lover Endymion, and on a sarcophagus with the same subject-matter at Metropolitan Museum (New York, dated 210), there is a shepherd with his flock, and the back side panel is decorated with a bucolic scene of herdsmen with 21.  See M. Dulaey, “La Parabole de la brébis perdue dans l’Église ancienne: de l’exégèse à l’iconographie”, Revue des Études Augustiniennes 39 (1993) 3-22. 22. M. Foucault, «Omnes et Singulatim: Toward a Critique of Political Reason», Power 3 (New York, 2001) 298-325. 23. F.  Baratte-C.  M etzger ,  Musée du Louvre: Catalogue de sarcophages en pierre des époques romaine et paléochrétiene (Paris, 1985), 71-75, n. 25. See P. Z anker-B. C. Ewald, Living with Myths: The Imagery of Roman Sarcophagi (Oxford, 2012) 337, n. 15.

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kettles and animals. 24 One of the long sides of the sarcophagus of Velletri (dated approximately 170 ce) is decorated with pastoral images besides mythological characters, without any narrative connection; according to Nikolaus Himmelmann, this juxtaposition means that the shepherds are to be intended as independent allegories, as well as other mythological symbols. 25 In the third century bucolic iconographies and pastoral idylls became an independent subject-matter for the tombs decoration of both “pagan” and Christian customers: the rustic scene on the front of the famous sarcophagus of Julius Achilleus (dated before 275), a wealthy head of one of the imperial bureaux, echoes the decoration of a likely Christian sarcophagus excavated in via Prenestina representing a bucolic scene. 26 In “pagan” and Christian funerary decorations the shepherd, portrayed in many gestures, started to separate from other pastoral scenes, becoming a an independent subject-matter. In some Christian sarcophagi the space under the tondo with the portrait of the dead is occupied by bucolic figures, often a shepherd is milking the goat, or a couple of herdsmen talking to each other, leaning on a long stick or playing the panpipe. 27 These shortened bucolic scenes only evoke the peasant and peaceful life and represent perhaps a wish for the deceased’s hereafter. Soon the isolated image of the shepherd started to stand out on the rest of the decoration, standing doing nothing but carrying the ovine on his shoulders. This shepherd kriophoros, frequently featured with the syrinx, the curved crook (pedum) and the milking vase, appears in the representation of the Seasons (e.g. in the tomb of Nasonii 28), in the centre of the domes of Roman catacombs and on gravestones besides, and often within, the inscription. This kind of shepherd motif is used as a formula, 29 without any specific reference to a narrative episode or character and with-

24.  P. Z anker-B. C. Ewald, Living with Myths: The Imagery of Roman Sarcophagi (Oxford, 2012) 322-325. 25. N. Himmelmann, “Sarcofagi romani a rilievo”, Annali della scuola Normale superiore di Pisa, classe di lettere e filosofia 4 (1974) 139-177; 163. 26. J. Toynbee , Animals in Roman life and art (London, 1973), 283-284 and plates 140-141. 27.  F. W. Deichmann, Repertorium Der Christlich-Antiken Sarkophage (Wiesbadenr, 1967) 85; 87 (sarcophagus at Museo Pio Cristiano); 239; 690 (drawing of a sarcophagus from Saint Peter); 962 (Palazzo Farnese). J. Wilpert, Sarcofagi cristiani antichi (Roma, 1929) pl. CXXXIV, 1. 28. J. Wilpert, Sarcofagi cristiani antichi (Roma, 1929), figure 48. G. M essineo, La tomba dei Nasonii (Roma, 2000) 62, figure 63. N. Himmelmann, “Sarcofagi romani a rilievo”, Annali della scuola Normale superiore di Pisa, classe di lettere e filosofia 4 (1974) 139-177; 163. 29.  L. DE Bruyne , “Les ‘lois’ de l’art paléochrétienne comme instrument herméneutique”, Rivista di archeologia cristiana 39 (1963) 7-92; 9.

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out any background, except a couple of trees that often work as a framing device. Lucien De Bruyne includes these motionless kriophoroi shepherds among the “images isolées’” that is to say impersonal and symbolic images, disconnected from the rest of the decoration. For De Bruyne, this image does not always represent Jesus Christ, because it appears repeated within the sarcophagus frontal or within the fresco, and such a repetition excludes the possibility of a Christological representation. This isolated figure, it is worth repeating, is impersonal (abstractions hypostasiées). The isolated kriophoroi don’t change their appear from non-Christian contexts, to the point that it’s often impossible to determine the Christianity of an image without any contextual reference. Early Christians seem to have used the kriophoros in the same way as non-Christians, nevertheless scholars used to talk of this kind of images as “Good Shepherds”, an expression that, as mentioned above, is drawn from the Gospel of John and refers unequivocally to Jesus Christ. 30 This identification was so strong that some scholars attained Jesus’ identity even to other Bible shepherds, besides the John’s shepherd: Josef Wilpert in his work on catacombs wall paintings wrote: “L’immagine del Buon Pastore ha per fondamento, oltre la parabola, anche il racconto della pecora smarrita, è già bella e disegnata nella Sacra Scrittura: un pastore che porta sulle spalle una pecora”; 31 and further: “Nel simbolo del Buon Pastore dobbiamo distinguere la similitudine della pecora smarrita e riportata all’ovile, da quella del pastore che pascola il suo gregge e lo difende dal nemico. Questa distinzione suggerita dagli Evangeli, la fecero anche gli antichi artisti, creando I due seguenti tipi di rappresentazione: 1. Il Buon Pastore che porta sulle spalle la pecora. 2. Il pastore col suo gregge”. 32 In Wilpert’s opinion these images have different meanings, 33 but they both refer to Jesus Christ: in the first case the flock is the group of believers and their guide is the shepherd while they are alive; in the second case, the sheep carried by the good shepherd is the soul of the dead carried in Christ’s shoulders. Other scholars rejected the a priori identification of every Christian kriophoros with Christ: the first was Theodor Klauser, who gave an interpretation of the so-called Good Shepherd not as Jesus, but as the personification of pagan philantropia. This interpretation was partially accepted 30.  This habit is asserted by G. Otranto, “Tra letteratura e iconografia: note sul Buon Pastore e sull’Orante nell’arte Cristiana antica (II-III secolo)”, Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989) 69-87; 72. See also N. Himmelmann, “Sarcofagi romani a rilievo”, Annali della scuola Normale superiore di Pisa, classe di lettere e filosofia 4 (1974) 139-177; 164. 31. J. Wilpert, Le pitture delle catacombe Romane (Roma, 1903) 45. 32. J. Wilpert, Le pitture delle catacombe Romane (Roma, 1903) 212. 33. J. Wilpert, Le pitture delle catacombe Romane (Roma, 1903) 213 and 398.

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by Jocelyn Toynbee, who argued that, in unequivocally Christian works, the kriophoros could stand for any “philanthropic” Christian.  3 4 Nikolaus Himmelmann disagreed with Klauser’s interpretation, arguing that he considered only the kriophoros at the expense of the other kinds of shepherd, for which the interpretation as philantropia is invalid. 35 Lucien De Bruyne, as already mentioned, seems to use the label “Good Shepherd” for kriophoros only formally, describing it as image isolée, an impersonal and symbolic image, disconnected from the rest of the decoration. 36 For De Bruyne, the kriophoros does not represent Jesus Christ, because the isolated figure, as seen, is impersonal. Giorgio Otranto points out that even if Christ is presented as the Good Shepherd by Hippolytus Traditio Apostolica (Trad. Ap. 41, SCh 11bis, 126) and Novatian, following the tradition of John 10, not every ancient viewer could interpret and understand the image of the shepherd as Christ, because not everyone was aware of the biblical and patristic tradition. 37 The viewer was not necessarily supposed to be a reader of Fathers texts.

Fig. 1. ‘Sarcophagus of San Lorenzo Fuori Le Mura’. End of the fourth century (From J. WILPERT, p. 95).

To my knowledge, there are only two bucolic representations whose protagonist is unequivocally Jesus Christ: one is the sarcophagus from San Lorenzo fuori le mura (end of fourth century); the other is the lunette mosaic of the Good Shepherd in the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia in Ravenna (fifth century). Nikolaus Himmelmann, in addition to the one from San Lorenzo fuori le mura, recognized other bucolic representations of Jesus: the shepherd on the Catervus sarcophagus in Tolentino (dated late fourth century), and the shepherd with long and curly hair on a strigil sarcophagus (Figure 2). 38 34. J. Toynbee , Animals in Roman life and art (London, 1973) 297. 35. N. Himmelmann, “Sarcofagi romani a rilievo”, Annali della scuola Normale superiore di Pisa, classe di lettere e filosofia 4 (1974) 165. 36. L. De Bruyne , “Les ‘lois’ de l’art paléochrétienne comme instrument herméneutique”, Rivista di archeologia cristiana 39 (1963). 37. G. Otranto, «Tra letteratura e iconografia: note sul Buon Pastore e sull’Orante nell’arte Cristiana antica (II-III secolo)», Vetera Christianorum 26 (1989) 80-86. 38.  F. W. Deichmann, Repertorium Der Christlich-Antiken Sarkophage (Wiesbadenr, 1967) n. 829.

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Fig. 2. ‘Strigilated Sarcophagus’ (from Repertorium Der Christlich-Antiken Sarkophage, 347-8, t. 133, n. 829).

The only kriophoros is the shepherd on the front of Catervus sarcophagus, while the shepherds of the other sarcophagi are represented standing, holding a stick with one hand and reaching the other to touch the sheep. All these shepherds are dressed like “real” herdsmen, except the shepherd in Ravenna, who is dressed with a golden tunic with a crimson cloth and holds a golden cross instead of a shepherd’s crook. This shepherd’s head is haloed, as well as the central shepherd of the sarcophagus from San Lorenzo fuori le mura. The identification of these shepherds with Jesus is a problematic question. On the sarcophagus in Tolentino the central kriophoros is flanked by two panels with the portraits of the apostles, Peter and Paul; this scheme recalls some sarcophagi with the central figure of Christ with a long cross, and two figures on the side panels, namely the sarcophagus of the Apt Cathedral (dated fourth century), 39 and the sarcophagus in the Avignone Museum (dated fourth century).  4 0 The close resemblance of Catervus sarcophagus and these two examples may speak for a correspondence Jesus – Good Shepherd, 41 but on the two sarcophagi Jesus is unequivocally recognizable, while on Catervus he is not: if during the fourth century, period to which all these sarcophagi belong, the figure of Christ was already codified, the Catervus craftsman must have wanted to represent a shepherd without Christological features on purpose, instead of representing him as the Christ: the sculptor perhaps wanted to only evoke the idea of Jesus, 1. 5.

39. J. Wilpert, Sarcofagi cristiani antichi (Roma, 1929) 54, and plate XXXVII, 40. J. Wilpert, Sarcofagi cristiani antichi (Roma, 1929) 46, and plate XXXVII,

41. In both sarcophagi the figure on the right (respectively Hyppolitus and Paul) raises his right hand as in a gesture of speech, his left hand holds a rotulus; on the other side, the other character (Systus and Peter) raises the right arm through the center and holds the tunica with the other; both the figures have the basket with the volumina at their feet.

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with an allusion to the similar tasks of Jesus and the shepherd, in the light of the cultural tradition of early Christianity. The shepherd on the strigil sarcophagus (figure 2) is not surely recognizable as Jesus, since he has not Christological features, as instead the the shepherd of the sarcophagus from San Lorenzo Fuori le Mura, that is, in my opinion, the only shepherd undoubtedly identifiable with Jesus, who is represented, using the vivid name given by Wilpert, as a “Prince of the Shepherds”. 42 Jesus is dressed as a common herdsman, holding the typical crook, but he is recognizable as the Christ for the presence of the twelve Apostles, each one portrayed in his own physiognomy. On the other hand, in the mosaic in Galla Placidia the character is undoubtedly Jesus, but he is not represented as a shepherd: he is instead dressed with a purple tunic with gold clavi, he’s holding a high golden cross and his head is framed with a big golden halo. Jesus is sitting on a small rock, from which small rivers are flowing, and touches one of the six sheep gazing at him. These sheep are the only pastoral feature for Jesus who is not a veritable herdsman: Christ is “the regal Shepherd, victorious over death […] a new type of figure, that of an heroic model of a fictive person intended to resemble the idea that incarnates”. 43 In this context Jesus is not portrayed as a shepherd, he is rather a king, the vanquisher of death, portrayed in a bucolic “paradise”.  4 4 These “recognizable images” of Christ do not belong anymore to the De Bruyne’s category of “images isolées”: they are not repeatable because they are not impersonal anymore. The shepherd of the sarcophagus from San Lorenzo Fuori le Mura, is a “typological” portrait, rather than a portrait relying upon the “likeness” with the subject, according to André Grabar. 45 Among all these representations, it seems that the only “good shepherd” is the one on the sarcophagus from San Lorenzo Fuori le Mura; actually, there is a representation of the tenth chapter of the Gospel of John, on the Brescia casket (end of fourth century, Figure 3). Jesus is represented on a threshold of what seems to be a door of city walls (or a walled space), with five sheep inside; he is dressed with a long pallium, his facial features correspond to the ones of the portrait in a tondo in the upper part of the casket. The right hand of Jesus is pointed towards a fierce barking dog, a shepherd dressed with the usual dress, is leaving on the right of the scene.  4 6 42. J. Wilpert, Sarcofagi cristiani antichi (Roma, 1929) 95-96. 43. P.  A ngiolini M artinelli, “The Mosaics: the image from scenic presence to symbolic suggestion”, Il Mausoleo di Galla Placidia a Ravenna (1996) 147-170; 147170; 159 and notes 83, 84, 85. 44.  See also M. C. Carile , “Production, Promotion and Reception: The Visual Culture of Ravenna between Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages”, Ravenna Its Role in Earlier Medieval Change and Exchange (2016) 53-85. 45. A. Grabar , Les voies de la création en iconographie chrétienne: antiquité et moyen age (Paris, 1979). 46. C. Brown Tkacz , The Key to the Brescia Casket: Typology and the Early Christian Imagination (Paris, 2002).

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Fig. 3. ‘Brescia casket’ Fourth Century, Santa Giulia Museum, Brescia (from C. BROWN TKACZ, 2002).

So, since the Brescia casket represents the Good Shepherd, and the mosaic of Galla Placidia represents Jesus as a king (not as a shepherd),the shepherd on the San Lorenzo Fuori le Mura sarcophagus is the only sure bucolic representation of Jesus. All the other Christian kriophoroi, that are not identifiable with Jesus, may evoke, rather than represent, Christian shepherds. The fact that the only representation of the Gospel of John is the one on the Brescia casket should not lead to think that John’s book could not have influenced the other images; rather, it can be said that John’s Gospel was not the source of other images, as it was instead for the Brescia casket. Even if a text was not a source for an image, its influence is nevertheless admissible: depending on his own literary knowledge and cultural background, the ancient viewer could have a simultaneous, rather selective, understanding of the meanings of images. Ancient authors, ancient readers, as well as ancient viewers, had a multifaceted idea of what “good shepherd” meant, based on the long literary and cultural tradition of the shepherd. To this purpose, it is worth it to quote a passage from Eusebius Life of Constantine: “You would see at the fountains set in the middle of squares the emblems of the Good Shepherd, evident signs to those who start from the

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divine oracles, and Daniel with his lions shaped in bronze and glinting with gold leaf ”. 47 The image of the shepherd was part of the cultural knowledge of those who relied upon the Scriptures (τών θέιων λογίων ορμωμένοις), and I think that this image was interpreted by these viewers in the light of the literary and cultural tradition, as seen above. The so-called “good shepherd” must have recalled in viewers mind multiple associations of meanings, provided by both the iconographical and literary tradition, τών θέιων λογίων. 3.1. Images And Texts: The Relations The relation that links the Christological Shepherds of the sarcophagus from San Lorenzo fuori le mura and the one of Ravenna with the Gospel of John exists, but on a structural plan rather than on contents plan: 48 these two typological portraits could be defined also “metaphorical”, because, as in a metaphor, they create a qualitative comparison between two elements, namely the shepherd and Christ. According to Donald Griggs, in the Gospel of John there are not parables, but metaphors: in this sense, the metaphorical portraits of Jesus Christ as Good Shepherd mirror the metaphorical structure of the fourth Gospel. 49 Narrative representations of miracles have been crucial in the making of Christian iconography, 50 but, as Carlo Ginzburg pointed out, in the fifth and sixth centuries unpredictable visual possibilities spread out and led to the creation of a new kind of representation: symbols and emblems, cult images in a wider sense, that had no narrative subject-matter. 51 If, on one hand, the fourth Gospel had a structural influence on some bucolic representations of Christian shepherds, on the other hand this influence, on the significance plan, is not exclusive: these images are not “illustrations” of the fourth Gospel, the only one is on the Brescia casket, and the manufacturer might have had in mind other texts and traditions. 47. Eusebius. Life of Constantine (III, 49, Clarendon Ancient History Series, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). 48.  I am considering the Christ in Ravenna as a shepherd, even if it is not a veritable herdsman, as I said before. In the wealth of this argumentation, it is possible to consider the mosaic in Galla Placidia as an ideal shepherd. The shepehrd idea is given anyway: it is metonymically represented in the bucolic setting instead of the human figure. 49. D. Griggs-P.  Walaskay, The Bible from Scratch: The New Testament for Beginners (Louisville, 2003) 52. 50.  See T. F. M athews , The Clash of Gods: A Reinterpretation of Early Christian Art (Princeton, 1993), chapter 3. 51. C. Ginzburg, “Ecce: sulle radici scritturali dell’immagine di culto cristiana”, in I d, Occhiacci di legno. Nove riflessioni sulla distanza (Milano, 2011) 100-117, 109.

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So, the idea of kingship given by the purple and golden dress of the Shepherd of Galla Placidia may echo the Matthean Davidic shepherdking, and the loving gesture of the shepherd on the sarcophagus from San Lorenzo fuori le mura toward the sheep may mirror the idea of shepherd care and protection of Psalm 23. The relation between image and text must be therefore reformulated, in order to go beyond the search of genetic and causal relations between the image and its literary “source”. “No art is strictly representational, but belongs to a larger horizon of meaning in which art finds its social context”, 52 where “representational” could be understood as “representative” or “illustrative” that is to say based on a text that the image is called to illustrate. As I have shown, the relation image-text is structural but, furthermore, the relation should not be considered as a one-to-one relation anymore, but as multi-valued “images – texts” relations (plural). Images echo a literary tradition, a tradition based on intertextual echoes. Hays calls “metalepsis” this process “by which one is invited to engage in ‘intertextual discourse’, and which characterizes the textual interaction that lies neither (primarily) between the text and its contemporary historical settings, nor between the text and the meta-physical conceit, but rather between the text and the tradition”. 53 Gabriele Pelizzari argues that the very subject-matter of an image is the hermeneutics: the images represent the meaning of a literary tradition, rather than a story of a single text. 54 The relation must involve more than one text and one image: W. J. T. Mitchell argues that “comparison itself is not a necessary procedure in the study of image-text relations: the necessary subject matter is the whole ensemble of relations between media, and relations can be many other things besides similarity, resemblance and analogy”. 55 The existence of multiple relations, actually builds a network of representations, that follows the epidemiological paradigm for the transmission of representations, with which Dan Sperber aims to overcome the derivation model. “[…] si può quindi scoprire una rete di corrispondenze più ricche delle semplici relazioni di somiglianza tra rappresentazioni”. 56 These medias, images and texts, must be considered as products of a tradition, in a wide cultural sense: According to Michael Camille, “a crucial notion in our contemporary logocentric culture that is difficult to appre52.  H. O. M aier , Picturing Paul in Empire: Imperial Image, Text and Persuasion in Colossians, Ephesians and the Pastoral Epistles (London, 2013) 25. 53.  Y. S. Chae , Jesus as the eschatological Davidic shepherd (Tübingen, 2006) 9. 54. G. Pelizzari , Vedere la parola, celebrare l ’atesa: scritture iconografia e culto nel cristianesimo delle origini (Cinisello Balsamo, 2013) 68. 55.  T. W. J. M itchell , Picture theory: essays on verbal and visual representation (Chicago, 1995) 89. 56. D. Sperber , Il contagio delle idee: Teoria naturalistica della cultura (Milano, 1996) 48.

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ciate, is how much both writing and picturing were seen as secondary, mediating and fallible means of human communication, constituting what Augustine called “signs”. These signs, written, spoken, sung or thought all pointed to a third term that was far more fundamental to the human understanding of God – the Word”. 57 The evidence of this is given by the already mentioned text of Eusebius: to those who deal with the Scripture, the image of the Good Shepherd was an evident sign, not because its sense was clear, but because the predicted values of that image, the range of meanings and references, were already established in the viewer’s mind. Literary and iconographic traditions triggered in the viewer a process of associative understanding of all the simultaneous significations of images. The “good shepherd” is a telling example of the relations of images and texts: the selection of one or more meanings by viewers follows an unconscious process and is deeply influenced by the cultural background of the viewer himself. It is a matter of finding the “different conceptual frameworks which interpret what is seen to make it meaningful”. 58 The relation image-text is overcome in favor of a ternary relation imagetext-tradition: the Contextual Methodology of Graydon Snyder shows how both literature and art are cultural products and their relation is not of the kind one-to-one, but is multiple, and the influences go from image to text and from text to image backwards. 59

57. M. Camille , “Word, Text, Image and the Early Church Fathers in the Egino Codex”, Testo e immagine nell ’alto Medioevo: settimane di studio del Centro italiano di studi sull ’alto Medioevo 1 (1994) 65-93 (65-92; 70-71). 58. J. Elsner , Art and the Roman Viewer: The transformation of Art from the Pagan World to Christianity (Cambridge, 1995) 3. 59. G. F. Snyder , Ante Pacem: Archaeological evidence of Church Life before Constantine (Macon, 2003).

T ERTULLIAN, THE BISHOPS OF ELVIRA, AND THE P RECESSION OF SIMULACRA Unpacking Strategies of a Christian Political Engagement before Constantine E. Rubens Urciuoli The simulacrum is never what hides the truth – it is truth that hides the fact that there is none. The simulacrum is true (Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation, 1)

F or ewor d : Th e P ow e r

is the

Tru mpet

“Power”, as Ramsay MacMullen once wrote, “is known about because anyone who possessed it trumpeted it to the world.” 1 Long before the advent of the “society of spectacle,” 2 power in ancient societies was already trumpeted by its pomp. 3 In the Greco-Roman empire, from the early Principate onwards, ongoing processes of erosion of many prerogatives of central and local institutions had made trumpeting devices the striking signage of their fading power referentials, some of which were per se exposed to transience – all magistracies, Roman and municipal alike, had a term. Yet this primacy of the insignia was not simply a matter of the elites’ yearning for visual prestige. Roman imperial society displayed a smooth overlap of public and private powers whose mutual reinforcement benefited from the very fuzziness of the borders. In consequence, at least some of the title- and officeholders felt perfectly at home in the hard public sphere by moving in and out of public offices, in and out of retirement. 4 What the majority of the ruling elite regarded as the long1.  R.  M acmullen, Corruption and the Decline of Rome (New Haven, 1988) 81. 2.  G.  Debord, La société du spectacle (Paris, 1967). 3. See E.  K antorowicz , Laudes regiae: A study in Liturgical Acclamations and Mediaeval Ruler Worship (Berkeley, 1946); P.  E. Schramm, Herrschaftszeichen und Staatssymbolik. Beiträge zu ihrer Geschichte vom dritten bis zum sechzehnten Jahrhundert (Stuttgart, 1954-1956) 3 voll.; A.  A lföldi, Die monarchische Repräsentation im römischen Kaiserreiche (Darmstadt, 1970). 4. See R.  M acmullen, Corruption and the Decline of Rome (New Haven, 1988) 59. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 477-500.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117953

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sought gates of power were for these few people just family sliding doors. For them, robes and garments were nothing but work-wear. Within such a context, signs of power could survive the end of its exercise 5 by somehow prolonging their visibility beside the lawful terms of the mandates. Slowed by a noble pedigree or a stably acquired rank, Machtsymbole may still have been fading while the legal authority of their holder was already expired. Or, on the contrary, as attested by the laticlavii adorning the young sons of senators, they could precede the achievement of the first prestigious post. The modern relationship between positions of powers and signs of power should thus be reversed: wherever public-political engagement, expectations, and accountabilities resulted from rank, it was rather the office that signaled and trumpeted to the world a tailor-made robe adhering to the wearer by reason of birth, success, or just imperial favour. 1. O n I dol at ry 17-18: I f

the

D e mons We a r P u r pu r a s

This paper argues that such a relationship between power and signs of power might help illuminate and come to grips with the situation behind an apparently bizarre dispute, which is referred in chs. 17-18 of Tertullian’s treatise On Idolatry (Carthage, around 198-206 ce). Tertullian’s book is to be comprehensively interpreted as a maximalist 6 handbook for a safe Christian everyday life. With regard to the passage below, the overall sense of oddity is manufactured by the writer to convince the reader/ listener of the absurdity of the stance he strives to challenge. To lampoon his opponents all the better, the Christian writer stages a masterful sample of “serious fiction”: 7 “Hence a dispute has lately arisen as to whether a servant of God may accept the exercise of a dignity or a power, if he can keep himself pure of every form of idolatry, either by some special favour or careful wisdom, just as both Joseph and Daniel, untainted by idolatry, exercised dignity and power, wearing the insignia and the purple of the governorship of the 5.  That is, the exercise of a power that, in some cases, they symbolize and execute at the same time: “The fasces do not symbolize the imperium; they execute and determine it in such a way that to each of its juridical articulations there correspond a material articulation of the fasces, and vice versa” (G.  Agamben, The Kingdom and the Glory: For a Theological Genealogy of Economy and Government [Stanford, 2011] 182). 6.  In the sense of B. Lincoln, Holy Terrors: Thinking about Religion after September 11 (Chicago, 2003) 59. 7.  For the quality of this seriousness, see S. E. Binder , Tertullian “On Idolatry” and Mishnah “Avodah Zarah”: Questioning the Parting of the Ways between Christians and Jews (Leiden, 2012) 68-75.

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whole Egypt and Babylonia, respectively. Thus, let us admit that a man may succeed in any post of honour in bearing only its name without sacrificing or lending his authority to sacrifices, without contracting for public victims, without giving games at his own cost or that of the state or presiding over the giving of them, without proclaiming or announcing any solemnity, without even taking an oath; furthermore, with regard to what pertains to power, without passing judgement on a man’s life or honour – for as money you might be tolerant –, without condemning or forejudging, without putting anybody in irons, without empoisoning or torturing, if it is believable that all this is possible.” 8

The following interpretation seems to me most plausible. Some Christian notables of Cartage, who were apt and ready to exercise public functions, were pondering overon, if not yet adopting, some practical ways of holding posts and performing official duties as “untainted (mundi)” as possible, that is, without feeling religiously threatened or too much “at fault” when performing the tasks. Perhaps, they also tapped into some biblical models (Joseph and Daniel) to strengthen their position. Which were these practical ways? Gratiae and astutiae. If the former formula no doubt refers to the quest for favours, the latter term points to the the enactment of some smart stratagems. Yet in the end, as we shall see later, favours and stratagems tended to fade one into the other. It goes generally unnoticed that, in order to pave the way for his own argument –and thus eventually state the impossibility of such manoeuvres (“si haec credibile fieri posse”) – Tertullian subtly swerves. Bypassing the aforementioned issue of tricks and favours, he suggests these people’s strategies tend to split honours from honores, posts from charges, semiotic-appellative characteristics from political-objective prerogatives of power, signs from realities: “let us admit that a man may succeed in any post of honour in bearing only its name (… ut in quoquo honore in solo honoris nomine incedat).” A key part of his linguistic strategy is to make the 8. “Hinc proxime disputatio oborta est, an servus dei alicuius dignitatis aut potestatis administrationem capiat, si ab omni specie idololatriae intactum se aut gratia aliqua aut astutia etiam praestare possit, secundum quod et Ioseph et Daniel mundi ab idololatria et dignitatem et potestatem administraverunt in ornamento et purpura praefecturae totius Aegypti sive Babyloniae. Cedamus itaque succedere alicui posse, ut in quoquo honore in solo honoris nomine incedat neque sacrificet neque sacrificiis auctoritatem suam accommodet, non hostias locet, non curas templorum deleget, non vectigalia eorum procuret, non spectacula edat de suo aut de publico aut edendis praesit, nihil sollemne pronuntiet vel edicat, ne iuret quidem; iam vero quae sunt potestatis, neque iudicet de capite alicuius vel pudore - feras enim de pecunia – neque damnet neque praedamnet, neminem vinciat, neminem recludat aut torqueat, si haec credibile est fieri posse” (Tertullian, Idolatry 17:23). I use the Latin text and the English translation of J. H. Waszink-J. C.  M. Van Winden, Tertullianus. De idololatria. Critical Text, Translation and Commentary (Leiden, 1987) 255.

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reader/listener suppose such a pointless unpacking of names from things is almost their practical strategy. In a word, he wants to put us on the wrong track. Furthermore, the writer insists, such an absurd move pretends to be enforced all over the field of Roman power, insofar as the dividing device at issue (hono(s)/ur) is supposed to act at any level of the existing sociopolitical order: jurisdictional and non-jurisdictional functions, Roman and municipal magistracies. Since Tertullian describes his opponents as people foolishly depriving titles of power of any concrete act of power, to pinpoint such a “nominalistic turn” is critical for understanding what is really at stake in this disputatio, that is, for unpacking 9 Tertullian’s text. 1.1. “Special Favours” and “Careful Wisdoms”: How to Subtract Some Religiously Uncomfortable Charges from Public Offices

1.1.1. Special Favours I turn back now to the phrases “special favours” and “careful wisdoms” and start analysing them separately. Which “special favours” are here to be intended? Here Tertullian is probably hinting at some legal excuses for claiming and obtaining exemptions from public liturgies. 10 Theoretically, indeed, like any other municipal citizen, a Christian notable could petition the appointed authorities, if not for the honorary permanent immunity from all liturgies and charges 11 (immunitas), then at least for a temporary and justified exemption. The latter was associated with that particular legal situation which Javolenus, a Roman jurist active under Trajan, calls muneris publici vacatio. 12 Tertullian himself seems to later allude to the possibility of being exempted from liturgies, when he replies to another possible objection: 9. Here in the derivative meaning of “elucidating better what is implicit,” or “analyzing something into its component elements.” 10.  Public liturgies (gr.: λειτυργίαι; lat.; munera [civilia]) designate the obligation that the city imposes on citizens with a certain income (i.e., not only on the appointed magistrates) to provide a series of services for the common interest. At that time, services included are: participation in civic embassies, acting as a judge for some minor controversies, maintenance of public order, organization of gymnasia, games and spectacles, collecting taxes, supervising postal service and aqueducts, restoration of roads and buildings, heating the baths, provision of animal for transports, equipping of troupes. 11.  That is, from both those towards Rome and one’s own city. 12. Javolenus, in Digesta L 40:12. Technically, it is possible to distinguish between immunitas and vacatio. The former is absolute and incontestable, the latter relative and circumstantial, insofar as it can be checked and normally ceases once the motivations pleaded give out. In this respect, while immunitas indicates the legal situation of exemption from liturgies, excusatio refers to the verification by the nominator of the conditions required for gaining the exemption. If the plea is refuted, the nominee could still appeal to the governor of the province (appellatio).

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“‘But both your birth and your property are a burden to you in the fight against idolatry’. To avoid it, remedies cannot be absent since even if they would fail, there would remain that one thing by which you will be made a happier magistrate, not on earth but in heaven.” 13

As Claude Lepelley persuasively suggested, 14 in the previous case such “remedies (remedia)” would be a request for immunitas and/or a plea of vacatio as feasible alternative to to martyrdom (“… happier magistrate, not on earth but in heaven”). Yet – this is the point – to what extent could a Christian notable bothered by idolatrous civic burdens do politics without liturgizing? By stressing the religious-cultic accountability of magistrates, James B. Rives de facto agrees with Tertullian: in Carthage one could neither be a duumvir nor an aedilis without giving games to the people. 15 Nevertheless, I would argue that it was still possible to keep on sitting in the council and, in case of nomination to liturgies, to further legal excuses, to claim exemptions, to find way outs, and to appeal before courts of first and second instance in order to escape them. 16 In short, one could try to hand the burden (munus) over to other decurions. I do not want to imitate Tertullian in skirting around the subject when the strategy of argument risks being unsuccessful. 17 It is quite evident that magistracies were more religiously troubling and compelling than the mere membership of an ordo. Especially in colonies like Carthage, 18 Roman and municipal magistrates were more visibly exposed to, and personally accountable for, public interactions with demons than temporarily or permanently “unemployed” town councillors and senators. Tertullian does know it and twists the knife in the wound. Assuming that “Christianness” 19 13.  “‘Sed et nativitas at substantia tua molestiae tibi sunt adversus idolatrian.’ Ad evitandum remedia deesse non possunt, cum et, si defuerint, supersit unicum illlud, quo felicior factus non in terris magistratus, sed in caelis” (Tertullian, Idolatry 18:9). 14. C. L epelley, Aspects de l ’Afrique romaine. Les cités, la vie rurale, le christianisme (Bari, 2001) 29. 15.  J.  B. R ives , Religion and Authority in Roman Carthage from August to Constantine (Oxford, 1995) 30. This service generally implies a co-financing enterprise – i.e., partly public and partly private. 16.  For a list of justifications see A. H. M. Jones , The Greek City: from Alexander to Justinian (Oxford, 1940) 184-185 and 343. 17. On this see S. E. Binder , Tertullian “On Idolatry” and Mishnah “Avodah Zarah”: Questioning the Parting of the Ways between Christians and Jews (Leiden, 2012) 192-193. 18.  See A. Weiss , Soziale Elite und Christentum. Studien zu ordo-Angehörigen unter den frühen Christen (Berlin-Boston, 2015), 175-178. 19.  I follow Rebillard’s use of this rare term to designate simply “the Christian quality” of something/someone: see E. R ebillard, Christians and Their Many Identities in Late Antiquity, North Africa, 200-450 ce (Ithaca, 2012) 99.

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and Christian religious commitment should be taken as relevant and salient 20 also outside cultic Christian gatherings, is not the safest antidote to idolatry to become a “magistrate in heaven,” that is, to die as a martyr? Any inner-worldly remedy risks falling short of the illness. However, Christian candidates for magistracies could still have a legal chance to gain “special favours” without being compelled to choose between (A) martyrdom and (B) the complete deactivation of Christian identity in public-political contexts, settings and situations. The cited comment on the vacatio provided by Javolenus mentions this kind of temporary exemption from public charges with specific reference to magistracies. The full text reads as follow: “Anyone who has been granted exemption from the performance of municipal duties is not excused from becoming a magistrate, because the functions of the latter are more honorable than onerous; yet all other extraordinary duties temporarily required from anyone, as, for instance, the repair of highways, should not be demanded from such a person.” 21

The context of this fragment from the early second century is uneasy to establish. Probably, “it was prompted by attempts of some to avoid magistracies by pleading vacatio.” 22 Some legal ambiguities were thus liable to produce lack of candidacies. To contrast this strategy, Roman jurisprudence makes clear that serving as a magistrate is not covered by vacatio, since magistracies are honourable functions rather than onerous services (“… quia id ad honorem magis quam ad munera pertinet”). Administrative needs suggested to open and broaden the semantic gap between honor and munus (in short: between honours and burdens) as far as the reproduction of the ruling elite of the socio-political bodies allowed for it. Since there could be vacatio for anything but leading the cities, Javolenus points out that an exemption granted for whatever valid reason is not a good excuse for not yearning for the highest positions. This smart counter-strategy keeps the door slightly open to an objective relief of the financial and, as a consequence, idolatrous burdens associated with the magistracy. I would suggest that, if not this very technical

20.  For the notion of “relevance” see D. Sperber-D. Wilson, Relevance: Communication and Cognition (Oxford, 1995). On “salience” see P. J.  Burke-J.  E. Stets , Identity Theory (Oxford, 2009). 21.  “Cui muneris publici vacatio datur, non remittitur ei, ne magistratus fiat, quia id ad honorem magis quam ad munera pertinet. Cetera omnia, quae ad tempus extra ordinem exiguntur, veluti munitio viarum, ab huiusmodi persona exigenda non sunt” (Javolenus, in Digesta L 40:12). English translation is mine. For a brief comment see F.  Grelle , Diritto e società nel mondo romano (Roma, 2005) 49. 22.  P.  Garnsey, Cities, Peasants and Food in Classical Antiquity: Essays in Economic and Social History (Cambridge, 1998) 5.

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escamotage, 23 this line of action is what Tertullian strives to deny in On idolatry 17, via his polemical and dismissive approach to his counterpart’s stances. Can I still serve as a duovir while having obtained a vacatio from – among other things – financing religiously framed and murderous entertainments for the people? Can I act as an aedile without – among other things – offering theatrical spectacles? “No,” says the Christian writer. “Yes, if you have a valid excuse that someone has approved,” responds the Roman jurist. To sum up, the parallel reading of On Idolatry 17:2 and 18:9 can raise the suspicion that the fictitious and rhetorical separation of the titles of honour from the prerogatives of power, which Tertullian tendentiously ascribed to his opponents, is meant to obfuscate and twist the actual or potential enactment of practical strategies for subtracting some charges from public offices. While the local “pastorate” strives hard to put the Christian elite in a maximalist vice in order to hold them back from power, 24 the ambiguous situation faced by Roman law could offer them some possible way out. After all, both statistics and panhuman proclivities suggest martyrdom, which is presented by Tertullian as the best solution by far for escaping idolatry, is hardly seen as the most desirable option. There is no evidence of martyrs being brought beside courts for the outrage aroused by escaping public charges. 25 At least, one does not die from a vacatio.

1.1.2. Careful Wisdoms This latter consideration leads to shift the focus from the “special favour[s] (gratia aliqua)” to the “careful wisdom[s] (astutia)” by paying attention to how fuzzy the border between them actually is. In fact, while the quest for favours is itself a strategic move, stratagems often demand external support. Close contacts with idols and demons “known to be no gods” 26 were a not an infrequent matter for people performing official duties both at a central and a provincial level, in Rome as well as in one’s own hometown. 23.  “It must be emphasized that this is an isolated text and should not be made to bear too much weight. At the most, the passage would suggest that there was no universal scramble for magistracies” (P. Garnsey, Cities, Peasants and Food in Classical Antiquity: Essays in Economic and Social History [Cambridge, 1998] 5). 24.  Not only by Tertullian (see Minucius Felix, Octavius 31:6) and not only in Carthage (see Apostolic Tradition 16; Origen, Against Celsus  VIII:75). 25. C. L epelley, Aspects de l ’Afrique romaine. Les cités, la vie rurale, le christianisme (Bari, 2001) 29. 26.  “We cease to worship your gods, from the moment we learn that they are no gods (Deos vestros colere desinimus, ex quo illos non esse cognoscimus)” (Tertullian, Apology 10:2).

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Astutiae for sidestepping them were of two types: practical and gnoseological. I would say that the former depended on the practical mastery of the game rules, while the latter relied on perception and interpretation of reality. An extreme example of the first type is the application of the cessio bonorum to nominations to liturgies/magistracies. This legal process consisted in the act of passing the liturgy to the nominator, along with – and here comes the high price tag – a consistent part of one’s own properties, conventionally fixed at one-third. 27 Burdensome and complicated per se, this move probably demanded to be approved by the governor. In this respect, gnoseological strategies were much less drastic and economically onerous. However basic, they were difficult to pinpoint and challenge, since they rested on the personal appraisal of the degree of religious/idolatrous relevance and salience of the actions at stake. Inasmuch as a Christian candidate / nominee for public posts was neither indifferent to glory and prestige nor a fanatical idol-hunter, it is reasonable to suppose that, for him, neither any type of contact was to be considered unacceptable – as Tertullian pretends – nor even the closest and tightest among them were to be taken as serious collusions and definitive complicities – as it is in Tertullian’s interest to believe and make believe. Tertullian permitting, ‘pagan’ commitment began in the eye of the committed. So, for example, practices such as letting contracts for the provision of victims (hostias locare) or for the care of temples, as well as having charge of their incomes (curas templorum delegare; vectigalia eorum procurare), could be perceived as less inappropriate than sacrificing. Likewise, lending one’s own authority to sacrifices or giving games including sacrifices (sacrificiis auctoritatem suam accomodare; spectacula edare de suo aut de publico) was likely to be personally felt and seen by others as more religiously troubling and compromising than just presiding over them (edendis praeesse). In general, activities falling into the spectrum of passive participation 28 to sacrifices could be viewed as more acceptable than roasting meat at the altars (sacrificare). 29 Lastly, it was pretty easy to be less sensitive than Ter-

27.  A. H.  M. Jones , The Greek City: from Alexander to Justinian (Oxford, 1940) 185. 28.  On this issue see W. Eck, „Das Eindringen des Christentums in den Senatorenstand bis zu Konstantin d. Gr.” Chiron 1 (1971) 401. 29.  With respect to Roman magistracies, we do not know when, for provincial senators appointed praetors or consuls, it became possible to delegate the mandatory liturgy of the ludi. From the fourth century onwards, indeed, it was possible for them to “send a sum of money to Rome and have their games celebrated by the censuales, the officials who maintained the register of the senate and the records of their properties” (A. H.  M. Jones , The Later Roman Empire (284-602) [Oxford, 1964] vol. 1, 538).

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tullian to the difference between damnare (jurisdictional prerogative) and praedamnare (legislative act). 30 To sum up again, the combined use of favours and ruses of practical reasons 31 was likely to produce an eccentric, yet not impossible, publicpolitical positioning.. To declare it absurd is to fall into Tertullian’s gnoseological and rhetorical trap, thus adhering to his tendentious narrative that somebody is claiming to be granted a pure honorary, quasi nominal, and virtually ineffective species of power (in solo honoris nomine). 1.2. Faking the Reference: How Tertullian Exorcises the Spread of “Hyperreal” Purples and the “End of Representation” Tertullian is not contented with this clever move. Actually he schemes a second plan of attack because he is puzzled by another dimension of the inoperative power which is strictly related to the first. Immediately after 30.  This traditional interpretation of the phrase in the sense of damnat iudex, praedamnat legislator is fundamentally accepted by J. H. Waszink-J. C.  M. Van Winden, Tertullianus. De idololatria. Critical Text, Translation and Commentary (Leiden, 1987) 256. 31.  Reappearing in de Certeau’s “tactics” (see M.  de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life [Berkeley, 1984]), this is the sense of Detienne and Vernant’s mētis as “cunning intelligence:” “Although mētis operates within so vast a domain, although it holds such an important position within the Greek system of values, it is never made manifest for what it is, it is never clearly revealed in a theoretical work that aims to define it. It always appears more or less below the surface, immersed as it were in practical operations which, even when they use it, show no concern to make its nature explicit or to justify its procedures. […]. There is no doubt that mētis is a type of intelligence and of thought, a way of knowing; it implies a complex but very coherent body of mental attitudes and intellectual behaviour which combine flair, wisdom, forethought, subtlety of mind, deception, resourcefulness, vigilance, opportunism, various skills, and experience acquired over the years. It is applied to situations which are transient, shifting, disconcerting. and ambiguous, situations which do not lend themselves to precise measurement, exact calculation or rigorous logic. Now, in the picture of thought and intelligence presented by the philosophers, the professional experts where intelligence was concerned, all the qualities of mind which go to make up mētis, its sleights of hand, its resourceful ploys and its stratagems, are usually thrust into the shadows, erased from the realm of true knowledge and relegated, according to the circumstances, to the level of mere routine, chancey inspiration, changeable opinion or even charlatanerie, pure and simple. So failure would be inevitable if one tried to discover mētis from an enquiry into what Greek intelligence had to say about itself when it composed theoretical treatises on its own nature. Mētis must be tracked down elsewhere, in areas which the philosopher usually passes over in silence or mentions only with irony or with hostility so that, by contrast, he can display to its fullest advantage the way of reasoning and understanding which is required in his own profession” (M.  Detienne-J.  P. Vernant, Cunning Intelligence in Greek Culture and Society [Hastock, 1978] 3-4; emphasis mine).

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his captious tirade against a power unpacked and reduced to the power of signs, he addresses the other side of the coin, i.e., the signs of powers: 32 “But now we should draw our attention only to the attire and the pomp of high office. There is an appropriate wear for everyone, both for daily use and for office and dignity (high function).” 33

Sumptuous cloaks and garments have always been the visual metonymy of a power that can and must be concretely exercised. However, the possible split of honor into habitus (emblem of the inoperative pomp) and officium (emblem of the operativeness alone), as well as the giving up the latter in conformity with the idea of a Christian religious adequacy of public roles and behaviours , would turn the person into the living and walking “pure simulacrum” of a powerless power: an embodied insignia with “no relation to any reality whatsoever” in all its operations.  3 4 For those who are familiar with the opening pages of Jean Baudrillard’s Simulacra and Simulation, it is easier to understand why Tertullian commits himself to radically criticizing not only the moral but also the ontological status of the pomp. Once showed the absurdity of the “nominalistic” side of his opponent’s strategy, he now tackles the visual dimension and embarks on a far-fetched genealogical theory of the relationship between power attires and power functions in the history of Rome. Such a story almost foreshadows - and, at the same time, dispels - Baudrillard’s idea of the “precession of simulacra:” 35 “That purple, then, was something simple among the barbarians, not yet a sign of a high function, but of free birth. For in a sense both Joseph, who had been a slave, and Daniel, who had changed his status through captivity, attained Babylonian and Egyptian citizenship by receiving the 32. The iam vero formula, as the editors remark, “indicates a continuation of the same argument” (J. H. Waszink-J. C.  M. Van Winden, Tertullianus. De idololatria. Critical Text, Translation and Commentary [Leiden, 1987] 257). 33. “Iam vero de solo suggestu at apparatu honoris retractandum. Proprium habitus uniuscuiusque est tam ad usum quotidianum quam ad honorem et dignitatem” (Idolatry 18:1). 34.  J.  Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation (Ann Arbor, 1994) 6. 35.  “Today abstraction is no longer that of the map, the double, the mirror, or the concept. Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being, or a substance. It is the generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal. The territory no longer precedes the map, nor does it survive it. It is nevertheless the map that precedes the territory – precession of simulacra – that engenders the territory, and if one must return to the fable, today it is the territory whose shreds slowly rot across the extent of the map. It is the real, and not the map, whose vestiges persist here and there in the deserts that are no longer those of the Empire, but ours. The desert of the real itself ” (J.  Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation [Ann Arbor, 1994] 1; original emphasis ).

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dress of foreign nobility. […]. But the purple or the rest of the insignia of high rank and power, which from the beginning have been consecrated to the idolatry involved in these dignities and powers, carry with them the taint of their own dedication. Hence the idols themselves are also robed in praetextae, trabeae and lati clavi, and fasces and rods are carried before them, and rightly so; for the demons are the magistrates of this world; fasces and purple are worn by them as the insignia of one and the same league. So what will you accomplish, if you use this attire but do not perform the functions connected with it? Nobody can give an impression of cleanness in unclean clothes. If you put a tunic soiled in itself, it may perhaps not be soiled through you, but certainly you will not be able to be clean because of it.” 36 Rome is neither Egypt nor Babylon, where Joseph and Daniel lived and acted as public functionaries. In Rome, the link between insignia and demons is tight to the point that it comes first and precedes the one tying insignia to public offices and officers. In order to fasten and shorten the link between clothes and idols, Tertullian develops the thesis of the original and direct demonic reference of “the purple and the rest of the insignia (purpura vel cetera insignia)”. Hence he disconnects the defiling presence and power (profanatio) of the latter from the actual human performing of functions, tasks, and duties demanding the use of the former. 37 Even before tainting the possible service, which is to be carried out by wearing and/or being announced by “appropriate (proprium)” clothes, the demons and their infections already dwell in the praetextae, the trabeae, 36.  “Simplex igitur purpura illa nec iam dignitatis erat, sed ingenuitatis apud barbaros insigne – quodammodo enim et Ioseph, qui servus fuerat, et Daniel, qui per captivitatem statum verterat, civitatem Babyloniam et Aegyptiam sunt consecuti per habitum barbaricae ingenuitatis […]. Ceterum purpura uel cetera insignia dignitatum et potestatum insertae dignitatibus et potestatibus idololatriae ab initio dicata habent profanationis suae maculam, cum praeterea ipsis etiam idolis induantur praetextae et trabeae et laticlavi, fasces quoque et virgae praeferantur, et merito. Nam daemonia magistratus sunt saeculi huius; unius collegii insignia, fasces et purpuras gestant. Quid ergo proficies, si suggestu quidem utaris, opera eius vero non administres? Nemo immundis mundus videri potest. Tunicam si induas inquinatam per se, poterit forsitan illa non inquinari per te, sed tu per illam mundus esse non poteris.” (Tertullian, Idolatry 18:3-4).. 37.  This move is consistent with Tertullian’s statements about the logical and historical priority of idolatry = demonolatry over idols themselves: if “there was a time, long ago, when there existed no idol (idolum aliquamdiu retro non erat)”, the idolatrous mechanism could act without and aside from idols. In fact, “for even today it may be practised outside a temple and without an idol” (Idolatry 3:1). See also 11:6. For the chronological argument see also Athenagoras, Embassy 17. For the philosophical roots of the underlying “natural history of religion” see J. H. Waszink-J. C.  M. Van Winden, Tertullianus. De idololatria. Critical Text, Translation and Commentary (Leiden, 1987) 104-106.

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the lati clavi, and the fasces. Given the primary and “radical title” they established on any earthly power relationshisps, the first to be robed in purples and adorned with insignia were the demons, i.e., the “not unquestionably plausible” 38 cosmic rulers (magistratus  […] saeculi huius). Human kings, notables, public officers, and religious specialists came later. In consequence the idolatrous entanglement of the clothes in the official setting of their use is both (onto-)logically secondary and chronologically posterior. In Tertullian’s counter-strategy the priority of defiled simulacra over tainting duties and operations aims to disprove the alternative disquieting scenario of the precession of simulacra themselves, within which “the models come first…, while the facts no longer have a specific trajectory.” 39 To say it with Tertullian, people “use the attire, but do not perform the functions connected with it.” In this world upside down, in fact, to simulate the reference to theoretically defiling but practically not performed offices and activities means to feign that the power associated with such acts is represented by the mere use of some vestments and ornaments, while actually signs of power refer to nothing but themselves.  4 0 Hyperreal” purples act as if they suggest (suggestu) the presence of some operational referential; 41 The power attires merely fake their conversion into routine powerful acts. For an idol-ogist like Tertullian, “this death of the (idolatrous) referential must be exorcised at all costs.” 42 In order for his maximalist version of Christ religion to survive, the defiling reality of “Paganism” must be preserved at any cost, both outside and inside the limits of the artificial perimeter of the insignia. Any flash of hyper-reality is to be exorcised. That explains why, in his genealogical scheme, models (i.e., insignia) precede the reality of human idolatrous activities and directly point to another reality: the unshakeable reality of demons. Due to this immediate linkage, the referentiality of insignia is warranted and the whole representational system of the treatise on idolatry is kept safe.

38.  M. Fuchs-J. Rüpke , “Religious individualisation in historical perspective,” Religion 45/3 (2015) 327. 39.  J.  Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation (Ann Arbor, 1994) 16. 40.  “To dissimulate is to pretend not to have what one has. To simulate is to feign to have what one doesn’t have. One implies a presence, the other an absence” (J.  Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation [Ann Arbor, 1994] 3). 41.  Just as, in Budrillard’s view, Disneyland’s installations and imagery feign the reference to a real America surrounding them, the Watergate scandal feigns the reference to some betrayed political and moral principles in capitalistic societies, the strategy of nuclear terror feigns the reference to a world atomic war, the health food feigns the reference to a rediscovered penury and asceticism, etc. 42.  J.  Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation (Ann Arbor, 1994) 5.

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To summarize this second move, Tertullian’s genealogical “theory” aims to challenge and cancel out the very attempt he ascribes to some Christian people in search of practical escapes from idolatry, that is, of concrete solutions to square public-political concerns and expectations with Christian religious standards of thought and behaviour. This radical astutia would result in the logic and programme of simulation, which challenges the logic and programme of representation via the unpacking of the images of power from their material-operational referentials. The tunic, so Tertullian, is “soiled in itself (tunicam  […] inquinatam per se),” tainted “from the beginning (ab initio).” “So what will you accomplish, if you use this attire but do not perform the functions connected with it? ([…] si suggestu quidem utaris, opera eius vero non administres?).” Symbols never rest (“das ruhende Symbol”), 43 until demons lie in them. 2 . Wh e n S i m u l at ion S t r i k e s B ack . Th e C a se of t h e I l i be r r i ta n C a nons Anyone who trusts blindly what Tertullian says about his opponents could be deemed as naïf . The everyday lives of these believers, as they appear in De idololatria, can be said to be as functionally fictitious as those portrayed in several contemporary handbooks and guides for a good life that hit the market in this eve of soul-saving therapies and anthropotechniques.  4 4 The exposure of their existences to worries, pains, and troubles might have been as artfully manufactured as ours for the sake of bookselling. Furthermore, as already observed, the whole argument of Tertullian seems to grow by developing some extreme premises he himself provides, in order to better disprove them and, by the same token, to conceal and twist real arguments and concrete position-takings. So, if there are some people advocating their right to “accept the exercise of a dignity or a power” without feeling religiously compromised and seen as such, Tertullian first charges them with an untenable nominalism and then ascribes to them a quasi-theory of hyper-reality. In short, the whole scene may be suspected to have an intra-textual reality. The corollary would be that those people, if they ever existed, were never troubled by the socioexistential problems evoked, fashioned, and faced by Tertullian alone. Nevertheless, it turns out that some later ecclesiastical statements attest to mental attitudes and practical behaviours which are quite close to those twisted and obfuscated by the polemical concerns of the Carthag43.  J. J. Bachofen, Versuch über die Gräbersymbolik der Alten (Basel, 1954 3) 62. I did not find a stable English translation of this phrase by Bachofen. 44.  On this see E. I llouz , Saving the Modern Soul: Therapy, Emotions, and the Culture of Self-Help (Berkeley, 2008).

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inian writer. Moreover, though not approved, these mundane lines of conduct induced some changes in church lines of discipline. In other words, at a given time, certainly more than a century after Tertullian’s treatise, the problem of neutrality (or neutralization) 45 of the public-political space finally surfaces in the official decisions of the churches. 2.1. A Realistic Approach to Idolatry: Distinction Must be Made Seriously Some of the canons traditionally ascribed to the synod of Elvira (present-day name: Granada; former name: Iliberis, Hispania Baetica) indicate that the kinds of strategic compromises rejected by Tertullian have begun to count in the official bookkeeping of personal salvations. In some cases, the hitherto ridiculed decoupling strategy between honours and charges seemed to be so popular that the canonical legislation has to keep pace with it, thereby treating Christian careerists as follows: Can. 2 “Flamines who, after the faith of font and regeneration, have sacrificed, since they have thereby doubled their crimes by adding murder, or even tripled their evil deed by including sexual offense,  4 6 are not to receive communion even at the end.”

Can. 3 “At the same time, flamines who have not actually sacrificed but simply gave spectacles [trans. modified] 47 may, since they have refrained from 45.  Or “profanation” in the technical sense of profanus developed by the Roman jurist Gaius Trebatius Testa: “profanum id proprie dici ait, quod ex religioso vel sacro in hominum usum proprietatemque conversum est” (in Macrobius, Saturnalia  III 3.:2). This meaning has been recently used by Agamben in a dialectical relationship to sacrifice as the main sanctioning device of religious consecration (= separation). Profanation is thus the “counter-apparatus that restores to common use what sacrifice had separated and divided” (G. Agamben, What is an Apparatus? [Stanford, 2009], 19). For the difference between Tertullian’s approach to the issue and the currents rabbinic ways of creating a “neutral space” in the Avodah Zarah, see again S. E. Binder , Tertullian “On Idolatry” and Mishnah “Avodah Zarah”: Questioning the Parting of the Ways between Christians and Jews (Leiden, 2012) 167-194. 46.  Even though Louis Duchesne’s reading has been accepted by the most scholars (see L. Duchesne , “Le concile d’Elvire et les flamines chrétiens,” in Mélanges L. Rénier [Paris, 1887] 169), it is still doubtful that “murder (homicidium)” and “sexual offence (moechia)” are usedhere as metaphors for gladiator games and theatrical spectacle, respectively: see J. Vilella-P.-E.  Barreda, “Los cánones de la Hispana atribuidos a un concilio iliberritano: estudio filológico,” in I concili della cristianità occidentale: Secoli III-V. XXX incontro di studiosi dell ’antichità cristiana. Roma, 3-5 maggio 2001 (Roma, 2002) 552. 47.  The English translation of Laeuchli renders the phrase munus dederint with the vague “performed their function” (S. L aeuchli, Power and Sexuality. The Emer-

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deadly sacrifices, be offered communion at the end, provided that the required penance has been done. If, however, after the penance they commit a sexual offense, it is decided to accord them no further communion, lest they seem to make a mockery of the Sunday communion.”

Can. 4 “Again, flamines who are catechumens and who have refrained from sacrifices shall be admitted after a period of three years.”

[…] Can. 55 “Priests who simply wear the wreath and who neither sacrifice nor offer any of their income to idols shall receive communion after two years.”

Can. 56 “A magistrate is ordered to keep away from the church during the one year of his term as duumvir.” 48

In any domain of science, the human instinct of self-preservation (conatus sese conservandi) is generally a bad advisor. For this reason, the historian must beware of one of her worst tendencies, namely the inclination to immediately dismiss the most “unpleasant” hypothesis as the less suitable for her own purposes. In the present case, the preservation impulse would recommend ignoring the vibrant debate arisen on these canons in the last fifteen years and happily agreeing with Samuel Laeuchli’s refined gence of Canon Law at the Synod of Elvira [Philadelphia, 1972] 126). For others, instead, munus means the non-bloody “offering” – as in can. 28 and in the sense of the ad idola praestant of can. 55. See J. Vilella-P.-E.  Barreda, “Los cánones de la Hispana atribuidos a un concilio iliberritano: estudio filológico,” in I concili della cristianità occidentale: Secoli III-V. XXX incontro di studiosi dell ’antichità cristiana. Roma, 3-5 maggio 2001 (Roma, 2002), 552.. 48.  “can. 2: Flamines, qui post fidem lavacri et regenerationis sacrificaverunt, eo quod geminaverint scelera accedente homicidio vel triplicauverint facinus cohaerente moechia, placuit nec in finem accipere communionem; can. 3: Item flamines, qui non immolaverint, sed munus tantum dederint, eo quod se a funestis abstinuerint sacrificiis, placuit in finem eis praestare communionem, acta tamen legitima paenitentia. Item ipsi si post paenitentiam fuerint moechati, placuit ulterius his non esse dandam communionem, ne illusisse de dominica communione uideantur; can. 4: Item flamines si fuerint catechumini et se a sacrificiis abstinuerint, post triennii tempora placuit ad baptismum admitti debere; […]; can. 55: Sacerdotes, qui tantum coronas portant nec sacrificant nec de suis sumptibus aliquid ad idola praestant, placuit post biennium accipere communionem; can. 56: Magistratus vero uno anno, quo agit duumviratum, prohibendum placuit, ut se ab ecclesia cohibeat”. I use the Latin text of E. R eichert, Die Canones der Synode von Elvira: Einleitung und Kommentar (Hamburg, 1990) My English translation is based on that of S.  L aeuchli, Power and Sexuality. The Emergence of Canon Law at the Synod of Elvira (Philadelphia, 1972).

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linguistic-structural analysis of the text. Dated 1972, it could be summarized as follows: in 309 CE, a number of bishops and presbyters gathered somewhere in what is today the shining Andalusian town of Granada to intensely discuss and deliberate about different subject matters. Disorder and inconsistency of the eighty-one canons and their arrangement are not at all surprising: the text we have is the final and uncompleted “distillation” of some intense discussions procedurally patterned on the customary and – in our view – messy decision-making processes of a Roman legislative body. 49 Moreover, these confrontations occurred during an excited session of a Spanish Church which lacked a preset and shared schedule and was significantly divided on the thematic, disciplinary, and ecclesiological agenda. Consequently, given the discord among the religious specialists, as well as the numerical and social balance of power underlying both the wording and the arrangement of the canons, the text shows a new “imperial-clerical elite” emerging from the drama. 50 If we subscribe to this interpretation, the collective outcome of this Church drama may look like a curious and indirect revenge. The five canons reported above document the posthumous success of Tertullian’s opponents in On Idolatry 17-18 through the legal recognition of different states of guilt among the different categories of public officers targeted by the synodal decisions. Different degrees of idolatry become finally visible via the deferment of forgiveness. Already twisted and rhetorically annihilated by Tertullian, the dividing/unpacking strategy shines through the punitive and penitential discipline of the canons, thereby having force of law. Among the three categories ( flamines, sacerdotes, magistratus) and the six types of offence mentioned above (can. 3 names two crimes), only in two cases do the Church leaders decide to completely and hopelessly close the doors of communion: (1) for the flamen who sacrifices after the baptism and (2) for the flamen who commits sexual offenses (probably: adultery) after the penance required for having previously given games. 51

49.  “It is no wonder that the canons open with the issue of apostasy and close with the unimportant one of women writing letters: can. 1 was brought up by one of the key men in Spanish Christianity to whom the floor was giving first, while can. 81 was simply the last case brought to the floor by the last, if not the least, of the bishops” (S.  L aeuchli, Power and Sexuality. The Emergence of Canon Law at the Synod of Elvira [Philadelphia, 1972] 11). 50.  See S.  L aeuchli, Power and Sexuality. The Emergence of Canon Law at the Synod of Elvira (Philadelphia, 1972) 8-16 and 66-87. 51.  In this second case, the nec in finem is implied. Whatever the opinion on the prevailing interpretation of the eo quod clause of can. 2 (homicidium = gladiator games, moechia = theatrical spectacles), both can. 2 and 3 suppose that to act as a flamen without sacrificing is technically possible.

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Lacking a holistic vision, idolatry itself, so Laeuchli, is falling behind in the hierarchy of ecclesiastical concerns. 52 With an eye to Tertullian’s handbook for a Christian good life (aka De idololatria), four conclusions could be drawn: First, the naming of the culprits ( flamines, sacerdotes, magistratus) in the opening segment of the canons indicates, if not a reference to particular individuals, 53 at least a shared awareness that some Spanish Jesus followers were scrambling (or had scrambled) for the highest municipal positions. Whatever their religious status – i.e., baptized or catechumens – some Christian people were holding these posts, some others had held them in the past or were striving to be appointed to them. “It is absolutely clear,” Laeuchli argues, “that the church was not dealing with one or two exceptions, but that it was facing a number of municipal dignitaries.” 54 Second, given that the highest municipal authority was associated with the standard accomplishment of cultic tasks, 55 the very mild treatment of the duoviri in can. 56 is quite striking. It suggests that the main targets of the Church legislators were the flamines municipales and the flamines provinciae. The local priests of the imperial cult were the natural contenders of the Spanish clergy for the religious primacy on a regional scale. 56 These people had generally accomplished the entire municipal cursus but could still count on a further advancement through the prestige of an imperial 52.  Sexuality comes to the fore as primary issue of the legislation of the council (S.  L aeuchli, Power and Sexuality. The Emergence of Canon Law at the Synod of Elvira [Philadelphia, 1972] 60), whence the growth of studies on this subject. See, e.g., T. Sardella, “Il canone 33 del concilio di Elvira: controllo sessuale e potere ecclesiastico,” in R.  Barcellona-T. Sardella, eds, Munera Amicitiae, Studi di Storia e Cultura nella Tarda Antichità offerti a Salvatore Pricoco (Catanzaro, 2003) 437-470. 53.  “This naming of a person at the outset of a canon signals the involvement of the Church leaders with individuals or groups at the moment they formulated their decisions” (S.  L aeuchli, Power and Sexuality. The Emergence of Canon Law at the Synod of Elvira [Philadelphia, 1972] 20). Reichert more cautiously hints at the possibility that ad-hoc models of negative behaviours are produced for the sake of the normative action. See E. R eichert, Die Canones der Synode von Elvira: Einleitung und Kommentar (Hamburg, 1990, 44). 54. S.  L aeuchli, Power and Sexuality. The Emergence of Canon Law at the Synod of Elvira (Philadelphia, 1972), 64. 55.  As Tertullian perfectly knows and some municipal laws (e.g., Lex Ursonensis at ch. 128) confirms. 56. Thus, again, S.  L aeuchli, Power and Sexuality. The Emergence of Canon Law at the Synod of Elvira (Philadelphia, 1972) 62-66. For the very near future of this competition, as well as for the Christian legislation concerning the cultic institutions (above all, sacrifice), the ecclesiastical critique addressing them, and the increasingly ‘de-religionized’ (i.e., ‘de-paganized’) survival of the imperial cult at a municipal and provincial level, see A. L eone , The End of the Pagan City: Religion, Economy, and Urbanism in Late Antique North Africa (Oxford, 2013), 87 ff.

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priestly charge. 57 These priesthoods were, in fact, the pinnacle of a career crowned with the honour of entering the very leading group (that of principales or primores) of the town. 58 With the end of the mandate (a one or two year-long term), the honorary title of flamen was normally for life ( flamen perpetuus). 59 Third, their rivalry notwithstanding, the attitude of the clergy towards their objective competitors was not completely unreceptive. However hardliner, the assembly concludes that a Christian flamen who celebrates games – or makes offerings, depending on how to phrase munus dederint is to be understood – is less guilty than the one who sacrifices. The harshness of a Tertullian-like approach against idolatry is here rejected in its gnoseological tenets, that is, in the alarmist view of the infection, in the prophylactic conception of the cure, and in the maximalist imagery of the guilt. The very problematic of idolatry is reshaped by the new priorities. Although the disciplinary agenda is still focused on punishing and prohibiting, punishers and prohibitors seem to share the same methodological standpoint Tertullian’s opponents endorsed and some current addressees of the canonical measures were practicing as strategic lines of a publicpolitical behaviour: if distinctions must be made, they must be real and not just for the sake of argument. Realistic nuances should be officially applied to the untenable alternative between quitting politics or being doomed. The aim is to avoid both the head-on collision with powerful elite groups and the practical irrelevance of the ecclesiastical stances to any Christ-believer who was interested in living a religiously passable publicpolitical life and in adhering to a socially detrimental cult at once. From the late second century onwards, such people have certainly increased in number. Fourth, whereas can. 4 ratifies the very basic strategy of delaying/postponing the baptism, 60 a few observations on can. 55 (“Sacerdotes qui […]”) are needed. This statement could refer either to municipal priesthoods serving local deities, or to cultic-religious specialists of the elective cults, 57.  Some people appointed as provincial flamens show equestrian career paths. For the different types of cursus see G.  A lföldy, Flamines Provinciae Hispaniae Citerioris (Madrid, 1973) 28-43. 58.  See, e.g., Pliny the Younger, Letters  II 13:4. Municipal flamens are generally recruited among the former duovirs. Their office basically consists in “presiding over ceremonies displaying loyalty to Rome and to the ruling emperor, as well as honoring the memory of the deified Caesars” (A. Chastagnol , L’évolution politique, sociale et économique du monde romain [284-363] [Paris, 1982] 179). 59.  Yet apparently not heritable. Duchesne’s old hypothesis that Christian flamens inherited the title alone is thus to be rejected. See E. R eichert, Die Canones der Synode von Elvira: Einleitung und Kommentar (Hamburg, 1990) 81. 60.  See the earliest evidence in Tertullian, Baptism 18:4-6; Repetance 6:3; Irenaeus, Against Heresies III 12:15 e IV 23:2; Origen, Homilies on Luke 21:4.

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or – what is more likely – to the high-priest of the province, i.e., the sacerdos provinciae aka flamen provinciae. Appointed every year among the members of the decurional class of the province, such a prominent figure of the regional political-religious establishment acted as a “chief of the imperial provincial religion.” 61 The gold wreath he is virtually allowed to display evokes the purple Tertullian forbade his opponents to wear (On Idolatry 18). The simulacrum of the crown alone echoes that of the purple alone. Yet what was once forbidden is now tolerated, since the crown costs the wearer only two years of withdrawal from communion. The Spanish churchmen almost recognize that the ornament can virtually cease to refer to the office - an evidence that indicates that the mechanism of representation that activate the relation “insignia – office – demon” is about to run in circles. The wreath crowning the head of the inoperative high priest, who neither sacrifices nor makes offerings to idols at his own cost, is almost a perfect and pure simulacrum. It is “exchanged for itself ” 62 and for nothing but the symbolic capital of the wearer. 2.2. Canons or Pseudo-Canons? Simulacra Must Wait Unfortunately,, this analysis cannot end here. I cannot simply subscribe to the results of Laeuchli’s analysis as long as they suit to my current purposes, as though nothing happened in the research on the synod of Elvira in the meanwhile. Over the last two decades, indeed, the eighty-one canons of Elvira have become one of the most intricate and hotly debated issues of the history of late ancient Western Christianity. 63 The unity and synchronic character of the collection was first weakened significantly by a pioneering article of Maurice Meigne, in 1975. Then, in the early 2000s, a series of publications by Josep Vilella and Pere-Enric Barreda  6 4 have followed the trail blazed by the French scholar and thus 61.  S. Selmi, “Flamines provinciae Africae. Contribution à l’étude des prêtres provinciaux africains sous le Haut Empire romain,” Synergies Tunisie 3 (2011) 200. This article summarizes the procedures of election, the requirements for the charge, the prerogatives of status, as well as the political and cultic function of this figure. For the designation as flamen or sacerdos in different regions of the empire see D. Fishwick , The Imperial Cult in Latin West: Studies in the Ruler Cult of the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire (Leiden, 1987) vol. 1/ 2, 265-268. 62.  J.  Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation (Ann Arbor, 1994) 6. 63. For a status quaestionis see M. J. L ázaro Sánchez , “L’état actuel de la recherche sur le concile d’Elvire,” Revue des sciences religieuses 82/4 (2008) 517-546. 64.  J. Vilella-P.-E.  Barreda, “Los cánones de la Hispana atribuidos a un concilio iliberritano: estudio filológico,” in I concili della cristianità occidentale: Secoli III-V. XXX incontro di studiosi dell ’antichità cristiana. Roma, 3-5 maggio 2001 (Roma, 2002) 549-579; J. Vilella-P.-E.  Barreda, “Cánones del Concilio de Elvira o cánones pseudoiliberritanos?,” Augustinianum 46/2 (2006) 285-373; J. Vilella-P.-E.  Barreda, “Un decenio de investigación en torno a los cánones

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thoroughly contested the ‘unitarian hypothesis.’ For Meigne, the group consisting of the cann. 1-21 (group A), which includes the three statements about the flamens, was still likely to be ascribed to an assembly of bishops and priests gathered in Iliberis. 65 For Vilella and Barreda, instead, there is no compeling evidence that an assembly of bishops ever took place in that town, between 295 and 314 ce , 66 to issue whatever sanction in whatever form and order. Albeit still prevalent, the old consensus has become more and more unstable. 67 The historicity of a council cannot be taken for granted any longer. Haunted by nothingness and with the prefix “pseudo-” dishonourably attached to the name, the canons of Elvira are turning into a myth and, consequently, into an issue of academic controversy – especially in Spain. 68 Vilella and Barreda state that canon 55 about the priests and canon 56 on the duovirs cannot date from before the last quarter of the fourth century; canon 4 about catechumens is equally from a later stage, while canons 2 and 3 shall read as follows: Can. 2 “Flamines who, after the faith of font and regeneration, have sacrificed [, since they have thereby doubled their crimes by adding murder, or even tripled their evil deed by including sexual offense,] are not to receive communion even at the end.”

pseudoiliberritanos,” Revue d ’Histoire Ecclésiastique 108/1 (2013) 300-336; see also J. Vilella, “The Pseudo-Iliberritan Canon Texts,” Zeitschrift für die Antike und Christentum 18/2 (2014), 210-259. 65.  Philological and historical-comparative considerations led Meigne to divide the collection into three blocks of canons. While group A (cann.1-21) may still trace back to a synod held in Elvira at the very beginning of the fourth century (300-303 ce), group B (63-75) dates somewhere between the council of Arles and that of Nicaea (314-325 ce) and group C (22-62 and 76-81) is even later but hardly datable. See M. M eigne , “Concile ou collection d’Elvire?,” Revue d ’Histoire Ecclésiastique 70 (1975) 374. 66.  Most datings proposed in the last two centuries fall within this time frame, which goes from the episcopal election of Hosius of Corduba – supposed to be present at the Iliberritan assembly – to the synod of Arles. See E. R eichert, Die Canones der Synode von Elvira: Einleitung und Kommentar (Hamburg, 1990) 21-23. 67.  Already in 1990, Reichert admitted that the composite nature of the collection was “becoming a Gemeingut” (E. R eichert, Die Canones der Synode von Elvira: Einleitung und Kommentar [Hamburg, 1990] 49). 68.  As one would expect, the first and more combative reactions to Vilella and Barreda’s arguments have come from the University of Granada. See M. Soto mayor-T. Berdugo, “Valoración de las actas,” in M. S otomayor-J. F. Ubiña , eds, El concilio de Elvira y su tiempo (Granada, 2005) 96-114; M. Sotomayor-T.  Berdugo, “Los cánones del Concilio de Elvira: una réplica,” Augustinianum 48/2 (2008), 369-434.

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Can. 3 “At the same time, flamines who have not actually sacrificed but simply gave offers may [, since they have refrained from deadly sacrifices,] be offered communion at the end, provided that the required penance has been done. [If, however, after the penance they commit a sexual offense, it is decided to accord them no further communion, lest they seem to make a mockery of the Sunday communion].” 69

Square brackets indicate what is considered a later addition. For instance, the two eo quod explanatory clauses, which Laeuchli regarded as synchronic “justifications” – that is, parenthetical appeals “interjected when someone, perhaps the man responsible for bringing up the sententia, was moved to insist that the phrase be put in” – 70 are interpreted as “interpolations,” whose authorship seems attributable to a later hand. As such, they might have been inserted at a certain stage of the amalgamprocess of earlier blocks of enactments under the influence of decisions which were already included into the same compilation. Even so, the strategic and sound distinction between sacrificing and giving games/making offerings still remains. The different treatment of the culprits according to different times of reconciliation is neither a gloss nor a later addition. Yet if Vilella and Barreda are right and Laeuchli and many others – including Meigne – are wrong, the dating of these two canons does not fit in well with an early fourth century assembly. Although they belong to the oldest canonical block of the collection, their enactment is likely to trace back to one or more church gatherings that took place after the legalization of Christianity. 71 To summarize, being anything but a specialist of the issue who has devoted himself to a sustained study of the eighty-one canons, I can hardly take a positive stand in this quarrel. Since the “old consensus” on Elvira seems to fall short of both historical and philological certainties, I would 69.  The English translation of Vilella and Barreda’s Latin reconstruction (see Vilella-P.-E.  Barreda, “Los cánones de la Hispana atribuidos a un concilio iliberritano: estudio filológico,” in I concili della cristianità occidentale: Secoli III-V. XXX incontro di studiosi dell ’antichità cristiana. Roma, 3-5 maggio 2001 [Roma, 2002] 570) is mine. 70. S.  L aeuchli, Power and Sexuality. The Emergence of Canon Law at the Synod of Elvira (Philadelphia, 1972) 25. 71.  For example, can. 2, which contains the phrase nec in finem as common clue of Meigne’s groups A and B, should be dated after 325 ce , that is, after that the council of Nicaea established that, in principle, “communion should not be denied in limine mortis”. As clearly shown by the μηδὲ ἐν τῷ τέλει of the council of Sardica (343 ce), “the Nicene enactment of granting clinical penance/communion to all baptized persons who needed it must have inspired reactions that gave new drive to the most severe criteria” (J. Vilella, “The Pseudo-Iliberritan Canon Texts,” Zeitschrift für di Antike und Christentum 18/2 [2014] 236).

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limit myself to admitting that the official disciplinary recognition of what I called the ‘unpacking strategy’ of honours and duties cannot be proved for the time before the “Constantinian turn”. As ratified by the practical failure and the normative rejection of the maximalist-holistic treatment of idolatry in the public space, the revenge of Tertullian’s opponents cannot be ascertained before the legalisation of Christianity itself. We cannot know exactly when it happened that the simulacra of power were allowed to precess its operational reality. 3. C onclusion : Th i s M us t B e

the

P l ace (P e na nce & P ol i t ic s)

Albeit impossible to pinpoint, the time frame between Tertullian’s On idolatry and the (pseudo-)canons of the (pseudo-)council of Elvira marks the documentary gap between the rejection of the ‘unpacking strategy’ and its methodological acceptance. “Documentary” means the two texts are unlikely to tell the whole story about these strategies and yet they claim to provide us with the only story we are able to tell. To challenge this claim, a final question should be asked: during all this time, which religious status were church leaders likely to grant to people comparable to the Christian flamines, provincial priests, and magistrates? Put differently, which place in the local orders of the ἐκκλησίαι/ecclesiae was generally ascribed to the individuals involved in sacrificial performances as well as in spectacles including non-Christian ritual acts? In order to assess both the psychological sustainability of “Christianness” for the public-political elites and the chances of success of their possible stratagems, this aspect requires at least brief investigation. These people, in all probability, were neither properly banished nor definitively cast out from the ἐκκλησίαι/ecclesiae. 72 Considering how

72.  Significantly, even if the various professions/occupations listed in On Idolatry 16-17 reflect the kinds of moral and social concerns Tertullian had in mind for those who were already Christians or seeking to become so, “Tertullian himself never produced a list of prohibited occupations in relationship to those seeking to enter the catechumenate” (P. F. Bradshaw-E. Johnson-L. E. Phillips , The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary [Minneapolis, 2002] 93). The case is different for the jobs listed in Apostolic Tradition 16. Yet, if the chapter at issue mayhave been influenced by an early third-century North African context, the work as a whole – an anonymous church order which is conventionally attributed to Hippolytus of Rome – is likely to be an an aggregation of material from different sources, geographical regions, and historical periods (from the mid-second century up to the mid-fourth). Several scholars now think that “it is unlikely that it represents the practice of any single Christian community” (P. F.  Bradshaw-E. Johnson-L. E.  Phillips , The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary [Minneapolis, 2002] 14).

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Christian membership was generally defined, 73 the random or office attendance at the altars did not entail the exit from the church but rather the entrance into a status becoming increasingly structured and crowded: the rank of the penitents (ordo paenitentium). Even before its institutional arrangement, 74 this specific section of believers, excluded or exempted from communion, was part of the self-representation of Christian groups and seemed to include also those who broke the local rules of interaction with idols. 75 From the second half of the third century, in the aftermath of the Decius’ order of a universal sacrifice, penitential discipline on the matter became more complicated and precise; nevertheless, the general principle underlying the “forgiveness of the fallen” was not abandoned. 76 Threfeore, there is no reason to believe that the pattern and pathof reconciliation, 77 which on a local level was controversially granted to any believer tainted by non-Christian cultic activities, was denied to Christian public officers, that is, to people who were expected to perform a heterogeneous range of non-Christian cultic activities for the sake of what most citizens considered to be the public security. Furthermore, in that very period, at least in Rome, Carthage, and Alexandria, almost no sacrificer was denied in principle the sickbed/deathbed communion. 78. 73.  That is, apparently, as a status which is supposed to start before baptism and not to be lost after a post-baptism major – and, in some cases, even after the denial of what the writer considers to be the true faith. For Tertullian see Baptism 1:1; Repentance 6:1; Spectacles 1:1; The Crown 2:1; for Origen see Homilies on Isaiah 9.9; Homilies on Luke 21:4. 74. See P.  A dnès , “Pénitence,” in Dictionnaire de Spiritualité ascétique et mystique (Paris, 1984) vol. 12, 955-966. 75.  Even before the setting-up of a disciplinary and ritual procedure for penance and post-baptismal reconciliation, there is no textual evidence of sinners being forever excluded from the communion for the seriousness of their sins: on PseudoClemens and Ignatius of Antioch see P.  A dnès , “Pénitence,” in Dictionnaire de Spiritualité ascétique et mystique (Paris, 1984) vol. 12, 957. The Roman seer who writes the Shepherd advocates a “second penance.” For Clemens of Alexandria, all sins, even the most serious one, can be admitted to the procedure of penance (Salvation of the Rich 42:1-15). Before his turn to the “New Prophecy,” Tertullian himself seems to ignore the distinction between peccata remissibilia and inremissibilia (Modesty 2:12-15; 12:6; 16:5). Among the latter, he predictably counts idolatry: see B.  Poschmann, Paenitentia secunda. Die kirchliche Buße im ältesten Christentum bis Cyprian und Origenes (Bonn, 1940). 76.  Poschmann, Paenitentia secunda. Die kirchliche Buße im ältesten Christentum bis Cyprian und Origenes (Bonn, 1940) 379. 77.  At least in Carthage, it seems to consist of three steps: paenitentiam agere – exomologesim facere – impositio manus (Cyprian, Letters  XV 1:2). 78.  See presbyters and deacons of Rome in Cyprian, Letters  VIII 3:1; XXX:8; Cyprian himself: XX 3:1; LV 17:3; Dionysius of Alexandria, in Eusebius of Caesarea Ecclesiastical History VI 44:4. Only who refuses to repent is excluded: see Cyprian, Letters LV 23:4; LIX 13:1.

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Having said that, it is still doubtful whether all public officers interested in, or affected by, these measures agreed to respect the rules of the church penitential game of truth-telling. Michel Foucault’s seminars and courses on the “technologies of the self ” have put (geneaological) emphasis on the notion and practice of the exomologesis. 79 Supposing that the dramatic scene contemptuously depicted by Tertullian in his treatise On Modesty (Carthage, 208-220 CE) corresponds to a real, mandatory, translocal, and unvarying performance, 80 it should not be easy for a notable to undergo the humiliating treatment of his persona as it was imposed by the pathetic status of the penitent in general and the spectacular ceremony of the ἐξομολόγησις / publicatio sui in particular. 81 Strong religious interests were probably needed: “You [i.e., the bishop], when admitting to the church the repentant adulterer for imploring the brothers, why do you make him fall in his knees in the midst of the assembly, in sackcloth and ashes, a compound of shame and horror, before the widows, before the priests, urging the tears of all, licking every footprint, embracing every knee? And then you, the good shepherd and blessed father, why do you sermonize for the ruin of this man with all possible allurement of mercy and why, using the parable of the sheep, do you quest for your goats”. 82 79. See,M. Foucault, “Technologies of the Self,” in L. H.  M artin-H.  Guteds, Technologies of the Self: A Seminar with Michel Foucault (Amherst, 1988) 39-43; M. Foucault, On the Government of the Living: Lectures at the Collège de France 1979-1980 (Basingstoke, 2014) passim; M. Foucault, Wrong-Doing, Truth-Telling: The Function of Avowal in Justice (Chicago, 2014) 103-118. 80. This is to doubt since: a) Tertullian’s expressionism is evident; b) Cyprian’s accounts of the physical mortification of the penitent are not direct descriptions of the exomologesis; (c) there is no overlap between Cyprian’s tripartition of the process and Tertullian’s descriptions of the penitential states; d) the episode of Fabiola’s public penance (See Jerome, Letters LXXVII 4:5) dates over a century later. 81.  The term extends its reference from the dramatic ceremony of public (i.e., before the eyes of the all congregation) humiliation and theatrical manifestation of the sinner-self to the whole penitential procedure, including its lifelong impacts on the penitent. ἐξομολόγησις, as Foucault observes, designates both a liturgized spectacular episode and a global way of life constantly and publicly staging the repentance. 82.  “Et tu quidem paenitentiam moechi ad exorandam fraternitatem in ecclesiam inducens conciliciatum et concineratum cum dedecore et horrore compositum prosternis in medium ante viduas, ante presbyteros, omnium lacrimas suadentem, omnium vestigia lambentem, omnium genua detinentem, inque eum hominis exitum quantis potes misericordiae inlecebris bonus pastor et benedictus papa contionaris et in parabola ovis capras tuas quaeris?” (Tertullian, Modesty 13:7). I use the Latin text of C.  Munier , Tertullien: La pudicité (Paris, 1993) vol. 1. Translation is mine. man-P. H. Hutton,

ERASING APOCALYPTICISM A Historical Trajectory from the “School of Valentinus” to Plotinus (and Vice Versa)∗ F. Berno The main concern of this article is to provide a fresh contribution to the discussion regarding Plotinus and his debated relationship with Gnosticism and the thirteen papyrus-codices discovered near Nag Hammadi in 1945, in order to evaluate the possibility to investigate the gnostic reactions to the severe criticism moved by Plotinus. For the sake of clarity, I take as my specific point of departure two works: on the one side, Enneads II, 9, and, on the other, the Tripartite Tractate (NHC I, 5; hereinafter TT). The TT seems to me to represent a critically late testimony within the theological evolution of the so-called School of Valentinus. 1 A great deal of lato sensu philological evidence prevents us from dating this important gnostic work (and the original Greek version that it implies) before Origen, and some even further dating has been proposed. 2 These specific dif*  A preliminary version of this article has been published as F. Berno, “Rethinking Valentinianism: Some Remarks on the Tripartite Tractate, with Special Reference to Plotinus’ Enneads  II, 9”, Augustinianum 56 (2016) 331-345. 1.  The most comprehensive intoduction to the history and the doctrine of Valentinus and his followers is E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed, The Church of the ‘Valentinians’ (Leiden, 2006). See also I. Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism. Myth, Lifestyle and Society in the School of Valentinus (New York, 2008), and I d., Gnostic Morality Revisited (Tübingen, 2015). 2.  For a review of the several proposals put forward, cf. F.  Bermejo Rubio, La escision imposible. Lectura del Gnosticismo Valentiniano (Salamanca, 1989) 361-356. Cf. also J.-D.  Dubois , “Le Traité Tripartite (Nag Hammadi I, 5) est-il antérieur à Origène?”, in L.  P errone , ed., Origeniana Octava. Origen and the Alexandrian Tradition (Leuven, 2003) 303-316, who seems to be slightly skeptical of a postorigenean collocation of the text: «[n]ous n’avons pas la pretention d’arriver à des positions definitives. Pour nous, la meilleure façon de situer le traité gnostique reste encore d’envisager la période qui va de Philon d’Alexandrie à Clément et Origène» (316). For an effective synthesis of the complex relations between the TT and the origenean theology, see G. Quispel , “Origen and the Valentinian Gnosis”, Vigiliae Christianae 28 (1974) 29-42, and A. Camplani, Momenti di interazione religiosa ad Alessandria e la nascita dell ’élite egiziana cristiana, in L.  P errone , ed., Origeniana Octava. Origen and the Alexandrian Tradition (Leuven, 2003) 36-38. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 501-514.

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DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117954

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ficulties are additional to the well-known and more general uncertainty about the dating of the Coptic gnostic corpus as a whole. 3 While in this case I am going to take this data for granted, the reading I would like to propose here will focus on the delineation of the theological direction that such evolution has had: how and to what extent do the theological features of “standard” II century Valentinianism find a new meaning here? Is it possible to bring light to a unitary and theoretically coherent way in the restoration of these doctrinal elements? A lot has been written on this topic 4 and what I am going to discuss will be in debt to these contribu3. On this topic, and in specific relation to Plotinus, see the still valuable T. Orlandi, “Plotino e l’ambiente dei trattati di Nag Hammadi”, Atti della Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei 34 (1979) 15-26. 4.  For bibliographical references until 1988, see L.  Painchaud -E. Thomassen, eds, Le Traité Tripartite (NH I, 5) (Québec, 1989) 46-48. After this date, beside the above cited works (see note 2) I would like to mention M.  Simonetti, “Eracleone, gli psichici ed il Trattato Tripartito”, Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 27 (1992) 3-34; J.  P. K enney, “The Platonism of the Tripartite Tractate (NH I, 5)”, in R. T.  Wallis , ed., Neoplatonism and Gnosticism (Albany, 1992) 187-206; J.-D.  Dubois , “Le Traité Tripartite (NHC I, 5) et l’histoire de l’école valentinienne”, in A. L e Boulluec , ed., La controverse religieuse et ses formes (Paris, 1995) 151-164; J.-D. Dubois , “La sotériologie valentinienne du Traité tripartite (NH I, 5)”, in L. Painchaud -A.  Pasquier , eds, Les Textes de Nag Hammadi et le problème de leur classification (Louvain-Paris, 1995) 221-232; J.-D.  Dubois , “Le Traité des Principes d’Origène et le Traité Tripartite valentinien: une lecture comparée de leurs prologues”, in J.-D.  Dubois-B. Roussel , eds, Entrer en matière, les prologues (Paris, 1998) 53-63, and J.-D. Dubois , “L’utilisation du grec dans le texte valentinien copte du Traité Tripartite”, in J.-M. Narbonne-P.-H.  Poirier , eds, Gnose et Philosophie. Études en hommage à Pierre Hadot (Paris-Québec, 2009) 29-44; E. Thomassen, “L’histoire du valentinisme et le Traité Tripartite”, École pratique des hautes études, Annuaire 103 (1994-1995); A. Camplani, “Per la cronologia dei testi valentiniani: il Trattato Tripartito e la crisi ariana”, Cassiodorus 1 (1995) 171-195; A. Camplani , “Sulla trasmissione di testi gnostici in copto”, in I d., ed., L’Egitto cristiano. Aspetti e problemi in età tardo-antica (Roma, 1997) 121-175; P. L ètourneau, “Croyances et contraintes sociales: l’évolution du mouvement valentinien à la lumière du Traité tripartite (NH I,5) et du Dialogue du Sauveur (Nh III,5)”, Théologiques 13 (2005) 79-94; I. Dunderberg, “Lust for Power in the Tripartite Tractate (NHC I, 5)”, in L. Painchaud -P.-H.  Poirier , eds, Coptica-Gnostica-Manichaica (Louvain-Paris, 2006) 237-257, and I. Dunderberg, “Greeks and Jews in the Tripartite Tractate”, in L. Painchaud -P.-H.  Poirier , eds, L’Évangile selon Thomas et les textes de Nag Hammadi: Traditions et convergences (Louvain-Paris, 2007) 107-130; E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed, The Church of the ‘Valentinians’ (Leiden, 2006); P. Nagel , Der Tractatus Tripartitus aus Nag Hammadi Codex I (Codex Jung), Neu übersetzt (Tübingen, 1998); A. G. Kocar , “Humanity Came to Be According to Three Essential Types”: Ethical Responsibility and Practice in the Valentinian Anthropogony of the Tripartite Tractate (NHC I, 5)”, in L. Jenott-S. K attan Gribetz , eds, Jewish and Christian Cosmogony in Late Antiquity (Tübingen, 2013) 193-201. The Coptic text used is from J. M. Robinson, ed., The Coptic Gnostic Library (LeidenBoston-Köln, 2000) 193-337; the English translation is by J. M. Robinson, The Nag Hammadi Library (Leiden, 1988) 60-103.

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tions. Nevertheless, I hope I will be able to add some further elements to the discussion, particularly in regard to a proper definition of the actual and ideal audience addressed by the tractate. For the purpose of this discussion, I must immediately declare the fundamental thesis and its corollaries. Then, I will analytically some of them take into consideration. With the TT, we are witnessing a programmatic de-apocalyptization of Valentinianism, obtained by the deep reconfiguration of some of its key issues, that is to say through 1) the overexposure of the bi-univocal bond between God and the Being, 2) the reduction of the functional relevance of the aeonic world, 3) the “logicisation” (and I use this term in quotes) of the fall myth, traditionally linked to the figure of Sophia, 4) the softening of the eschatological gap between psychics and pneumatics, and of 5) the valentinian visionary facies. 1) In the section that goes from page 51 to page 73, the full convertibility between the notion of the Father and the one of the Being is reiterated no less than ten times: 5 this frequency is completely incomparable to what we find in other Valentinian sources. At least, in two passages, 6 the oldtestamentary denomination “I am who I am” is mentioned, then bestowing the more traditional title of the Demiurge 7 to the higher God. The first one of these occurrences is of particular concern. Indeed, we read: “they had the sole task of searching for him, realising that he exists, ever wishing to find out who exists […] he will give them grace to know who exists, that is, the one who knows himself eternally [†] the form to know who exists”. 8 Then, there is an explicit disacknowledgment of the Valentinian theological dualism, which is restructured as an only apparent dis5.  TT 51, 6; 51, 10; 51, 24; 53, 10; 61, 27; 61, 28; 61, 35; 62, 2; 67, 10; 73, 20. 6.  TT 61, 25-62, 2; 63, 20-21. 7. This element appears in agreement with the meaningful “theological raising” of the Demiurge, who becomes an extremely ambiguous figure, somehow a participant to the pleromatic realities; cf. the long section 100, 19-104, Therefore, I suggest a revision of the judgments expressed in M. Simonetti, “Eracleone, gli psichici ed il Trattato Tripartito”, Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 27 (1992), according to which “là dove parla dei profeti, e lo fa abbastanza a lungo (111-114), li considera ispirati e illuminati soltanto dal Logos, anche se i giudei li hanno compresi in modo non univoco: anche il V. T. rientra così nell’economia spirituale e viene sottratto alla sfera d’influenza del Demiurgo” (238) and “TT ammette negli psichici un sia pur debole ricordo, una pallida coscienza del mondo superiore […] ma questo trattamento di favore non è esteso al Demiurgo” (233). 8.  ⲉ[ⲧ]ⲃⲉ ⲡⲉⲉⲓ· ⲛⲉⲩⲧⲉⲩ ⲡⲓϩⲱⲃ ⲟⲩⲁⲉⲉ ⲁⲧⲣⲟⲩϣⲓⲛⲉ· ⲥⲱϥ ⲉⲩⲛⲟ ⲙⲉ(ⲛ) ϫⲉ ϥϣⲟⲟⲡ ⲉⲩⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ ⲇⲉ ⲁϭⲛ ·ϫⲉ ⲱ ⲡⲉⲧϣⲟⲟⲡ ⲁⲗⲗⲁ ⲉⲡⲓⲇⲏ ⲟⲩ ⲁⲅⲁⲑⲟⲥ ⲡⲉ ⲡⲓⲱⲧ ⲉϥϫⲏⲕ ⲑⲉ ⲉⲧⲉ ⲡⲉϥⲥⲱⲧ ⲁⲣⲁⲟⲩ ϣⲁⲃⲟⲗ ⲁⲧⲣⲟⲩϣⲱⲡⲉ· ϩⲡⲉϥⲙⲉⲩⲉ· ⲁⲗⲗⲁ ⲁϥϯⲛⲉⲩ ⲁⲧⲣⲟⲩϣⲱⲡⲉ ϩⲱⲟⲩ ⲧⲉⲉⲓ ⲧⲉ ⲑⲉ ⲁⲛ· ⲉⲧⲛⲁⲣ̆ ϩⲙⲁⲧ ⲙⲁϥ ⲛⲉⲩ ⲁⲧⲣⲟⲩⲙⲉ ϫⲉ ⲉⲩ̌ ⲡⲉⲧϣⲟⲟⲡ ⲉⲧⲉ ⲡⲁⲉⲓ ⲡⲉⲧⲥⲁⲩⲛⲉ ⲙⲁϥ ⲁⲛⲏϩⲉ· ⲧⲙⲉⲧ· ⲙⲓⲛ ⲙⲟϥ.

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crepancy, negotiable in the interpreter’s intelligence progress. The TT’s radical monism, and consequently its negative theology, 9 is then a privilege route that seeks to reduce the distance between the old and the new economy, reaching a full ontological determination of the Father. While in the other Valentinian sources, as in Irenaeus’ testimony, we observe a much more problematic relationship between the higher God and the Being, probably because their total identification could appear as an excessively wide concession to monotheism, here the problem is tackled at its roots: the superior God is the Being, and (and maybe because) the Being is Good, structuring a full convertibility among these three notions. Finally, the apophatic theology chosen by the Author to define the Father fits very well with the denial of the Father’s lonely nature, and, consequently, with the absence of a dialectic between “una dimension pre-principial (es decir, un estadio en el que el Hijo no está aún presente) y una principal”, 10 replaced with the doctrine of Son’s eternal generation. 11 These choices thoroughly shape the short section (104, 4-108, 12) devoted to Genesis’ interpretation, with special reference to the «creation of mankind» (ⲡⲧⲥⲉⲛⲟ ⲡⲣⲱⲙⲉ). In it, we recognize the obvious purpose of adhering to the original meaning of the work. 12 Thus, to cite just two significant examples, we have to note that, 1) although the text 9.  No doubt, the TT uses negative denominations more than any other Valentinian sources to designate the Father. What is extraordinary, on topic, is the section 52, 34-53, 37, a true summary of negative theology: “not only is he the one called “without a beginning” and “without an end”, because he is unbegotten and immortal; but just as he has no beginning and no end as he is, he is unattainable in his greatness, inscrutable in his wisdom, incomprehensible in his power, and unfathomable in his sweetness. In the proper sense he alone, the good, the unbegotten Father and the complete perfect one, is the one filled with all his offspring and with any virtue and with everything of value. And he has more that is, lack of any malice, in order that it may be discovered that whoever has anything is indebted to him, because he gives it, being himself unreachable and unwearied by that which he gives, since he is wealthy in the gift which he bestows and at rest in the favors which he grants. He is of such a kind and form and great magnitude that no one else has been with him from the beginning; nor is there a place in which he is, or from which he has come forth, or into which he will go; nor is there a primordial form, which he uses as a model as he works; nor is there any difficulty which accompanies him in what he does; nor is there any material which is at his disposal, from which he creates what he creates; nor any subtance within him from which he begets what he begets; nor a co-worker with him, working with him on the things at which he works”. 10. See F.  Bermejo Rubio, La escision imposible. Lectura del Gnosticismo Valentiniano (Salamanca, 1989) 363. 11.  57, 34. 12.  Surprisingly, the Author goes as far as highlighting the creation’s “weekly” nature: “for it was for this reason that he created mankind at the end, having first prepared and provided for him the things which he had created for his sake” (104, 29-31).

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underlines the distinction between the Creator’s working and that of God in the making of man, the TT overlooks the term ‘pneuma’ and maintains that the gift the Logos offered the first man was, in all respects, a soul, a ⲯⲩⲭⲏ; 13 moreover, 2) the TT dismisses any (even vaguely) favourable connotation to the snake: it actually led Adam and Eve to sin, introducing death’s control over humankind. 14 2) This reorganisation has a heavy repercussion on the way in which aeons’ nature and function are seen, which is a clearly traditional heritage that had to appear undeniable to the TT’s author. We observe a drastic process of rationalisation of the pleromatic world: the aeons become epinoiai of the Father, losing every form of personal consistency. 15 The substantial mythic “mass” of classic Valentinianism, which ensured an intrinsic plurality to the divine world, is now reshaped as a superficial, naïve and unessential point of view. What is particularly explicit is the list on 66, 12-29, where God’s higher attributes are enumerated. These attributes are, for their greatest part, the traditional names of the aeons testified by the II century sources. 16 A similar process of decreasing extra-paternal 13.  TT 105, 30-31 : ϫⲉ ⲡⲉⲧⲉϣϣⲉ ϭⲉ ⲙⲉⲛ ⲡⲉ ⲁⲧⲣⲕⲟ ⲁϩⲣⲏ ⲧⲯⲩⲭⲏ ⲡϣⲁⲣ ⲣⲱⲙⲉ. 14.  TT 108, 5-11  : ⲉⲧⲃⲉ ⲧⲡⲁⲣⲁⲃⲁⲥⲓⲥ ⲡⲓϣⲁⲣ ⲣⲱ[ⲙ]ⲉ ⲁⲡⲙⲟⲩϫⲁⲉⲓⲥ ⲁϥⲥⲩⲛⲏⲑⲓⲁ [ⲛ]ⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲛⲓⲙ ⲁⲧⲣⲉϥⲙⲟⲟⲩⲧ ⲙⲙⲟⲟⲩ ⲕⲁⲧⲁ ⲡⲟⲩⲱⲛ ⲁⲃⲁⲗ ⲧⲉϥⲙⲧ[ϫⲁⲉⲓⲥ ⲉ]ⲧϣⲟⲟⲡ ⲛⲉϥ ⲉⲥⲧⲟⲉⲓ ⲛⲉϥ [ϩⲱⲥ] ⲙⲧⲣⲟ ⲉⲧⲃⲉ ⲟⲓⲕⲟⲛⲟⲙⲓ[ⲁ] ⲉⲧⲁⲛϣⲣϫⲟⲟⲥ ⲇⲉ ⲡⲉⲓⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ ⲧⲉⲡⲓⲱⲧ. 15. Cf. TT 60, 26-61, 18: “they were with the Father; they did not exist for themselves; Rather, the only had existence in the manner of a seed, so that it has been discovered that they existed like a fetus. […] Now, in order that they might know what exists for them, he graciously granted the initial form, while in order that they might recognize who is the Father who exists for them, he gave them the name ‘Father’ by means of a voice proclaiming to them that what exists exists through that name, which they have by virtue of the fact that they came into being, because the exaltation, which has escaped their notice, is in the name”; 68, 31-36: «[…] the pleromatic congregation, which is a single representation although many, because it was brought forth as a glory for the single one and because they come forth toward the one who is himself the Totalities»; 71, 20-22: «it is he, the Father, who gave root impulse to the aeons, since they were places on the path which leads toward him, as toward a school of behavior (ⲉϩⲧⲟⲡⲟⲥ ⲛⲉ ⲙⲡⲓⲙⲁⲧ ⲉⲧⲙⲁⲧ ϣⲁⲣⲁϥ)». 16. Namely, ⲧⲙⲟⲣⲫⲏ (form), ⲡⲥⲱⲙⲁ (body), ⲡϩⲟ (face), ⲡⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ (word), ⲡⲛⲟⲩⲥ (mind), ⲧⲡⲏⲅⲏ (fountain), ⲧⲛⲟⲩⲛⲉ (root), ⲡⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ (god), ⲡⲟⲩⲟⲛ (light), ⲡⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ (love), ⲧⲡⲣⲟⲛⲟⲓⲁ (providence), ⲧⲙⲧⲣϩⲏⲧ (wisdom), ⲧϭⲟⲙ (power), ⲡⲥⲱⲟⲩϩ (assembly), ⲡϭⲱⲗ (revelation), ⲡⲃⲉⲗ (eye), ⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁ (breath), ⲡⲱⲛ (life), ⲧⲙⲧⲟⲩⲉⲉⲓ (unity). A useful tool, although not exempt from inaccuracies, is the Greek text’s restoration proposed in the comment ad locum in L.  Painchaud E. Thomassen, eds, Le Traité Tripartite (NH I, 5) (Québec, 1989) 309-310, which should be linked with the pleromatical oriented scheme proposed by E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed. The Church of the ‘Valentinians’ (Leiden, 2006) 225: the cor-

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realities, here christologically declined, shapes the pericope of 56, 10 and ff., where, thanks to the theorisation of the absolute identity between the Father and the Logos, the latter absorbs several denominations traditionally identified with the pleromatic personae or with Valentinian theology’s key terms. Moreover, these names are feminine both in Coptic and Greek (ⲧⲉϥⲙⲛⲁϭ, greatness; ⲧⲉϥⲥⲟⲫⲓⲁ, wisdom; ⲧⲉϥⲉⲝⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ, power; ⲙⲛϩϭⲉ, sweetness), but this is another, important matter that I am not able to examine adequately in depth here. After all, the TT is particularly explicit: “the thought of the Logos, who had returned to his stability and ruled over those who had come into being because of him, was called Aeon and Place of all those whom he had brought forth in accord with the ordinance” (92, 24 and fgg.). 17 In summary, the pneumatological doctrine embodied in the TT is increasingly inclined towards a much simpler pleromatical reflection (Father – Son – Church 18) and, as such, toward the Trinitarian model developed by Origen. 19 respondence is systematic. Along the same lines, we should take into account the long-winded aeons’ “lists” of the ‘Valentinian Letter’ preserved by Panarion 31, 5-6, for an accurate analyses of which see also G. Chiapparini, La dottrina gnostica della ‘Lettera valentiniana’ di Epifanio, Panarion 31, 5-6. Testo, traduzione e commento (Milano, 2015), and G. Chiapparini, “Sulle tracce del Valentinismo “perduto” del II secolo: il problema della datazione della ‘Lettera dottrinale valentiniana’ (Epiph. Haer. 31, 5-6)”, Adamantius 20 (2014) 288-305. 17.  ϫⲉ ⲡⲓⲙⲉⲩⲉ ⲇⲉ ⲇⲉ ⲡⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ· ⲉⲛⲧⲁϥⲥⲧⲁϥ ⲁϩⲟⲩⲛ ⲁⲡⲉϥϩⲙ ⲛⲉ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲁϥϫⲁⲉⲓⲥ ⲁϫⲛⲉⲧⲁϩϣⲱⲡⲉ ⲉⲧⲃⲏ ⲛⲉϣⲁⲣⲟⲩⲙⲟⲩⲧⲉ ⲁⲣⲁϥ ϫⲉ ⲁⲓⲱⲛ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲧⲟⲡⲟⲥ ⲛⲉⲉⲓ ⲧⲏⲣⲟⲩ ⲉⲛⲧⲁϥⲧⲟⲩ ⲁⲃⲁⲗ ⲕⲁⲧⲁ ⲡⲓⲧⲱϣⲉ. In light of what has emerged, I only partially agree with the theses proposed by E. Thomassen, “The Structure of the Transcendent World in the «Tripartite Tractate» (NHC I, 5), Vigiliae Christianae 34 (1980) 358-375, according to which «[t]he autonomous action of the aeons produces a hierarchical structure in the Pleroma as each one receives a station in accordance with the glorification which is able to produce», and with the analogous ones sustained in P. K enney, “The Platonism of the Tripartite Tractate (NH I, 5)”, in R. T.  Wallis , ed., Neoplatonism and Gnosticism (Albany, 1992) 187-206, according to which “[w]e have here a theological model which considers Aeons as having two distinct phases: an immanent stage within the thought of the primordial deity and a manifest phase of distinct existence, in which each Aeon is a separate contemplate power”. They both seem to over-esteem the actual role – completely marginal, in my point of view – played by the Pleromatology within the TT’s theological system. 18.  It is not impossible, in my opinion, that the threefold partition itself could comply a “trinitarian fuctional division”, according to which the account of the higher realities corresponds to the Father, the creation of mankind to the Son, and the eschatological destiny to the Church/Spirit. 19.  As pointed out by F. García Bazán, “El Sobre los principios de Orígenes y el Tratado tripartito (NHC I, 5) reconsiderados”, in A. Van den K erchoveL.  G. Soares Santoprete , eds, Gnose et Manichéisme entre les oasis d ’Égypte et la Route de la soie. Hommage à Jean-Daniel Dubois (Turnhout, 2017) 67-92, Origen’s speculation has to be interpeted, in turn, as deeply engaged in the debate with Plotinus: “[e]s decir que por donde el autor gnóstico comienza a presentar su propria

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3) As it is well known, the TT is the only Valentinian source in which the cosmic fall is distinctly attributed to the Logos, withholding Sophia. Section 74, 18 - 77, 11 is revealing: fourteen times in two and an half pages the author insists on the Father’s will to generate the cosmic economy. 20 It also reveals the reason for such insistence: “it is not fitting to criticise the movement which is the Logos, but it is fitting that we should say about the movement of the Logos that it is a cause of an organisation which has been destined to come about”. 21 It seems clear to me that we are dealing with the answer to a critic. Moved by whom? Maybe by the environment of the Great Church, but we should not forget that, as we shall see, the known position which best fits as the virtual starting point of this discussion is Plotinus’ work against the Gnostics. The devolution of the divine is good, since “the intent of the Logos, who is the one, was good”. 22 Horribile dictu to Valentinus! 23 Therefore, the apocalyptic opposition between a restricted extramundane elected remainder – femininely marked (Sophia) –, and the intrinsically evil cosmos, which was the core of classic Valentinianism’s theology, is completely switched off. The Church itself, which in the II century sources had represented the elected, patiens community, suffering the alienation from its own principle, is fully raised to powerful Trinitarian person by the time of the TT, losing all eschatological remains.

exposición, Sobre los principios propiamente dichos como sintesis y contrarréplica de su propia visión cristiana en contraposición de la filosofia de las ‘tres y nada más que tres hipóstatis’” (72). 20. Indeed, it is really impressive the semantic consistency of this passage: ⲡⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ (three times), ⲥⲉⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ (three times), ⲡⲉⲧⲁϩⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ, ⲡⲉⲧⲁϩⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ, ⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ, ⲧ[ⲟ]ⲩⲱϣⲉ, ⲡⲓⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ (twice), ⲉⲁϥⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ ⲧⲁϥⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ. 21.  ⲙⲁⲥϣⲉⲁⲕⲁ[ⲧ]ⲏⲅⲟⲣⲓ ⲡⲕⲓⲙ ⲉⲧⲉ ⲡⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ ⲡⲉ· [ⲁ]ⲗⲗⲁ ⲡⲉⲧⲉϣϣⲉ ⲡⲉ· ⲁⲧϣⲉϫⲉ ⲁ[ⲡ]ⲕⲓⲙ· ⲧⲉⲡⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ· ϫⲉ ⲟⲩⲗⲁⲉⲓϭⲉ ⲡⲉ []ⲟⲩⲟⲓⲕⲟⲛⲟⲙⲓⲁ ⲉⲥⲧⲏϣ ⲁⲧⲣⲉⲥϣⲱⲡⲉ (77, 5-11). 22.  ⲡⲣⲟⲁⲓⲣⲉⲥⲓⲥ (this lexical feature is peculiar indeed!) ϭⲉ ⲡⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ ⲉⲧⲉ ⲡⲉⲉⲓ ⲡⲉ ⲛⲉⲟⲩⲡⲉⲧⲛⲁⲛⲟⲩϥ ⲡⲉ. On this topic, cf., inter alia, M. Troiano, “De la substancia del diablo. Orígenes y la dinámica del sistema valentiniano de last res naturalezas”, Teología y Vida 55 (2014) 616-617: «[e]l término utilizado para describer la creación […] aproxima, por una lado, la concepción valentiniana del concepto griego de cosmos (cf. LXX Gen. 2, 1), y por otro, muestra claramente la visión positiva que estos autores tienen sobre la creación». An additional factor is the importance of the notion of ‘ⲟⲓⲕⲟⲛⲟⲙⲓⲁ ⲡⲧⲏⲣ’: the whole world is supported and endorsed by the Father, and nothing may get out of his control. 23.  It is well known that in classical Valentinianism the Ἐνθύμεσις τῆς ἀνω Σοφίας is the evil, sinful facet of Sophia, expelled by the Limit ἐκτὸς τοῦ Πληρώματος. Cf.  Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses I, 2,2; I, 2, 4; I, 3,4; I, 4,1; Ι, 4, 3; I, 5, 1; I, 8, 4 and Tertullian, Adversus Valentinianos, 9, 3; 10, 4. We should note that Latin  Irenaeus in I, 2, 4 translates ‘ἐνθύμεσις’ with ‘concupiscentia’ and that Tertullian, in AdversusValentinianos18, 3, substitutes it with ‘Achamoth’.

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4) Several studies have been devoted to the relationship between psychics and pneumatics as it is outlined in the TT. On this topic, scholars have always been divided, even though lately the predominant tendency is to recognize in this work – and, in wider terms, in Coptic Valentinian scriptures – a more veiled and anti-deterministic conception than the one we read in Irenaeus. 24 Briefly, and entering the merits of the matter merely in obliquo, I believe that in all three sections of the TT, the will to minimize the eschatological hiatus between the two groups is recognisable, theorising an “historical” rather than a protological origin of this bipartition. On the other hand, I would like to linger on a textual section that is infrequently considered: 108, 13-114, 22, that is to say, the beginning of the last section, where the author (is he the same one of the first two?) 25 takes into account the relationship between the bad order (the hylics) and the intelligent order/ the thought order (the psychics), which is explicitly identified – and this is of utmost interest! – with both 26 Greek philosophers and Jewish prophets. The thesis carried on in this passage sustains that the latter sins only by imitation of the first: “if at times the evil order begins to do evil in a foolish way, the wise order emulates in the form of a man of violence”. 27 If, however, Greek philosophy has developed, in regard to the principles of the world, a multitude of theories, of opinions, of etiologies, 28 Jewish 24.  Cf. I. Dunderberg, “Valentinian Theories on Classes of Humankind”, and E.  Thomassen, “Saved by nature? The question of human races and soteriological determinism in Valentinianism”, both in C. M arkschies-J. Von Oort, eds, Zugänge zur Gnosis. Akten zur Tagung der Patristischen Arbeitsgemeinschaft vom 02. -05. 01. 2011 in Berlin-Spandau (Leuven-Walpole, 2013), respectively 113-128 and 129-150. 25. Some “linking”-expressions of the third section (e.g., the disconcerting intervention of the author in 130, 3, which completely shapes the rhetorical style of section 130, 3-134, 26), combined with a clear change in the “theological quality” of the text, which appears definitely less technical, lead us to be strongly skeptic on this point. 26.  I do not notice, in fact, a hierarchical chain between Greeks and Jews: as well as there being people “who were wise among the Greeks and the barbarians” (ⲥⲟⲫⲟⲥ ⲕⲁⲧⲁ ϩⲉⲗⲗⲏⲛ ⲙ ⲛⲓⲃⲁⲣⲃⲁⲣⲟⲥ; 109, 24-25, with reference to 109, 3: “those who were not instructed”), there were wise men among Jews. The important feature, as far as I can see, is that they represent the exception, not the rule. 27.  ⲁⲩⲱ ⲥⲁⲡ· ⲁⲥϣⲁⲣⲭⲉⲥⲑⲁⲓ· ⲁⲉⲓⲣⲉ ⲟⲩⲡⲉⲑⲁⲩ ϭⲓ ϯⲧⲁⲝⲓⲥ· ⲉⲑⲁⲩ ⲟⲩⲥⲙⲁⲧⲧⲁⲧⲑⲏⲧ ϣⲁⲣⲉⲥⲕⲱϩ ϭⲓ ϯⲧⲁⲝⲓⲥ ⲧϩⲏⲧⲓ ϩⲛⲟⲩϩⲟ· ⲣⲙⲙⲉϥϫϭⲟⲛⲥ ⲁϩⲣⲏ ⲉⲥϩⲱⲃ ϩⲱⲱⲥ ⲁⲛ ⲁⲡⲡⲉⲧⲑⲁⲩ ⲡⲓⲣⲏⲧⲉ ⲉⲩϭⲟⲙ ⲧⲉ· ⲙⲉϥ ϫϭⲟ (108, 24-30). 28.  TT 109, 5-23: “Therefore, there have introduced other types of explanation, some saying that it is according to providence that the things which exist have their being. These are the people who observe the stability and the conformity of the movement of creation. Other say that it is something alien. These are people who observe the diversity and the lawlessness and the evil of the power. Other say that

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prophets, instead, were led by the Logos, 29 who “preserve the confession and the testimony”, 30 toward a unitary and coherent comprehension of the world’s causes and destiny: 31 the whole prophecy is equally inspired; the whole prophecy is equally truthful; the whole prophecy is an equally sincere testimony to pleromatic realities. Even in this case, as we have already seen, the text can be perfectly explained as participation within a debate: even though the Valentinian anthropological tripartition remains the same, it is flexed to new needs, that is, to the necessity of including the moral and intellectual mundane excellence in the horizon of salvation, de facto concealing the distinction – within the Christian Church – between chosen and simple believers. 5) As I have tried to show elsewhere, 32 the valentinian school qualifies as a visionary phenomenon: the claim to have direct and personal access to the higher God’s face deeply shapes its doctrine and its relationship to the Great Church. 33 In the TT, this fundamental feature is utterly (and oddly enough) lacking. In fact, Father’s knowability appears to be totally absorbed by and confined to the ontological relation that He maintains with His pleromatical emanations (chiefly with ‘Son’ and ‘Church’).  3 4 the things which exist are what is destined to happen. These are people who are occupied with this matter. Other say that it is a self-existent. The majority, however, all who have reached as far as the visible elements do not know anything more than them”. 29.  TT 111, 8-15: “other men of the Hebrew race, of whom we already spoke, namely the righteous and the prophets, did not think of anything and did not say anything from imagination or through a likeness or from esoteric thinking, but each one by the power which was at work in him”; 113, 6-11: “the prophets, however, did not say anything of their own accord, but each one of them spoke of the things which he had seen and heard through the proclamation of the Savior”. 30.  TT 111, 34-35: ⲛϯϩⲟⲙⲟⲗⲟⲅⲓⲁ ⲙ ϯⲙⲧⲙⲧⲣⲉ. 31.  TT 113, 12-19: “this is what he proclaimed, with the main subject of their proclamation being that which each said concerning the coming of the Savior, which is this coming. Sometimes the prophets speack about it as if it will be. Sometimes it i sas if the Savior speaks from their mouths, saying that the Savior will come and show favor tho those who have not known him”. 32.  See F. Berno, “Notes on a Leading Minority: Gnostic Para-Religious SelfUnderstanding”, Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni (2017), 83.2 (2017), 357-365. 33.  I confine myself to refering only to Valentinus’ fr. 7 (apud Hippolytus[?], Ref  VI 37, 4, 2) and Marcus’ account in Ref  IV 42, 2. 34. Cfr. TT 54, 14-55, 4: “yet as for him, in his own existence, being and form, it is impossible for mind to conceive him, nor can any speech convey him, nor can any eye see him (ⲟⲩⲇⲉ ⲙⲛ ⲃⲉⲗ ⲛⲁϣ ⲛⲉⲩ ⲁⲣⲁϥ), nor can any body grasp him, because of his inscrutable greatness and his incomprehensible depth, and his immeasurable height, and his illimitable will. […] He alone is the one who knows himself as he is, along with his form and his greatness and his magnitude”; 64, 9-12: “there is no need for voice and spirit, mind and word (ϫⲉ ⲙⲭⲣⲓⲁ ⲥⲏⲙ ϩⲓ

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Is it possible to go further, tracking down an intelligent design, a thread that holds together all the above-given elements? 35 I think it is. They all point toward the same aim: to remove or, at least, to soften the original opposition, ab aeterno determined, between a chosen and pure “remainder”, resistant to history’s attempts of assimilation, and a massa damnationis majority, destined for the nothing to which it belongs. God himself is implied in this opposition, since the secret core of such theology is God’s sin (the sin of God and the sin in God), which is then called personally to take part in the battle to re-gain what he finds consubstantial in the world. In other words: the author of the TT wants to erase the ideologically apocalyptic matrix of Valentinian theology, that is to say, its tendency to radicalise the dynamic of the historical relationship between the righteous and the evils from an onto-theological perspective, then smoothing the devaluation of the mundane elements (and, especially, as we have seen, of the best the world has produced) as naturally adverse to God. Hence, using another formula – maybe even hazier, but useful – we can say the TT is an attempt to “mundanise” Valentinianism. After all, this seems to be the leading thread of the traditional apocalyptic features’ interpretation the author proposes, first of all the “lust for power” (ⲙⲧⲙⲁⲉⲓⲟⲩⲉϩ ⲥⲁϩⲛe). 36 Losing memory of the angelic conflict and of the demonological tradition, 37 undeniable traces of a sharp apocalyptic influence, 38 this relevant element is dislocated from the infra-theological conflict between the ⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁ ⲛⲟⲩⲥ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ), because there is no need to work at that which they desire to do”. 35.  Moreover, I consider such elements as structural and “genetic” of the Text, thus I presume it is implausible to read them as later interpolations. Instead, Camplani’s remarks appear more permissive in “Momenti di interazione religiosa ad Alessandria e la nascita dell’élite egiziana cristiana”, in L. Perrone , ed., Origeniana Octava. Origen and the Alexandrian Tradition (Leuven, 2003) 38: “non è fuori luogo ipotizzare che tutti i passi che manifestano chiare assonanze con teologumeni del IV secolo siano esito di un’attività interpolatoria”. 36.  The noun appears fourteen times in the text: TT 79, 27; 84, 14; 84, 20; 98, 10; 99, 11; 99, 15; 99, 20; 103, 19; 103, 22; 118, 2; 120, 16; 120, 23; 131, 24; 131, 26. 37. Cf. C. Dogniez-M. Scopello, Autour des anges: traditions juives et relectures gnostiques, in L. Painchaud -P.-H.  Poirier , eds, Coptica-Gnostica-Manichaica (Quebéc-Luovain-Paris, 2006) 208, in the TT, «le terme “ange” intervient aussi, au pluriel, en association avec le terme “dieu”: ce qui semble indiquer qu’il s’agit d’habitans du monde supérieur, sans que le terme soit chargé d’une signification plus précise». 38. For an interpretation of demonology as a fundamental marker for deep apocalyptic influences, I shall confine myself to refer to the Introduction of I. Gruenwald, From Apocalypticism to Gnosticism: Studies in Apocalypticism, Merkavah Mysticism and Gnosticism (Frankfurt am Main, 1988) and A. Y. R eed, Fallen Angels and the History of Judaism and Christianity: The Reception of Enochic Literature (Cambridge, 2005), mostly 160-189.

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Father and the mundane archons, toward the inner extra-theological fight between psychics and hylics, leading it back within the historical immanence’s horizon and, consequently, to the religious manageability. 39 Along these lines, the TT pursues a double task: on the one side, it “reassures” the Great Church removing several counterpoints stigmatized by the II century heresiologists in a monotheistic way; on the other – and this is the aspect that seems more pronounced to me,  4 0 as I am aware of the questionable nature of a Valentinianism’s ‘gradual Christianisation’ 41 – it presents itself as an interlocutor “open to dialogue” within the IV 39.  Therefore, I don’t find the various attempts made in order to anthropologically collocate this TT’s issue fully fruitful (cfr. E. Pagels , “‘The Demiurge and his Archons’ – A Gnostic View of the Bishop and Presbyters”, The Harvard Theological Review 69 (1976) 301-324; I. Dunderberg, “Lust for Power in the Tripartite Tractate (NHC I, 5)”, in L. Painchaud -P.-H. Poirier , eds, Coptica-Gnostica-Manichaica (Quebéc-Luovain-Paris, 2006) 237-257, and I. Dunderberg, “Greeks and Jews in the Tripartite Tractate”, in L.  Painchaud -P.-H.  Poirier , eds, L’Évangile selon Thomas et les textes de Nag Hammadi: Traditions et convergences (Louvain-Paris, 2007) 107130. In fact, it seems to me that they undervalue the theological relevance of this element. One further datum must be added: compared to all the Valentinian works we know, the TT – according to a mere quantitative evaluation – gives the Gnostics extraordinarily little space! Whole sections of the tractate are exclusively dedicated to psychics and hylics (I hint, for instance, at the long paragraph 88, 8-100, 18), whose origin and eschatological destiny are discussed with a gratuitous interest. Despite the technical nature of the first section’s dictate, all these elements invite us to rethink the apparently esoteric intent of the TT. Similarly, I find unpersuasive Dunderberg’s conjecture, according to which the division of humankind into three classes, is based upon ethnic categories. I don’t see, indeed, an obvious “equalisation” between Greeks-ilycs, Jews-psychics, and Christians-gnostics. 40.  Hence, I agree with F. Garcia Bazán, Plotino y la Gnosis. Un nuevo capítolo en la historia de las relaciones entre el helenismo y el judeocristianismo (Buenos Aires, 1981), and J.-D-Dubois , “Le Traité Tripartite (Nag Hammadi I, 5) est-il antérieur à Origène?”, in L. Perrone , ed., Origeniana Octava. Origen and the Alexandrian Tradition (Leuven, 2003) 308-310, in considering the philosophical dimension as primary, compared to the will of reconciliation with “orthodox” doctrines. First and foremost, the TT’s Author wants to gain favour in the eyes of coeval pagan culture: indeed, the battle against the Great Church has been lost for a long time. Clearly, it does not weaken the deeply Christian nature of the text, which aims to restructure valentinian theologumena, making them pleasing to a reader used to (neo) platonic literature. After all, the same Plotinus recognizes the (at least apparent) contiguity between gnostic and platonic speculation. On this topic, see K. Corrigan, “Positive and Negative Matter in Later Platonism: The Uncovering of Plotinus’s Dialogue with the Gnostics”, in J.  D. Turner-R.  M ajercik , eds, Gnosticism and Later Platonism. Themes, Figures, and Texts (Atlanta, 2000) 24-25 and P. K alligas , “Plotinus against the Gnostics”, Hermathena 169 (2000) 122. 41.  Cf. J.-D. Dubois, “La sotériologie valentinienne du Traité tripartite (NH I, 5)”, in L. Painchaud -A.  Pasquier , eds, Les Textes de Nag Hammadi et le problème de leur classification (Louvain-Paris, 1995) 231: “l’hypothèse d’une christianisation progressive de l’école valentinienne, qui régit le trois commentaires actuels du Traité tripartite, nous semble relever aussi d’une presentation hérésiologique de la

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century complex cultural overview. Thus, after ‘de-apocalyptization’ and ‘mundanisation’, we might use a third formula: the TT is the attempt to “philosophise” Valentinianism. 42 Indeed, the four points I have just underlined correspond to the main cluster of critiques moved by Plotinus in Enneads II, 9 against the Gnostics. 43 gnose […] Ce schema d’interprétation presuppose une reconstruction de l’histoire de l’école valentinienne encore problématique ahjourd’hui”. 42.  As clearly shown by G. L ettieri, “Della patologia del pensiero: note su Plotino e gli gnostici”, in P. Vitellaro Zuccarello, ed., Gnosi. Nostalgia della luce (Milano-Udine, 2012) 31-51, as well as in G. L ettieri, Deus patiens (Roma, 1996), Valentinianism is, eo ipso, an attempt at “deepening” the scripturistical message, thus inclined to a complication of the simple faith in an intellectualistic direction. Within this frame, by the term “philosophisation” I mean an easier and more immediate notion: the TT attests to Valentinian theological requests – which glean from several dimensions, not least the charismatic and eschatological ones – giving in to the discursive and rationalising form of philosophical thought. With the TT, Valentinianism becomes acquainted with a severe Hellenization of its forms of expressions and ideological contents. 43. By the way, in accordance with R. H arder , “Eine neue Schrift Plotins”, Hermes 71 (1936) 1-10, I maintain that the anti-gnostic polemic engages the Philosopher for a long time, leaving a clearly visible trail in several passages of the Enneads and interlacing with his open hostility towards the Christian movement. M. Simonetti, “Eracleone, gli psichici ed il Trattato Tripartito”, Rivista di Storia e Letteratura Religiosa 27 (1992) alludes to a “diretta derivazione di TT da Plotino”. Here, I would like to declare some general and preliminary remarks about my interpretation of the relationship between Plotinus and gnosticism: a) even though I think it is distinctly possible that Plotinus in II, 9, also refers to Christians that modern scholarship does not identify as ‘gnostic’, (cfr. Porfirio, Vita Plotini 16), nevertheless it seems to me that the Plotinian dissertation as a whole cannot be fully understood outside the structural reference to main gnostic theologoumeni; cf. on topic M. Tardieu, “Les Gnostiques dans la Vie de Plotin: Analyse du chapitre 16”, in L. Brisson, ed., Porphyre, Le vie de Plotin, II (Paris, 1992) 503-563; b) contrary to what N. Spanu, Plotinus, Ennead II 9 [33] ‘Against the Gnostics’: A Commentary (Leuven-Paris-Walpole, 2012) XXII, maintains, I am going to argue in favour of a sharp disagreement, in the eyes of Plotinus, between Gnosticism and Platonism, as it was expounded by C. Schmidt, Plotins Stellung zum Gnosticismus und kirchliche Christentum (Leipzig, 1901), and, more recently, by D. O’Brien, Théodicée plotinienne, théodicée gnostique (Leiden, 1993). On the problematic relationship between Plotinus and Porphyry, in regard to their different attitude toward Gnosticism, see T. R asimus , “Porphyry and the Gnostics: Reassessing Pierre Hadot’s Thesis in Light of the Second- and Third-Century Sethian Treatises”, in J. D. Turner-K. Corrigan, eds, Plato’s Parmenides and Its Heritage. Volume 2: Reception in Patristic, Gnostic and Christian Neoplatonic Texts (Atlanta, 2010) 81-110. Cf. the excellent, above cited, F. Garcia Bazán, Plotino y la Gnosis. Un nuevo capítolo en la historia de las relaciones entre el helenismo y el judeocristianismo (Buenos Aires, 1981), and K.  A lt, Philosophie gegen Gnosis. Plotins Polemik in seiner Schrift, II, 9 (Stuttgart, 1990). Moreover, I agree with C. Evangeliou, “Plotinus’s Anti-Gnostic Polemic and Porphyry’s Against the Christian” and F. G. Bazán, “The “Second God” in Gnosticism and Plotinus’s Anti-Gnostic Polemic”, both in R. T. Wallis , Neoplatonism and Gnosticism (Albany, 1992), respectively 11-128 and 55-83, in identifying the

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These judgments concern the necessity 1) to recognise the first Principle’s uniqueness and loneliness, incomparable to any other intelligible entity,  4 4 2) not to multiply and overcrowd the divine world praeter necessitatem, 45 3) to affirm the beauty, harmony, and order of the perceivable world,  4 6 Valentinian school as the main polemical target of Plotinus’ critics. For an overall and evolutionary reading of Plotinian philosophy in the light of its relation with Gnosticism, cf. J.-M. Narbonne , Plotinus in Dialogue with the Gnostics. Studies in Platonism, Neoplatonism and the Platonic Tradition (Leiden-Boston, 2011): from Großscrhift to Großzyklus: “according to this concept, treatises 27-29, as a group, are closely linked to the series 30-33, and 34 itself take up again a substantial development from 32 (V, 5), 4-5” (6). Finally, for an interpretation inclined to recognize a deep incompatibility between the two phenomena, see V. Cilento, Paideia antignostica. Ricostruzione d ’un unico scritto da Enneadi III 8, V 8, V 5, II 9 (Firenze, 1971) (II, 9 being “una delle più solenni testimonianze dell’urto tra il mondo greco, sia pure nella turbata classicità del Tardo-Antico, e il mondo cristiano” [221]); the already mentioned G. L ettieri, “Della patologia del pensiero: note su Plotino e gli gnostici», in P. Vitellaro Zuccarello, ed., Gnosi. Nostalgia della luce (Milano-Udine, 2012) 31-51, and J. H alfwassen, “Gnosis als Pseudormorphose des Platonismus: Plotins Gnosiskritik”, in C. M arkschies-J. Von Oort, eds Zugänge zur Gnosis. Akten zur Tagung der Patristischen Arbeitsgemeinschaft vom 02. -05. 01. 2011 in Berlin-Spandau (Leuven, 2013) 25-42. 44.  Enneads  II, 9, 1, 5-40. 45.  Enneads  II, 9, 2, 1-4; 6, 28-35. 46.  The statement appears to be nearly ubiquitous (and I remind that Porphyry presents the second Ennead as the cosmological one, entitling the last treatise – the most profound! (cf. Vita Plotini 24) – ‘πρὸς τοὺς κακὸν τὸν δημιουργὸν τοῦ κόσμου καὶ τὸν κόσμον εἶναι λέγοντας’): Enneads  II, 9, 4, 23-32; 5, 26-35; 8; 12; 15, 10-20; 16. To enter into the merits of the intimately related question of the matter’s status in Plotinus, and of the relation it intertwined within the gnostic debate, see K. Corrigan, “Positive and Negative Matter in Later Platonism: The Uncovering of Plotinus’s Dialogue with the Gnostics”, in J. D. Turner-R.  M ajercik, eds, Gnosticism and Later Platonism. Themes, Figures, and Texts (Atlanta, 2000) 19-56, and Z. Mazur, “Those Who Ascend to the Sanctuaries of the Temples”: The Gnostic Context of Plotinus’s First Treatise, 1-6 [1], On Beauty”, in K. CorriganT. R asimus , eds, Gnosticism, Platonism and the Late Ancient World (Leiden-Boston, 2013) 329-368. In II, 9, 5, 4-16, Plotinus very accurately underlines the irrational nature – incompatible with the Greek philosophical tradition (‘ἄλογος’; in II, 9, 10, 10, ‘ἀτοπία’; for the significance of ‘ἀτοπία’ in the early Christian theology, see G. L ettieri, “‘Fuori Luogo’. Topos Atopos dal Nuovo Testamento allo Pseudo-Dionigi”, in D.  Giovannozzi-M. Veneziani, eds, Locus-Spatium. XIV Colloquio Internazionale. Roma, 3-5 gennaio 2013 (Firenze, 2014) 81-148) – of a thought in which not only the human being transcends the cosmos (οὐδε τὴν μὲν αὐτῶν ψυχὴν ἀθάνατον καὶ θείαν λέγειν καὶ τὴν φαυλοτάτων ἀνθρώπων, τὸν δὲ οὐρανὸν πάντα καὶ τὰ ἐκεῖ ἄστρα μὴ τῆς ἀθανάτου κεκοινωνηκέται ἐκ πολλῷ καλλιόνων καὶ καθαρωτέρων), but the possibility of salvation is actually hidden in the wasted, rejected, lowest realities – therefore, in what eludes the order of the world (ὠσπερ τῆς ἀθανάτου ψυχῆς τὸν χείρω τόπον ἐπίτηδες ἑλομένης, παραχωρῆσαι δὲ τοῦ βελτίονος τῇ θνητῇ ψυχῇ ἑλομένης). Along the same lines, see II, 99, 18, 17-21. Plotinus clearly recognizes that the gnostic world has lost every “testimonial” func-

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4) to grant an autonomous field of moral agency, 47 and 5) to state the impossibility of seeing the higher God. 48 More specifically, as noted by Luciana Gabriela Soares Santoprete in an important article, Plotinus’ “rejection of any suggestion that the intelligibles could be ignorant within the Intellects aims at criticising the Valentinian idea according to which it would be possible to admit an Aeon within the Father […] who is ignorant of the Father”. 49 With regard to this aspect and deepening the just mentioned critical statement, I identify, in the TT, the severe loss of relevance of the pleromatical world as the most radical and effective “corrective action” taken by Gnosticism as the result of its debate with late Platonic tradition. In doing so, the Author(s) of our text serves the threefold objective of minimizing the problematic notion of a divine fault, keeping firm and “clean” the interaction between intelligible and sensible world, and confining the gnostic emergence of “a multiplicity of states and entities within the intelligible realities”. 50

tion (II, 9, 8, 9: ἐνδεικνυμένη): it is a foreign land (II, 9, 11, 13: ἡ γῆ αὑτοῖς ἡ ξένη λεγομένη). 47.  Enneads  II, 9, 14; 15. Plotinus’ cosmos is a place where ἀρετὴ τετίμηται, καὶ κακία τὴν προσήκουσαν ἀτιμίαν ἔχει (ΙΙ, 9, 9, 20). Thus, it is necessary a λόγος περὶ ἀρετῆς (II, 9, 15, 28), which makes possible a moral improvement (cf. II, 9, 9, 28). To such critic, the TT’s author answered overexposing the psychics’ capacity for self-determination, which makes them (at least potentially) able to fill any ontological lacking – still reduced in the script’s overall economy – with an ethical effort. 48.  Enneads  II, 5, 7, 31 and ff.: οὕτω δὴ καὶ νοῦς αὑτὸν ἀπὸ τῶν ἄλλων καλὐψας καὶ συναγαγὼν εἰς τὸ εἴσω μηδὲν ὁρῶν θεάσεται οὐκ ἄλλο ἐν ἄλλ φῶς, ἀλλ᾽αὐτὸ καθ᾽ἑαυτὸ μόνον καθαρὸν ἐφ᾽αὑτοῦ ἐξαίφνης φανέν, ὥστε ἀπορεῖν ὅθεν ἐφάνη, ἔξωθεν ἢ ἔνδον, καὶ ἀπελθόντος εἰπεῖν «ἔνδον ἄρα ἦν καὶ οὐκ ἔνδον αὖ». 49. L.G Soares Santoprete , “New Perspectives on the Structure of Plotinus’ Treatise 32 (V 5) and his Anti-Gnostic Polemic”, in H. Seng -L.  G. Soares Santoprete-C. O. Tommasi, eds, Formen und Nebenformen des Platonismus in der Spätantike (Heidelberg, 2016) 109-162. 50.  Ivi, 143.

F EMININE AND BRIDAL I MAGERY IN THE BOOK OF BARUCH OF THE GNOSTIC T EACHER JUSTIN L. Cerioni 1. I n t roduct ion The Book of Baruch of the gnostic teacher Justin represents a peculiar case in early Christian literature. 1 Studying this gnostic text means facing a double mystery: on the one hand, Justin, the author of the book, is no more than a name among many gnostic teachers; on the other hand, the authorship of the Elenchos, the book in which this text has been bequeathed to us, is still contested. Hence, the Book of Baruch represents a fascinating tangle of historical problems that are still waiting for a solution. The author of the Elenchos classified the Book of Baruch among Sethian or Ophite works. 2 This classification has been widely accepted by scholars since the myth presents some elements proper of the Ophite and Sethian movements, the most striking of which is the presence of the angel Naas. 3 For the sake of clarity, I will here summarise briefly the plot. Elohim and Edem are two unbegotten divine principles that, together with the Good One, form the gnostic Pleroma of Justin’s system. The Good One is a transcendent deity who possesses foreknowledge and unknowability. Elohim is the inferior pneumatic male divinity, who is unknowable and invisible, but does not possess foreknowledge and it is unaware of the existence of a higher pneumatic divinity. Edem is instead a psychic and hylic female principle, described as half woman and half 1. The Book of Baruch occupies part of the fifth book of Pseudo-Hippolytus’ Elenchos: V, 26, 1-V, 27, 5. The critical edition of the Greek text used in this article refers to TLG edition, Hippolytus, Refutatio omnium heresium (ed. by M. M arco vich, Berlin: New York, 1986). The English translation is mine. 2.  Regarding the distinction between Sethian’s and Ophite’s myths, see PseudoHippolytus, Elenchos  V, 1-27; Irenaeus, Adversus haereses I, 29-30. 3. M. Simonetti, Testi Gnostici in Lingua Greca e Latina, (Milano, 1993), 87-101. Concerning the classification of Gnosticism in different sects, such as Ophites, Sethians, Valentinians, I acknowledge the artificiality of such categories – most of which have been inherited from the heresiological tradition (see Clement of Alexandria, Stromata 7, 108, 1-2) – but I will use them as ‘working classifications’ for sake of clarity. From Jesus to Christian Origins, Second Annual Meeting of Bertinoro (1-4 October, 2015), éd. par Adriana Destro, Mauro Pesce, Francesco Berno, Turnhout, 2019 (Judaïsme ancien et origines du chris­ tianisme, 16), p. 515-534.

© F  H  G

DOI 10.1484/M.JAOC-EB.5.117955

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viper. After having introduced all the deities, the myth focuses on the vicissitudes that happened when Elohim and Edem become enamoured of each other and beget the world out of their mutual pleasure. The intradivine crisis which is common to gnostic myths is here represented by Elohim’s decision to abandon Edem in the world they created to return to the pneumatic regions of heaven, to which he truly belongs because of his nature. Having failed to bring Elohim back to her side, Edem unleashed her fury over the creation, particularly against the spirit of Elohim which was trapped in human beings. Moved by the suffering of his offspring, Elohim sent Baruch, his third angel, to save those spiritual parts of him trapped into the world. After a series of unsuccessful attempts, Baruch entrusted his message to Jesus, thus achieving the salvation for spiritual humankind. The gnostic myth described in the Book of Baruch is unique within Gnosticism for it is centred on two divine characters, Elohim and Edem, who do not appear in any other gnostic system. Indeed, neither the vicissitudes of Elohim and Edem are mentioned elsewhere, nor the story of the redeemer Baruch is told in other gnostic books. Moreover, none of the other gnostic teachers has ever attributed such importance to the pact (συνθήκη) of the syzygy (συζυγία), 4 showing that the nuptial imagery is not a mere rhetorical expedient, but rather the core of Justin’s speculation. In this article, I will explore in depth the feminine imagery of the Book of Baruch. This analysis aims at sheading some light on the position of the texts within the broader phenomenon known as Gnosticism. 5 Being a highly syncretistic work, the Book of Baruch should be understood as drawing elements not only from ancient religious and philosophical traditions, but also from different trends within Gnosticism. Against the predominant scholarly trend, which understands the Book of Baruch as an Ophite/Sethian work, 6 this article will argue that this book might be 4.  In truth, the word συζυγία is not explicitly used by Pseudo-Hippolytus to indicate the union of Edem and Elohim. Nevertheless, the term σύζυγος is used several times to indicate both of them individually, hence making a συζυγία of the couple. 5.  It is worth underlining that, given the polemical nature of the Elenchos, a certain caution is necessary in analysing the text of the Book of Baruch in the form bequeathed by the author. Unfortunately, in the present case, Hippolytus’ account is the only version available of the text. Regarding the Pseudo-Hippolytus’ trustworthiness as a source for Gnosticism, see G. Vallée , A  Study in Anti-Gnostic Polemics, (Waterloo, 1981), 51-62. In addition, J. J. Buckley, “Trascendence and Sexuality in ‘The Book of Baruch’”, History of Religions 24 (1985) 228-244, 329 cleverly highlights that Pseudo-Hippolytus uses some key words when he wants to quote directly from a source, as it is in the case of the Book of Baruch. 6.  Scholarship has not paid the due attention to the study of the Book of Baruch. I will mention here only the most significant contributes: E. H aenchen, “Das Buch

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better understood if read also in light of Valentinian doctrines, using the feminine and bridal imagery as primary focus. Therefore, I will systematically reference to Valentinian sources to underline similar theologoumena and mythologoumena between Valetinianism and the Book of Baruch. In order to prove my point, I will firstly discuss the identity of the author of the Elenchos, thus suggesting that the text was circulating in Rome, where there was a prominent Valentinian circle. Secondly, I will investigate the role and functions of the female character Edem and of the syzygy. Lastly, I will explore the theological and eschatological consequences of the intradivine fracture caused by the separation of the syzygy. 2 . Th e I de n t i t i e s

of t h e

P seu do -H i ppoly t us

and

J us t i n

The Elenchos, also known with the Latin title of Refutatio omnium haeresium, has been traditionally attributed to Hippolytus, the famous “antipope”, but many suspicions have been raised on its authorship by modern scholarship. It is not the purpose of this article to debate the Hippolytusfrage, but it is important to clarify those issues that have direct impact on this research, namely the Elenchos’ date of composition and its place of circulation. Although many researches have dealt with this topic, the most exhaustive and conclusive work on the figure of Hippolytus is the one by Manlio Simonetti. 7 He successfully used the cultural background and the ecclesiBaruch. Ein Beitrag zum Problem der christlichen Gnosis”, Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 50 (1953) 123-158; R. M. Grant, “Gnosis Revisited”, Church History 23 (1954) 36-45; M. Simonetti, “Note sul libro di Baruch dello gnostico Giustino”, Vetera Christianorum 6 (1954) 71-89; I d., Testi gnostici in lingua greca e latina, (Milano, 1993) 87-101; R. van den Broek, “The Shape of Edem according to Justin the Gnostic”, Vigiliae Christianae 27 (1973) 35-45, and I d., “Gospel Tradition and Salvation in Justin the Gnostic”, Vigiliae Christianae 57 (2003) 363-388; M.  Olender , “Eleménts pour une analyse de Priape chez Justin le Gnostique”, in E.  De Boer and T. A. Edridge , ed., Hommages à Maarten J. Varmaseren, Vol. 2 (Leiden, 1978) 874-897; J. J. Buckley, “Trascendence and Sexuality in ‘The Book of Baruch’”, History of Religions 24, n. 4 (1985) 228-244; M. M arcovich, “Justin’s Baruch: a showcase of gnostic syncretism”, in I d., Studies in Greco-Roman Religions and Gnosticism, (Leiden: New York: Kobenhavn: Köln, 1988), 93-119. 7. M. Simonetti, “Per un profilo dell’autore dell’Elenchos”, in I. A ragione and E.  Norelli, ed., Des évêques, Des écoles et Des Hérétiques: Actes Du Colloque International Sur La Réfutation de Toutes Les Hérésies, Genève, 13-14 Juin 2008, (Lausanne, 2011) 257-273. Simonetti is hardly the first scholar to question the authorship of the Elenchos, but he is certainly one of the most authoritative. He firstly proposed this idea in his V. L oi-M.  Simonetti, Ricerche su Ippolito, (Roma, 1977). The traditional attribution of the Elenchos to Hippolytus of Rome depends on a list of works found on a statue of Hippolytus discovered in the catacomb of Via Tiburtina in Rome (1551); among the texts mentioned, the most famous was his

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ology of the Elenchos to cast some light on the author’s identity. First of all, he proposed to distinguish between Hippolytus, the oriental author of the Against Noetus, and Pseudo-Hippolytus, active in Rome at the beginning of the third century, who seems to be the author of the Elenchos. 8 Secondly, he concluded that the author of the Elenchos, who might indeed have been named Hippolytus, corresponded to the one of the Περὶ παντός and Συναγωγὴ χρόνων καί ἐτῶν. These three works show indeed a similar interest in pagan philosophy, which constituted a peculiarity of the Pseudo-Hippolytus. 9 Moreover, Simonetti’s analysis highlighted how much the unknown author was close to the intellectual positions of the Alexandrian theologians, particularly Origen and Clement. 10 From his investigation, Simonetti deduced three main elements that could cast some lights on the author’s identity: a. The author of the Elenchos had a breadth knowledge of pagan philosophies, whereas his education in the Scriptures was not equally advanced; b. It is likely that he was active in Rome, since he gave a detailed account of the ecclesiological discussions that inflamed the Roman elites; and c. his work was probably marginalised in the Roman community for its ecclesiological perspective, as well as for the choice of

Against Noetus. The first scholar to formulate the hypothesis of two Hippolytus was P. Nautin,  Le dossier d ’Hippolyte et de Méliton dans les florilèges dogmatiques et chez les historiens modernes, (Paris, 1953), thus rejecting Harnack’s suggestion, see A. von H arnack , Die Quellen der Ketzergeschichte bis zum Nicänum. I, Hippolytus und die römischen Zeitgenossen, (Zürich, 1855). A significant contribution to the Hippolytusfrage was also given by Brent, see A. Brent, “The Elenchos and the Identification of Christian Communities in Second-Early Third Century Rome”, in I.  A ragione and E. Norelli, ed., Des évêques, Des écoles et Des Hérétiques: Actes Du Colloque International Sur La Réfutation de Toutes Les Hérésies, Genève, 13-14 Juin 2008, (Lausanne, 2011), 275-314, who also explores archaeological evidence to support his hypothesis about the identity of the author. For an outline of the scholarship about the author of the Elenchos, see J. A. Cerrato, Hippolytus between East and West: The Commentaries and the Provenance of the Corpus (Oxford, 2002) and I. A ragione and E. Norelli, ed., Des évêques, Des écoles et Des Hérétiques: Actes Du Colloque International Sur La Réfutation de Toutes Les Hérésies, Genève, 13-14 Juin 2008 (Lausanne, 2011). 8. See Hippolytus, Contro Noeto, (ed. M. Simonetti, Bologna, 2000), 88-139 where he summarised his remarks on the Hippolytusfrage. He hypothesised the existence of three different figures: 1. The writer Hippolytus, author of Against Noetus (mentioned by Jerome and Eusebius), who was active in the oriental regions between the end of the second century and the beginning of the third; 2. The Roman Hippolytus, author of the Elenchos, who was active during the first years of the third century and probably opposed both popes (Zephyrinus and Callistus); 3. The presbyter and martyr Hippolytus, who was worshipped in Rome and Porto. 9.  In this regard, see also J. M ansfeld, Heresiography in Context: Hippolytus’ “Elenchos” as a Source for Greek Philosophy, (Leiden, 1992). 10. Simonetti makes explicitly reference to the Logos theology, see M. Simo netti, “Per un profilo dell’autore dell’Elenchos”, 262-267.

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the language, since using Greek was considered a proof of elitism and conservativism. 11 The social context in which the Book of Baruch was circulating is equally indefinite. The author of the Elenchos informs us that this book was kept ‘in high esteem’ (ἐνδόξου) 12 by Justin’s followers, which are described by him as an organised and structured group. Moreover, the author of Elenchos mentions some ritual practices; for instance, they were obliged to swear an oath in order to be introduced to the mysteries of the Good One, reproducing typologically the oath sworn by their Father Elohim when he entered the superior world. In addition, it is likely that this initiatory ritual included a baptismal moment in which the participants drank the ‘pneumatic waters’ in order to be purified. 13 Concerning this ritual practice, it is worth noting that the ritual of baptism is a key element of Valentinianism, 14 thus providing an additional element of proximity between Justin’s followers and this gnostic school. 15 In my attempt to provide a new interpretation of the Book of Baruch, I will build on Simonetti’s findings regarding the author of the Elenchos, thus assuming that the works of the gnostic teacher Justin were known in Rome at the beginning of the third century. The identity of the gnostic teacher Justin is no less of a mystery. One of the few attempts to reconstruct the identity of this author has been carried on by Van de Broek, who placed Justin in Alexandria, emphasising 11.  See M. Simonetti, “Per un profilo dell’autore dell’Elenchos”, 273, where he concludes: ‘se coglie nel segno la nostra ipotesi circa il tentativo esperito dall’autore di Elenchos di prolungare o risuscitare, a fronte dell’ormai prevalente struttura gerarchica episcopale, quella presbiteriale di prima, potenziandone l’invitabile tendenza centrifuga, questa caratteristica completa il quadro di una personalità di rilievo, la cui formazione culturale fuori dell’ordinario ebbe a tradursi in un’attività di pensiero e di azione non al passo con i rapidi mutamenti che allora modificavano a fondo quasi ogni aspetto della vita della comunità, e perciò destinata a esiti largamente fallimentari’. 12. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 24, 2. 13. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos V, 27, 1-4. J. J. Buckley, “Trascendence and Sexuality in ‘The Book of Baruch’”, History of Religions 24, n. 4 (1985) 228-244, 337-338 conducts an interesting analysis of these ritual practices, identifying two ritual stages: firstly, the believer took the oath, then, they perform an ‘inner baptism’, drinking the pneumatic waters. 14.  For the importance of baptism in Valentinianism, see E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed: The Church of the “Valentinians.” (Leiden: Boston, 2006), 333-414. 15. For the debate concerning the Valentinian school, see C. M arkschies , “Valentinian Gnosticism: Toward the Anatomy of a School” in J. D. Turner and A.  McGuire , ed., The Nag Hammadi Library after Fifty Years. Proceedings of the 1995 Society of Biblical Literature Commemoration (Leiden, 1997) 401-438; E.  Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed: The Church of the “Valentinians.” (Leiden: Boston, 2006), 9-128.

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his syncretism and his Jewish Christian background. 16 His hypothesis is grounded on two main assumptions: a. the dependence of Justin’s representation of Edem as a μιξοπάρθενος on Isis-Thermouthis, a half woman and half viper Egyptian goddess; b. the fact that Justin’s strong syncretistic attitude and his knowledge of Greek mythology well suit the cultural elites of Alexandria. Notwithstanding that the cultural milieu of Alexandria might indeed be the ideal origin for the unusual mythology of the Book of Baruch, it has to be underlined that Van den Broek’s hypothesis cannot find additional corroboration due to the scarcity of information about Justin. Indeed, the book’s mythology is the only source of information available and it does not provide definitive clues to help the historical investigation. 3. E de m : Th e D ou bl e -M i n de d M i xopa rt h e nos They say there were three unbegotten principles of everything, two male and one female. Of the male ones, one is called Good One, only he is called in this way, foreknowing everything; the other one is called Father of all begotten creatures, devoid of foreknowledge, unknown and invisible. Also the female principle is devoid of foreknowledge, she is irascible, double-minded, double-bodied, in everything resembling the girl of Herodotus’ myth, a virgin up to the groin and a viper downwards, as Justin says. They call her Edem or Israel. They say these are the origin of everything, the roots and the founts from which all beings are born. There was nothing else. 17 The beginning of the Book of Baruch presents an unusual “trinity” quite different from any other gnostic system. At a first glance, this pleromatic structure might be assimilated to the one of Irenaeus’ account of 16.  See R. van den Broek , “The Shape of Edem according to Justin the Gnostic”, Vigiliae Christianae 27 (1973) 35-44, 42-44 and I d., “Gospel Tradition and Salvation in Justin the Gnostic”, Vigiliae Christianae 57 (2003) 363-388, 282-287. The syncretistic nature of Justin’s book has also been highlighted by M. M arco vich, “Justin’s Baruch: a showcase of gnostic syncretism”, in I d., Studies in GrecoRoman Religions and Gnosticism, (Leiden, 1988), 93-119. 17.  Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 1-2: ‘Οὗτός φησιν· ἦσαν τρεῖς ἀρχαὶ τῶν ὅλων ἀγέννητοι, ἀρρενικαὶ δύο, θηλυκὴ μία. τῶν δὲ ἀρρενικῶν ἡ μέν τις    καλεῖται ἀγαθός, αὐτὸ μόνον οὕτως λεγόμενος, προγνωστικὸς τῶν ὅλων, ἡ δὲ ἑτέρα πατὴρ πάντων τῶν γεννητῶν, ἀπρόγνωστος    καὶ ἀόρατος. ἡ δὲ θήλ(εια) ἀπρόγνωστος, ὀργίλη, διγνώμων, δισώμος, κατὰ πάντα τῇ κατὰ τὸν Ἡροδότου μῦθον  ἐμφερής, μέχρι βουβῶνος παρθένος, ἔχιδνα δὲ τὰ κάτω, ὥς φησιν Ἰουστῖνος· καλεῖται δὲ Ἐδὲμ αὕτη ἡκόρη καὶ Ἰσραήλ. αὗται, φησίν,  αἱ ἀρχαὶ τῶν ὅλων, ῥίζαι καὶπηγαὶ ἀφ’ ὧν τὰ ὄντα ἐγένετο· ἄλλο δὲ ἦν οὐδέν.’

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the Ophite system, which presents a First Man, a Second Man and a First Woman. 18 However, the comparison would be inaccurate for the roles and functions of the Book of Baruch’s divine entities differ greatly from the ones of the pleromatic beings of the Ophite account. 19 On the contrary, it is much more useful to compare it with Valentinian accounts. Firstly, while the First Man contributes to the generation of the Pleroma by emanating the Second Man, the Good One transcends utterly the creation and does not play any part in the generation of the world or of other pleromatic beings. Besides revealing a certain platonic concern for the transcendence of the highest divine entity, Justin’s reticence to involve the transcendent deity into the generation of the divine world might indicate the author’s awareness of the on-going Valentinian debate concerning the monadic or syzygial nature of the Pre-Father. 20 In this regard, Justin attempted to preserve the monadic and transcendent nature of the Father. Secondly, while the First Woman of the Ophite’s account, as presented by Irenaeus, was identified with the Holy Spirit and deemed consubstantial with the pneumatic First and Second Men, this is not the case of Edem. As a matter of fact, the female divine being of the Book of Baruch does not belong to the same ontological nature of the male divinities, rather to an inferior one. Her inferiority is firstly deducible from her appearance, for her physical characteristics suggest an ambiguous nature: she is double-minded (διγνώμος) and, consequently, double-bodied (δισώματος) – that is, half a virgin and half a viper. 21 The only feature that Edem and Elohim have in common is the deprivation of foreknowledge (ἀπρόγνωστος). Secondly, a further confirmation of her lowliness can be found in the Greek terminology used in reference to her throughout the book: while Elohim is endowed with πνεῦμα and therefore belongs to the lofty regions of heaven (τὰ ὑψηλὰ μέρη τοῦ οὐρανοῦ), Edem possesses only ψυχή, thus

18.  In particular, Irenaeus, Adversus haereses I, 30, 1-2. 19. M. Simonetti, “Note sul libro di Baruch dello gnostico Giustino”, Vetera Christianorum 6 (1954) 71-89, 80-82. 20.  Internal disagreement between Valentinians, see Irenaeus, Adversus haereses I, 2, 4 and I, 11, 1; Hippolytus, Elenchos  VI, 29, 2-3. 21. The unusual bodily composition of Edem has been discussed extensively within scholarship; see especially E. H aenchen, “Das Buch Baruch. Ein Beitrag zum Problem der christlichen Gnosis” Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 50 (1953), 123-158, 125 and R. van den Broek , “The Shape of Edem according to Justin the Gnostic”, Vigiliae Christianae 27 (1973) 35-44, 35-41. The former hypothesizes that Edem’s body is derived from the depiction of the zodiacal sign of Virgo, whereas the latter highlights the similarities between Edem and the Egyptian goddess Isis-Thermouthis. A third hypothesis has been suggested by M. Marcovich, “Justin’s Baruch: a showcase of gnostic syncretism”, in I d., Studies in Greco-Roman Religions and Gnosticism, (Leiden, 1988) 93-119, 95-97 who claims the most likely source for Edem’s representation is Herodotus’ μιξοπάρθενος.

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being classified as a soul-endowed being of psychic nature. 22 Moreover, having her some animal parts (θηριώδης μέρος), it seems reasonable to assume that she also partakes in the hylic nature. Thirdly, Edem possesses a proclivity towards passions – specifically ὀργίλη, ἐπιθυμία and λύπη 23 – which makes the contrast between her and the male beings even more noticeable. 24 For all the reasons stated above, it is worth highlighting some similarities between Edem and Sophia Achamot of the Valentinian myth, for the passions described by Justin are the same as the ones suffered by Sophia, the fallen female aeon in other gnostic accounts. 25 Just as Achamot, Edem is unable to restrain her passions and she is confined in the lower region of the cosmos. Nonetheless, it must be noted that the overlap between Edem and Achamot is not complete for they differ in two respects. On the one hand, Edem and Achamot have different natures since the former is a psychic being whilst the latter is a fallen pneumatic being. On the other hand, Edem is one of the unbegotten ‘roots and the founts from which all beings are born’ (ἀρχαὶ τῶν ὅλων, ῥίζαι καὶπηγαὶ ἀφ’ ὧν τὰ ὄντα ἐγένετο), whereas Achamot resulted from Sophia Echmot being restricted in the Pleroma by the aeon named Limit. Lastly, I believe it is worth spending few words about the unbegotten nature of Edem. In most gnostic accounts, female characters are always born by generation or emission from a male being, usually the abyssal Father. On the contrary, Edem is here conceived as ἀγέννητος, thus becoming more similar to a pre-existent χώρα, a ‘receptacle of all becoming’ as in Plato’s Timaeus. 26 Hence, every detail of this initial presentation of Edem suggests that she is a liminal being, dwelling with divine beings albeit she does not display any divine properties. In this respect, the name ‘Ἰσραήλ’ is illuminating since it serves a double purpose: on the one hand, it identifies Edem with the bride of God; on the other hand, it implies she is the Bride of God of the Old Testament that gnostics considered inferior. 22. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 14. 23.  For the latter two passions, see Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 2-3 and V, 26, 19-20. 24.  In this regard, it should be noted that Elohim is not entirely immune from passions since he experienced desire (ἐπιθυμία) towards Edem, see Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 2. Nonetheless, neither the intensity nor the variety of passions can be equated to the ones suffered by Edem. 25. See Apocryphon of John II, 13, 13-17; Irenaeus, Adversus haereses I, 4, 1. This proclivity towards passion suits perfectly the Valentinian myth, in which even the divine pneumatic nature is tainted by passions, albeit only in its lowest emanations. Nevertheless, it is worth noting that once the pneumatic nature has been tainted by passions, it cannot remain inside the Pleroma, but it must be expelled. This is indeed the reason for Sophia’s fall outside the Pleroma (Irenaeus, Adversus haereses I, 3-4). On the value of passions within Gnostic mythology, see G. L ettieri, Deus patiens. L’essenza cristologica dello gnosticismo, (Roma, 1996). 26. Plato, Timaeus 49 a5-6 or 52 a8-d3.

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Nevertheless, Edem’s ambiguous and liminal disposition does not prevent her from being the object of Elohim’s desire (ἐπιθυμία); so much so that she is united with Elohim by mutual love (εἰς μίαν φιλίας εὔνοιαν), reciprocal desire and fertile love, 27 and they constitute an eternal and unbreakable bond, a συζυγία. 28 Before listing those elements that characterise this union as a syzygy, it is worth mentioning two important features which distinguish it from the usual Valentinian syzygy. On the one hand, Edem and Elohim constitute an impure syzygy of two different natures united in one. On the other hand, their union originated from a passion (ἐπιθυμία) and, as such, is tainted by irrationality. Despite these two elements, the syzygy maintains a strong normative value in the Book of Baruch. Once again, the Greek text is revealing for the choice of the word συνθήκη to describe the relation within the σύζυγοι clarifies the legal status of the union. Similarly, the comparison with the dowry suggests the legal pact constituted by the syzygy: as the law requires women bring a dowry to their husbands, so Edem conferred all her powers to Elohim when she married him. 29 Indeed, the marriage between Edem and Elohim is τύπος of all human marriages, which imperfectly try to reproduce the rules established by the original marriage of these two divine entities. 30 Hence, the syzygy constitutes an eternal and supreme law that regulates the generation of the entire cosmos and, insofar as Edem is united with Elohim in syzygy, her passions are restrained and she contributes actively to the creation, providing ψυχή to the creation. 31 The first offspring of Elohim and Edem are twenty-four angels – twelve maternal angels and twelve paternal ones – and together they form the Garden of Heaven. Each of them is a tree: Baruch, third of the paternal angels, is the Tree of Life; whilst Naas, third of the maternal angels, is the Tree of Good and Evil. 27. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 2-3. 28.  For the connection with the idea of ἱερὸς  γάμος, see M.  M arcovich, “Justin’s Baruch: a showcase of gnostic syncretism”, in I d., Studies in Greco-Roman Religions and Gnosticism, (Leiden, 1988) 93-119, 97-98. 29. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 10. The Greek text underlines the relation between divine event and human tradition by means of the words: θείῳ καὶ πατρικῷ νόμῳ. 30.  I believe the use of a typological way of thinking is the main reason to classify this text as undoubtedly gnostic. For the importance of typology within Gnosticism see G. L ettieri, “Il nous mistico. Il superamento origeniano dello gnosticismo nel Commento a Giovanni”, in E. P rinzivalli, ed., Il Commento a Giovanni di Origene: il testo e i suoi contesti, (Villa Verucchio, 2005), 177-275 and G. L ettieri, “It doesn’t matter. Le metamorfosi della materia nel cristianesimo antico e nei dualismi teologici”, in D. Giovannozzi and M. Veneziani, ed. Materia. Atti del XIII Colloquio Internazionale del Lessico Intellettuale Europeo (Roma, 7-9 gennaio 2010), (Roma, 2011), 75-174. 31. Moreover, she creates the beasts and the inferior beings that come from Edem’s bestial part, see Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 7.

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Both of them are extensions of their parents’ powers, therefore they act in accordance with their will. 32 After the breaking of the syzygy, Baruch will be identified with the Redeemer, sent to free the trapped parts of Elohim’s spirit; whereas Naas will be his antagonist, the evil angel who puts all his efforts in concealing the salvific message of Baruch. Edem’s other angels are archontic figures that rule over the creation, being also responsible for evil times and diseases. 33 However, before the intra-divine fracture caused by Elohim’s decision to ascent, their dominion is harmoniously described as a circular dance (ἐν χορῷ κυκλικῷ).  3 4 The human offspring of the syzygy are Adam and Eve.  Humankind occupies a special place in the world for it symbolises the unity and love between Edem and Elohim (σύμβολον τῆς ἑνότητος αὐτῶν καὶ εὐνοίας); 35 they are seal (σφραγίς) and reminder (ὑπόμνημα) of the eternal union (αἰώνιος γάμος) between the spouses. Adam is εἰκών of Elohim, while Eve typologically represents Edem. 36 As their “children”, they inherited something from each of their parents: from Elohim they received the πνεῦμα, whereas from Edem the ψυχή. Once more, it is possible to observe that Edem’s contribution to humankind concerns her ἥμερος and  ἀνθρωπείος parts; therefore, Adam and Eve inherited her nobler and better parts. Regarding the nature humankind, Justin remarks twice that both Adam and Eve inherited ψυχή and πνεῦμα. As a consequence, Eve is paradoxically superior to her own mother, since she possesses the pneumatic nature of which Edem is devoid. Stating this, Justin explicitly equates the ontological status of the male and female sexes, recognising both as being potentially worthy of salvation. 37 The redeemable nature of 32.  Simonetti even considers the actions of these angels as actions of Edem or Elohim themselves, M. Simonetti, “Note sul libro di Baruch dello gnostico Giustino”, Vetera Christianorum 6 (1954) 71-89. 33.  See Genesis 2:9. For the angels as evil rulers of the world, see J. Daniélou, “Le Mauvais Gouvernement du Monde d’Après le Gnosticisme”, U. Bianchi, ed., in Le origini dello Gnosticismo, (Leiden, 1967), 448-459. 34. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 11-13. In the Greek philosophical tradition, the circular movement was generally used as symbol of the perfection and order of the κόσμος. In truth, the disposition of these angels is described as φειδωλός, but the passage is ambiguous since it could be interpreted that they act niggardly consequently to Elohim’s betrayal. 35. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos V, 26, 8. I would like to point out the multiple meanings of the word εὐνοία. It does not only give the idea of affection, but it has also a component of ontological goodness in it. This word was especially used to refer to marriage and therefore it acquired a deeper meaning which is impossible to convey trough the English word ‘love’. 36. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 9. 37.  See Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 9 and V, 26, 25. It would certainly be interesting to investigate why Justin felt it necessary to reaffirm this idea twice, but I fear it would be more a mental exercise rather than a historical speculation. It is indeed probable such elucidation was due to a common belief in the inferiority of

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the cosmos is confirmed by the Good One’s refusal to grant to Elohim the permission to destroying the world. After having experienced ‘what no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the human heart conceived’ in the lofty regions of heaven, 38 Elohim wanted to destroy his creation for it was imperfect and his spirit, in the guise of men and women, was still trapped in it. However, when he asked the consent of the Good One, he denied him his permission, saying to Elohim: ‘You cannot commit evil while you are with me. You and Edem created the world from mutual satisfaction; let her having the creation as long as she wants’. 39 Since the world originated from the syzygial union, it has the potentiality to be redeemed and it cannot be destroyed. Hence, the description of Edem up to the point of the creation of Adam and Eve seems to emphasise her mingled disposition, making her an ambivalent and paradoxical character. On the one hand, she is an unbegotten divine principle who plays an essential role in the generation of the cosmos. On the other hand, she is a psychic being inclined to passions. In this regard, the identification of her angel Naas with both the Snake and the Tree of Good and Evil is revelatory, for it underlines the ambiguity of Edem. Therefore, Edem’s role ought to be understood within the boundaries of the syzygy. Insofar as she is restrained by a male element, she actively contributes to the creation of the world by providing the psychic and material substratum of the cosmos and humans within it. 4. B r e a k i ng

the and

S y z ygy: C e l e s t i a l D i sru p t ion O r igi n of C h aos

The role of Edem changes abruptly when an ‘evil necessity’ (ἀνάγκη τῆς κακίας) occurs: The evil necessity originated from this reason: having created and organised the world from their mutual pleasure, Elohim desired to ascent towards the lofty regions of heaven and to review if there was anything missing from his creation, so he took his angels along with him. However, since he belonged upward, Elohim abandoned Edem downward, indeed she was earth, and even if she desired it she could not follow her spouse upward.  4 0 the female sex. I fear it is an impossible task to determine whether it was used to contrast a peculiar of gnostic tendency or common cultural belief. 38. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 16. 39. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 18: ‘οὐδὲν δύνασαι κακοποιῆσαι παρ’ ἐμοὶ γενόμενος· ἐκ κοινῆς γὰρ εὐαρεστήσεως ἐποιήσατε τὸν κόσμον σύ τε καὶ ἡ Ἐδέμ· ἔασον οὖν τὴν Ἐδὲμ ἔχειν τὴν κτίσιν μέχρι βούλεται’ 40. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos V, 26, 15: ‘Γέγονε δὲ ἡ τῆς κακίας ἀνάγκη ἐκ τοιαύτης τινὸς αἰτίας· κατασκευάσας καὶ δημιουργήσας    Ἐλωεὶμ ἐκ κοινῆς

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By deciding to move upwards, Elohim breaks the eternal law of the syzygy. In other Valentinian texts, this is formulated as: ‘For this is the will of the Father: not to allow anything to happen in the Pleroma (πλήρωμα) apart from a syzygy (σύζυγος). Again, the will of the Father is: always produce and bear fruit (καρπός)’ 41 Being a mixed syzygy, Elohim and Edem cannot be part of the Pleroma and the syzygy had to break for the pneumatic nature to be reunited with the superior world, thus showing the paradoxical nature of an ‘evil necessity’. Although the text does not explicitly mention this syzygial “law”, Justin seems to be aware of the fact that breaking the syzygy constitutes an evil. 42 As in the previous case of the dowry, the commandment given to humankind to proliferate should be typos of the events that happen in the superior world. 43 Nonetheless, such rupture was necessary for Elohim had to be reunited with the superior world to which he belongs. Hence, this episode is indeed an ‘evil necessity’ that constitutes the beginning of evils in the world.  4 4 As in all gnostic mythologies, the world is abandoned to an evil ruler; however, Justin seems to attribute Valentinian demiurgical features to both Elohim and Edem. The gnostic teacher seems to suggest a correspondence between Elohim and the inferior God, the Demiurge, especially since Elohim discovered the existence of a higher divinity of whom he had previously ignored the existence as the Demiurge does in other gnostic accounts. Furthermore, the monotheistic statement of Elohim resembles visibly the monotheistic claim of the Demiurge in other gnostic accounts. 45 Given these similarities, most scholars have identified Elohim with the Demiurge/Yaldabaoth.  4 6 Nonetheless, I believe it is necessary to underline that, in the Book of Baruch, the role usually attributed to the Demiurge is split between Elohim and Edem, who possesses the archontic dominion over the world. As Elohim, she is affected by ignorance and lack of foreknowledge: while Elohim did not recognise the existence of a superior εὐαρεστήσεως τὸν κόσμον, ἀναβῆναι ἠθέλησεν εἰς τὰ ὑψηλὰ μέρη τοῦ οὐρανοῦ καὶ θεάσασθαι μή τι γέγονε τῶν κατὰ τὴν κτίσιν ἐνδεές, συμπαραλαβὼν τοὺς ἰδίους ἀγγέλους μεθ’ αὑτοῦ – ἦν γὰρ ἀνωφερής –  καταλιπὼν τὴν Ἐδὲμ κάτω – γῆ γὰρ οὖσα ἐπακολουθεῖν ἄνω τῷ συζύγῳ ἐθέλουσα οὐκ ’. 41.  Valentinian Exposition. XI, 36, 28-34. 42.  The idea that breaking the syzygy constitues an evil is also expressed by Ptolemy’s rejection of the divorce in Ptolemy, Letter to Flora in Epiphanius, Panarion  XXXIII, 3, 5. 43. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 9. 44.  For the antinomian attitude of gnostic texts, see H. Jonas , The Gnostic Religion, (Boston, 1958). 45. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 15. For other accounts, see Excerpta ex Theodoto 33; Irenaeus, Adversus haereses I, 5, 4; Apocryphon of John II, 11, 20-22. 46.  Simonetti is counted in this group, although he strongly stressed the differences with other representations of the Demiurge, see M. Simonetti, “Note sul libro di Baruch dello gnostico Giustino”, Vetera Christianorum 6 (1954) 71-89, 77-78.

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God, Edem cannot know the pneumatic Elohim. 47 In addition, Edem and the Demiurge both belong to the psychic nature, which is indeed what prevents her from ascending towards the highest regions. In interpreting Edem’s inability to ascend, I am following Marcovich’s critical edition of the Greek text, thus amending both the English and Italian translations, where the verb δύναμαι is missing from the text. 48 This amendment adds in fact a very important element for the general understanding of gnostic natures, which are here presented as consistent ontological categories, as some Valentinians did. 49 Consequently, I think that, in spite of her desire to be reunited with her spouse, Edem could not ascent to the lofty regions of heaven because of her psychic nature. Unable to reach her spouse upward and desperate because of his betrayal, Edem exercised her power over the earth as an evil demiurgic being. Having been left behind by Elohim and not being restrained by his presence, her mingled nature does not know any restrains and her actions are now driven by passions. She condemned Elohim’s spirit that is in humans to experience the same loss and betrayal that she felt when abandoned by Elohim; therefore, her angels unleashed evils over the earth, causing divorces, adulteries and pederasty. It is worth noting that, as in the law of contrapasso, the actions of her angel are a systematic subversion of the laws that regulate the union between men and women that had been established in the syzygial creation. Tainting (or attempting to taint) the purity of the creation by means of sexual crimes, as in the case of the illicit intercourses of Naas, is a typical feature of demiurgical will in Valentinian texts. Furthermore, the sexual nature of Edem’s crimes resembles the archontic crimes described in the Apocryphon of John or the Hypostasis of Archons, 50 where the archons tried – more or less successfully – to defile many female characters, such as Eve or Norea. Moreover, the description of Edem’s passionate and even lustful behaviour presents many similarities with female characters of Jewish and gnostic apocalyptic literature. 51 The text associates her with a prosti47. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 37: ‘They say that the Father said: «Israel did not know me»; they call Edem Israel, the bride of Elohim. If she had known that I was with the Good One, she would have not persecuted my spirit that is in humans’. 48.  For the Italian translation, see M. Simonetti, Testi Gnostici in Lingua Greca e Latina, (Milano, 1993), 87-101, 93. For the English translation see, J. H. M acmahon, The Refutation of All Heresies, (edinburgh, 1868), 188. 49.  Concerning the three ontological natures in Valentinianism, see M. Simo netti, “Psyche and psychikos nella gnosi valentiniana”, Rivista di Storia della Letteratura Religiosa 2, (1996), 1-47. 50. See Apocryphon of John I, 29, 16-30, 11; Hypostasis of Archon II, 89, 17-30 and 92, 19-32. 51. To deepen the topic of apocalyptic literature in Valentinian and Sethian works, see G. Stroumsa , Another seed: Studies in Gnostic Mythology (Leiden, 1984), 17-70; H. W. Attridge , “Valentinian and Sethian Apocalyptic Traditions”, Journal

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tute who distances herself from her spouse and wanders alone. 52 However, despite the fact that the prostitute-imagery is extremely common in gnostic texts, this very image assumes here a unique meaning. One of the Nag Hammadi treatises, On the Exegesis of the Soul, tells the story of a fallen pneumatic soul who had many lovers before she could finally be reunited with her rightful Spouse. Contrariwise, in the Book of Baruch, the imagery of prostitution is not used to describe the condition of the fallen pneumatic nature, rather the condition of a psychic primordial aeon. The psychic Edem, originally united in syzygy with her pneumatic match, is now abandoned to prostitute herself to her hylic side, thus further showing the crucial importance of the syzygy in this text. Hence, it would appear that Justin is attributing features and episodes usually referred to the Demiurge or Yaldabaoth in other gnostic mythologies to both Elohim and Edem. Concerning the similarities with other gnostic characters involved in the intra-divine rupture proper of gnostic mythologies, Justin seems to draw an unusual comparison between Elohim and the Valentinian superior Sophia, namely the one who has been restored after the fall. In particular, the Book of Baruch could be associated with those accounts that identify Sophia’s better self with Christ, such as the Valentinian Exposition and Excerpta ex Theodoto 32. 53 The peculiarity of these accounts consists in the fact that Christ is both Sophia’s son and her better self. On the one hand, Elohim decided to ascent to the superior regions of heaven abandoning Edem downward, just as Christ left his mother in the midst of shadows after she had brought him forth. On the other hand, Elohim has a lot in common also with the Sophia Echmot of the Gospel of Philip and the Grande Notice. 54 Firstly, both Elohim and the Valentinian superior Sophia got involved in the generation of the inferior world because of their ignorance. 55 As Elohim united with Edem because he was unaware of the Good One, some Valentinian accounts report that Sophia

of Early Christian Studies 8, 2 (2000), 173-211; G. L ettieri, “Più a fondo. L’ontologia apocalittica valentiniana e le origini della teologia mistica cristiana”, in I. A dinolfi, G. G aeta and A. L avaghetto, ed., L’Anti-Babele. Sulla mistica degli antichi e dei moderni (Genova, 2017), 71-116. 52. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 27, 4. 53.  Valentinian Exposition XI, 33, 28-35, 37 and Excerpta ex Theodoto 32, 1-3. This separation myth is also present in the Tripartite Tractate, where the character of Sophia is identified with the Logos, see Tripartite Tractate II, 77, 11-78, 20. For further information on the myth of separation in Valentinism, see E. Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed: the Church of the “Valentinians” (Leiden, 2006). 54.  Gospel of Philip II, 60, 10-15 and Irenaeus, Adversus haereses I, 2, 2-5. 55.  In this respect, it must be noted that both Elohim and the Valentinian superior Sophia got involved in the generation of the inferior world because of their ignorance.

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caused the rupture because she was ignorant of the Father. 56 Secondly, they both contaminated their pneumatic nature with the inferior psychic nature: Elohim through his union with Edem, whilst Sophia Echmot by generating the Demiurge. Thirdly, they both repented their actions and tried to amend their error; Sophia begged the Pleroma to rescue her whilst Elohim asked the Good One to destroy the fruit of his union with Edem. Lastly, as Sophia, Elohim is found culpable for the evils which occurred after his ascent. Although Elohim did not perform any evil deeds by ascending upwards where he belonged, his actions contribute – even though only indirectly – to generate evils that afflict humans. After he had broken the unbreakable law of the syzygy, Edem became ‘superbullientes’, to borrow Irenaeus’ word. 57 Nonetheless, the reason for the intradivine fracture is not found exclusively in Edem’s disposition, for the text explains: From this moment forward, 58 the goods and the evils that ruled over humans originate from a single source that is the Father. Ascending to the Good One, he showed the way to those who wish to ascend, but standing aloof from Edem, he became the origin of evils for the spirit that is in humans. 59

Edem’s irascible behaviour is intrinsic to her psychic nature, but the responsibility of evil is found in Elohim’s lack of foreknowledge and in his violation of the Father’s will. 60 The Greek is once more extremely enlightening, since the verb that designates Elohim’s decision is ἐθέλω, a verb that undoubtedly indicates his decision to ascend; such ascension was, however, a necessary decision which reunited him with him with the Good One with whom he shares the pneumatic nature. 61 When he indulged in his desire towards Edem, he was unaware of the results of his gesture and his actions originated greater evils for men and women. In this respect, the 56.  Some Valentinian accounts report that Sophia wanted to know the Abyssal Father, whilst other accounts claims that she was looking for a partner, see Irenaeus, Adversus haereses I, 3-4. 57. Ireneaus, Adversus haereses I, 30, 2. I am not equating the status of Edem and the First Woman, I am only alluding to a natural incontinence. 58.  That is, the seduction of Adam and Eve by Naas. 59. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 23-24: ‘ἀπὸ τότε    ἐπεκράτησε τὰ κακὰ τοῖς ἀνθρώποις καὶ    τὰ  ἀγαθά, ἐκ μιᾶς ἀρχῆς γενόμενα, τῆς τοῦ πατρός· ἀναβὰς γὰρ πρὸς τὸν ἀγαθὸν ὁ πατὴρ ὁδὸν ἔδειξε τοῖς ἀναβαίνειν θέλουσιν, ἀποστὰς δὲ τῆς Ἐδὲμ ἀρχὴν κακῶν ἐποίησε τῷ πνεύματι  [τοῦ πατρὸς]  τῷ ἐν τοῖς ἀνθρώποις.’ 60.  To a certain extent, he is the gnostic Sophia whose ignorance is the cause of the rift within the Pleroma. 61. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26,14: ‘κατασκευάσας καὶ δημιουργήσας Ἐλωεὶμ ἐκ κοινῆς εὐαρεστήσεως τὸν κόσμον, ἀναβῆναι ἠθέλησεν εἰς τὰ ὑψηλὰ μέρη τοῦ οὐρανοῦ’.

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Book of Baruch represents an unicum among gnostic texts: while the fault of the intra-divine fracture is always attributed to a female aeon, usually named Sophia, this text describes it as an evil necessity that is originated from Elohim. Consequently, this passage has puzzled the scholarship, which is divided on whether Elohim or Edem must be found culpable of evil. 62 Despite being an unusual version of the gnostic myth, the text is extremely clear regarding the fact that, had Elohim not broken the syzygial unity, no moral evil would have affected the spirit within humankind. Therefore, just as Edem is depicted as the perpetrator of evils, unleashing her unjust angel, so also Elohim is here called ἀρχή κακῶν. Both of them acted according to their natures – one pneumatic and one psychic – and both were unaware of the consequences of their actions. Nonetheless, Elohim seems culpable of contravening to the divine pact of the συζυγία, as much as Edem of being unable to restrain herself. In both cases, the events are classified as κακία ἀνάγκη, a necessary and inevitable evil, since both were compelled by their natures. Hence, the importance of sexual and nuptial imagery for the Book of Baruch’s structure is made clear: while the sexual relationship that was regulated by the norms (συνθήκη) of the syzygy originated the entire creation, its opposite – namely, adultery and pederasty – determined the cosmic fall into chaos. Furthermore, this divorce represents the necessary and unavoidable fracture between the psychic and the pneumatic, since the break of the syzygy symbolises also the separation of two eschatological destinies. Just as Edem, once the psychic nature is separated from its consortium with the pneumatic spirit, it converts to its lower instincts and becomes similar to the hylic beasts. This fracture is incurable: as Elohim is unable to dwell again in the inferior region, equally the evil turn of Edem is irreversible. Hence, the separation of the two natures results in the abandonment of the psychic nature to its doom. In this regard, the Good One’s denial to destroy the creation needs further exploration since such refusal might appear puzzling: why should not Elohim destroy what was generated in error? 63 The answer lies in the mingled disposition of creation. Since the world originated from the concoction of both pneumatic and psychic nature, it possesses a radical ambiguity that makes it potentially worthy of salvation. Furthermore, the Good One’s denial reveals that Justin’s attitude towards the creation is less nega62. J. J. Buckley, “Trascendence and Sexuality”, 342-343 does not express a definitive opinion to this regard. On the contrary, R. van den Broek , “Shape of Edem”, 41 denies that Edem is the origin of evils. 63. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 18: οὐδὲν δύνασαι κακοποιῆσαι παρ’ ἐμοὶ γενόμενος· ἐκ κοινῆς γὰρ εὐαρεστήσεως ἐποιήσατε τὸν κόσμον σύ τε καὶ ἡ Ἐδέμ· ἔασον οὖν τὴν Ἐδὲμ ἔχειν τὴν κτίσιν μέχρι βούλεται, σὺ δὲ μένε παρ’ ἐμοί.

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tive than most gnostic movements. Gnostics tend to have an extremely negative conception of the created world, including humankind, which they believe to be created and ruled by the inferior Demiurge. By attributing the creation of the world to the mutual love of Elohim and Edem, Justin denied an evil foundation of the world that was rather originated by the pact of two divine entities. The συζυγία, which is the encounter of two natures, brought forth entities that resemble its assorted nature. Consequently, where most gnostic myths envisage hidden pneumatic spirits trapped in a psychic and hylic creation,  6 4 Justin acknowledges the persistence of both pneumatic and psychic nature in all humans, thus making all humankind endowed with the salvific πνεῦμα. Given that the creation possesses the salvific spirit, the fruit of the union between Edem and Elohim cannot be destroyed. Notwithstanding Justin’s evaluation of the creation and his attribution of both pneumatic and psychic element to humankind, the psychic nature does not seem destined to be saved: They say that the water above is distinguished from the other water. Below the firmament, there is the water of malicious creation, in which the psychic and hylic humans are washed. Then, above the firmament, there is the living water of the Good, in which the living spiritual humans are washed, and where Elohim did not regret having been washed. 65

Hence, the pneumatic waters will not be drunk by the psychics or hylics, who will not be saved. Indeed, the Redeemer Baruch was sent by his Father Elohim to show the way only to his pneumatic children, 66 who will ascend to his presence in the lofty regions of heaven. Eventually, all humankind – both men and women endowed with πνεῦμα – will know the way upward and will be received at the presence of the Good One, as their Father Elohim did before them. Baruch’s message will spread throughout the earth thanks to a man, Jesus, who will be the first to render his body to Edem and his spirit to the Good One. Here, the Christology displayed by Justin works as additional confirmation of the different 64. According to most gnostic doctrines, not all humans will be eschatologically saved, but only Seth’s offspring or the pneumatic nature will enter the nuptial chamber, see Apocryphon of John II, 25, 16-27, 30; Irenaeus, Adversus haereses I, 7, 5. 65. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos V, 27, 3: ‘διακεχώρισται γάρ, φησίν, ἀνὰ μέσον ὕδατος καὶ ὕδατος, καὶ ἔστιν ὕδωρ τὸ ὑποκάτω τοῦ στερεώματος τῆς πονηρᾶς κτίσεως, ἐν ᾧ λούονται οἱ χοϊκοὶ καὶ ψυχικοὶ ἄνθρωποι, καὶ ὕδωρ ἐστὶν  ὑπεράνω τοῦ στερεώματος τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ, ἄνθρωποι, καὶ ὕδωρ ἐστὶν  ὑπεράνω τοῦ στερεώματος τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ, ζῶν  , ἐν ᾧ λούονται οἱ πνευματικοὶ ζῶντες ἄνθρωποι,    ἐν  ᾧ ἐλούσατο    Ἐλωεὶμ καὶ λουσάμενος οὐ μετεμελήθη.’ 66.  The name Baruch comes from the Hebrew tradition: ‫ ךּו ר ּ ָב‬is the past participle of the verb “to bless”. It is clear that the author is revoking the narrative of the Old Testament. However, the reasons behind this choice still need to be explored in depth.

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eschatological destinies reserved to psychic and pneumatic natures: since the body belongs to the lower psychic nature, it must be left behind to Edem, the psychic roots of everything. 67 Although the destiny of Edem is not discussed openly by Justin, the text seems to suggest that she is excluded from redemption, insofar as she is not united in syzygy with Elohim. Therefore, while many gnostic texts envisage a final return of the fallen female being to the Pleroma by means of union with the male pneumatic element, the Book of Baruch poses a protological unity that is not restored at the eschatological time. 5. C onclusion The Book of Baruch certainly stands out amongst gnostic works for its peculiar structure and mythology, the originality of which is entirely conveyed by feminine and bridal imagery. Indeed, this brief work presents an unusual and radically ambiguous female character, as well as a unique gnostic syzygy. The female character Edem is presented as one of the divine ‘three unbegotten principles of everything’, but she is also portrayed as doubleminded and double-bodied virgin, inclined to passions and in need of being restrained by a pneumatic element. Although none of the other gnostic myths presents such a paradoxical female character, Edem – to a certain extent – resembles all of them. Insofar as her main function is generative, she resembles the highest female principles of gnostic mythologies, namely Barbelo, Ennoia or Silence. However, whereas these latter characters are involved in the generation of pleromatic beings, Edem generates humankind with Elohim and provides psychic and hylic substratum for the world. Contrariwise, insofar as she is inclined to passions and subject to them when she is not united in syzygy, she resembles Sophia Achamot, the fallen female aeon who originated the intra-divine fracture. However, if in most gnostic texts Sophia’s yearning for knowledge was the cause of evil, 68 in the Book of Baruch Edem’s is merely the executor of evils, but not their cause. The responsibility of the evil in the world seems to lie on Elohim, who broke the bond of the syzygy by abandoning Edem and ascending to the upper regions. Nonetheless, since Elohim possessed a pneumatic nature, he could neither remain confined within the limit of the creation nor be separated from his own Father, the Good One. Consequently, the 67. Pseudo-Hippolytus, Elenchos  V, 26, 32. Here, Justin’s Christology seems to confirm his rigid separation between pneumatic and psychic element. See A. rbe , Cristología gnóstica: introducción a la soteriología de los siglos II y III (Madrid, 1976), 377. 68. Irenaeus, Adversus haereses I, 3-4.

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fracture originated by the break of the syzygy is both an incurable and necessary evil. As it is possible to observe, the syzygy plays a fundamental role within Justin’s system. Although the notion of the importance of the syzygy was underlined by many gnostic movements, Justin’s description of the functions and roles of the syzygy shares many similarities with the Valentinian tradition. In the Valentinian Expositions, the Gospel of Philip and in the Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora, the indissolubility of the syzygial union stands as the core of the Valentinian myth. 69 Similarly the role played by the female character of Edem must be understood within the boundaries of the syzygy as in Valentinianism, where a male element intervenes in restraining the female aeon who dwelled in the material world. Although the Book of Baruch has mostly been interpreted within the Ophite and Sethian tradition, its overall interpretation of the feminine and the syzygy do not fit within these groups’ theologoumena and mythologoumena. Notwithstanding that also most Ophite texts envisage a male redeemer, they present female characters playing a significant revealing or soteriological role, thus making them essential to the historical economy of salvation. 70 Nonetheless, just as the Book of Baruch, they are highly influenced by Jewish apocalyptic texts to describe female beings, especially the imagery of prostitution. 71 Therefore, the Book of Baruch may have been influenced by Sethian and Ophite texts only concerning the prostitution imagery, but the soteriological and revealing role played by female characters in Sethian and Ophite texts is utterly absent from Justin’s myth. Furthermore, it is interesting to note that the character of the Serpent, called Naas in the Book of Baruch, differs substantially from its portrayal in Ophite texts. Frequently, in texts categorized as Sethian or Ophite, the Serpent is interpreted as a positive character – even a Redeemer – for he freed humans from the oppression of the ignorant Demiurge. Contrarily, in the Book of Baruch, Naas causes evils among humans hiding the pneumatic doctrines of Baruch. Hence, far from being an instrument of redemption, he is rather an instrument of oppression. Notwithstanding some similarities with Ophite and Sethian Gnosticism, the Book of Baruch displays two essential Valentinian theologoumena and mythologoumena: the indestructible nature of the syzygy and the rigidity of the three natures (pneumatic, psychic and hylic). Indeed, the evils he caused to fall upon human beings are the result of the evil 69. See Valentinian Exposition. XI, 36, 28-34 and XI, 39, 13; Excerpta ex Theodoto 32, 1; Gospel of Philip II, 76, 6-17; Ptolemy, Letter to Flora in Epiphanius, Panarion  IV, 4, 7. 70.  This is visible in the Nag Hammadi treatise On the Origin of the World and the final hymn is particularly indicative of this, see On the Origin of the World II, 114, 4-15. 71.  For instance, see Apocryphon of John II, 29, 16-30, 11.

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necessity that occurred when Elohim broke the nuptial pact of the syzygy and ascended to the Good One to be reunited with the transcendent deity with whom he was consubstantial. The textual analysis briefly presented in this article suggests that the Book of Baruch must have been composed after the rise of Valentinianism, from which the text borrows many theologoumena, even if it does not belong to the Valentinian tradition. It would appear that the syncretistic nature of Justin’s work lead to an unusual combination of Ophite and Valentinian mythologoumena and theologoumena, which represents an unicum in the gnostic tradition. There is, however, one element that does not appear in any other gnostic account and it is worth mentioning as proper of Justin: a fairly positive evaluation of humankind. Since both men and women were created from Elohim’s and Edem’s mutual pleasure, all humankind possesses pneumatic parts waiting to be reunited with their consubstantial Father. Therefore, Justin is displaying the idea of a potential universal salvation for humankind. Although Edem is, in the end, abandoned to its own destiny of destruction, this cannot be said of her offspring. As proven by the case of Jesus, they will render their psychic and hylic parts to Edem, but their spiritual self will ‘wash’ in the ‘waters above’. Contrarily to most gnostic texts, the possession of a spiritual nature is naturally and ontologically granted to all humankind because of the original pneumatic and psychic union of Elohim and Edem. This notion represents probably the most original feature of Justin’s mythology. Concerning the identity of Justin, if one concedes that the author of the Elenchos was indeed the Pseudo-Hyppolitus, who was part of the Roman elites at the beginning of the third century, it seems even more likely that Justin was himself familiar with the Valentinian school, which had been very active in Rome in the second half of the second century. Moreover, if one envisions Justin as a gnostic teacher famous only locally, collocating Justin in Rome would also explain why his work did not survive in any other account. Nonetheless, I would like to underline that these remarks on Justin’s identity and geographical and chronological collocations remain a speculative hypothesis, for no concrete evidences can be brought in this regard.