Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies (volume 12): 2009 [2011] 9781463220631

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HUGOYE JOURNAL OF SYRIAC STUDIES A Publication of Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute

Volume 12 (2009)

HUGOYE JOURNAL OF SYRIAC STUDIES A Publication of Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute GENERAL EDITOR George Anton Kiraz, Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute / Gorgias Press EDITORIAL COMMITTEE Sebastian P. Brock, University of Oxford Sidney Griffith, The Catholic University of America Amir Harrak, University of Toronto Susan Harvey, Brown University Mor Gregorios Y. Ibrahim, Mardin-Edessa Publishing House Andreas Juckel, University of Münster Hubert Kaufhold, Oriens Christianus Kathleen McVey, Princeton Theological Seminary Wido T Van Peursen, The Peshitta Institute of Leiden University Lucas Van Rompay, Duke University ONLINE EDITION EDITOR Thomas Joseph, Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute BOOK REVIEW EDITOR Kristian Heal, Brigham Young University PRINTED EDITION EDITOR Katie Stott, Gorgias Press

HUGOYE: JOURNAL OF SYRIAC STUDIES (ISSN 1937-318X) Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies is a publication of BETH MARDUTHO: THE SYRIAC INSTITUTE. Copyright © 2009 by GORGIAS PRESS and BETH MARDUTHO: THE SYRIAC INSTITUTE. The Syriac word hugoye, plural of hugoyo, derives from the root hg‚ ‘to think, meditate, study’; hence, hugoyo ‘study, meditation’. Recently, hugoye became to be used for ‘academic studies’; hence, hugoye suryoye ‘Syriac Studies’. SUBSCRIPTIONS Subscription requests should be addressed to Gorgias Press, 180 Centennial Ave., Suite A, Piscataway, NJ 08854, USA. Subscriptions may be made online at http://www.gorgiaspress.com. Back issues are available. NOTE FOR CONTRIBUTORS Submission guidelines and instructions are found on the Hugoye web site at http://www.bethmardutho.org. NOTE TO PUBLISHERS Copies for review should be sent directly to the Book Review Editor at the following address: Mr. Kristian S. Heal, Hugoye Book Review Editor, Brigham Young University, Stadium East House - METI, Provo, UT 84604. ADVERTISEMENTS Rates: $250 full page; includes a listing in all e-mail announcements for one year. To place ads, write to the subscription address above.

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials.

TABLE OF CONTENTS HUGOYE 12:1 In Memoriam Abrohom Nuro (1923-2009) by George A. Kiraz.........................3 Papers Report on the State of Preservation of the Byzantine Mosaics of the Saint Gabriel Monastery of Qartamin, Tur Abdin (South-West Turkey)...................................................5 Patrick Blanc, Alain Desreumaux, Sébastien de Courtois A Guide to Narsai’s Homilies .....................................................21 Sebastian P. Brock Research on the Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels: A Collation of MS Bibl. Nationale SYR. 30 (PARIS) ...........................................................................................41 Andreas Juckel Dendrites and Other Standers in the History of the Exploits of Bishop Paul of Qanetos and Priest John of Edessa........................117 Kyle Smith Brief Articles From Damascus to Edessa: Travelogue of a Visit to Syriac and Turkey ........................................................................135 Ute Possekel Recent Books on Syriac Topics, Part 12..................................167 Sebastian P. Brock Book Reviews........................................................................................173

HUGOYE 12:2 Papers The Syriac Life of John of Tella and the Frontier Politeia.....199 Nathanael J. Andrade Monks, Manuscripts, and Muslims: Syriac Textual Changes in Reaction to the Rise of Islam .................................235 Michael Philip Penn Luke 17:21: “The Kingdom of God is inside You” The Ancient Syriac Versions in Support of the Correct Translation....................................................................................259 Ilaria Ramelli v

vi A Bibliography of Süryânî Periodicals in Ottoman Turkish ..........................................................................................287 Benjamin Trigona-Harany Book Reviews........................................................................................301 Conference Reports .............................................................................307

Volume 12 (2009)

Number 1

HUGOYE JOURNAL OF SYRIAC STUDIES A Publication of Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute

Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies, Vol. 12.1, 3-4 © 2009 by Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute and Gorgias Press

IN MEMORIAM

ABROHOM NURO (1923–2009) GEORGE A. KIRAZ BETH MARDUTHO: THE SYRIAC INSTITUTE It was a sad day when we learned of the passing away of Malphono Abrohom Nuro at the age of eighty-six. Nuro was a symbol of activism for a language and a heritage he so proudly cherished. Western scholars got to know him as he was a regular attendee of the Symposium Syriacum. In the East he worked most of his life for the advancement of the Syriac language. The numerous neologisms he devised are now standard in Kthobonoyo. He knew the lexica almost by heart. One day when he was visiting us in NJ and heard me use my own neologism ‫‘ ̈ܐ ܕ ܐ̈ܪܐ‬water of fruits’ for juice with my daughter Tabetha, he quickly pointed out that ܶ Classical Syriac ‫ ܬܪ ܐ‬already existed in P. Smith and Margoliouth. When someone would challenge him about his usage of some lexeme or another, he would quickly defend the term: ‫ܐܒ ܐ‬ ‫ܘܗܝ ܕ‬ ‫‘ ܐ ܘܗܝ܆‬it is from the Fathers, not one of mine’. His usage of ‫ ܐܒ ܐ‬to denote a Classical Syriac lexeme as opposed to a neologism he devised himself is a neologism in itself. He was born Ibrahim Kahlaji in 1923 in Edessa, then migrated to Aleppo with the massive Edessan exodus of 1924. He was probably the first to Syriacize his name using Abrohom Nuro (though the original name remains in his official documents). In 1946 he joined the University of St. Joseph, Lebanon, and studied law, only to withdraw in the final year due to illness. From the 1950s he began to work in the field of Syriac, especially teaching the language, and was the first to introduce Kthobonoyo Syriac as the spoken language at home (first with his sisters, and much later 3

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in life with his wife). He lived in Beirut from 1964 until 1982 where he taught Syriac at Taw Mim Simkath School, 1970–1971 (and earlier 1948–1946), Kaslik (1967–1968). Since 1943 he organized more than 45 Syriac-language evening courses in Aleppo, Beirut, Qamishli, and Mor Gabriel Monastery. He developed an audiovisual pedagogical method called suloqo, later published in book form. His reform proposals include printing Syriac in separate letters (al-Isṭrangiliyya al-Mustaqilla with Karim Shahan, Beirut, 1967), a partial vocalization system for schools (see Suloko, Holland, 1989), and hundreds of neologisms for modern technical terms, many of which are now standard in Kthobonoyo Syriac (see Tawldotho, 1997, and the appendix to Manna’s dictionary, 2nd ed., Beirut, 1975). In 1967, he published My Tour, a report on the state of the Syr. Orth. Church, but also rich with pictures of Syriac scholars from Joseph Assemani (1687–1768) to Nöldeke (1826– 1920). His private library is rich with books published in the Middle East during the 1800s and 1900s, most of which were acquired in photocopy form by G. Kiraz. His unpublished works include a checklist of the Syriac books in his collection, and various studies in draft form. Abrohom Nuro will be missed by many.

Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies, Vol. 12.1, 5-19 © 2009 by Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute and Gorgias Press

REPORT ON THE STATE OF PRESERVATION OF THE BYZANTINE MOSAICS OF THE SAINT GABRIEL MONASTERY OF QARTAMIN, TUR ABDIN (SOUTHWEST TURKEY) OCTOBER 10TH–14TH, 2006 PATRICK BLANC ALAIN DESREUMAUX SÉBASTIEN DE COURTOIS The goal of this mission, conducted over five days in October 2006, was to evaluate the state of preservation of the Byzantine mosaics adorning the sanctuary of the church of Saint Gabriel Monastery in Tur Abdin, and to propose solutions for the mosaics’ long-term safeguard and maintenance. Organized by Alain Desreumaux, researcher at the CNRS (Workshop on Ancient Semitic Studies at the Collège de France’s Institute of Semitic Studies: Eastern Mediterranean UMR) and by Sébastien de Courtois, doctoral student at the EHESS, the mission was completed thanks only to the support of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and especially of Michel Pierre, who generously covered all transportation costs.

LOCATION The Monastery of Saint Gabriel, or Mar Gabriel, is located in the region called Tur Abdin (in Syriac, “Mountain of the Servants”), a 5

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Patrick Blanc, Alain Desreumaux, Sébastien de Courtois,

mountain range in southeast Turkey that overlooks the Mesopotamian plain to the southeast of Diyarbekir. Southeast of Midyat, the monastery is located 5 kilometers from the village of Qartamin, 60 kilometers from the Syrian, and 90 miles from the Iraqi border. At present, the monastery belongs to the Syrian Orthodox Church, and wields special spiritual influence in Tur Abdin thanks to the presence of Metropolitan Timotheos Samuel Aktas, the diocesan bishop who resides there.

HISTORY At the heart of Tur Abdin’s history, the Mar Gabriel Monastery has long been a center of Christianity and Syriac culture in the Middle East. With its monuments and manuscripts, with its many illustrious ascetic saints, monks, bishops, scribes and writers, Tur Abdin has figured prominently in Syrian and Mesopotamian history from the 3rd century to the present. The founding of Mar Gabriel likely dates to when Persians murdered Bishop Karpos during a raid on Roman Nisibe in the middle of the fourth century. A Syriac manuscript most probably dating from the thirteenth century (British Museum manuscript, Add. 17265, which is completed by Sachau manuscript 221 of Berlin’s Staatsbibliothek, dated to the seventeenth century) explains the origins of the Syrian Orthodox monastery founded in 397 A.D. by Samuel, Karpos’ spiritual son and a native of Mardin. One of his disciples, Simeon, succeeded him in 408; Simeon had buildings erected and transformed the hermit’s retreat into a spiritual hub sheltering hundreds of monks. Because of its strategic location on the Roman Empire’s eastern frontier, vast construction was undertaken, first under Emperor Arcadius, and then under Theodosius II. But it was only Emperor Anastasius’ generosity that allowed the monks to build a large church, finally completed in 512. As the British Museum’s manuscript tells us, Anastasius sent the monks not just gold, but also skilled specialized workersbuilders, goldsmiths, sculptors, painters and mosaicists credited with the sanctuary’s mosaic. In the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries, several European travelers visited the monastery: H. Pognon in 1899, C. Preusser in 1909, Miss G. Bell in 1909 and 1911. Then, from 1918 to 1954, Tur Abdin became a military zone closed to tourism. In 1954, J. Leroy, researcher at the CNRS, was the first European allowed to see the monastery again. These visitors left descriptions that provide useful testimony on the state of the mosaics’ preservation.

Mosaics of the Saint Gabriel Monastery

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Gertrude Lowthian Bell, who visited the monastery on two separate occasions, took photographs and compiled a map of the buildings, which she published along with two drawings of the ceiling’s mosaics. In 1958, Abbot Jules Leroy briefly mentioned two mosaics he had seen in 1954: “The first (published in Preusser, 1911) shows geometric designs with borders containing aces and spades”. Concerning the second mosaic, he wrote, “one can make out... a cross surrounded by vines. According to [G. Bell in Van Berchem and] Strzygowski, Amida, [1910,] p. 272, this is the oldest example of wall mosaic in Mesopotamia,” though the mosaic in question is the same that decorates the barrel vaulted ceiling. After each having stayed at the monastery in 1972, Ernest J. W. Hawkins and Marlia C. Mundell conducted further study on the mosaics, and published their findings in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, together with a fine photographic illustration (DOP, 27, 1973, pp. 279–296, 49 fig.).

DESCRIPTION OF THE DECOR The mosaics in question adorn one room of the main church, situated in the eastern section of the monastery. This space—called “presbyterium” by G. Bell and “sanctuary” by E. Hawkins and M. Mundell—forms the church’s choir, and is partially occupied by a modern altar affixed to the floor. The room measures 4.33 X 5.83 meters; at its center, the barrel vault rises to 5.36 meters. The description found in the British Museum’s thirteenthcentury manuscript states, “The sanctuary’s floor is covered with mosaics of white, black, yellow, purple and maroon marble, with various figures. Its circular walls are covered by marble slabs, and overhead, on the vaulted ceiling, there are mosaics of golden cubes.”

THE PAVEMENT G. Bell mentioned that the pavement was decorated with polychromatic marble, of which J. Leroy offered a brief description upon which E. Hawkins and M. Mundell further elaborated, also presenting three photographs: “The floor of the sanctuary is paved with opus sectile of black, red, and white marbles. A rectangular panel fills the west doorway (fig. 49). The main floor has a rectangular design with a border around the walls and a circular centerpiece with a spiraling pattern around a small grey and white variegated marble disc (32 cm. in diameter), now partly covered by the step in front of the modern altar (figs. 47, 48).”

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Patrick Blanc, Alain Desreumaux, Sébastien de Courtois,

Covering a surface of about 25.25 m2, the flooring is trichromatic opus sectile (black, white, red). Along the checkerboard walls (whose squares are decorated with alternating hourglasses and florets with two spear-shaped petals each), the flooring’s bordering zone is delimited towards the center by a row of white triangles on a black background. The central part of the floor mosaic is adorned with a grid of rows of adjacent squares, which form large quadrangles occupied in turn by four white squares around further black or red squares, all of which are decorated with a four-petal floret of contrasting colors. At the center of this composition, there is a large circle decorated with a “triangle shield” with a double border—one border on a white background being decorated with alternating black beads and black squares and inscribed with a white square; the other border being decorated with alternating black/red and white squares marked with florets of contrasting colors. The center of the shield is marked with a marble disk bordered by a line of red and black triangles. First descriptions of the wall mosaics Of the wall mosaics on the vaulted ceiling and lunettes, of which about 45 m² are preserved, G. Bell left precise descriptions: “Of the presbyterium mosaic a precious fragment remains. The barrel vault is covered with a spreading vine, the spirals of which encircle leaves and bunches of grapes (Fig. 21 [drawing from a photograph]) … At each of the four corners, the vine springs from a double handled vase. The body of the vase is divided into two zones by a narrow band; in the lower zone a geometric design springs up from the pointed base. In the centre of the vine, at the top of the vault, there is a rayed crux gemmata enclosed in a circle (Fig. 22 [drawing of the motif]). The vault is bordered by three bands of ornament. The first is a forked pattern worked in three colours; the second a row of hollow 8-pointed stars with a white dot in every point and an ivy leaf in the hollow centre; the third a series of rhomboids, separated from each other by a cross band of three jewels, the whole closely resembling the jewelled bands which occur in Byzantine mosaics of the 6th century. On the S. wall of the chamber, under the vault, there are fragments of mosaic in which it is possible to make out a small domed tabernacle, the dome carried on two pairs of columns. On the N. wall also there are traces of mosaic, and upon the floor there is a pavement of different coloured marbles. The mosaic on the vault is carried out in red, a pale greenish blue, and white, upon a gold ground… The execution

Mosaics of the Saint Gabriel Monastery

9

of the vine is fine and delicate in detail, and the realistic treatment is unlike mosaics of the Moslem period.” This description was further elaborated upon by M. C. Mundell, who was able closely to examine part of the mosaic during her stay at the monastery in August 1972. The stylistic analysis that she gave was accompanied by many photographs of details, which are especially helpful for comparisons as we document the decor’s present state of preservation. The ceiling in 2006 The ceiling presents a decor of vine leaves springing from four canthari vases set in the corners. To accentuate the effect of height, the vines narrow towards the center of the ceiling, which is marked by a radiating crux gemmata drawn onto a starry background, inside a circle made of a row of trisected calices set alternately top to bottom (diam. 1.40 m). In smaller medallions, two other crosses standing on steps face each other on the vaulted ceiling’s spring: one is situated over the west door and is bordered by a guilloche (diam. 59 cm); the other, less complete, is located over the east apse and is bordered by a two-stranded braid (diam. 66 cm). The field is limited by three borders (width: 82 cm): these are, from the inside outwards, a line of nesting chevrons; a strip of eight-pointed stars (each point accented with a little circle) decorated with circles marked with a heart-shaped leaf; and finally a gem-studded line with alternating large and small squares on edge. Less complete, the southern and northern lunettes present figurative decorations: to the south, framed by two trees (cypresses?), a domed tabernacle supported by columns shelters an altar (?) with two chalices, and oil-lamps hung on each side of the tabernacle; to the north, the decoration, in a ruinous state, seems to have been similar, though only the two side trees and the tabernacle’s dome remain. Made of glass tesserae, a Greek inscription is still partially preserved under the tabernacle of the south lunette. This inscription, studied by C. Mango (DOP, 27, 1973, p. 296), likely gave the sponsors’, or perhaps the mosaicists’ signature. The backgrounds’ tesserae have gold leaf. In the lunettes, these tesserae are set in regular horizontal lines that are widely spaced, and their surface is tilted slightly down. Jutting out in this way, these tesserae’s reflections are more fetching, catching the light better. The lines’ wide spacing also allowed for savings on tesserae.

10

Patrick Blanc, Alain Desreumaux, Sébastien de Courtois,

Identification of other decoration During our brief mission, only the choir’s decor could be studied, though the monastery also possesses vestiges of other mosaics. According to G. Bell, “Local tradition insists that the vault of the nave was once covered with mosaics like the vault of the presbyterium; possibly a careful examination of the brickwork might yield some evidence as to the truth of this tale.” E. Hawkins and M. Mandel also mentioned the presence of a destroyed mosaic in the choir’s small apse: “The shallow apse bears traces of destroyed mosaic decoration… All the mosaic in the shallow apse recess has been lost, but an irregular area of setting-bed (1.15 m. x 0.75 m.) bearing traces of the frescoe’s design is exposed on the north side of the original window opening and it is possible that more extends around to the other side underneath comparatively modern renderings. The design on the setting-bed is not immediately apparent though it seems to be a foliate decoration. Four years ago, as a security precaution, the apse window was almost entirely blocked up…” In a space situated further to the north, Hawkins and Mandel made the following observation: “On the south, east, and north walls of the ‘tomb chamber’ chapel to the north of the northern compartment of the sanctuary, there are areas of the characteristic intermediate rendering for mosaics which bears a rough herringbone pattern of incised lines. This plaster is similar to that which can be seen in some places where mosaic has been lost in the sanctuary (fig. 20), and it is reasonable to suppose that this chamber was decorated with mosaic at the same time as the sanctuary.” State of preservation Already in 1909, Miss Bell noticed that “the vault is much blackened by smoke; if it were cleaned every detail would be visible.” This remark was echoed a half-century later by Abbot Leroy: “The ceiling’s mosaic is difficult to see because of the filth.” Ten years later, in 1968, when he alerted the scientific community to “The present state of Christian monuments in southeast Turkey (Tur Abdin and surroundings)” (CRAI, 1968, p. 483), this same Abbot Leroy painted a sad picture of the mosaics’ condition: the painting in the two lunettes were “destroyed”, he wrote, and “wide sections [of the ceiling] are in danger of immediate collapse”. But E. Hawkins, who conducted precise observations in November 1972, gave a more detailed description of the mosaics’ state of preservation, also analyzing the remains of ancient mortar.

Mosaics of the Saint Gabriel Monastery

11

To further his examination, Hawkins mentioned that he had been able to perform a limited cleaning: “The mosaics…cover the vault and lateral lunettes… The lower halves of the walls are now bare, except for some relatively recent wall paintings… The colors of the tesserae are overcast, in some places totally obscured, by thin deposits of lime and soot which give to the whole a light gray or blackened appearance… The deposits on the mosaics were probably created by lime, carried down by rain water from the masonry above, combining with soot from the smoke of frequent fires below. Around its lower parts the mosaic has been partly obscured by splashes and smears of later rough renderings of the walls below… Most of the mosaic of the vault survives, but there are several losses, notably to the west of the center and along the lower part on the west, and to the east behind the top of the modern altar. In the south lunette most of the lower and middle parts of the mosaic has fallen. The greater part of the north lunette mosaic has been lost and of what remains much is in imminent danger of collapse. Other areas where further falls could occur are at the left side of the south lunette and near the center of the vault.” Hawkins described the mosaic’s mortar setting: “As might be expected over a brick vault, there are three renderings of lime plaster; the first roughly finished, the intermediate keyed with the point of a sharp tool with lines in a broad herringbone pattern for the reception of the setting-bed…” Concerned that certain parts of the mosaics were in danger of collapsing, Hawkins made sure to stress that “Adequate scaffolding, time, and skilled workmanship will be necessary if this is to be averted. There is indeed an urgent need for steps to be taken to save this unique decoration.” (DOP, 1973, p. 283). Despite his warnings, no serious conservation work seems to have been undertaken until 1997. At that time, the whole interior of the church was “restored”, the walls were cleaned and all traces of the ancient coating was removed. The stones were bared and repointed with white cement mortar. This also seems to have been when the gaps in the mosaics of the vault’s spring were plugged with beige mortar, underlining the vault’s lower section. A comparison of the present state of preservation with the photographs Hawkins and Mundell included in their article reveals that tesserae have disappeared in places, especially in the southern lunette’s inscription. The damage probably occurred in the course of this restoration work.

12

Patrick Blanc, Alain Desreumaux, Sébastien de Courtois,

More recently, in 2001 or 2002, the region’s governor called in a team of Italian restorers who were working on mosaics found during emergency excavations conducted because of the construction of a dam on the Euphrates, which flooded part of the ancient city of Zeugma. This team’s work lasted two days, and consisted of gluing a layer of gauze to the mosaic to maintain the most weakened sections of the ceiling and lunettes. This gauze is still in place.

STATE OF PRESERVATION IN 2006 We are faced with architecture that was entirely renovated without concern for the materials used in the fifth century. The mortars used in ancient times were made up of a lime binder with a mineral mixture (sand, terra cotta, gravel) which let water vapor through. Since it was not hard, it possessed a certain elasticity that allowed it to give without breaking. This is not the case with the modern cement mortars, waterproof and very hard, that were set in place in the twentieth century. Overly hard compared to the ancient materials, they are already detaching. Therefore, in years to come, we can expect many problems with the architecture (fissures, buckling) which will risk altering the buildings and their decorated parts. This deterioration may have a direct influence on the mosaics’ preservation, since these have been weakened by the mortar’s failure to stick to the walls. It is regrettable that the restoration work done thus far was conducted without archeological input. This is particularly sad given G. Bell’s photograph showing vestiges of wall paintings, and also Hawkins and Mundell’s examination of the vestiges of mortar that still bore traces of the tesserae lost in other parts of the monastery.

THE OPUS SECTILE In the very irregular opus sectile flooring, ancient restorations are still visible. These restorations were carried out using grey cement and scattered marble fragments. Though the marble pieces remain in place, several parts have cracks that show the ancient mortar. The floor is normally covered with carpets which have also served to protect it. The mosaic On the mosaic of the barrel vault and lunettes, which was noted in Miss Bell’s first descriptions, a blackish layer has formed on the

Mosaics of the Saint Gabriel Monastery

13

tesserae’s surface. This layer is composed of chalky concretions, dust and the black smoke rising from candles and incense used in religious ceremonies, but also resulting from general sootiness, even if it seems that at some unknown date, the decor may have been dusted off. We were able to locate the part cleaned by Hawkins in 1972. However, our examination brought to light graver damage, very worrisome unless action is taken quickly. In many places, the stone and brick masonry has detached from the first layer of gross mortar. This has taken place both in the north lunettes and on the ceiling. This detachment may cause large chunks of the mosaic to fall, particularly in light of the region’s vulnerability to seismic activity and aftershocks. The Italian team recently called in reinforced many of the detached parts, but this can only be a stopgap measure until true restoration work can be undertaken. In the south lunette, the lower section has many lacunae, and is plugged with the grey cement mortar seen already in the photographs Hawkins and Mundell took in 1972. This cracked mortar no longer sticks to the wall. In the center of the pictured tabernacle, an older crack was filled with glazed blue ceramic elements (already visible in 1972). It was on this lunette that we located Hawkins’ cleaning test. In comparison with the 1972 photograph, the Greek inscription under the tabernacle has lost several tesserae, probably when the mortar was repointed in 1997. By comparison with the earliest illustrations, one can see that the north lunette is much more damaged, and a large section of the west side has detached, which is already visible in the single photograph that we possess of the ceiling, taken in 1911. The cracks have been plugged with the same sort of grey cement mortar. However, though the mosaic seems to have shifted only slightly since Hawkins’ stay, all of the mosaics contained in this lunette are in utter decay. The ceiling also shows cracks: one large crack above the doorway leading in from the central nave, on the western arch, already visible in G. Bell’s photograph; another large crack above the apse and behind the modern altar—this crack was plugged, probably in 1997, with a beige mortar similar to the one that borders the vault’s spring; besides those, there are numerous smaller cracks, which are old and sooty. Our examination of the vault showed that even if the mortar is barely sticking to the stone, the tesserae are at least satisfactorily adhering to their mortar. Over the course of our stay, besides the attentive examination of the remains, we were also able to conduct a few cleaning tests

14

Patrick Blanc, Alain Desreumaux, Sébastien de Courtois,

on the mosaics of the south lunette, and at the bottom of the vault in the northeast corner. The entirety of the decor is composed of colored, opaque glass tesserae (dark blue with nuances of light blue, green, red, brown and black), of translucent glass tesserae with a gold and silver backing, of tesserae of white, pink or grayish limestone (or marble? “Pink marble” according to M. C. Mundell). As G. Bell, E. Hawkins and M. Mundell stressed, a gentle cleaning would certainly sharpen the palette and help identify the materials used. The tesserae are irregular in shape, measuring from about 0.8 to 1 cm along their edge. The tesserae with silver leaf are slightly smaller than the others. Several motifs are rendered by plaques with specific forms (circles, droplets, etc.) Our observations, however limited, revealed that the limestone, colored glass tesserae, and gold-leafed tesserae are in good condition. Those with silver leaf are less well preserved since the metal at the edges of the tesserae has oxidized (silver oxide). No exfoliation of the glass was noted. The joints are very sooty, particularly since in this type of wall mosaic, the joints are deeply recessed, which increases chances for dirt deposit. On the ceiling, we noted the presence of metal clamps stuck into the mosaic, flush with the tesserae’s surface. These hooks reinforce the mortar’s hold on the wall. Because of the general sootiness and our limited time, we were unable to check the regularity of their placement. A list will have to be drawn up, and a more detailed study will need to be conducted of the metal’s state of preservation. Depending on the results, it may be necessary to replace them. On the ceiling’s western spring, a large hole is visible in the interior of the structure, in the mosaic and its mortars as well as in the wall itself, but a corresponding hole was not found on the ceiling’s exterior. It is most probably the opening for a conduit whose function we were unable to ascertain. The mosaic and its mortar incline slightly into the conduit, proof that the conduit already existed when the mosaics were being laid. Moreover, we also observed various hooks from which light fixtures have been hung over the centuries. The insertion of these hooks broke numerous holes into the mosaic.

THE PRESERVATION ETHIC We will base our work on the various charters elaborated and adopted by the professionals of the preservation of cultural

Mosaics of the Saint Gabriel Monastery

15

treasures (archaeological sites, monuments, furniture, etc.), first of all on the Charter for the Restoration of Historical Monuments signed at Athens in 1931 at the First International Congress of Architects and Technicians of Historical Monuments, then on the International Charter on the Preservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites put out in Venice in 1964 after the Second International Congress of Architects and Technicians of Historical Monuments, and finally on the Charter for the Management of Archeological Heritage adopted by ICOMOS in 1990. In 1931, it was decreed that the removal of works from the framework for which they were created was a regrettable principle. Consequently, we cannot envisage removing the mosaics from the building they decorate. The mosaic must therefore be preserved in the same place where it was created. The mosaic of the Saint Gabriel monastery’s church is part of a Byzantine monument. It is an exceptional historic and artistic testimony: it belongs to the heritage of an entire country and culture. The urgency of its preservation is further heightened by the recent disappearance of elements of the decor, most notably the painted elements. As a rule, it is essential to apply to the safeguard of these remains the procedural norms accepted by our profession: noninvasiveness, compatibility, and the reversibility of the products, materials and techniques used. Concerning the restoration of lacunae, the minimalist option will be applied in order to maintain the authenticity of the original work: preservation of the original parts, whether these be tesserae or ancient mortar, and no reconstruction of the missing decor.

PROPOSALS FOR INTERVENTION We shall now present the interventions necessary for the preservation and presentation of this exceptional set of wall mosaics extending over 45 m2. We shall also offer a cost and workschedule estimate for the operation’s realization. The goal is to preserve the mosaics in their context, while improving their clarity, to reset into place the fallen mosaic fragments, to reestablish cohesion between the wall, the ceiling and the mortar that supports the mosaic. The ungainly cement mortar will be replaced with lime mortar matching the original; the cracked parts will not be reconstituted. The strengthening and cleaning operations will be carried out progressively in zones: first the north and south lunettes, then the

16

Patrick Blanc, Alain Desreumaux, Sébastien de Courtois,

ceiling, divided into three zones. The work will progress from the top of the ceiling downwards, and symmetrically to either side. Initial surface cleansing An initial surface cleansing will be conducted in order to discover the mosaic’s condition, to identify the buckling areas and to check the state of the tesserae. To the same end, it would be desirable to analyze samples of the mortar in order to identify its composition; this will facilitate the search for compatibility between these mortars and the restoration grout. Reinforcement In the lacunae, the cement mortar—cracked and loose, as well as unseemly—will have to be removed by mechanical means. In order for the cracks to be cleared out, the fragile areas, and especially the mosaic’s edge, will have to be held in place by a textile paste. Once the cement mortar has been removed, remnants of the mortar from the mosaic’s ancient setting may be revealed. It is also possible that tesserae will be found still in place under the cement. These will be left visible after cleaning and reinforcement. Lime mortar will be set into the fissures; this will be close to the ancient mortar in both graininess and color. It will be set slightly recessed from the mosaic’s surface in order that it may be easily identified. At the same time, it is imperative to conduct a general reinforcement of the whole in order to reaffix the loose mortar to the stone walls. Before this can be done, the detached areas will have to be cleaned of accumulated mortar residue; this cleaning will be carried out by vacuum suction. Next, reinforcement will be conducted by injections of a lime mortar grout, followed by the placement of a prop and clamps to hold the mortar and the mosaic to the walls until it dries. Certain small areas of the mosaic and mortar are no longer adhering to the walls. They are detached from the mosaic by fissures. After being pasted with textiles, they will be taken down; the crumbling mortar will be removed and each fragment will be set back in place on a new layer of lime mortar. Different types of reinforcing agents will be used over the course of these phases: acrylic resin solutions and emulsions, as well as inorganic reinforcers (ethyl silicate). These will be applied either by injection or by soaking.

Mosaics of the Saint Gabriel Monastery

17

It will be necessary to discover the extent to which the metallic clamps have oxidized. The products of metallic corrosion can crack mortar and also cause discolorations to the tesserae and mortar. If this is the case, it may be necessary to remove them and replace them with clamps of non-oxidizing material. Cleaning During the October 2006 mission, we conducted two cleaning tests: the first on the tree pictured on the left side of the south lunette (tesserae of colored glass and with gold-leaf), the second at the bottom of the ceiling, in the northeast corner (tesserae with gold leaf and silver leaf, glass tesserae and limestone tesserae). These tests, which were conducted mechanically (with scalpels) revealed a good overall preservation of the tesserae, except for the silver leaf tesserae. The general cleaning of the mosaic will essentially consist of removing the blackish deposits. These can be removed by mechanical means, for example by scalpel. Placing compresses on them can facilitate the clearing process by softening the crust when it is too hard. At the same time as these cleanings, we will also reinforce the tesserae by imbibing them with an acrylic resin solution. We will examine the ancient mortars very attentively to search for traces of how it was applied or for preparatory sketches.

CARPENTRY WORK Before this work can begin, extensive carpentry work will need to be carried out in order to create workable conditions. It will be necessary to build a platform 2.90 meters above the floor; this platform can be built in one piece, but in that case, it will close the ceiling off for several years. Alternatively, it could be built in two pieces, the north side first, then the south side. The monastery’s authorities will have to be consulted. The advantage of a single platform would be to allow several areas to be worked on at the same time; this is especially important for the emergency reinforcements of those areas weakened by the detached ceiling or wall mortar. It will also be necessary to construct clamps that will allow the areas being reaffixed to the substructure to be kept under pressure. These clamps will have to follow the shape of the ceiling, and also the shape of the two north and south lunettes.

18

Patrick Blanc, Alain Desreumaux, Sébastien de Courtois,

This carpentry work can be done by local artisans according to the restorers’ specifications. As for the opus sectile floor, it would be preferable to clean it, to replace the grey cement mortar with a limestone mortar similar to the ancient composition, and to reinforce the areas of ancient mortar. This operation is not included in the estimate listed below. Each operation will have to be noted and described in a report to be written after each campaign. A graphic list will accompany the text, detailing pre-operation conditions and all work done. A photographic record of all phases of the work will be kept. These records can also be published by the restorers once the work is complete.

POSSIBLE PLANNING In France : • • •

Formation of the team. Planning meeting. Gathering and sending equipment.

First mission • •

Setting up of the worksite (scaffolding, gathering supplies, etc.). Reinforcement of the mosaics in the north and south lunettes.

Second mission • •

First part of the reinforcement of the ceiling mosaic. Cleaning of the mosaic and final details of the north and south lunettes.

Third mission • •

Second and third parts of the reinforcement of the ceiling mosaic. Cleaning of the mosaic and final details of the first part of the ceiling.

Fourth mission •

Cleaning of the mosaic and final details of the second and third parts of the ceiling.

Mosaics of the Saint Gabriel Monastery •

19

Checking all the mosaics.

In France : •

Drafting of the final report.

ESTIMATION OF WORK TIME Four campaigns of two months each, for a total of eight months on the site, plus another month for the preparation of the site and for the drafting of the reports.

PERSONNEL -

a team of four experienced professional restorers; two to four Turkish intern restorers studying preservation and restoration of cultural heritage; one to two workers or technicians from the monastery could join the team in order to learn about restoration. These workers would thus become de facto agents keeping an eye on the mosaics and insuring their long-term maintenance.

NOTES It seems indispensable to us to foresee combining the preservation work with a stylistic and technical study of this set of mosaics. Moreover, the work can only be undertaken within the framework of an agreement with the religious authorities of the Saint Gabriel monastery, owners of the building. The Musée de l’Arles et de la Provence antiques’ Workshop on Preservation and Restoration, which is dependant on the General Council of Bouches-du-Rhône, can only participate in these missions if they are authorized by the President of the General Council, Jean-Noël Guérini.

Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies, Vol. 12.1, 21-40 © 2009 by Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute and Gorgias Press

A GUIDE TO NARSAI’S HOMILIES SEBASTIAN P. BROCK UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD ORIENTAL INSTITUTE PUSEY LANE, OXFORD OX1 2LE, GB

ABSTRACT Memre by Narsai have been published in two large collections (Mingana, 1905; Patriarchal Press, 1970), and several smaller ones, including two in Patrologia Orientalis (34, 40). The present Guide provides a series of concordances between the different editions, together with (in Table 4) an indication of what modern translations are available.

After Ephrem and Jacob of Serugh, Narsai is probably the next most famous Syriac poet. His long life spans chronologically the entire fifth century, and geographically the two Empires, his youth and the latter part of his life being spent in the Persian Empire, while his student and earlier teaching years were closely linked with the ‘Persian School’ in Edessa.1 At an uncertain date before the closure of the School (489), Narsai moved across the border to Nisibis, where he was still Director of the School of Nisibis in 496 when the first Statutes of the School were promulgated. The date of his death is unknown, but must have been c.500.2 The main source for Narsai’s life is chapter 31 of Barhadbeshabba ‘Arbaya’s Ecclesiastical History (ed. F. Nau, PO 9:5). 2 Mingana’s date of 502, followed by many scholars, is based on the assumption that he left Edessa in 457 (which is far from certain), coupled 1

21

22

Sebastian Brock

Although the verse homilies (memre) only constituted part of Narsai’s literary output, to judge by the notice in the Catalogue by ‘Abdisho‘, it is only the memre that have been preserved. These are best known from Alphonse Mingana’s two-volume edition of 1905, in which he provided the text of 47 memre. This, however, only represented a little over half the total number of 81 homilies which survive, a list of which Mingana himself provided (I, pp.26–31). It was this list that Macomber used as the basis for his invaluable inventory of manuscripts of Narsai’s homilies.3 Although a few of these other memre have been published here and there, it was not until 1970 that a much fuller edition than that of Mingana was produced. This was in the form of a photographic reproduction of a fairly recent manuscript containing 72 of Narsai’s memre.4 Many of these, of course, overlap with Mingana’s edition, and the main purpose of the present article is to provide two-way concordance between the two editions, taking into account at the same time editions of memre that have been published elsewhere, above all those edited by Gignoux and by McLeod in the Patrologia Orientalis. The following Tables are provided: TABLE 1: Concordance based on the complete List of memre, with indication of editions (where available) of the texts in Mingana and the Patriarchal Press. Also indicated are any other full editions, the number in my ‘Index of incipits’, and the opening word. TABLE 2: Concordance based Mingana’s edition of 47 memre, with indication of the corresponding List number, the presence or not in the Patriarchal Press edition, and the topic. TABLE 3: Concordance based on Mingana’s edition of the memre on Creation, with the correspondence of each page to Gignoux’s re-edition of them in PO 34. TABLE 4: Concordance based on the Patriarchal Press edition, indicating correspondences with the List number and with other editions, either in Mingana or elsewhere. For convenience, the topic is also given again.

with Barhadbeshabba’s statement that he was Director of the School of Nisibis for 45 years (other sources give different figures). 3 See under Macomber in the list of Abbreviations below. Macomber gives the first two Syriac words of each homily, rather than a title. 4 The manuscript, which is dated 1901, is not among those listed by Macomber. The copyist has not always been very careful and has introduced a number of errors.

A Guide to Narsai’s Homilies

23

Abbreviations Bedjan

P. Bedjan, Homiliae Mar Narsetis in Joseph (Paris/Leipzig, 1901). [Also published at the end of his Liber Superiorum, seu Historia Monastica, auctore Thoma Episcopo Margensi (Paris/Leipzig, 1901), pp.519–629; both paginations are given]. Bedjan JS P. Bedjan, Homiliae Selectae Mar-Jacobi Sarugensis II (Paris/Leipzig, 1905); repr. Piscataway NJ, 2006). Brev. Chald. P. Bedjan (ed.), Breviarium iuxta Ritum Syrorum Orientalium id est Chaldaeorum, I-III (Rome, 1886–7; repr. 1938; one volume edn, ed. P. Yousif, 2002). Connolly R. H. Connolly, The Liturgical Homilies of Narsai (Texts and Studies 8:1; 1909). Frishman J. Frishman, The Ways and Means of the Divine Economy. An Edition, Translation and Study of Six Biblical Homilies by Narsai (Diss. Leiden, 1992). Gismondi H. Gismondi, Linguae Syriacae Grammatica (2nd edn, Beirut, 1900). Homily/Hom. (number) Homily number of those edited by Mingana. Hudra T. Darmo (ed.), Hudra I–III (Trichur, 1960–62). Index of incipits S.P. Brock, “The published verse homilies of Isaac of Antioch, Jacob of Serugh, and Narsai: index of incipits,” Journal of Semitic Studies 32 (1987), pp.279–313.5 Khayyat E. Khayyat, Syllabarium Chaldaicum (Mosul, 1869) [non vidi]. KP Ktabona d-Partute (Urmi, 1898). List (number) Full numbered list of Narsai’s memre, as given in Mingana I, pp.26–31, and in Macomber (see below). Macomber W. Macomber, “The manuscripts of the metrical homilies of Narsai,” Orientalia Christiana Periodica 39 (1973), pp.275–306. Manna E. Manna, Morceaux choisis de littérature araméenne I–II (Mosul, 1901). Martin F. Martin, “Homélie de Narses sur les trois docteurs nestoriens,” Journal asiatique IX.14 (1899), pp.446–92 [text], IX.15 (1900), pp.469–525 [tr.]. Mingana A. Mingana, Narsai Doctoris Syri Homiliae et Carmina, I-II (Mosul, 1905). This was written before I had access to the Patriarchal Press edition, and so references to it are absent there. 5

24 Narsai, List PP PO PO 34 PO 40 Siman

Sebastian Brock List of all Narsai’s surviving memre, in Mingana I, pp.26–31 (the numbers are identical with those in Macomber’s list of extant manuscripts). Homilies of Mar Narsai published by the Patriarchal Press, I-II (San Francisco, 1970). Patrologia Orientalis. Ph. Gignoux, Homélies de Narsai sur la Création (PO 34.3–4; 1968). F. G. McLeod, Narsai’s Metrical Homilies on the Nativity, Epiphany, Passion, Resurrection and Ascension (PO 40.1; 1979). E. P. Siman, Narsai. Cinq homélies sur les paraboles évangéliques (Paris, 1984).

TABLE 1 Column a = Macomber, homily number = Mingana, List no. b = Mingana, Homily number c = Mingana, volume number, + pages d = Patriarchal Press, volume number, + pages e = other full editions f = Index of incipits, number + first word a b c d e f ‫ܬܘܬ‬ I I I, 1– I, 1– 535 28 39 ‫ܨ‬ II II I, I, 453 29– 39– 56 77 ‫ܐ‬ III III I, 369 57– 68 ‫ܒ ܒܐ‬ IV I, PO 40, I 102 77– 98 ‫ܪܒ ܬ‬ V I, 479 104– 28 ‫ܨ ܐ‬ VI I, PO 40, 456 134– II 57 ‫ܒ ܗ ـܐ‬ VII I, 167 168– 85

A Guide to Narsai’s Homilies VIII

IV

I, 68– 89 -

IX

-

X

V

I, 90–9

XI

-

-

XII

VI

XIII

VII

XIV

VIII

XV

IX

XVI

XVI

XVII XVIII

-

I, 100– 17 I, 117– 33 I, 134– 49 I, 149– 67 I, 257– 70 -

XIX

-

-

XX

X

XXI

-

I, 167– 81 -

XXII

-

-

I, 191– 220 I, 220– 241 I, 241– 53 I, 253– 87 II, 654– 78 II, 219– 42 II, 242– 63 II, 263– 88 II, 288– 305 I, 743– 64 II, 596– 617 I, 293– 312 I, 312– 34 II, 337– 55

25

-

255

‫ܒܐ‬

-

347

‫ܐ‬

-

345

‫ܐ‬

Martin

262

‫ܐ‬

-

110

‫ܬ‬

-

63

‫ܐ ܐ‬

-

421

‫ܬܪܐ‬

-

335

Hudra I, 411–23

34

‫ܐ ܐ‬

-

468 176

‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬

-

236

‫ܙ ܐ‬

-

495

‫ܪ‬

-

469

‫̈ ܐ‬

-

9

‫ܐܕܡ‬

‫ܒ‬

‫ܒ‬

‫ܐ‬

26

Sebastian Brock

XXIII

XI

XXIV

XII

XXV

XIII

XXVI

XIV

XXVII

XV

XXVIII

-

XXIX

-

XXX

-

XXXI

XVIII

XXXII XXXIII

-

XXXIV

XIX

XXXV

XVII

XXXVI

-

XXXVII

XX

I, 181– 94 I, 195– 209 I, 210– 23 I, 223– 43 I, 243– 56 -

-

-

II, 679– 99 II, 830– 50 -

II, 699– 716 I, 341– 63 I, 382– 93 II, 305– 18 I, I, 299– 363– 312 82 II, 318– 36 I, I, 313– 399– 27 419 I, 270– 90 I, 419– 38 I, I, 327– 438– 40 57

20

‫ܐܘܪ ܐ‬ ‫ܒ‬

128 366 82

‫ܒܐܘܪ ܐ‬

-

509

-

133

‫ܒ ܐ‬

-

523

‫ܬܗܪܐ‬

-

458

‫ܐ‬

Khayyat

514

‫ܬܐ‬

Siman 2

409 317

‫ܐܐ‬ ‫ܒ ܬܐ‬

-

192

‫ܓܒ ܐ‬

-

86

‫ܒܐ̈ܪܙܝ‬

PO 40, III

175

‫ܒ ܐ‬

-

174

‫ܐ‬

‫ܨ‬

‫ܒ‬

A Guide to Narsai’s Homilies XXXVIII XXI XXXIX

XXII

XL

-

XLI

XXIV

XLII

XXV

XLIII6

-

XLIV

XXVI

XLV

-

XLVI

XXVII

XLVII XLVIII

XXVIII

XLIX

XXIX

L

-

LI LII

XXIII

I, 341– 56 I, 356– 68 II, 28– 45 II, 46– 55 II, 55– 72 -

I, 457– 79 II, 617– 34 I, 479– 95 I, 495– 520 II, 355– 68 -

II, 369– 93 I, 546– 63 II, I, 72– 563– 84 81 II, II, 84– 850– 99 72 II, II, 100– 57– 13 77 II, 578– 96 II, II, 1–28 539– 78

27

‫ܒ ܐ‬

-

387

-

365

PO 40, IV

346

-

466

-

118

‫ܕܘܟ‬

Bedjan JS 56! -

244

‫ܐ‬

235

‫ܚ ܒܘܐ‬

PO 40, V,

178

‫ܬ‬

-

186

‫ܓܐ‬

Siman 4 -

467 455

‫ܨ‬

PO, 34, IV

341

-

126

-

254 404

‫ܐ‬

‫ܒ‬

‫ܒ‬

‫ܐ‬ ‫ܒ‬ ‫ܒܐ‬ ‫ܒܐ‬

Although this Homily is sometimes transmitted under Narsai’s name, it is certainly by Jacob, rather than Narsai; see Mingana, I, p.23. 6

28

Sebastian Brock

LIII

-

-

LIV

XXX

LV

-

II, 114– 30 -

LVI

-

-

LVII

-

-

LVIII

XXXI

LIX LX LXI LXII LXIII LXIV LXV LXVI

II, 131– 44 XXXII II, 144– 56 XXXIII II, 156– 67 XXXIV II, 168– 80 XXXV II, 180– 92 XXXVI II, 193– 207 XXXVII II, 207– 22 XXXVIII II, 222– 37 XXXIX II, 238– 54

II, 872– 86 II, 414– 39 II, 439– 55 I, 581– 98 II, 455– 71 II, 471– 90 II, 505– 22 II, 490– 505 II, 21– 39 II, 39– 57 II, 1–21 II, 77– 99 II, 99– 122 II, 182– 206

Siman 5

231

‫ܙܪ ܐ‬

-

89

‫ܒܓܒ ܐ‬

Frishman 463 6

‫ܐ‬

-

‫ܬܐ‬

416

Frishman 173 5

‫ܐ‬

‫ܒ‬ ‫ܒ‬

KP 235– 50

499

-

215

-

249

PO 34, II

172

PO 34, III

112

‫ܓܐ‬

PO 34, I

44

‫ܐ‬

‫ܗ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܒ‬

‫ܐ‬

PO 34, V 524

‫ܬܗܪܐ‬

PO 34,VI

429

‫ܐ‬

-

497

‫ܪ‬

‫ܒ‬

A Guide to Narsai’s Homilies LXVII

-

-

LXVIII

-

-

LXIX

XL

LXX

XLI

LXXI

-

II, 254– 64 II, 265– 88 -

LXXII

XLII

LXXIII

XLIII

LXXIV

-

II, 288– 302 II, 303– 14 -

LXXV

-

-

LXXVI

-

-

LXXVII

XLIV

LXXVIII

XLV

LXXIX

XLVI

LXXX

XLVII

II, 314– 28 II, 328– 39 II, 340– 52 II, 353– 65

II, 716– 35 II, 735– 56 II, 167– 82 I, 691– 725 II, 145– 67 II, 393– 414 II, 756– 73 II, 773– 96 II, 796– 812 II, 122– 45 I, 526– 46 II, 522– 39 II, 635– 54 II, 812– 30

29

Frishman 73 3

‫ܐܪܙ‬

Frishman 79 4; KP 99–116 311

‫ܐܬܐ‬

-

‫ܬܪܢ‬ ‫ܪ‬

488

Frishman 247 2 -

241

-

454

-

306

-

194

Frishman 243 1

‫ܬܐ‬ ‫ܨ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܕܘ‬ ‫ܐ‬

-

131

̈‫ܒ‬

-

226

‫ܙܒ ܐ‬

-

111

‫ܐ‬

-

237

‫ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬

‫ܒ‬

30 LXXXI

Sebastian Brock -

-

II, 206– 18

21

‫ܐܘܪ ܐ‬

TABLE 2 Concordance between Narsai Homily no. and Narsai/Macomber List, no, indicating publication in PP and/or elsewhere. For the locations in PP, see TABLE 1, using Narsai/Macomber List number. Narsai Hom. I

Narsai Published List/Macomber elsewhere List I PP

II

II

PP

III

III

-

IV V VI

VIII X XII

PP PP PP

VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI

XIII XIV XV XX XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII XVI

PP PP PP PP PP PP PP, Siman 1 PP, Hudra, BC

XVII XVIII

XXXV XXXI

PP

XIX XX

XXXIV XXXVII

PP PP

XXI

XXXVIII

PP

Topic Revelations to Prophets Revelations of Prophets Revelation to Abraham Peter and Paul Stephen Iniquity of world Supplication Jonah Reproof Lent I Lent III Lent IV Reproof Lent V Ten Virgins Human Nature Mysteries Hosanna, Against the Jews Holy Week Repentant Thief Mysteries and Baptism

A Guide to Narsai’s Homilies XXII XXIII

XXXIX LII

PP PP

XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII XXVIII

XLI XLII XLIV XLVI XLVIII

PP PP PP PP PP, Siman 3

XXIX XXX XXXI XXXII

XLIX LIV LVIII LIX

PP, PO 34, IV PP PP, KP PP

XXXIII

LX

PP

XXXIV XXXV XXXVI XXXVII XXXVIII XXXIX XL XLI XLII

LXI LXII LXIII LXIV LXV LXVI LXIX LXX LXXII

PP, PO 34, II PP, PO 34, III PP, PO 34, I PP, PO 34, V PP, PO 34, VI PP PP PP PP

XLIII XLIV

LXXIII LXXVII

PP PP

XLV

LXXVIII

PP

XLVI XLVII

LXXIX LXXX

PP PP

31 Baptism Second Coming Confessors Martyrs New Sunday Pentecost Dives and Lazarus Creation Cross Isaiah’s Vision Church and Priesthood Dedication of Church Creation Creation Creation Creation Creation Soul Job Joseph Miracles of Moses Samson Three Children Reproof of clergy Reproof Reproof of women

32

Sebastian Brock

TABLE 3 CORRESPONDENCES BETWEEN MINGANA II and PO 34 Since Gignoux’s edition of the six memre on Creation was a new edition of memre already published by Mingana, the following Table provides the correspondences between the page numbers in Mingana II and the line numbers in Gignoux’s edition of each of the six homilies. Homily I Mingana II p.193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207

Gignoux = lines 1–28 = 29–61 = 62–94 = 95– 132 = 133– 67 = 168– 201 = 202– 38 = 239– 69 = 270– 306 = 307– 35 = 336– 66 = 367– 402 = 403– 38 = 439– 76 = 477– 80

Homily II Mingana II p.168 169 170 171 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181

Gignoux = lines 1–27 = 28–63 = 64–95 = 96– 129 = 130– 67 = 168– 205 = 206– 39 = 240– 75 = 276– 310 = 311– 36 = 337– 72 = 373– 408 = 409– 21.

Homily III Mingana II p.180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192

Gignoux = lines 1–8 = 9–40 = 41–71 = 72–99 = 100– 31 = 132– 61 = 162– 91 = 192– 223 = 224– 54 = 255– 87 = 288– 318 = 319– 51 = 352– 81

A Guide to Narsai’s Homilies Homily IV Mingana II p.100

Gignoux

-

= lines 1–22 = 23–55 = 56–85 = 86– 115 = 116– 45 = 146– 75 = 176– 208 = 209– 39 = 240– 72 = 273– 302 = 303– 35 = 336– 67 = 368– 99 = 400– 431. -

-

-

101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113

Homily V Mingana II p.207 208 209 210 211 213 214 215 217 219 220 221 222 223 224 225

Gignoux = lines 1–19 = 20–55 = 56–90 = 91– 124 = 125– 63 = 164– 200 = 201– 234 = 235– 67 = 268– 305 = 306– 37 = 338– 74 = 375– 406 = 407– 43 = 444– 75 = 476– 512 = 513– 528.

Homily VI Mingana II p.222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237

33

Gignoux = lines 1–9 = 10–45 = 46–75 = 76– 110 = 111– 47 = 148– 80 = 181– 217 = 218– 54 = 255– 90 = 291– 328 = 329– 62 = 363– 396 = 397– 434 = 435– 71 = 472– 505 = 506– 540

34

Sebastian Brock

TABLE 4 CORRESPONDENCES BETWEEN HOMILIES IN PP, THE LIST NUMBERS AND MINGANA’S HOMILY NUMBERS. In this Table the topic is again indicated, and reference is made in the notes to any translations (and partial editions) that are available.

a Vol. I pp.1–39 39–77

Column a = Patriarchal Press edition, vol. + page b = Mingana/Macomber, List number c = Mingana edition, Homily number/other editions d = topic b c d I

I

II

II

77–98 IV PO 40, I 98–104 (Soghitha, Mary and Magi)8 104–28 V 128–34 (Soghitha, Angel and Mary)10 134–57 VI PO 40, II

Revelations to Patriarchs and Prophets7 Revelations to Patriarchs and Prophets Nativity Mary9 Epiphany

Partial edition in G. Cardahi, Liber Thesauri de arte poetica Syrorum (Rome, 1875), pp.47–51. 8 Also ed. E. Beck, Des heiligen Ephraem des Syrers Hymnen de Nativitate (Epiphania) (CSCO 186–7; 1959), as ‘Sogita IV’. ET in S.P. Brock, Bride of Light. Hymns on Mary from the Syriac Churches (Moran Etho 6, 1994), pp.125– 32. Most of the Soghyatha are also to be found in the edition by F. Feldmann, Syrische Wechsellieder von Narses (Leipzig, 1896). 9 Cf. P. Krüger, “Das Bild der Gottesmutter bei dem Syrer Narsai,” Ostkirchliche Studien 2 (1953), pp.110–20, and C. Payngot, “The Homily of Narsai on the Virgin Mary,” The Harp 13 (2000), pp.33–7 (outline, based on Vat. Syr. 588). 10 Also ed. T. J. Lamy, S. Ephraim Syri Hymni et Sermones II (Malines, 1886), cols 589–604. ET in Bride of Light, pp.111–18. 7

A Guide to Narsai’s Homilies

157–63 (Soghitha, Jesus and John the Baptist)11 163–85 VII 185–91 (Soghitha, John the Baptist and the Crowd) 191–220 VIII IV 220–41 IX 241–53 X V 253–87 XI Martin 287–92 (Soghitha, Cyril and Nestorius)15 293–312 XX X 312–34 XXI 334–40 (Soghitha, Cain and Abel)16 341–63 XXVIII 363–82

XXXI

382–93

XXIX

XVIII

35

John the Baptist12 Peter and Paul13 Four Evangelists Stephen Three Doctors14 Lent I Temptation of Christ Week before Hosanna Hosanna, Against the Jews17 Hosanna (Palm Sunday)

Also ed. E. Beck, Hymnen de Nativitate (‘Sogita V’). ET in J. Gwynn (ed.), Selections Translated into English from the Hymns and Homilies of Ephraim the Syrian (Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers II.13; Oxford/New York, 1898), pp.284–6, and in Brock, Sogiata (Syrian Churches Series 11; Kottayam, 1987), pp.21–27. 12 Excerpt in H. Gismondi, Linguae Syriacae Grammatica (2nd edn Beirut, 1900), pp.103–10. 13 GT by P. Krüger in Zeitschrift für Missionswissenschaft und Religionswissenschaft 42 (1958), pp.271–91. 14 On this homily see L. Abramowski, “Das Konzil von Chalkedon in der Homilie des Narses über die drei nestorianischen Lehrer,” Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 66 (1954/5), pp.140–43; see also The Harp 20 (2006), pp.333–48; and K. McVey, “The memra of Narsai on the Three Nestorian Doctors as an example of forensic rhetoric,” in R. Lavenant (ed.), III Symposium Syriacum (OCA 221; 1983), pp.87–96. 15 Edition and FT in Martin; ET in Brock, “Syriac Dialogue: an example from the past,” The Harp 15 (2002), pp.305–18 (also in Journal of Assyrian Academic Studies 18:1 (2004), pp.57–70). 16 Also edited, with ET, in Brock, “Two Syriac dialogue poems on Abel and Cain,” Le Muséon 113 (2000), pp.333–75. 17 Cf J. Frishman, “Narsai’s Homily for the Palm Festival—Against the Jews,” in IV Symposium Syriacum (OCA 229; 1987), pp.217–29. 11

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393–99 (Soghitha, Pharisees and Christ) 399– XXXIV XIX 419 419–38 XXXVI PO 40, III 438–57 XXXVII XX 457–79 XXXVIII XXI

Holy Week Passion18 Repentant Thief Mysteries and Baptism 19

479–95 XL PO 40, IV Resurrection 495– XLI XXIV Confessors 520 520–26 (Soghitha, Shabur and Martyrs)20 526–46 LXVII XLIV Three Children 546–63 XLV PO 40, V Ascension 563–81 XLVI XXVII Pentecost21 581–98 LVI Dedication of Church 598–613 (David Eskolaya, On Finding of Cross) Incipit 614–47 Bedjan 521–58/3– Joseph I22 516 40 23 370 647–89 Bedjan 559– Joseph II 608/41–88 689–91 Bedjan 606–9/91– Joseph24 400 110 LXX XLI Joseph 691– 725

On this homily see L. Abramowski, “Narsai, Ephräm und Kyrill über Jesu Verlassenheitsruf, Matth. 27.46,” in H-J. Feulner, E. Velkovska and R.F. Taft (eds), Crossroad of Cultures. Studies in Liturgy and Patristics in Honor of Gabriele Winkler (OCA 260; 2000), pp.43–67. 19 ET in Connolly, pp.46–61; FT by P. Brouwers, in Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph 41 (1965), 179–207; see also E. C. Ratcliff, “A note on the Anaphoras described in the Liturgical Homilies of Narsai,” in J. N. Birdsall and R. W. Thomson (eds), Biblical and Patristic Studies in Memory of R. P. Casey (Freiburg, 1963), pp.235–49. 20 Also in Manna, I, pp.222–7. 21 Cf. I. Arickappillil, “Mar Narsai, the ‘charismatic’: a study based on Mar Narsai’s Homily on Pentecost,” The Harp 13 (2000), pp.125–34. 22 GT in Näf, pp.91–106. 23 GT in Näf, pp.107–27. 24 ET by A. S. Rodriguez Pereira, “Two Syriac verse homilies on Joseph,” Jaarbericht Ex Oriente Lux 31 (1989/90), pp.105–6. This consists almost entirely of excerpts from the Histoire de Joseph (ed. Bedjan), variously attributed to Ephrem or to Balai. 18

A Guide to Narsai’s Homilies 725–42

Bedjan 609– 28/91–110

743–64

XVIII

Vol. II 1–21 21–39 39–57 57–77 77–99

LXIII LXI LXII XLIX LXIV

99–122

LXV

122–45 145–67 167–82 182– 206 206–18 219–42 242–63 263–88 288– 305 305–18 318–36

LXXVI LXXI LXIX LXVI

Joseph

37 500

Departed and Resurrection XXXVI, PO 34, I XXXIV, PO 34, II XXXV, PO 34, III XXIX, PO 34, IV XXXVII, PO 34, V XXXVIII, PO 34, VI Frishman 1 Frishman 2 XL XXXIX

Creation I Creation II25 Creation III Creation IV Creation V

Enoch and Elijah26 Flood Job Soul27

LXXXI XIII XIV XV XVI

VII VIII IX XVI

John 1:1428 Supplication Jonah Reproof Human Nature29

XXX XXXIII

Siman 2

Palm Sunday Prodigal Son

Creation VI

On this homily see N. Sed, “Notes sur l’homélie 34 de Narsai,” L’Orient Syrien 10 (1965), pp.pp.511–24, and T. Jansma, “Études sur la pensée de Narsai; l’homélie no. 34: Essai d’interprétation,” L’Orient Syrien 11 (1966), pp.147–68, 265–90, 393–430. 26 An excerpt is given in Manna, I, pp.228–35. On this homily see J. Frishman, “The style and composition of Narsai’s Hom. 76,” in V Symposium Syriacum (OCA 236; 1990), pp.285–97. 27 The text is also given in Manna, I, pp.247–74. GT by A. Allgeier in Archiv für Religionswissenschaft 21 (1922), pp.364–93, and partial FT by P. Krüger in L’Orient Syrien 4 (1959), pp.200–4 (= Mingana II, pp.249–54). 28 Cf. J. Frishman, “Narsai’s christology according to his Homily on The Word became flesh,” The Harp 8/9 (1995/6), pp.289–303. 29 Also in Hudra I, pp.411–23 and Brev. Chald. I, pp.468*–79*. 25

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336–7 (Soghitha, Tawdi l-Taba)30 337–55 XXII 355–68 369–93 393–414

XLII XLIV LXXII

XXV XXVI XLII

414–39 439–55 455–71 471–90 490–505

LIV LV LVII LVIII LX

XXX Frishman 6 Frishman 5 XXXI XXXIII

505–22

LIX

XXXII

522–39

LXVIII

XLV

539–78

LII

XXIII

578–96 596–617 617–34 635–54

L XIX XXXIX LXXIX

XXII XLVI

Temptation of Christ Martyrs31 New Sunday Miracles of Moses Cross32 Bronze Serpent Tabernacle Isaiah’s Vision33 Dedication of Church34 Church and Priesthood35 Reproof of Clergy Second Coming36 Humility Works Baptism37 Reproof

30 ET in Maclean, East Syrian Daily Offices (London, 1894), repr. 1969, 161–2, and by Brock, in Journal of Assyrian Academic Studies 18:1 (2004), pp.41–2. This teshbohta also features as a sughitho in the Maronite Shehimto (at Sunday, Lilyo). 31 GT by P. Krüger, in L’Orient Syrien 3 (1958), pp.304–16. 32 On this homily, see L. Abramowski, “Narsai (c.415?-502), Hom. LIV (30), ‘unser König Jesus Christus, der gekreuzigte Mann’,” in P. Gemeinhart and U. Kühneweg (eds), Patristica et Oecumenica. Festschrift für W. A. Bienart (Marburg, 2004), pp.157–66. 33 ET in T. Kuzhuppil, The Vision of the Prophet Isaiah. A Theological Study of Narsai’s Interpretation of Isaiah 6 (Diss. Rome, 2006), pp.171–89. 34 GT by A. Allgeier in Der Katholik 1917, pp.151–63. An excerpt of the text is given in Manna, I, pp.240–47. 35 ET in Connolly, pp.62–74; see also Ratcliff, “A note on the Anaphoras.” [see note 19, above]. 36 Latin translation by E. Delly in Divinitas 3 (1959), pp.514–53. 37 ET in Connolly, pp.33–45; FT by A. Guillaumont in L’Orient Syrien 1 (1956), pp.190–207. Text and Arabic translation in Qala Suryaya (Baghdad) 32/3 (1983/4), pp.16–61.

A Guide to Narsai’s Homilies 654–78

XII

VI

679–99 699–716 716–35

XXIV XXVII LXVII

XII XV, Siman 1 Frishman 3

735–56 756–73 773–96 796–812 812–30

LXVIII LXXIII LXXIV LXXV LXXX

Frishman 4 LXIII

830–50 850–72

XXV XLVIII

872–86

LIII

XIII XXVIII, Siman 3 Siman 5

XLVII

39 Iniquity of the World Lent IV Ten Virgins38 Blessings of Noah Tower of Babel Sampson David and Saul Solomon Reproof of Women39 Reproof40 Dives and Lazarus41 Wheat and Tares

In conclusion, it may be helpful to indicate those memre in the List which are absent from Patriarchal Press edition: III Revelation to Abraham (= ed. Mingana, Hom. III). XXIII Lent III (= ed. Mingana, Hom. XI) . XXVI Lent V (= ed. Mingana, Hom. XIV). XXXV Mysteries (= ed. Mingana Hom. XVII).42 XLIII Confessors and Martyrs (= Jacob of Serugh, Hom. 56). 38 Italian translation by M. Nin, Narsai di Edessa, L’Olio della misericordia (Testi dei Padri della Chiesa 29; Monastero di Bose, 1997). 39 ET in C. Molenberg, “Narsai’s memra on the reproof of Eve’s daughters and ‘tricks and devices’ they perform,” Le Muséon 106 (1993), pp.65–87. 40 Cf. C. Molenberg, “As if from another world. Narsai’s memra “Bad is the time,” in H. L. J. Vanstiphout (ed.), All those Nations ... Cultural Encounters within and with the Near East. Studies presented to Han Drijvers (Groningen, 1999), pp.95–100. 41 Also ed. with FT in Siman, pp.40–60. 42 ET in Connolly, pp. 1–32; FT by Ph. Gignoux in L’Initiation chrétienne (Paris, 1963), pp.214–47. Part of the text is given in KP, pp.23–8. On the basis of linguistic usage this Homily must date from slightly later than Narsai’s time; see S. P. Brock, “Diachronic aspects of Syriac word formation,” in R. Lavenant (ed.), V Symposium Syriacum (OCA 236; 1990), pp.321–30, esp. 327–8, and L. Abramowski, “Die liturgische Homilie des Ps. Narses mit dem Messbekenntnis und einem Theodor-Zitat,”, in J. F. Coakley and K. Parry (eds), The Church of the East: Life and Thought (= Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 78:3 (1996), pp.87–100.

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XLVII Workers in Vineyard (= Siman, no. 4). And those memre which have not yet been published at all: XVII Saint’s day XXXII Canaanite woman LI Antichrist

Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies, Vol. 12.1, 41-115 © 2009 by Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute and Gorgias Press

RESEARCH ON THE OLD SYRIAC HERITAGE OF THE PESHITTA GOSPELS A COLLATION OF MS BIBL. NATIONALE SYR. 30 (PARIS) ANDREAS JUCKEL Institut fuer neutestamentliche Textforschung Pferdegasse 1, 48143 Muenster University of Muenster

ABSTRACT The article discusses the genetic relation between the Old Syriac and the Peshitta. It recalls M. Black’s conjecture of a ‘Pre-Peshitta’ and reflects on the Old Syriac heritage of the Peshitta as a starting point for tracing the early history of the traditional Peshitta text. A collation of the late Peshitta codex Ms BN syr. 30 and comparison with the early Codex Phillipps 1388 offer surprising information about the extent and development of the Old Syriac heritage in the early and late history of the Peshitta.

1. HISTORY OF RESEARCH For the first time variants of the Peshitta textual tradition were genetically linked with the Old Syriac1 by A. Allgeier (1882–1952) 1 There is a double meaning of the term ‘Old Syriac’ in scholarship. The more special meaning refers to the two Old Syriac manuscripts (the

41

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in his article2 on Codex Phillipps 1388 of the Staatsbibliothek at Berlin (1932). Allgeier compared this codex with the Tetraeuangelium sanctum prepared by Ph. E. Pusey and G. H. Gwilliam (1901). The result was a total of ca. 340 variants, among which ca. 70 ‘Sonderlesarten’ are of special importance by their almost exclusive relation to the Sinaitic palimpsest (Ms Sin. Syr. 30, ‘S’).3 Unfortunately, two variants only were discussed in order to set out the genetic relation between the codex and the Old Syriac in some detail. Allgeier’s point was to demonstrate by these two sample variants that Codex Phillipps is linked to the Old Syriac by intermediate readings, which reflect a development of the Old Syriac towards the Peshitta. Although a finding highly significant for the history of the Syriac New Testament, the poor presentation of the collation and the choice of two samples only disguised the significance rather than demonstrated it.4 Especially the neglect of reliable quantitative information about the total and partial agreement between the two Old Syriac manuscripts, Codex

‘Sinaitic’ and the ‘Curetonian’, labelled S and C); the broader meaning to the ante-Peshitta Four-Gospel-text of the New Testament in general. In the present article the term ‘Old Syriac heritage’ strictly refers to Peshitta variants and their relation to the Old Syriac manuscripts S and C. 2 A. Allgeier, ‘Cod. Phillipps 1388 in Berlin und seine Bedeutung für die Geschichte der Pešitta’, Oriens Christianus 7 (3rd series), 1932, 1–15. 3 However, three thirds of the variants are orthographica and the ca. 70 ‘Sonderlesarten’ are neither marked nor discussed. As my own re-collation of the same codex against the same printed edition resulted in 387 variants without orthographica (see below in note 27), Allgeier’s collation seems to be selective or defective. 4 In the last paragraph of his article Allgeier outlined the significance of his finding: ‘Die vorstehenden Untersuchungen drängen dahin, die syrische Textüberlieferung für sich einer neuen Prüfung zu unterziehen, die darauf auszugehen hätte, die innersyrischen Verhältnisse, welche zwischen Sys und Syc einerseits und den verschiedenen Pešitta–Hss. im engeren Sinne obwalten, herauszustellen. Wenn die Eigenart der drei Zeugen bzw. der Zeugengruppen in den Evangelien klarer gestellt ist, als es bis jetzt der Fall ist, lässt sich hoffen, dass auch Maßstäbe gefunden werden, welche gestatten, über den Sprach- und Übersetzungscharakter der übrigen biblischen Bücher, die in der Pešitta vereinigt sind, sicherer zu urteilen. Mit einem solchen Maßstab, wie ihn auf dem Gebiet der lateinischen Übersetzungen der terminologische Vergleich zwischen Hieronymus und den Altlateinern an die Hand gibt, wird es erst möglich werden, mit Bestimmtheit älteres und jüngeres Gut als solches zu erkennen’ (15).

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Phillipps, and other Peshitta manuscripts reduced Allgeier’s finding to a curiosity of a single Peshitta manuscript.5 The significance of Codex Phillipps was rediscovered and introduced into a broader scholarly discussion by M. Black (1908– 1994). He realized that Codex Phillipps is not a single curious manuscript but rather a typical early Peshitta manuscript, which reflects a general feature of the Peshitta Gospel tradition by its genetic relation to the Old Syriac. This conclusion Black drew from the textual material stored in the Tetraeuangelium sanctum (1901), the text and apparatus of which are built upon 42 manuscripts, most of them of the 5th/8th century. He pointed to the fact that by genetic variants and agreement with the two Old Syriac Gospel manuscripts a good number of witnesses quoted in the Tetraeuangelium are related to the Old Syriac in the same way as Codex Phillipps is related to the earlier Syriac version.6 To trace the relation between single Peshitta manuscripts and the Old Syriac in greater detail, Black provided preliminary quantitative information from the Tetraeuangelium by quoting a considerable number of variants related to or identical with the Old Syriac.7 From this evidence he concluded that the Tetraeuangelium gives the latest Peshitta text by the majority vote of the manuscripts and by relegating the remnants of the earlier version to the apparatus; and that the view of a fixed early Peshitta text without development and history (Gwilliam, Burkitt) is to be abandoned.8 Although 5 H. G. Gwilliam did not really collate Codex Phillipps for inclusion in the Terraeuangelium sanctum (ms no. 41), but relied on a partial collation (Mk ch. 1–4, Jn) sent to him by E. Sachau. Therefore in the 20th century Allgeier’s article remained the major source of information about the textual profile of this codex. 6 M. Black, ‘The Text of the Peshitta Tetraeuangelium’, in Studia Paulina … (1953) 20–27, esp. p. 23–26. 7 Black singled out two codices (Ms Dawkins 3/Bodleian Library, Oxford, and Ms Vat. syr. 12) by their ‘not unsubstantial Old Syriac element’, and continued: ‘To what extent this Old Syriac element is distributed in the rest of Gwilliam’s codices remains to be determined. From a rough preliminary estimate I would say that it was not shared to any great extent by more than a dozen codices; the majority of Gwilliam’s manuscripts being relatively free of it―except of course in those places where all Peshitta MSS have inherited an Old Syriac reading’ (ibidem, 26). 8 ‘There are two conclusions which may be drawn even from this preliminary survey: (1) In the light of such evidence that the Peshitta text had a historical development with its Old Syriac basis more clearly discernible in some codices than in others, we can scarcely regard the Gwilliam text as representing the Peshitta Tetraeuangelium in its oldest

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preliminary by character and based on the limited evidence drawn from a printed edition,9 Black’s research opened a perspective on the history of the early Peshitta text by proving the existence of an Old Syriac non-majority heritage besides the known agreements of the majority Peshitta text with the Old Syriac. For the first time a development of the Peshitta text was taken into consideration and traceable in the Peshitta manuscripts themselves. The revisional relation as such between the Old Syriac and the Peshitta, which is unmistakably reflected by the Peshitta majority text,10 was not the point of Allgeier’s and Black’s findings; what they discovered was the genetic character of this relation, and the non-majority Old Syriac heritage as the starting point for research on this relation. Agreement and disagreement with the Old Syriac show the Peshitta in tension between old and new, drawn by the irresistible gravitation of the Greek, held back by the tenacity of earlier (textual) tradition. Future research will have to trace the revisional development by determining the non-majority Old Syriac heritage of single Peshitta maniscripts11 in order to receive reliable extant form. (…) Gwilliam’s method appears to have been to determine his text by a majority vote of his manuscripts; it is not surprising to find again and again that it is his predecessors who show the oldest form of text, in readings agreeing with the Old Syriac and relegated to the apparatus criticus in the Gwilliam edition. Gwilliam has in fact given us the latest not the earliest text of the Peshitta Tertraeuangelium. (2) The existence of such Old Syriac variae lectiones disposes of the textual myth of a fixed Peshitta New Testament text, with little or no internal evidence of variants to shed light on its development and history. It is true these variations may prove on a final count and estimate to be “considerably less important than those exhibited by the better MSS of the Latin Vulgate” [F. C. Burkitt, Evangelion da-Mepharreshe, vol. 2, p. 2]. But they are certainly by no means so rare or unimportant as Burkitt maintained; and they are sufficient both in character, affinities and number to show on internal grounds that the history of the Peshitta has been no different from that of other ecclesiastical texts’ (ibidem, 26). 9 On the limitations of the Tetraeuangelium in representing the textual material of 42 codices, see my Introduction to the reprint published by Gorgias Press in 2003. 10 Every page in the Comparative Edition of the Syriac Gospels ed. by George A. Kiraz (1996) reflects the genetic relation. 11 ‘So long as we know practically nothing, therefore, about the relation of other [than Cod. Phillipps] Peshitta codices to S and C, judgement must be suspended on the claims which Allgeier makes for Phillipps as a unique Peshitta MS. The next step in the investigation must be the collation of other Peshitta MSS. with the two Old Syriac codices,

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quantitative information about its extent (i.e. about its presence and absence) in the preserved manuscripts.

2. THE ‘PRE-PESHITTA’ Black himself did not continue research on the Old Syriac heritage of single Peshitta manuscripts. However, in dispute with A. Vööbus (1912–1988), he developed his theory of a ‘Pre-Peshitta’,12 which he considered to be a revised text of the Old Syriac, not identical with the definite (‘received’) Peshitta text but still furnished with a substantial Old Syriac element. This ‘Pre-Peshitta’ Black fixed in time and space by ascribing it to Rabbula, bishop of Edessa (411–435),13 thus modifying the influential hypothesis of F. C. Burkitt (1864–1935) on the Rabbulan authorship, which assigned the definite Peshitta to the Edessene bishop and maintained its exclusive use since the early fifth century.14 Black’s modification of Burkitt’s hypothesis took into consideration the materials A. Vööbus produced for the refusal of the Rabbulan authorship.15 These materials proved the continued influence of the Old Syriac version in the time after Rabbula and undermined the

with a view to determining the extent of their agreement against the traditional Peshitta text’ (ibidem, 23). 12 M. Black, ‘Zur Geschichte des syrischen Evangelientextes’, Theologische Literaturzeitung 77 (1952) 705–710; ‘The New Testament Peshitta and its Predecessors’, Bulletin of Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas 1 (1950) 51–62; ‛The Syriac Versional Tradition’, in: K. Aland (ed.), Die alten Übersetzungen des Neuen Testaments ... (Berlin-New York, 1972), 120–159. 13 M. Black, ‘Rabbula of Edessa and the Peshitta’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 33 (1950–51) 203–210. ‘I suggest that the true explanation of this mixed Peshitta–Old Syriac text or influence in CyrS [= Rabbula’s Syriac translation of Cyril’s treatise De recta fide] is that, in fact, Rabbula is drawing throughout on his revision of the Syriac Gospels but that Rabbula’s Syriac Vulgate was not identical textually with our Peshitta, but still contained a not unsubstantial Old Syriac element. His revision was a kind of half-way house between the Old Syriac represented by S and C and the final and definitive form of the Syriac Vulgate which has come down to us.’ (209). 14 F. C. Burkitt, Evangelion da-Mepharreshe … vol. 2 (Cambridge, 1904), 160–65. 15 A. Vööbus, Studies in the History of the Gospel Text in Syriac I [CSCO 128/subs. 3]. Louvain, 1951; Early Versions of the New Testament. Manuscript Studies [Papers of the Estonian Theological Society in Exile, vol. 6]. Stockholm, 1954, 73–103.

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view of a sudden and thorough replacement of the earlier version.16 It was the mixed type of Peshitta–Old Syriac text in the biblical quotations of the 5th/6th-century Syrian authors17 that stimulated the modification of Burkitt’s hypothesis by the conjecture of a ‘PrePeshitta’ ascribed to Rabbula. Black knew well about the impossibility to prove the historicity of this authorship, but he maintained it for the reason of historical plausibility: The rapid spread of the revised Separate Gospels on the expense of the Diatessaron since the early 5th century implied an ‘authorship’ and ecclesiastical authority behind the introduction of the revised text. Black also assigned an ecclesiastical background to the further revision of the Peshitta. He suggested the Christological controversies to be the catalytic factor behind the process of fixing the text shortly before the definite split of the Syrians into an Eastern and Western branch took place.18 The conjecture of a ‘Pre-Peshitta’ with a still substantial Old Syriac element can be taken as a model for explaining the Old Syriac heritage of the Peshitta Gospels and its reduction in the course of subsequent revision. However, it is a conjecture, which calls for verification by future research. With the exception of A. Vööbus’ criticism,19 no comments on Black’s conjecture were ‘Before Rabbula, no trace of the Peshitta; after Rabbula, hardly a trace of any other text!’ (Burkitt, Evangelion da-Mepharreshe … vol. 2, p. 161). 17 M. Black, ‘The Gospel Text of Jacob of Serug’, The Journal of Theological Studies N. S. 11 (1951) 57–63. 18 ‛In 489 A.D., by decree of the Byzantine Emperor Zeno, the famous Persian School of Edessa, from which the earlier revision almost certainly came, was finally closed, and its expelled Nestorian doctors, among them the notorious Barsauma, established, or rather revived, the rival School at Nisibis. It is to this that we probably owe the remarkable circumstance that both Jacobites and Nestorians have an identical Peshitta text. The text must have been finally fixed before 489 A. D., and no doubt the Chrisological controversies contributed to the process of fixing it, as the demand for an exact Scriptural authority in Syriac became urgent’ (‘The New Testament Peshitta and its Predecessors’ … 62). 19 A. Vööbus, Studies in the History of the Gospel Text in Syriac I [CSCO 128/subs. 3]. Louvain, 1951, p. 63. ― Vööbus’s criticism of Black’s view suffers from his own misconception of the Old Syriac. For him every text different from the Peshitta is qualified as Old Syriac, without considering seriously the distortion of quotations by the quoting author. Black observed this misconception: ‘We must be careful, however, in assessing this new evidence [of Old Syriac readings quoted in late authors] not to fall into the opposite mistake from that of Burkitt, and begin to see, 16

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offered. Even the handbooks20 on the early versions of the New Testament remained silent. This is surprising, as it was already put to some test by Allgeier and Black himself and was open to research. In spite of Black’s programmatic words (quoted in note 11), this research was never carried out. Due to the restrictions of the materials stored in the Tetraeuangelium, Black’s preliminary estimate of the Old Syriac heritage in the early Peshitta manuscripts (quoted in note 7) is much too pessimistic. Fuller collations of the codices used by Pusey and Gwilliam added new information to our knowledge of the Old Syriac heritage. And additional materials were collected more than twenty years ago in a contribution completely devoted to the Old Syriac heritage of the Peshitta Gospels by A. Vööbus (1987).21 The book is a guide to the manuscripts which presents ca. 30 Gospel codices and lectionaries of the first and second millennium with sample collations to give an idea about their Old Syriac heritage; 36 additional manuscripts are listed without samples. Intended to promote Vööbus’s own view of the unbroken vitality of the Old Syriac during the first millennium, the role of these (mainly late) manuscripts in the history of the Gospel text is still unknown; whether they really serve Vööbus’s case, a re-examination will have to show (the present article is devoted to one of these later codices).

3. THE EDITORIAL PERSPECTIVE The actual reason to revive the conjecture of a ‘Pre-Peshitta’ is the new edition of the Peshitta Gospels, which is produced by the instead of the Peshitta, the older Syriac versions everywhere; and there may be other explanations of the facts. What we require is not a long list of Old Syriac readings in fifth century Fathers, but, at any rate as a preliminary approach to the problem, a study of the quotations of one representative Syriac writer of that century, in which a careful attention will be paid to the agreement of quotations with the Peshitta as Vööbus has given to disagreements’ (‘The New Testament Peshitta and its Predecessors’ … 55). 20 A. Vööbus, Early Versions of the New Testament. Manuscript Studies [Papers of the Estonian Theological Society in Exile, vol. 6]. Stockholm, 1954, 88–103; B. M. Metzger, The Early Versions of the New Testament. Their Origin, Transmission and Limitations. Oxford, 1977, 48–63 (but see p. 60). ― The ‘Pre-Peshitta’ is mentioned in K. Aland & B. Aland, The Text of the New Testament (transl. by E. F. Rhodes). Grand Rapids/Leiden, 1987, p. 193. 21 A. Vööbus, Studies in the History of the Gospel Text in Syriac II [CSCO 496/subs. 79] Louvain, 1987.

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present writer (University of Muenster) in cooperation with George A. Kiraz (Beth Mardutho/The Syriac Institute, Piscataway-NJ).22 The editorial policy of this edition is directed by the genetic relation between the Peshitta and the Old Syriac and by the revisional development of the Peshitta itself, including the ‘pre-masoretic’ text and its standardization according to an Eastern and Western ‘masoretic’ tradition. This policy requires not an improved remake of the Pusey/Gwilliam edition, but a comparative edition of the Old Syriac and the Peshitta, i.e. the aligned texts of the Sinaitic palimpsest (S), the Curetonian manuscript (C), and the Peshitta. The distinction between majority text and non-majority text (the basic feature of the Pusey/Gwilliam volume) is indispensable to be reproduced. However, the non-majority part of the Peshitta will not be presented in an apparatus but aligned with S, C, and P according to the presumed place of the Peshitta variants in the history of the version.23 Variants reflecting the Old Syriac heritage and the genetic development towards the definite Peshitta are aligned between S/C and P; all other variants are aligned below the Peshitta line. The purpose of this ‘aligned apparatus’ is not the reconstruction of the ‘Pre-Peshitta’ but to present the relevant materials for judgement; the editors believe that this is the best way to let the variants tell their story, whatever their story is. The advantage of presenting the Peshitta variants aligned with S/C and the Peshitta majority text is threefold: Firstly, the variants can be read synchronically and diachronically in context and show their identity or similarity with the Old Syriac. This is an essential condition for sound judgement on their genetic significance. Isolated in a traditional apparatus criticus their genetic significance is invisible or eliminated by quantitative considerations.24 Secondly, the alignment of the Peshitta variants is an essential condition for recognizing readings in-between the Old Syriac and the traditional We hope to present some pages of a sample edition soon. The first volume will be the Gospel of John. 23 This is the general principle of presenting the Peshitta variants, which derives from the model of the Comparative Edition of the Syriac Gospels published by George A. Kiraz (1996). Special problems connected with the presentation of an ‘aligned apparatus’ (e.g. how to quote the manuscript attestation of the variants) I cannot discuss here. 24 Such is B. M. Metzger’s statement on the (in)significance of the Peshitta variants, which is based on the Pusey/Gwilliam volume: ‘A remarkable accord exists among the manuscripts of every age, there being on the average scarcely more than one important variant per chapter’ (The Early Versions of the New Testament … p. 49). 22

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

49

Peshitta, i.e. genetic variants in the proper sense. These readings are identical with neither version but by their revisional relation to both reflect an intermediate stage between the Old Syriac and the traditional Peshitta.25 Thirdly, the aligned Peshitta variants show the shift from the 5th/6th-cent. ‘pre-masoretic’ text of the Gospels to the ‘masoretic’ Eastern and Western standards, which both came into existence in the 7th century.26 Thus the comparative alignment will display the textual material of the Peshitta from the beginning in the early 5th century until the standardization in the 7th century.

4. THE GOSPEL MANUSCRIPTS Systematic research on the Old Syriac heritage of the early Peshitta text by the present writer started with a re-collation of Codex Phillips 1388.27 Allgeier’s earlier collation (1932) proved to be far from being complete, and by no means replaced the poor representation of the codex in the Tetraeuangelium (1901), where it is quoted (as no. 41) for Mk ch. 1–4 and Jn only. The purpose of publishing the re-collation of Codex Phillipps was to provide a sample for the systematic presentation and discussion of an important early Gospel codex. The recollation was a comparative collation which included the Old Syriac, and gave quantitative information about the entanglement of Codex Phillipps with S and C and other Peshitta manuscripts. The editors of the Tetraeuangelium paved the way for such a systematic study by their editorial policy to produce a majority text (based on 42 manuscripts), which allows scholars to trace the non-majority part of a Gospl codex by a simple collation. As the age of the manuscript is crucial for tracing the history of the early Peshitta text, the Gospel manuscripts in the Tetraeuangelium offer a convenient starting point. Most of these 42 manucripts derive from the ‘Nitrian Collection’ in the British Library28 and The two sample variants Allgeier discussed are of such intermediate character. 26 On the ‘pre-masoretic’ and ‘masoretic’ texts of the Syriac Bible see A. Juckel, ‛The “Syriac Masora” and the New Testament Peshitta’, in Bas ter Haar Romeny (ed.), The Peshitta: Its Use in Literature and Liturgy. Papers Read at the Third Peshitta Symposium [Monographs of the Peshitta Institute Leiden, vol. 15]. Leiden, 2006, 107–21. 27 A. Juckel, ‘A Re-examination of Codex Phillipps 1388’, Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 6:1 (2003). 28 On the acquisition of the ‘Nitrian Collection’ see W. Wright, Catalogue of the Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum, vol. 3 (London, 1872/Piscataway, 2004), i–xxxiv (preface). 25

50

Andreas Juckel

originate from the 5th/8th century. However, a re-collation of these manuscripts is necessary to fill the gaps and to check the variants already quoted in the Tetraeuangelium. By additional manuscripts of the first millennium29 the new Gospel edition finally will be based on ca. 50 witnesses. Lectionaries and ‘masoretic’ manuscripts are excluded; they have a textual tradition (and variants) of their own and should be examined separately. A comparative collation with the Pusey/Gwilliam majority text30 will have to trace the nonmajority part of the manuscripts and to quote the agreements with S and/or C. Once these collations are done, the quantitative proportion of the Old Syriac heritage will be known including its distribution in the single manuscripts. Whether the textual facts will reflect substantial portions of a Peshitta earlier than the traditional text, we will have to decide then. A serious question is whether to include Gospel codices of the second millennium. Volume two of Vööbus’s Studies in the History of the Gospel Text in Syriac (1987) implies an affirmative answer and is a challenge for the current Gospel project. To reject this challenge by quantitative considerations is not advisable. Surely, ca. fifty Tetraeuangelia of the first millennium are a sufficient quantity and will take a considerable time for collation; however, as the Old Syriac heritage is not expected to be abundandly attested by these codices but rather to be faded out by revision, support by later manuscripts could be welcome or even necessary. To collect information about the late history of the Peshitta Gospel text and the Old Syriac heritage, some codices of the second millennium have to be collated and compared with Codex Phillipps and the materials stored in the Pusey/Gwilliam volume. It is the main purpose of the present article to present and discuss the variants of such a late Gospel codex. Inspired by Vööbus’s book, Ms Bibliothèque Nationale syr. 30 was chosen. According to Vööbus, ‘the complexion of the text in this manuscript displays a Vetus Syra character for surpassing any other known textual source. It leaves Ms. Berlin Phillipps 1388 in the dust. That the text follows

29 Among them are Mss Sin. syr. 2 (5th/6th), 11 (8th/9th), 17 (8th/9th), 54 (7th/8th); Ming. syr. 103 (8th/9th); Sachau 3 (8th/9th); Pierpont Morgan Library Ms 236 (749/50 AD); Mss Bibl. Nat. (Paris) syr. 296 (5th/6th), 342 (893/94 AD) and 361 (7th/8th); Vat. Syr. 13 (736 AD), 266 (9th/10th); Ms Syr.-Orthod. Patriarchate 12/1 (7th/8th). The approximate dates are mine. 30 In fact the comparative (re)collation is based on George A. Kiraz’s Comparative Edition of the Syriac Gospels, which adopted the Pusey/Gwilliam majority text for the Peshitta line.

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

51

pathways peculiar to itself is illustrated by more than eight hundred variant readings.’31

5. MS BIBLIOTHÈQUE NATIONALE SYR. 30 Ms syr. 30 of the National Library at Paris is a parchment codex of the New Testament according to the Peshitta canon.32 There is a total of 246 pages (27x19 cm), the text is written in two columns of 32–36 lines. There are three pictures on fols. 10v (cross), 245r (cross), 246r (the ascension of the Lord).33 According to its late Estrangela, this undated codex originates from the beginning of the 2nd millennium (11th/12th cent.). It is likely to be written by the same scribe as Ms syr. 41 of the same library, who died in Teshrin II 1506 A. Gr. (= Oct. 1194 A. D.)34 According to a note on fol. 244r the codex was bought by the monks and priests Lo‛zor and Gabriel from the village of Urdnos in 1509 A. Gr. (= 1197/98 A. D.). Lacunae in the Gospels (cf the collation): Between fols. 23/24 Mt xii,48–xiii,31 (xiii,28–30 are supplemented by a later hand in the lower margin of fol. 24); between fols. 92/93: Lk xxii,19–53. Minor losses by folio defects are Mt xxi,25–28/32–34 (fol. 33r); Mt xxi,40–42/46–xxii,6 (fol. 33v). Text: fols. 1–9 lesson tables; Mt 11v–43v, Mk 44v–63r, Lk 64r– 96v, Jn 97v–124v; Acts 125v–164r; Jas 164r–167v, 1Pet 168r– 172r, 1Jn 172r–175v; Pls 176r–243v (complete); no colophone, but on fol. 244r the owner’s note.

31 A. Vööbus, Studies in the History of the Gospel Text in Syriac II [CSCO 496/subs. 79] Louvain, 1987, p. 43. Vööbus’s count obviously includes the orthographica. 32 H. Zotenberg, Manuscrits orientaux. Cataloge des manuscrits syriaques et sabéens (mandaïtes) de la Bibliothèque National (Paris, 1874) p. 12. — At the beginning of the codex is a hand-written note by H. Zotenberg: ‘Ce ms. a été rapporté d’Orient par Paul Lucas, en 1718. H. Z.’ Paul Lucas (1664– 1734) was a French physician and antiquarian, who travelled in Greece, Turkey, and Egypt. 33 J. Leroy, Les manuscrits syriaques à peintures conservés dans les bibliothèques d’ Europe et d’ Orient. Contribution à l’étude de l’ iconographie de langue syriaque, vol. 1 (Paris, 1964), 256–57. 34 F. Nau, ‘Corrections et additions au catalogue des manuscrits syriaques de Paris’, Journal Asiatique 5 (11e série) 1915, 489–536, esp. 501– 03.

52

Andreas Juckel

6. THE COLLATION OF MS BIBLIOTHÈQUE NATIONALE SYR. 30 Sigla PGw

= Tetraeuangelium Sanctum … ed. by Ph.E. Pusey and G. H. Gwilliam (Oxford 1901/Piscataway 2003). The numerals (1.2.3. … 42) of the manuscripts are retained and added (in blue) to the readings where appropriate. The readings of manuscript no. 39 are taken from the collation published by W. Strothmann, Das Wolfenbuetteler Tetraevangelium Syriacum. Lesarten und Lesungen (Wiesbaden 1971); the quotations of manuscript no. 41 (Codex Phillipps 1388) are based on the collation published in Hugoye vol. vi,1 (January 2003); manuscript no. 32 is quoted from a re-collation undertaken by the present writer.

Bn

= Ms syr. 30 of the National Library at Paris (Bibliothèque Nationale). My collation is based on the manuscript itself (January 2003).

S

= the Sinaitic manuscript (Sin. syr. 30), ed. by A. Smith Lewis (London 1910).

C

= the Curetonian manuscript (BrL Add. 14,451 and three leaves of Ms or. quart. 528 of the Staatsbibliothek, Berlin), ed. by F.C. Burkitt (Cambridge 1904/Piscataway 2003). ― S and C alongside with the Peshitta are conveniently set out by George A. Kiraz in his Comparative Edition of the Syriac Gospels. Aligning the Sinaiticus, Curetonianus, Peshîttâ and Harklean Versions (Leiden 1996/ Piscataway 32004). This Comparative Edition also includes the single folio of C (Lk xvi,13–xvii,1) published by D.L. McConaughy in Biblica 68 (1987) 85– 88.

H

= The Harklean Version of the Gospels according to Ms Vat.syr.268 (ed. by George A. Kiraz in his Comparative Edition). For diacritical points (which are omitted in the Comparative Edition) the Ms Vat. syr. 268 was consulted.

(S)

Sigla in brackets notify minor differences from the variant reading they are refering to. Abbreviations: add(ed), Aster(isked word in the Harklean), codd = codices, cor(rector), ex err(ore), om(itted), illeg(ible),

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

53

lac(una), sey(ome), suppl(emented), tr(ansposed), (ut) vid(etur), v(aria) l(ectio), * = original reading ― Bold book/chapter/ verse numbers = variants of Bn supported by the ‘Old Syriac’ (S and/or C) only, not by Peshitta-Mss; in few of these cases H agrees with S and/or C; italics = variants of Bn not supported by the ‘Old Syriac’, Peshitta–mss or the Harklean; underlined = agreement between Bn and the Harklean only. → Greek: gives the Greek background of the text under consideration; if the Greek is found in the apparatus of the Greek edition, “(v. l.)” is added. The Greek text used is the Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum, ed. K. Aland (15th revised edition). Stuttgart, 2001. Mt xv,7 • The dot indicates a harmonistic reading in Bn. → Lk vi,42 the variant of Bn (in Mt vii,5) is a harmonistic variant taken from the Peshitta of Lk vi,42; → cf Mt xxvi,59 The variant of Bn (in Mk xiv,56) is assimilated to or harmonistically influenced by the Peshitta of Mt xxvi,59. The Gospel of Matthew

‫ܬܐ‬ ‫ܒ ܐ ܘܬܘ ܐ ܕܬ‬ ‫ܒܐܘ ܐܐ܆ ܐܒܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܘ‬ .‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܐ‬ .‫ܐ‬ ‫ܘܒ ܐ ܘܪܘ ܐ‬ ‫ܕ ܘܒ‬ .‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܗܘܢ ܕ‬ ‫ܒܐ ܕܕ ܐܬ ܐ ܬܐ܇‬

Inscr.

]

1.

Mt ii,9

SPGw H

2.

Mt ii,9

PGw ‫ܘܗܝ‬

3.

Mt ii,15

‫ ܘ‬C Bn 2.12.40

‫ ]ܕܐ‬add ‫ ܗܘܐ‬H Bn 2.12.40 ¦ ‫ ܕܬ ܗܘܐ‬SC ̇ ‫ ܕܐ ]ܕܐ‬Bncor 2.11.12.32 ¦ PGw H Bn* ̣ no diacr. point SC

4.

Mt ii,23

PGw ‫ ܘ‬SC

‫ܐ ]ܐ‬

‫ ܐ‬H Bn ¦ diff. constr. with

54

Andreas Juckel

5.

Mt iii,4 •

PGw Bncor ̣ ‫]ܘܐ‬ om H → Mk i,6

6.

Mt iii,6

PGw Bncor H ‫ܗܘܘ‬ ‫ ]ܘ‬om Bn* ¦ diff. constr. SC → Greek: Mk i,5: kaˆ ™bat…zonto Øp’ aÙtoà

7.

Mt iii,10

PGw ‫ܪܐ‬ 10.19 ¦

‫̇ ]ܘ ̇ ܒ‬ ܿ ‫ܐܙܠ‬ ‫ܘ ܪܐ‬

‫ܪ ܐ‬

H

̈ ] ̈ ‫ܐ‬H

8.

Mt iv,2

SCPGw

9.

Mt iv,3

(S)CPGw ‫ܐ‬ ¥rtoi gšnwntai

10.

Mt iv,4

PGw H 39.40

11.

Mt iv,4

CPGw ‫ܐ‬

12.

Mt iv,10 •

PGw

‫̈ܐ‬

‫ܪܟ‬

‫ܗܘܐ‬

‫ܘܐ‬

‫ ܘܒ ܪܐ‬S Bn C ¦ ‫ܘܒ ܪܐ‬

‫ܐ‬ ̈‫] ܘ‬

SC Bn* ¦

Bn 7.12.25.32 ¦

tr H Bn → Greek:

] add ‫ ܗܘ‬SC Bn 2.10.11.13.22. ̇]‫ܐ ܐ‬

SH Bn

‫]ܙܠ‬

add ‫ܪܝ‬ ‫ ܒ‬CH Bn ¦ add S → Greek: Ûpage + Ñp…sw mou

‫ܒ‬

(v. l.); → Mt xvi,23; Mk viii,33 13.

Mt iv,18

PGw

‫̈ ܬܐ‬ ‫ܬܗܘܢ‬

] ‫̈ ܬܗܘܢ‬ C Bn ¦ S ¦ ‫ܬܐ‬ H → cf Mt iv,21

14.

Mt iv,21

SPGw(H) ‫ܢ‬ 7.12.19.32

‫]ܘ ̣ ܐ ܐ‬

15.

Mt iv,23

CPGw ‫ܐ‬ 32

16.

Mt v,19 •

‫ܐ ]ܒ ܐ‬ 19b: ‫ܗ ܐ ܪܒܐ‬

17.

Mt v,20

SCPGw ‫]ܬܐܬܪ‬ perisseÚsV

18.

Mt v,20

SCPGw H ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ]ܘ‬ ‫ ܘܕ‬Bn 17.39 → Greek: (ple‹on tîn grammatšwn) kaˆ Farisa…wn

‫̇ ܓ‬

add

‫ܓ ܐ ]ܒ‬

SCPGw H

‫ܬܬ ܪ‬

‫ܥ‬

C Bn

‫ ܒ‬SH Bn

‫ ܗ ܐ ܒ‬Bn → cf vs H Bn → Greek:

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels (C)PGw H ‫ܡ‬ œmprosqen

]

55

19.

Mt v,24

20.

Mt v,27 •

21.

Mt v,29

SCPGw

‫]ܘ ܐ‬

‫ ܘ ܐ ܕ‬H Bn 2.30

22.

Mt v,30

CPGw verse 30 S

‫]ܘ ܐ‬

‫ܘܐ ܕ‬

23.

Mt v,32

PGw H ̇ ‫ ܕ‬SC

24.

Mt v,39

SCPGw ‫ܐ ]ܐ ܐ‬ Greek: t¾n ¥llhn

25.

Mt v,47

CPGw ‫ܘܐܦ ] ܐ ܗܐ ܐܦ‬ ‫ ܐܦ‬H ¦ S om verse 47

26.

Mt v,48

SPGw ‫ܐ‬ ¦ ‫̈ܐ‬

S Bn 7.12.32 → Greek:

SPGw ‫ ]ܕܐܬܐ‬add ‫̈ ܐ‬ CHAster Bn → Greek: Óti ™rr»qh + to‹j ¢rca…oij (v. l.); → Mt v,21.33

̇

‫]ܕ‬

H Bn ¦ om

‫ ܕ‬Bn 2*.10.20.24.25.41 ¦ ‫̇ܗܘ ܐ‬

H Bn →

‫ܐ ܗܐ‬

‫ ]ܐ ܘܢ ܓ‬tr Bn ¦ ‫ܐ‬

Bn ¦

‫ܓ‬C

H

‫]̣ܗܘ‬

‫̣ܗܘ ̇ ܥ‬

27.

Mt vi,4

PGw

H Bn ¦ SC → Greek: ¢podèsei soi

28.

Mt vi,6 •

CPGw ] H → cf Mt vi,4

29.

Mt vi,15 •

PGw ‫ܐ‬

30.

Mt vi,15

PGw

31.

Mt vi,18 •

‫ ]̣ܗܘ‬add ‫ ܒܓ ܐ‬Bn ¦ PGw ̇ ‫ ܥ‬H (S lac) → Greek: ¢podèsei C¦ soi + ™n tù fanerù (v. l.); → Mt vi,4.6

32.

Mt vi,20 •

PGw H ‫ܐ‬ ] no sey C Bn 12.13.17.19.20. 21*.23.25.32.41 (S lac) → Lk xii,33

‫ ̣ܗܘ‬S Bn 21 ¦ ‫̇ ܥ‬

̈ ‫ ] ܒ‬add ‫̈ ܬܗܘܢ‬ ‫̈ܪ ܐ ܕ‬ H (S

C Bn ¦ add ‫ܘܢ‬ lac) → to‹j ¢nqrèpoij + t¦ paraptèmata aÙtîn (v. l.); → Mt vi,14

‫ܒ ܩ ] ̇ܒ‬

̈

CH Bn 19 (S lac)

56

Andreas Juckel

33.

Mt vii,2

(C)PGw ‫ܢ‬ ‫ܢ] ܬ‬ ‫ܬ‬ Bn (S lac) → Greek: metrhq»setai Øm‹n

34.

Mt vii,5 •

CPGw

‫̇ ܐܐ‬

‫] ܒ‬

‫ܐ‬

H

Bn 40 ¦

H (S lac) → Lk vi,42

̇

35.

Mt vii,11

CPGw ‫ܐ‬ ‫( ܗܘ ܕܒ ܐ ]ܕܒ‬H) Bn (S lac) → Greek: Ð ™n to‹j oÙrano‹j

36.

Mt vii,12 •

PGw

37.

Mt vii,12

‫ܘܢ‬ ‫]ܗ ܐ ܐܦ ܐ ܘܢ ܒ ܘ‬ ‫ܘܢ ܐܦ ܐ ܘܢ‬ ‫ ܗ ܐ ܒ ܘ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܘܢ‬ ‫ ܗܘ ܘܢ ܒ‬C ¦ ‫ܗ ܐ‬ ‫ ܐ ܘܢ ܒ ܘ ܘܢ‬H (S lac) → Lk vi,31 CPGw H ‫ ]ܘ ܒ ̈ ܐ‬no sey Bn (S lac)

38.

Mt vii,13

PGw

39.

Mt vii,14

CPGw ‫ܐ‬

‫ܐ ܗܘ ]ܕ ܐ ܗܘ ܬܪ ܐ‬ ‫ ܬܪ ܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܕ ܐ ܬܪ ܐ‬C ¦ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ ̇ܗܘ ܬܪ ܐ‬H (S lac)

‫ܒܐ‬

‫ܕ‬ ‫ܕ‬

‫ܐܘܪ ܐ ܐ ܐ ]ܐܘܪ ܐ ܕ ܒ‬ ‫ ܕ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܐܘܪ ܐ ܿܗܝ ܕ ܒ ܐ‬H (S

lac) → Greek: ¹ ÐdÕj ¹ ¢p£gousa

‫ܨܒ ܐ ]ܨܒ‬

40.

Mt vii,21

CPGw 24 (S lac)

41.

Mt vii,25

CPGw H ‫̈ܪܘܬܐ‬

42.

Mt viii,4

SCPGw Bn* H ‫ܪܒ ܐ‬ 10.13.15.17c.23.24.25c.39

43.

Mt viii,6

SCPGw H

44.

Mt viii,10 •

‫]ܒܐ‬ PGw H ‫ܐ‬ 10.17.40 → Lk vii,9

45.

Mt viii,11

46.

Mt viii,13

H Bn 14.15.17.18.20.

‫ ]ܘܐܬܘ‬om Bn (S lac)

̇ ‫ ]ܘܐ‬add

]

‫ܪܒ‬

Bncor

Bn

‫ܐ‬

‫ܒ‬

SC Bn

PGw ‫̈ ܐ‬ ‫ ]ܕ‬no sey SCH Bn 32 → Greek: (™n tÍ basile…v) tîn oÙranîn SCPGw ‫ܐ‬ æj (v. l.)

‫]ܐ‬

‫ ܘܐ‬H Bn → Greek: kaˆ

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

‫ܒܗ ܕ‬ ‫ܘܒ‬S

57

47.

Mt viii,20

PGw H ‫]ܒ ܗ ܕ‬ multis’ 32.39.41 ¦ ‫ܗ‬

48.

Mt viii,21

PGw ‫ ܐܒ ]ܐܒ‬SC Bn ¦ Greek: tÕn patšra mou

49.

Mt viii,26 •

SPGw ‫ ]ܒ ܘ ܐ‬sey H Bn 41 (C lac) → Greek: to‹j ¢nšmoij; → Lk vii,24

50.

Mt viii,29 •

SPGw H ‫ ]ܒ ܗ ܕܐ ܐ‬add (C lac) → Mk v,7; Lk viii,28

51.

Mt viii,29 •

PGw

‫]ܕܬ‬

‫ܕܬ‬

‫ܒ ܬܢ‬

S ¦ Mk v,7; Lk viii,28

C Bn ‘codd.

‫ܐܒܐ ܕ‬

‫ܐ‬

H→

Bn 39 Bn 18 ¦ H (C lac) →

52.

Mt ix,5 •

‫ ܡ ܘܗ ] ܡ ܗ‬Bn (C (S)PGw H lac) → Greek: œgeire kaˆ perip£tei; cf Mk ii,9

53.

Mt ix,6

PGw

54.

Mt ix,13 •

̣ ‫ ܐ‬SH PGw ‫̈ ܐ‬ ]

add ‫ܒ ܬܐ‬ SHAster Bn (C lac) → Greek ¡martoloÚj + e„j met£noian (v. l.); Mk ii,17 (v. l.); → Lk v,32

55.

Mt ix,15 •

‫]ܘܗ‬ SPGw H lac) → cf Lk v,35

56.

Mt ix,21

PGw lac)

‫]ܐ‬

57.

Mt ix,25

PGw

‫]ܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬Bn 10.14.18.20.40.41 ‫ܐ‬S¦ ‫ܒ‬ ‫ ܐܬܬܪ‬H (C lac)

‫ܗܝ‬

̣ ‫]ܐ‬

̣ ‫ܘܐ‬

‫ܕܐ‬

‫ܗ‬

Bn 10*.14*.36.40 (C

S Bn 10.40 ¦

̇

58.

Mt ix,28 •

‫ ܘܐ ̣ ]ܐ‬H Bn 2 ¦ PGw → Greek: kaˆ lšgei; cf Mt xx,32

59.

Mt ix,36

SPGw ‫]ܘ‬ kaˆ ™rimmšnoi

60.

Mt x,14

‫ܘ‬

‫ܕܐܢ‬

H (C ¦

‫ ܐ‬S (C lac)

H Bn (C lac) → Greek:

‫ܕ ܕܐ]̇ ܕܐ ܕ‬ ̇ H (C lac) ‫ ܕ ܐ‬S ¦ ‫ܘܗܘ ܕ ܐ‬ PGw

‫ܗ‬

Bn (C lac) ¦

̇

Bn ¦

̇

58

Andreas Juckel

‫ ̇ܗܘ‬S Bn (C lac) → cf

61.

Mt x,14

PGw H ‫ܒ ܐ‬ ] add ̇ the following ‫ܐ ܗܝ‬

62.

Mt x,23

63.

Mt x,30 •

‫ ]ܕ‬om S Bn (C lac) ‫] ̈ܐ ܕܪ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫̈ܐ ܕ‬ PGw ‫ܢ‬ ‫ܢ‬ ‫ ܕܪ‬Bn 10.17.21*vid ¦ ‫ܢ‬ ‫̈ܐ ܕ‬ ̈ H (C lac) → Lk xii,7 S ¦ ‫ܐ ܕܪ ܐ‬

64.

Mt xi,1

65.

Mt xi,5 •

66.

Mt xi,7 •

67.

Mt xi,9

68.

Mt xi,17

SCPGw Bncor ™qrhn»samen

‫]ܘܐ‬

‫( ܐ‬H) Bn* → Greek

69.

Mt xi,21

SCPGw Óti e„

‫]ܕܐ‬

‫ܕܐ‬

H Bn → Greek:

70.

Mt xii,4

PGw ‫] ܒ ܐ ܕܐ ܐ‬ SCH Bn 10.17.19.21vid.40

71.

Mt xii,20

72.

Mt xii,24

‫ ܬܒ ] ܒ‬C Bn 10.21c ¦ ‫ܒ ܪ‬ ̈ SCPGw ‫ ܕ ̈ ܐ ] ܐܕܐ‬H Bn

73.

Mt xii,24

SCPGw ‫ܐ‬

74.

Mt xii,25 •

‫ ܐ ܐ ܐܢ ]ܐ‬H Bn ̇ ] PGw Bn* 2 32.41 ¦ ‫ܗܝ‬ ‫ ̣ܗܘ‬H ¦ illeg S → referring to ‫ → )ܒ ܐ( ܒ‬Mk iii,25

75.

Mt xii,28

PGw

PGw H

SCPGw Bncor ] ‫ܕ‬ H Bn* → Greek: (metšbh ™ke‹qen) toà did£skein SCPGw H ‫̈ ܐ‬

] ‫̈ܐ‬

‫ ܕ‬Bn → Lk vii,22 ] add ‫ܬ ̈ ܘܗܝ‬

(C)PGw(H) ‫ܕ ܐܙ‬ ‫ ܕ‬Bn ¦ diff. constr. in S → Lk vii,24

CPGw ‫ ] ܒ ̈ ܐ‬no sey SH Bn 1.7.10.12.15.21.40 → Greek: prissÒteron prof»tou

‫ܐ‬

‫ܒ ܗ ܕܐ‬

SPGw

‫ܐ‬

‫ܬܐ ܕܐ ܐ‬ ‫ ܕܐ‬CH Bn (S illeg)

]

H

C Bncor Bncor is

‫ܬܗ‬

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

‫ܕ‬

] ‫ܕ‬ ‫ ̇ܗܘ ܕ‬H

76.

Mt xii,32

PGw SC ¦ verse

77.

Mt xii,33

PGw ‫]̣ܗܘ‬

78.

Mt xii,36

PGw

] tr Bn ¦ ‫ܢ ܕ‬ H → Greek: äc Øm‹n

Mt xii,43 •

PGw H ‫ܐ‬ 17 → Lk xi,24

80.

Mt xii,44 •

PGw ‫ܐ‬ (‫ܗ‬

Bn 13.17.19.20 ¦ → cf the beginning of the

‫ ̇ܗܘ‬Bn 37 ¦ om SCH

79.

‫ܐ‬

‫ܘ‬

‫ܢܓ‬

‫ܢ‬

59

]‫ܐ‬

] add ‫ܐ‬

‫ܘ‬

SC ¦

‫ܕ‬

‫ ܐܙ ܐ‬SC Bn Bn ¦ ‫ܗ‬ H →

‫ ܐ‬SC ¦ Lk

xi,25

‫)ܐ‬

81.

Mt xii,45 •

SPGw H ‫ܐ‬

‫]̈ܪܘ‬

82.

Mt xii,46

(SC)PGw Bn* 12 ¦ H ‫ܕ‬

‫ ̈ܪܘ‬C Bn 39.40 → Lk xi,26 ‫̣ܗܘ ܕ‬

]

add

‫ܥ‬

Bncor

̇

Mt xii,48 ( ‫ ― )ܕ‬xiii,31 ( ‫ )ܙܪ‬1 fol missing ̇ [xiii,28 ( ‫ ― )ܐ‬30 (end) in the lower margin of fol 24 (without variant)] 83.

Mt xiii,33 •

‫ܐ ܠ‬ PGw Bn* ‫ܘܢ‬ ̣ ‫ܘܢ ]ܐ‬ cor ̣ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn 2.13.39.40 ¦ om SC ¦ ‫ ܍ ܥ܌‬H → Greek: paršqhken aÙto‹j lšgwn; → Mt xiii,24

84.

Mt xiii,39

PGw ‫ܐ‬ ] ‫ܨܐ‬ → Greek: di£boloj

85.

Mt xiii,51

PGw ̣ ‫]ܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬H Bn 12.32.37.40.41 ¦ no diacr. point C ¦ S om verse 51a → Greek: lšgei (v. l.)

86.

Mt xiii,57

SPGw ‫ ]ܐ ܐ‬add 16.32.37.39.40.41

87.

Mt xiv,3

CPGw ‫̣ ܗ ]ܘܐ ̣ ܗ‬ Greek: œdhsen aÙtÒn

‫ ܐ‬H Bn ¦ ‫ ܒ ܐ‬SC

̇

‫ܐܢ‬

CH Bn 2.7.12.13.14c.

‫ܐ‬

H Bn ¦ om S →

60

Andreas Juckel

88.

Mt xiv,7

SCPGw ‫ܐ‬

‫ ]ܒ‬sey (H) Bn 17.32.39

89.

Mt xiv,9

SCPGw ‫ܐ‬

90.

Mt xiv,15 •

] sey H Bn 14.32.39 ]‫ܐ‬ S Bn ¦ ‫̈ ܐ‬ H 19.40

CPGw ‫̈ ܐ‬ → Lk ix,12 (Greek: tÕn Ôclon)

91.

Mt xiv,31

SCPGw H

̣ ‫ ]ܘܐ‬om

92.

Mt xiv,36 •

(S)(C)PGw ‫ܒ‬ → Mk vi,56

ܼ ‫]ܕ‬

93.

Mt xv,1

PGw(H)

94.

Mt xv,4 •

SCPGw H

95.

Mt xv,7 •

‫ ]ܐ‬add ‫ܐ‬ PGw H ‫ܐ‬ 16.23.32.40 → Mk vii,6

96.

Mt xv,14

PGw H ‫ܐܢ‬

97.

Mt xv,26

PGw

98.

Mt xv,26 •

Bn 7.14c.16.37 ¦ PGw ̣ ‫ ]ܐ‬add ‫ܥ‬ sine ADD SCH → Mk vii,27

99.

Mt xv,38

PGw H ‫ܢ‬ C ‫ܐ‬

add

H

SC Bn

‫ ܕ‬Bn 10 → Mk vii,10 ‫ܒ‬

SC Bn 2.7.12.13.

] tr Bn ¦ ‫ܐ‬ ̇ ‫ ܐ‬Bn ̇ ̣ ‫̇ ]ܐ‬ ‫ ܘܐ‬SC ¦ ̇ ‫ ܐ‬H

̇

‫ܕܓ‬

Bn ¦

̇ ‫ ]ܘܐ‬add ]

Bn

‫ܐ‬

‫ ܕ‬SC 16.32.41 ¦

̇

‫ ]̇ܗ‬no diacr. point Bn ¦ S ‫¦ ܐ ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܐ‬

100. Mt xv,38

‫ ܓܒ‬C Bn 2c.vid.10.13.17c. PGw H ‫]ܓܒ ܐ‬ c 18 .21.23.39.40 ¦ om S

101. Mt xvi,2

PGw H ‫ܕܗܘܐ‬ ̣ ‫] ܐ‬ om this part of verse 2

102. Mt xvi,21 •

C PGw ‫ܐ‬ Bn ¦ ‫ܐ‬ viii,31

103. Mt xvi,25

‫ܕ ]ܘ‬ C PGw → Greek: Öj d’ ¥n

Bn ¦ SC

‫̈ ܐ ]ܘ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܘ‬ ‫ ܘܒ‬H (S lac) → Mk

‫ܐ ܕܬ‬ ‫ܐ ܬ‬ ̇

̇ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܕܗܘܐ‬

̇

Bn ¦

‫ ̇ܗܘ ܕ‬H

(S lac)

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 104. Mt xvii,4 •

‫ܐ ܘ ܐ‬

PGw

61

‫ܘ ܐ‬

‫ܐ ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܘܐ ܐ ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬

‫] ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܘ‬

C(H) Bn (S lac) → Mk ix,5; Lk ix,33 105. Mt xvii,11 •

PGw ̣ ‫ ]ܘܐ‬add ‫ܘܢ‬ CH Bn 6.7.12.14c. c 16.17.21 .32.33.41 (S illeg) → Greek: eŒpen + aÙto‹j (v. l.), → cf Mk ix,12

106. Mt xvii,14 • PGw (H) ‫ܐ‬ 107. Mt xvii,15

‫ ]ܓܒ‬add

SC Bn → Lk ix,38

PGw ‫ܐ‬

‫ܒ ܐܓ‬ ‫ ܐܓ ܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܗܝ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܓܐ‬

‫ܒ ] ܕܐ‬ ‫ܕܐ‬ ‫ ܒ ܐܓ ܐ ܐ‬C ¦ ‫ ܪܘܚ‬S ¦ ‫ܗܪܢ‬ ‫ܕ‬

H → Greek: selhni£zein 108. Mt xvii,15

‫ܐܓ‬ ‫ܓ ̈ ܐܢ‬

] ‫ܐܗ‬ ̈ ‫ ܙܒ‬H →

(S)C PGw

‫ܓ‬

Bn 10 ¦ Greek:

poll£kij g£r 109. Mt xvii,20

PGw

‫ܐ ]ܕ ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬

‫ܕ‬

C Bn ¦

‫ܐ‬

‫ܕܐ‬

S ¦

H

‫ܐܬܘ‬ ̣ ] ‫ܐܬܐ‬ ̣ Bn 17*

110. Mt xvii,24

SCPGw H

111. Mt xvii,26

PGw H 10

112. Mt xviii,5 •

PGw ‫ܐ ܗ ܐ‬ Bn 13.20.41 ¦ ‫̈ ܐ‬ ¦‫ܗ ܐ‬ ‫ܕܐ‬

2

̇ ‫ ]ܐ‬no diacr. point SC Bn ¦ ‫ܐ‬ ̣ ‫ܐ ]ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܗܐ‬ ‫ܗ‬ ‫ ܐ‬SC ‫ ܐ‬H → Mk ix,37

‫ ܕ ܒ ܐ ܘ ܐ ܐ ]ܕ ܐ‬Bn 19 ¦ ‫ܙܒ‬ ‫ ܒ ܐ ܘ‬H ¦ S om verse 11 →

113. Mt xviii,11 • CPGw

Greek zhtÁsai kaˆ sîsai (v. l.); → Lk xix,10

̇

114. Mt xviii,11 • PGw ‫ܡ ] ܡ‬ ‫ ܗܘ‬C Bn 10 ¦‫ܡ‬ H ¦S om verse 11 → Lk xix,10

‫̇ܘ‬

62

Andreas Juckel

115. Mt xviii,14 • CPGw ‫ܢ‬ ‫ ܐܒ ]ܐܒ‬S Bn ¦ ‫ ܐܒܐ ܕ‬H → Greek: (œmprosqen) toà patrÕj Ømîn (v. l. mou); cf Mt x,32.33; xv,13; xvi,17; xviii,19.35 116. Mt xviii,18

SCPGw ‫ܡ ]ܘ ܡ‬ ‫ ܘ‬Bn ¦ H → cf the beginning of the verse

117. Mt xviii,25

PGw 7.12.16.21c.32

118. Mt xviii,31

SCPGw H

119. Mt xviii,31

] ‫ܕܗܘܐ‬ PGw Bn* ‫ܕܗܘܐ‬ ̣ ̣ ‫ܐ‬ Bncor 7.12.16.32.37 ¦ ‫ܡ ܕܗܘܐ‬ ̈ ¦‫ܕܗܘܝ‬ ‫̇ܗ‬ H

120. Mt xix,7 •

PGw H

121. Mt xix,8 •

SCPGw H ‫ܘܢ‬ ‫ ]ܐ‬add ‫ܥ‬ Bn 17.19c.40 → Greek: lšgei aÙto‹j + Ð ’Ihsoàj (v. l.), → cf Mk x,5

122. Mt xix,19

‫]ܘ‬ SCH Bn 2.18.19.20.36.41 → PGw Greek: t…ma (tÕn patšra)

123. Mt xix,21 •

PGw C

]

‫ܗܘܐ‬

‫ܘܕ‬

̇

] ‫ܘ‬

‫ܐ ]ܘ‬

‫ܘ‬

SCH Bn

‫ܕ‬

Bn 10 S C

Bn ¦ ‫ܕ ܐ‬ ‫ ܐ ܬܗ‬SC → Greek: kaˆ ¢polàsai aÙt»n (v. l. om aÙt»n), → Mk x,4

‫ܘ‬

̇

‫ܡ ܕܐ‬

]

Bn ¦

S¦ Mk x,21; Lk xviii,22

‫ܕܐ‬

124. Mt xix,26 •

] ‫ܘܢ ܕ‬ SCPGw ‫ܒ ܘܢ‬ 10.17.21.39.40.41 → Mk x,27

‫ܒ‬

125. Mt xx,14

CPGw H

126. Mt xx,24

‫ܐ‬

‫ܠ‬

‫ܗ‬H→ H Bn

‫ ܕ ܟ ]ܕ‬S Bn ̇ ‫ ܗ‬Bn 10.13.15.36 SCPGw H ‫]ܗ ܢ‬

127. Mt xx,31 •

PGw ‫ܘܗ ܢ‬ ̣ ] add x,48; Lk xviii,39

128. Mt xx,32 •

CPGw H Mk ix,28

̣ ‫]ܘܐ‬

‫ ܕ‬CH Bn 41 (S lac) → Mk add

‫ܘܢ‬

Bn 21 (S lac) →

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 129. Mt xxi,2

PGw

‫ܢ‬

‫ܒ‬

‫ܢ ]ܕ‬

‫ܒ‬

63

‫ ܕ‬H Bn 7.12. ¦ ‫ܕ ܒ ܢ‬

16.21c.22.23.24.27.32.33.37.41 C (S lac) 130. Mt xxi,12 •

C PGw ‫ܘܢ‬ ] add ‫ ܐ‬Bn 12.16.17.21c. ̇ 31.32.35.37.(40lac).41 ¦ add ‫ ܗ ܢ‬H (S lac) → Greek: p£ntaj toÝj pwloàntaj; → cf Mk xi,15; Lk xix,45

131. Mt xxi,19

C PGw H ‫ ]ܐ ܐ ܐܢ‬om 20.22.24.34.35.41 (S lac)

132. Mt xxi,21

‫ܘܬܗܘܐ ]ܬܗܘܐ‬ ‫ ܘ ܘܐ‬S ¦ ‫ ܘܐ‬C

133. Mt xxi,24

PGw ‫ ܐܦ ]ܘܐܦ‬H Bn 15.18.20.22.23c.32.35. 39.41 ¦ ‫ ܘ‬SC

134. Mt xxi,24

C PGw H ‫ܐ‬

PGw H

‫ ܐܢ‬Bn 10.14.15.19.

2

] ̇

Mt xxi,25 ( Bn (folio defect)

Bn 15.20.36* ¦

S Bn

‫ – )ܐ‬28 (‫ܐ‬

Mt xxi,32 (‫ܬ ܢ‬ Bn (folio defect)

) lacuna in

) – 34 (‫ܐ‬

̣

) lacuna in

Mt xxi,40 (‫ – ) ܐ‬42 (‫ )ܗܕܐ‬lacuna in Bn (folio defect) 135. Mt xxi,44 •

PGw H ‫ ] ܐ ܐ ܗܕܐ‬tr Bn 10c ¦ C ¦S om verse 44 → cf Lk xx,18

136. Mt xxi,46

] sey H Bn 15.36 ¦ PGw ‫ܐ‬ Greek: toÝj Ôclouj

‫ܗܝ ܐ ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬

Mt xxi,46 ( ‫ – )ܐ‬xxii,6 (‫ܘܗܝ‬ lacuna in Bn (folio defect)

SC →

‫̈ܒ‬

)

̈ ‫ ]ܒ ̈ ܐ ܘ‬twice no sey Bn

137. Mt xxii,10

(S)CPGw (H) ‫ܒܐ‬

138. Mt xxii,11

S PGw ‫̈ ܐ‬ œnduma

139. Mt xxii,12

PGw ‫ܐ‬

‫]ܒ‬

]‫ܪ ܐ‬

sg CH Bn 1 → Greek: SCH Bn

64

Andreas Juckel

140. Mt xxii,16 •

PGw ‫]ܕܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬Bn 7.12.16.17.18.21.32 ¦ SCH diff. preposition by diff. construction → Mk xii,14

141. Mt xxii,21

PGw ̣ ‫]ܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬H Bn 12.36.37.40.41 ¦ no diacr. point SC → Greek: lšgei

142. Mt xxii,25 •

PGw ‫ܐ ܬܐ ] ̣ ܐ ܬܐ‬ ̣ C Bn c 2.7.12.13.15 .16.23.32.37 ¦ ‫ ܐܙܕܘܓ‬H ¦ S diff. construction → Mk xii,20; Lk xx,29

143. Mt xxii,27

PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬

144. Mt xxii,42 •

SC PGw H

145. Mt xxii,45

SC PGw H ‫ܐ‬

146. Mt xxiii,5

SC PGw

̇

‫ܘܢ‬

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bn 15 ¦ ‫ ܘ‬C ¦ om S

̣ ‫ ]ܘܐ‬add ‫ܘܢ‬

Bn → Lk xx,41

‫ ] ̇ ܐ‬om

Bn

‫ܘܢ‬ ‫ܘܢ ]ܕ‬ ‫ܕ‬ ‫ ܐ‬Bn ¦ ̇ ‫ ܬ ܗܝ ܕ‬H → Greek: prÕj tÕ

qeaqÁnai 147. Mt xxiii,14(13) • Cvs 13 PGw Bntxt (H) ‫]ܕܐ ܘܢ ܐ ܘܢ‬ add ‫̈ ܐ‬ Bnmg ¦ ‫ܐ ܘܢ‬ ‫ܐ‬ vs13 ‫ ܐ ܐ‬S → Greek: Óti kle…ete t¾n basile…an tîn oÙranîn; → cf Lk xi,52 148. Mt xxiii,15

SC PGw ‫]ܒ ܗ ܕܓ ܐ‬ Bn 41 (gšenna = fem.)

‫ܒ ̇ܗ ܕܓ ܐ‬

sic H

149. Mt xxiii,19 • SC PGw ‫ܐ ܓ ܪܒ ] ܐ ܪܒ‬ H Bn 2.6.7.15.16.17.32.40.41 → Greek: t… g¦r me…zon; cf Mt xxiii,17 Mt xxiii,19

PGw Bncor H Bn*

151. Mt xxiii,26

PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬

150

‫ܪܒ ܐ‬

] ‫ܪܒ ܐ‬

SC

‫ ܘܐܦ‬S Bn (C lac)

‫ܓ ]ܘ‬ H Bn (C lac) → 152. Mt xxiii,28 • S PGw ‫ܓ‬ Greek: œswqen; cf Mt xxiii,27 153. Mt xxiv,23

‫ܕܗܪ ܐ ]ܗܐ ܗܪ ܐ‬ ‫ ܗܪ ܐ‬S (C lac) → Bn PGwH

Bn ¦

‫ܕܗܐ‬

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

65

̈

154. Mt xxiv,24 • PGw ‫ ]ܐܬܘܬܐ ܪܘ̈ܪܒ ܐ‬add ‫ܘܬܕ ܬܐ‬ SH Bn (C lac) → Greek: shme‹a meg£la + kaˆ tšrata (v. l.); → Mk xiii,22 155. Mt xxiv,27 •

̇ ] ‫ ̇ܒ ܩ‬Bn (C lac) → Lk xvii,24

S PGwH

] ‫ ܠ‬H Bn ¦ ‫ܪ‬ 156. Mt xxiv,29 • PGw ‫ܐ‬ Greek: dèsei,→ Mk xiii,24

S (C lac) →

157. Mt xxiv,30 • PGw H ‫ ] ܐ‬add ‫ ܪܒܐ‬S Bn 2*vid.10.13.17. 18*vid.21.27*.40 (C lac) → Mk xiii,26 158. Mt xxiv,33

S PGwH ‫]ܐܦ‬

159. Mt xxiv,38

PGw(H)

160. Mt xxiv,41 •

S PGwH ‫ܐ‬ xvii,35

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bn (C lac)

‫ܐ‬

] om S Bn 13.15 (C lac) ‫ܘܐ ܬܐ ]ܘ‬

Bn (C lac) → Lk

̇

161. Mt xxiv,44 • S PGw ‫ ܐܬܐ ] ܐܬܐ‬H Bn in rasura (C lac) → Greek: œrcetai, → Mk xiii,25; Lk xii,40

‫]̇ܗ‬

‫ ܗ‬Bn 10.11.13.14.18.20.23. ‫ ̇ܗ ܐ‬H ¦ om S (C lac)

162. Mt xxv,1

PGw 36.41 ¦

163. Mt xxv,4

PGwH

164. Mt xxv,7

SPGwH (C lac)

165. Mt xxv,9

S PGwH (C lac)

‫]ܗ‬

166. Mt xxv,14 •

PGwH ‫ܐ‬ xix,13

̣]‫ܘ̣ ܐ‬

167. Mt xxv,16

PGw ‫]ܐܬܬܓ‬ illeg S (C lac)

168. Mt xxv,18 •

S PGwH xxv,24

169. Mt xxv,20

PGw ‫ܗܘܐ‬ cf Mt xxv,24

‫]̇ܗ‬

‫ ܗ‬Bn 10.18.41 ¦ om S (C lac) ‫ ̇ܗ ]ܗ‬Bn 2.7.12.14.16.21.32.37

‫] ܐ‬

‫̇ܗ‬

Bn 7.10.12.14.15.16.32

S Bn 10.13 (C lac) → Lk

‫ܘܐܬܬܓ‬ add

‫ܐ‬

Bn ¦

̣

H ¦

Bn (C lac) → Mt

̣ ‫ ]ܕ‬om ‫ ܗܘܐ‬SH Bn (C lac) →

66

Andreas Juckel

170. Mt xxv,22 •

PGwH ‫]ܕܬ̈ܪܬ‬ ‫ ܕ ̣ ܬ̈ܪܬ‬Bn ¦ illeg S (C lac) → Ð t¦ dÚo t£lanta + labèn (v. l.); cf Mt xxv,24

171. Mt xxv,22 •

PGw‫ܘܗܝ‬ ] Svid Bn 10 ¦ ‫ܐ‬ H (C lac) → Greek: Ð t¦ dÚo t£lanta; cf Mt xxv,20

172. Mt xxv,24

PGw H ‫ ]ܐܦ‬om Bn 11.13.23.29.30 ¦ illeg S (C lac)

173. Mt xxv,28 •

PGw‫ ܘܗܒ ]ܘܗܒ ܗ‬H Bn ¦ illeg S (C lac) → Greek: kaˆ dÒte, → Lk xix,24

174. Mt xxv,34

S PGwH ‫ ]ܬܘ‬add

175. Mt xxv,38

PGw

̇

‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܗܘ‬

Bn (C lac)

‫]ܕ‬

‫ܐ ܐ‬

Bn 8 ¦ H (C lac)

S¦‫ܐ‬

176. Mt xxv,40

PGwH ‫ܐ‬ ‫ ܕܐ ܐ ]ܕ‬Bn sic ¦ (C lac) → Greek: ™f’ Óson

177. Mt xxv,45

‫ ܕܐ ܐ ]ܕ‬Bn sic ¦ PGwH ‫ܐ‬ lac) → Greek: ™f’ Óson

178. Mt xxvi,8 •

Bn ¦ ‫ ܬ‬H (C lac) → Greek: om aÙtoà (v. l.); → Mk xix,4

179. Mt xxvi,11

S PGw‫ܐ‬

180. Mt xxvi,13

S PGwH ‫]ܐܦ‬ (C lac)

181. Mt xxvi,16

S PGwH ‫ܗܝ‬

S

PGw‫ܘܗܝ‬

̈

‫̈ܐ ܕ‬ ]

‫̈ ܐ‬

‫]ܬ‬

‫ܡ‬

‫ܕ‬S

‫ ܕܗܘ‬S (C

‫ܬ‬

H Bn (C lac)

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bn 2.14c.15.20.36.40.41 ‫]ܕ‬

om Bn (C lac)

̇

] add ‫ ܗܘ‬H Bn (C lac) → 182. Mt xxvi,29 • S PGw‫ܐ‬ Greek: (›wj tÁj) ¹mšraj ™ke…nhj, → Mk xiv,25 183. Mt xxvi,37 •

PGw‫ܐ‬ Bn ¦

‫ܐ‬ ‫ܢ‬ ‫ܐ ܘܣ‬

‫ܐ ܐ ]ܘܕܒ‬ ‫ ܘܕܒ‬S

¦ H (C lac) → Mk xiv,33

‫ܘܕܒ‬ ‫ܕܒ‬ ‫ܘ‬

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 184. Mt xxvi,42 • PGw‫ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬ 185. Mt xxvi,54

67

‫]ܗ ܐ‬

tr S Bn 10.17.21.41 ¦ ‫ ܕܗ‬H (C lac) → Mk xiv,36

S PGwH ‫ܢ‬

] ‫ܢ‬

‫ ܕ‬Bn (C lac)

] ‫ܗ‬ SH Bn 2.7.12.16.17. 186. Mt xxvi,75 • PGw‫ܐ‬ 21.41 (C lac) → Mk xiv,72 187. Mt xxvi,75 • PGwH ̣ ‫ ]ܕܐ‬add (C lac) → Mk xiv,72 188. Mt xxvii,4

S PGwH

189. Mt xxvii,17

PGwH

‫ܘܕ ̈ ܐ‬

̣ ‫]ܘܐ‬

‫ܗܘܐ‬

S Bn 2.7.12.16.32

add ‫ܘܢ‬

Bn 21.41 (C lac)

]

add ‫ܘܢ‬ S (C lac)

Bn ¦ add

‫ܘܢ‬

̇

‫ܐ‬ ] ‫ܐ‬ H Bn 190. Mt xxvii,27 • PGw 39.41 ¦ ‫ܐ‬ S (C lac) → Greek: Ólhn t¾n spe‹ran; → Mk xv,16 191. Mt xxvii,35 • PGw‫ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬ 192. Mt xxvii,42

193. Mt xxvii,43

‫ ]ܒ‬sey Bn ¦ ‫ܘܢ‬ ‫ܘ‬S¦ ‫ ܐܪ‬H (C lac) → Lk xxiii,34

S PGw 7.12.16.37 ¦ xv,32

‫]ܘ‬ ‫ܘ‬

‫ ܕ ܐ ܘ‬Bn H (C lac) → Mk

̇

‫ ܐ ̣ ]ܐ‬H Bncor ¦ no diacr. PGw Bn* point S (C lac) → Greek: eŒpen

194. Mt xxvii,47 • PGwH ̈ ‫]ܐ‬ lac) → Mk xv,35

̈ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܘܐ ܐ‬

195. Mt xxvii,60

PGw ‫]ܐܪ‬ 17.21.23.29.30.41 ¦

196. Mt xxvii,63

PGwH ‫ܗܘܐ‬ 36.37 ¦ no diacr. point S (C lac)

197. Mt xxviii,7 •

S PGwH xvi,6

‫]ܕ‬

198. Mt xxviii,16

PGwH ‫ܐ‬

‫]ܓ‬

S (C

‫ ܘܐܪ‬Bn 2.7c.13.14c.16c. ‫ ܘܐܪ‬S ¦ om H (C lac) ̇ ‫ ܐ‬Bn 12.32. ̣ ‫ܗܘܐ ]ܐ‬ ‫ܕ‬

Bn (C lac) → Mk

om Bn (SC lac)

68

Andreas Juckel

199. Mt xxviii,18 • PGw‫ܪ ܐ ܐ‬ ] ‫ܪ ܐܐ‬ ‫ܐܦ ܐ ܐ‬ c c c Bn 2.7.8 .12.14 .16.21 .32.36 ¦ om H (SC lac) → Greek: k¢gë ¢postelî Øm©j (v. l.); → Jn xx,21 200. Mt xxviii,19

] ‫ܘܢ‬ H Bn 2.13.18.22.23.39 PGw‫ܘܢ‬ (SC lac) → Greek: p£nta (t¦ œqnh)

201. Mt xxviii,20

PGw‫ܐ‬

‫ܢܐ‬

‫ܢ ]ܐ ܐ‬

‫ܐܐ‬

‫ܐ ܝ‬

H Bn (SC lac) → Greek: ™gë meq’ Ømîn e„mi

Subscr.

‫ܐ ܘܙܘܬܐ‬ ‫ܐܘܐ ܓ ܢ‬ ‫ܒܐ‬ ‫ܕ‬ .‫ܐ‬ ‫ܝ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܒ ܐ‬

‫ܕ‬

The Gospel of Mark Inscr.

‫ܥ‬ ‫ܒ ܐ܀‬

202. Mk i,2 •

PGw ‫ܪ ܐ ܐ‬ ‫ܪ ]ܗܐ‬ ‫ܗܐ ܐ ܐ‬ ‫ ܐ ܐ‬H Bn 21.23.40 (SC lac) → Greek: ™gë ¢postšllw (v. l.); cf Mt xi,10

203. Mk i,3

‫] ܒ ܗܝ‬ ‫ܒ ܗܝ‬ Bn PGw ‫ ܒ ̈ ܐ ܕ‬H (SC lac) 2.5.8*.11.17.23.39 ¦ → Greek: t¦j tr…bouj aÙtoà

204. Mk i,5 •

PGw ‫]ܒ ܪܕ‬ add ‫ܪܐ‬ H Bn c 7.8 .12.16.32.33 (SC lac) → Greek: ™n tù ’Iord£nV potamù; cf Mt iii,6

205. Mk i,7

‫ ܕܐܬܓ ܢ‬H Bn PGw ‫]ܕܐܓ ܢ‬ c 2.5.7.12.15 .16.17.21.23.32.39.41 (SC lac) → Greek: kÚyaj

206. Mk i,8 •

PGw H ‫ ]̣ܗܘ ܕ‬om iii,11; Lk iii,16

207. Mk i,10 •

‫ܢ‬ ‫ܣ‬

‫ܐ ܕ‬ ‫ܐܘ ܓ ܢ‬ ‫ܐ܆ ܘܙܘܬܐ ܕ‬

̈

PGw ‫̈ ܐ‬ Lk iii,21

̈

]

‫ ܕ‬Bn (SC lac) → Mt

no sey (H) Bn 32.41 (SC lac) →

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 208. Mk i,11 •

‫̈ܐ‬ ̇ ‫ܐ ܕܐ‬ ̇ ‫)ܕܐ‬.39 (SC

69

‫]ܗܘܐ‬

PGw H

‫ܗܘܐ‬

2.5.11.15c.23.32

Bn (sine lac) → Greek: ™x oÙranoà genšsqai + lšgwn (v. l.); → Lk iii,22

̇

209. Mk i,15

PGw ̣ ‫]ܘܐ‬ ‫ ܘܐ‬H Bn 12.32.37.40.41 (SC lac) → Greek: kaˆ lšgwn

210. Mk i,21

PGw ‫]ܘ‬ ‫ ܘ‬Bn 7.8.11.14.15.16. 21.23.39 ¦ ‫ ܘ ܐ‬H ¦ S om verse 21a (C lac) → Greek: e„sporeÚontai

211. Mk i,22

S PGw (H) lac)

212. Mk i,27

PGw ‫]ܘܐܦ‬

213. Mk i,31 •

PGw ‫ ܐ ܐ ]ܐ ܗ‬SH Bn 5.7.8.12.15.16. 21.41 (C lac) → Greek: Ð puretÒj om aÙtÁj; cf Mt viii,15

214. Mk i,31 •

PGw

‫ܘܢ‬

]

add

‫ܐ‬

‫ܘ‬

Bn (C

‫ ܐܦ‬H Bn 8 ¦ ‫ ܘ‬S (C lac)

̇

‫ܘܢ‬ ‫ܘܢ‬

‫ܘܢ‬

‫ܐ ܗܘܬ‬ ‫]ܘ‬ ‫ܘ‬ ‫ܐ ܗܘܬ‬ ‫ ܘ‬S Bn 40 ¦ ‫ܐ ܗܘܬ‬ ‫܌ ܘ‬ ‫ ܍ܘ‬H (C

lac) → Greek: kaˆ ºgšrqh kaˆ dihkÒnei aÙto‹j (v. l.); cf Mt viii,15; Lk iv,39 215. Mk i,32 •

PGw H ‫]ܕܒ ܐ‬ ‫ܒ‬ Greek: kakîj, → Lk v,31

216. Mk i,38 •

PGw ‫ ]ܗ‬add ‫ ܐܙܠ‬S Bn ¦ ‫ܘ‬ → Greek: ¥gwmen; → Jn xi,15

217. Mk i,39 •

PGw ‫ܐ‬

218. Mk i,40

‫ ܕܓ ܐ‬S (C lac) → cf above Mt iv,23 ̇ ‫ ܘܐ‬H Bn 2.11.12.36.32.37. PGw ̣ ‫]ܘܐ‬

‫̇ ܓ‬

‫ ܕܒ‬S Bn (C lac) →

‫ܓ ܐ ]ܒ‬

‫ ܓ‬H (C lac) ‫ ܒ‬H Bn ¦

40.41 ¦ no diacr. point S (C lac) → Greek: kaˆ lšgwn 219. Mk i,40

PGw ‫ ܕܐܢ ]ܐܢ‬SH Bn 2.5.17.18.20.21.40.41 (C lac) → Greek: Óti ™£n

70 220. Mk i,43

Andreas Juckel S PGw

‫ܗܝ‬ 221. Mk i,43

PGw

222. Mk ii,2

PGw

‫ܐ‬

‫ ]ܘ ̣ ܐܐ ܒ‬add ‫ܥ‬ ‫ ܐܬ ܙ‬H (C lac)

‫ ܘ ܗ ]ܘܐ‬Bn ‫ ܐ‬H ¦ om S (C lac) ̇‫ܐ‬ ‫]ܐ‬ ̣‫ܐ‬

‫ܘ‬

Bn ¦

‫ܐ‬

23 ¦

‫ܐ‬

Bn ¦

H (SC lac) → Greek: cwre‹n

223. Mk ii,4

] ‫ܐ‬ H Bn 5.7.16.21.32.39 PGw ‫ܐ‬ (SC lac) → Greek: tÕn kr£bbaton

224. Mk ii,7 •

‫ܐ ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܐ ܐܢ ]ܐ ܐ ܐܢ‬ ‫ ܐ ܐ ܒ‬Bn (SC lac) → Lk v,21 ̇ ‫̣ܒ ]ܘ‬ ‫ ܘ‬Bn (SC lac) → PGwH ‫ܒ‬ PGw H

‫ܕ‬

225. Mk ii,14

Greek: kaˆ par£gwn

226. Mk ii,18

PGw H ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ]ܘ‬ ‫ ܘܕ‬Bn 2.5.7.12.14. 16.21.23.32.33 (SC lac) → Greek: kaˆ oƒ tîn Farisa…wn (v. l.)

227. Mk ii,20

PGw ‫]ܗ‬ kaˆ pÒte

228. Mk ii,21 •

PGw H ‫ܒ ܐ‬ ] ‫ܗܘ ܒ ܐ‬ Bn ¦ S different construction (C lac) → Mt ix,16

229. Mk ii,26 •

‫ܐ‬ ] ‫ܗܘܐ‬ PGw Bn* H ‫ ܐ‬S Bncor 2.39 (C lac) → Mt xii,4

230. Mk ii,28

PGw ‫ܐ‬

‫ ܘܗ‬H Bn (SC lac) → Greek: ̇

‫ ]ܘܐܦ ܕ ܒ‬tr Bn sic ¦ ‫ ܕ ܒ ܐ‬S ¦ ‫ ܐܦ ܕ ܒ ܐ‬H (C lac) → Greek: kaˆ toà

sabb£tou 231. Mk iii,4

S PGw ‫]ܐܦ‬

232. Mk iii,6

PGw H

‫ܝ‬

‫ܝ‬ ‫ܒܘ‬

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bn 8 ¦ ‫ ܘ‬H (C lac) ‫ܐ ܕ ܒܘ‬

‫]ܐ‬ ‫ܕ ܒܘ‬

‫ܐ‬

‫ܕܐ‬

Bn 11 ¦ S (C lac) → Greek: Ópwj aÙtÕn ¢polšswsin

233. Mk iii,12

̇

S PGw H ‫ ] ܐܐ ܗܘܐ‬om lac) → Greek: ™pet…ma

‫ ܗܘܐ‬Bn 12* (C

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 234. Mk iii,17

PGw ] ‫ ܘ‬H Bn 12c.vid ¦ ‫ܐ‬ → Greek: kaˆ ™pšqhken

235. Mk iii,25

S PGw H ] → Greek: merisqÍ

236. Mk iii,35

PGw

̣

71 S (C lac)

‫ ܐܬ‬Bn 2.11 (C lac)

‫ ܓ ܕ ̇ܒ ]ܕ ܒ ܓ‬S Bn 2.18.23 ¦ ‫ ܓ ܕ ܒ‬H 7.12.14.16.17.32 (C lac) →

Greek: Öj g¦r ¨n poi»sV 237. Mk iv,1

‫ܐܪ ܐ‬ ‫] ܐܡ ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ܐܡ‬ ‫ܐܪ ܐ‬ ‫ ܗܘܐ ܒ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܐܡ ܗܘܐ‬S H (C lac) ¦ ‫ܐܪ ܐ ܐ ܘܗܝ ܗܘܐ‬

238. Mk iv,5

PGw ‫ ]ܕ‬add ‫ ܗܘܐ‬H Bn 32 ¦ S om this part of verse 5 (C lac) → Greek: oÙk eι=cen

239. Mk iv,10

PGw ‫ܢ‬ (C lac)

240. Mk iv,11

PGw H ‫ܢ‬

]

241. Mk iv,19

̈

]

‫ ܘ‬Bn 5.17.21.40 (SC lac) ‫ܘܒܐ ܐ ̈ ܐ ]ܘܒܐ ܐ‬ PGw ‫ܐ‬ ex err Bn ¦ ‫ ܐ ܐ ܐܬܐ‬H (SC lac) ̈ ] ‫ܐ‬ H Bn* 2.5.23.39 PGw Bncor ‫ܐ‬

242. Mk iv,30 243. Mk iv,33

PGw

1

‫ ̇ܗ ܢ ]̣ܗ‬H Bn 32.36.37.41 ¦ om S

PGw H

add ‫ ܗܘ‬S Bn 11.15.36 (C lac)

̈

(SC lac) → Greek: tÕn lÒgon 244. Mk iv,36

‫]ܘ ̣ܒ‬

PGw (H) (SC lac)

245. Mk iv,36

PGw ‫̈ ܐ‬ tÕn Ôclon

246. Mk v,7

S PGw H

247. Mk v,14

S PGw ‫]ܘܐܦ‬

248. Mk v,16

S PGw ‫ܐ ]ܕܐ ܐ‬ lac) → Greek: pîj

]

‫ ܘ ̣ܒ‬Bn 2.7.15.21.23.39

no sey H Bn (SC lac) → Greek:

]

om Bn (C lac)

‫ ܐܦ‬Bn 15 ¦ ‫ ܘ‬H

(C lac)

‫ ܐ‬H Bn 17.21.40 (C

72

Andreas Juckel

̇

̇

249. Mk v,26

PGw ‫]ܕܐ‬ ̇ ‫ܕ‬ c 2 .18.21.23.39 ¦ Greek: t¦ par’ aÙtÁj

‫ ܕܐ ܗܘܐ‬S Bn ‫ ܗ‬H (C lac) →

250. Mk v,27

‫ܒ‬ PGw 32.37.41 ¦

251. Mk v,31

PGw 13 ( Ôclon sunql…bonta

252. Mk v,34

PGw H

253. Mk v,39 •

] add PGw H ‫ܐ‬ Mt ix,24; Lk viii,52

254. Mk v,40

PGw H

‫̇ ]ܕ‬

255. Mk vi,3

PGw (H) ‫ܗܐ‬

‫ܐ ܗܐ ]ܘ ܐ‬

256. Mk vi,4

‫]ܘܒ ܐ‬ PGw ‫ܗܝ‬ c Bn 21 .23.36.39.41 ¦ lac)

257. Mk vi,16

S PGw H

258. Mk vi,17

S PGw H ‫ ]ܘܐ ̣ ܗ‬add ‫ ܘܐܪ‬Bn 36.39 c c ¦ ‫ ܘܐܪ‬7.12.14 .16.18.21 . 32 (C lac) → Greek: œdhsen aÙtÕn kaˆ œbalen e„j fulak»n (v. l.)

259. Mk vi,18

PGw ‫ܗܘܐ‬ 12.32.36.37 ¦

̇ ‫ ܐ‬H Bn ̣ ‫ܗܘܐ ]ܐ‬ ̇ ‫ ܐ ܗܘܐ‬S 36 (C lac)

260. Mk vi,26 •

‫ܓ‬ ‫ܐ ܗܘܐ‬

‫ ]ܘ‬om ‫ ܓ‬Bn ¦ H (C lac) → Mt xiv,9

261. Mk vi,33

PGw

]

‫ ܘ ܒ‬Bn 7.12.16.17.21. ‫ ܋ܘ܌ܓ‬H (SC lac) ‫ܐ ܕ ̇ ܒ ] ̈ܐ ܕ ̇ ܒ‬ H Bn ̇ c ‫)ܕ ܒ‬.17 .18.41 (SC lac) → Greek: tÕn ‫ ܙܠ ]ܙ‬Bn ex err (SC lac) ‫ ܓ‬Bn 40 (SC lac) → ‫ ܕ‬Bn 39 (SC lac)

̈

S PGw

̣

]

Bn (SC lac)

̣

‫ܘܒܒ ܐ ̈ ܗܝ‬ ‫ ܘܒܒ ̈ ܓ‬H (SC ‫ ܘ‬Bn (C lac)

‫ܘ‬

‫ܗܝ‬ ] ‫ܗܝ‬ ‫ ܘ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܘ‬ ‫ ܐ ܢ‬H ¦ S om this part of verse 33 (C lac)

→ Greek: kaˆ proÁlqon aÙtoàj, but PGw Bn read the unattested k. p. aÙtÒn

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

73

262. Mk vi,41 •

PGw (H) ̣ ‫ ]ܘ‬add ‫ܥ‬ ‫ ܗܘ‬S (C lac) → Lk ix,16

263. Mk vi,41

S PGw ‫] ܓ‬ Greek: ™mšrisen

264. Mk vi,44 •

PGw ̣ ‫]ܕܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܗ ܢ ܕܐ‬S (H) Bn 2.23.39 (C lac) → Greek: oƒ fagÒntej; cf Mt xiv,21

265. Mk vi,46 •

S PGw H xiv,23

266. Mk vi,46 •

(S) PGw H xiv,23

267. Mk vi,47 •

S PGw ‫] ܗܘܐ ܕ ܪ ܐ‬ ‫ܘ ܗܘܐ ܕ‬ ‫ ܪ ܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܘ ܪ ܐ ܗܘܐ‬H Bn (C lac) → Greek: kaˆ Ñy…aj genomšnhj; cf Mt xiv,23

268. Mk vi,47

PGw

Bn 11.23 ¦ add

H Bn 15.39 (C lac) →

̇

‫̈ ܐ ]ܐ ܢ‬ ‫]̣ܐܙܠ‬

Bn (C lac) → Mt Bn (C lac) → Mt

]

̣

̇

Bn ¦ ‫ ܒܓ ܗ‬S ¦ ‫ ܒ‬H (C lac) → Greek: ™n mšsJ

‫ܗ‬

‫ܒ‬

̇

269. Mk vi,48

S PGw H ‫ ]ܘܨܒܐ ܗܘܐ‬om ‫ ܗܘܐ‬Bn (C lac) → Greek: kaˆ ½qelen

270. Mk vii,12

PGw

‫ܡ ܐܒ ܗܝ ܐܘ ܐ‬ ‫]ܕ ܒ‬ ‫ܡ ܐ ܐܒ ܗܝ ܘ ܐ ܐ‬ ‫ܕ ܒ‬ Bn ¦ ‫ܐܒ ܗܝ ܐܘ ܐ‬ ‫ܕ‬S¦ ‫ܘ ܐ‬ ‫ ܡ ܒ ܐܒ ܗܝ ܐܘ ܐ‬H (C lac)

→ Greek: oÙdcn poiÁsai tù patrˆ (aÙtoà) À tÍ mhtrˆ (aÙtoà) 271. Mk vii,17

PGw

̣ 272. Mk vii,26 273. Mk vii,27

tr Bn 2c.5.11.23.39 ¦ ‫ܘ‬ (S)H (C lac) → Greek: kaˆ Óte e„sÁlqen

̣

‫ܕ‬

]

‫ ]ܘܒ ܐ ܗܘܬ‬om Bn ¦ ‫ܐ ܗܘܬ‬ ‫ ܘ‬H (C lac) ̇ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܐ‬S ¦ ‫ܐ‬ PGw ̣ ‫]ܘܐ‬ ̣

S PGw

H (C lac) → Greek: kaˆ lšgei (v. l.)

74

Andreas Juckel

̇

̇

274. Mk vii,30

PGw ‫ ܒ ܬܗ ]ܒ ܬܗ‬S(H) Bn 5c.7.11.12.14. 21*.23.38.40 (C lac) → Greek: t¾n qugatšran aÙt»n

275. Mk vii,30

S PGw (H)

276. Mk vii,30

PGw ‫ ܐܕܐ ] ܐܕܗ‬S Bn 21.40 ¦ H (C lac) → Greek: tÕ daimÒnion

277. Mk vii,36

PGw

278. Mk viii,4 •

(S) PGw (H) ‫ܐ‬ lac) → Mt xv,33

279. Mk viii,20

S PGw H ‫ ]ܐ‬add S Bn 2.7.11.17.21. 40.41 (C lac) → Greek: lšgousin aÙtù (v. l.)

280. Mk viii,24

PGw ] ‫ ܘ‬Bn 5.7.12.16.37 ¦ ‫ܘ‬H¦ om S (C lac) → Greek: kaˆ ¢nablšyaj

281. Mk viii,25

PGw ‫ ܘܬܘܒ ]ܬܘܒ‬S Bn ¦ ‫ܬܘܒ‬ (C lac) → Greek: eι=ta p£lin

282. Mk viii,29 •

PGw ‫ܢ‬ 37.40 ¦ ‫ܐ‬ Mt xvi,16

283. Mk viii,33

S PGw H

284. Mk viii,34

] no sey SH Bn 5.15.18.23.39 (C PGw ‫̈ ܐ‬ lac) → Greek: tÕn Ôclon

‫]ܘ‬

̣ ‫ ܘ‬Bn 36 (C lac)

̇

‫ܙܗܪ ]ܘܙܗܪ‬ ‫ ܘ‬SH (C lac)

] ‫ܐ‬

‫̣ܗܘ ܕ‬

‫)ܠ(ܕ ܐ‬

Bn 2.11.23.39 ¦

‫]ܕ ܒ‬

tr Bn sic (C

‫ܒ ܪ‬H

add ‫ ܐ ܐ‬Bn 7.12.16.18.32. S ¦ ‫ ܐ ܘܣ‬H (C lac) →

̣ ‫]ܘܐ‬

add

Bn (C lac)

̇

285. Mk viii,35 •

PGw ‫ ]ܕܨܒܐ ܓ‬tr S(H) Bn 2c.11.21.23.32 (C lac) → Lk ix,24

286. Mk viii,35

S PGw ‫ܕ ܒ‬ ‫]ܘ‬ 8.13.21.32 ¦ ‫ܕ ܕ ܒ‬ beginning of the verse

287. Mk ix,2

‫̇ ܕ ܒ‬ ‫ ܘ‬Bn ̇ ‫ ܗܘ‬H (C lac) → cf the

] ‫̈ ܘܢ‬ Bn ¦ PGw ‫̈ ܘܢ‬ SH (C lac) → Greek: œmprosqen

‫ܘܢ‬

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

75

288. Mk ix,4 •

PGw (H) ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܘܐ ܐ ]ܐ ܐ ܘ‬ S Bn 2.5.8*.11.13.17.21.40 (C lac) → Mt xvii,3; Lk ix,30

289. Mk ix,7 •

PGw ‫ܐ‬

‫ ]ܘ‬add ‫ ܗܘܐ‬Bn 2.11.14.21.23.41 ¦ ‫ ܘ ܐ ܐܬܐ‬S ¦ ‫ܘܐܬܐ ܐ‬ H (C lac) → ̣ Mt xvii,5; Lk ix,35

290. Mk ix,8 •

PGw H ‫ ]ܐ ܐ‬add (C lac) → Mt xvii,8

291. Mk ix,17

S PGw H ‫ ܕܐ ܒ ]ܕܐ‬Bn (C lac) → Greek: (tÕn uƒÒn ...) œconta

292. Mk ix,24

‫ ܐܢ‬S Bn 5.7.12.16.32.40

̇ ‫]ܘܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn 11.15c.17.23.36 ¦ ̇ ‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬H ¦ no diacr. point S (C lac) → PGw

Greek: œlegen 293. Mk ix,30 294. Mk ix,31 •

295. Mk ix,32 •

PGw H ̣ ] ̣ S Bn 5.11.13.21.23.39.40 (C lac) → Greek: ™xelqÒntej PGw ‫ ܒܐ ̈ ܝ ܒ ̈ ܐ ܐ ]ܒܐ ̈ ܝ ܐ ܐ‬S(H) Bn 7.11.16.23.32.40 (C lac) → Mt xvii,22; Lk ix,44 PGw H

‫ܘܢ‬

‫ܐ‬

̇ ]

add ‫ ܗܕܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܕܐ‬S (C lac) → Lk ix,45

2

296. Mk ix,47 •

PGw ] ‫ܐ‬ lac) → Mt xviii,9

297. Mk ix,50 •

S PGw H Lk xiv,34

298. Mk x,1 •

S PGw H Mt xix,1

299. Mk x,4

S PGw ‫]ܐ‬ Greek: eι=pan

300. Mk x,5 •

] ‫ܒ‬ PGw ‫ܒ‬ 17.19.23.26.36 ¦ (C lac) → Mt xix,8

‫]ܐܢ ܕ‬ ‫]ܬ‬

‫ܡ‬

SH Bn 7.12.32c.37 (C add

add

‫ ܐܦ‬Bn 5c (C lac) →

‫ܥ‬

Bn (C lac) → cf

‫ܐ ̣ ܘ‬

H Bn (C lac) →

‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬

Bn 5c.11.13. S¦‫ܬ‬ H

76

Andreas Juckel

‫]ܗ‬

301. Mk x,9

S PGw oân (v. l.)

302. Mk x,14 •

S PGw H ‫ܐ‬ → Mt xviii,3

303. Mk x,19 •

S PGw H

]

304. Mk x,27

PGw H ‫ܘܢ‬ (C lac)

‫]ܕ ܒ‬

305. Mk x,28

PGw ‫ ] ܐ‬add SH Bn 40c (C lac) → Greek: lšgein ... aÙtù

306. Mk x,31

PGw H

307. Mk x,44 •

‫ܢ ] ܘܐ ܒ ܐ ܕ‬ ‫ ܒ ܐ ܕ‬Bn sic ¦ ‫ܒ ܐ‬ ‫ܢ‬ ‫ ܕ‬H (C lac) → Mt xx,27

308. Mk x,45 •

PGw H

309. Mk x,47

PGw

‫]ܕ‬

om H Bn (C lac) → Greek: om

‫ܐ ]ܕܐ‬

‫ ܕ‬Bn 21*vid (C lac)

‫ ܘ‬Bn (C lac) → Mt xix,19 tr Bn 5*.8*.21 ¦ om

‫ ܓ‬S Bn 8*.23.26 (C lac)

S PGw

‫]ܓ‬

‫ܪܐ‬

‫ܕ‬S

‫ܘܐ‬ ‫ܘܐ‬

om S Bn (C lac) → cf Mt xx,28

‫ܥ ܗܘ‬

‫]ܕ‬

‫ܥ ̇ܗܘ‬

‫ܕ‬

‫ܪܐ‬

H Bn ¦ no diacr. point S (C lac) → Greek: ’Ihsoàj Ð NazarhnÒj 310. Mk x,52

‫ ܙܠ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܙܠ‬SH 15.17.20.36. PGw ‫ܝ ] ܝ‬ 39.40 (C lac) → Greek: Ûpage (v. l. ¢n£bleyon)

311. Mk xi,1 •

S PGw (H) ‫ ] ܪ‬add ‫ܥ‬ 40 (C lac) → Mt xxi,1

312. Mk xi,13

‫ ܐ ̣ܗܘܐ ] ܐ ̣ܗܘܐ ܗܘܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ ܓ ܐ ܘܗܝ ܗܘܐ‬H (C lac) ̇ ‫ܗܘܐ ܘܐ‬ ‫]ܘ‬ S PGw (H) ‫ܘܢ‬ ̇ ‫ܗܘܐ ܘܢ ܘܐ‬ ‫ ܘ‬Bn (C lac)

313. Mk xi,17

Bn 5mg.c.21.23c.39.

S PGw

314. Mk xii,3 •

] PGw (H) (C lac) → Lk xx,10

315. Mk xii,6

PGw ‫] ܬܐ ܕ‬ 15c.vid.19.32.39 ¦

S Bn 11.21.23

‫ ܬܐ ܕ‬Bn 5.7.8*.13. ‫ ܬܘܒ ܗ‬H ¦ om S (C lac)

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

77

̇ ] ‫̈ ܐ ̇ܗ ܢ‬

316. Mk xii,9 •

(S) PGw H ‫̈ ܐ‬ ‫ܢ‬ Bn (C lac) → Lk xx,16

317. Mk xii,10

S PGw H ‫ܐ‬

318. Mk xii,14

PGw ‫ ]ܒ ܨܘ ܐ‬no sey H Bn 12 ¦ (C lac) → Greek: e„j prÒswpon

319. Mk xii,17

PGw ‫]ܐ‬ H (C lac)

̣ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn ¦

‫ ܘܐ‬S ¦ ̣ ‫ܐ‬

PGw H ‫̈ ܐ‬ → Lk xx,35

] ‫̈ ܐ‬

‫ܒ‬

320. Mk xii,25 •

] ̇

̇

Bn (C lac)

‫ ܒܐ ̈ ܐ‬S

S Bn (C lac)

321. Mk xii,26 •

PGw ‫ ܕܐ ܐ ܐ ܐ ]ܐ ܐ ܐ ܐ‬S Bn 5c.8.11. 19.21.23.26.40 ¦ ‫ ܐ ܐ‬H (C lac) → Mt xxii,32

322. Mk xii,26 •

S PGw (H)

‫ܒ‬

‫ܗ‬

‫ܘܐ‬

‫]ܘܐ‬

‫ܕ‬

twice om ‫ ܘ‬of ‫ܗ‬ → Mt xxii,32 323. Mk xii,27 •

‫ܗ ܕܐ‬

‫ ܘܐ‬Bn 13.14.21.36 (C lac)

‫ܘܐ ܐ ܐ ]ܘ ܐ ܗܘܐ ܐ ܐ‬ ‫ ܗܘܐ‬Bn 2.5c(* om ‫)ܘ‬.23.26.39(om ‫ܐ ¦ )ܘ‬ ‫ ܐ ܐ‬S ¦ ‫ ܐ ܐ ܘܗܝ ܐ ܐ‬H (C lac) PGw

→ Mt xxii,32

̣ ‫ ܘ ̣ ܐ ]ܘ‬Bn (C lac)

324. Mk xii,28

S (H) PGw

325. Mk xii,31

S PGw H

326. Mk xii,33

PGw ‫ܗܝ‬ ¦ ‫ܒ ܗܝ‬

om ‫ ܕ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܗܝ‬ ‫ ܘܕ‬H (C lac)

327. Mk xii,33

S PGw

‫]ܘܕ‬

328. Mk xii,34 •

(S) PGw (H) ‫ ]ܬܘܒ ܐ ܚ‬tr Bn 7.8.32.37.39 (C lac) → Mt xxii,46

329. Mk xii,44 •

(S) PGw (H) lac) → Lk xxi,1

‫ ܗ ܐ ]ܗ‬Bn (C lac) ‫]ܘܕ‬

om ‫ ܕ‬Bn ¦

‫]ܐܪ‬

add

‫ܕ‬S

‫ ܘܕ‬H (C lac)

‫ܓܐ‬

‫ ܒ‬Bn (C

78

Andreas Juckel

330. Mk xiii,4 •

S PGw ‫ ]ܘ ܐ‬add ‫ ܗܝ‬H Bn 2.5.8.12.13.19. 21.26.40.41 (C lac) → Mt xxiv,3; Lk xxi,7

331. Mk xiii,7 •

PGw ‫ܗܘ‬ ] add ‫ ܓ‬S(H) Bn 7.8c.12. 32.37.40 (C lac) → Mt xxiv,6; Lk xxi,9

332. Mk xiii,9 •

PGw H

‫]ܓ‬

‫ ܕ‬Bn ¦ om S (C lac) → Mt x,17

333. Mk xiii,11

S PGw H

1

]

334. Mk xiii,14 •

PGw H ‫ܐ ܐ ܐ ]ܐ ܐ‬ ‫ ܐܬܪ‬S (C lac) → Mt xxiv,15

335. Mk xiii,16

PGw

‫]ܒ‬ ‫ܐܐܕ‬

336. Mk xiii,21 •

S PGw (H) xvii,23

337. Mk xiii,26 •

PGw H

‫ܐ‬

‫ܢ‬

om Bn (C lac)

‫ܒ‬

‫ܒܘ‬

Bn ¦

S Bn 2.14.15.20.40 ¦

H (C lac)

‫]ܗܪܬ‬

‫̈ܐ‬

add ‫ ܗܘ‬Bn (C lac) → Lk

‫̈ ܐ ]ܒ‬

Bn ¦

S (C lac) → Mt xxiv,13

338. Mk xiv,4

PGw ‫ܐ‬ H (C lac)

‫ܐ ]ܕ‬

339. Mk xiv,5

PGw ‫]ܒ‬ ‫( ܒ‬S)H Bn 32 (C lac) → Greek: aÙtÍ (the woman)

340. Mk xiv,6 •

PGw H ̣ ‫ ]ܐ‬add ‫ܘܢ‬ S Bn 5.11.23.26.39 (C lac) → Greek: + aÙto‹j (v. l.); Mt xxvi,10

341. Mk xiv,25 •

S PGw H ‫ܐ ] ܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬ 39.40 (C lac) → Mt xxvi,29

342. Mk xiv,25 •

S PGw ‫ܬܐ‬ Mt xxvi,29

343. Mk xiv,26

S PGw ‫ܐ‬ (C lac)

344. Mk xiv,27

PGw(H)

345. Mk xiv,31 •

] add ‫ ܬ ̈ ܐ‬Bn 2.7.8c.12. S PGw H ‫ܘܢ‬ 17.19.21c.32.37 (C lac) → Mt xxvi,35

Bn ¦

‫ܐ‬

‫ܕ‬S¦‫ܐ‬

̇

] ‫ܬܐ‬

̈‫ܪ ܙ‬ ]

‫ܗ‬

Bn 5.11.23.36.

H Bn 40 (C lac) →

] ‫ܪܐ ܕܙ ̈ ܐ‬

H Bn

add ‫ ܗܘ‬S Bn (C lac)

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 346. Mk xiv,32 •

S PGw (H) ‫ܐ‬ Mt xxvi,36

347. Mk xiv,40

PGw H

348. Mk xiv,41 •

S PGw H ‫ܘܐܬܐ‬ ̣ ] add ‫ ܬܘܒ‬Bn (C lac) → Mt xxvi,44

349. Mk xiv,48 •

S PGw H ‫ܘܢ‬ lac) → Lk xxii,52

350. Mk xiv,49

S PGw H ‫ܐ‬

351. Mk xiv,54 •

‫]ܓ‬ PGw(H) ‫ܕܪܬܐ‬ 2.5.7.12.13.23.26.32.40 ¦ cf Mt xxvi,58

352. Mk xiv,56 •

S PGw H xxvi,59

353. Mk xiv,59

S PGw H ‫ܐ‬

354. Mk xiv,62

S PGw H ‫ܐ‬ lac) → cf ‫ܐ‬ verse

355. Mk xiv,66

Sin vs 67PGw ‫ܐ ܐ‬ 12.32.36.37.39.41 (C lac)

356. Mk xv,1 •

PGw ‫ܘ‬

‫ܘܗܝ‬

‫]ܐ‬

79

om Bn 20.23.26 (C lac) →

‫]ܐ‬

‫ ܘܐ‬S Bn (C lac)

]

add

‫ܐ‬

‫ܗܝ‬

Bn 7.12.32.37 (C

]

]

om Bn (C lac)

‫ ܓ ܕܪܬܗ‬Bn ‫ ܒ ܗ‬S (C lac) →

om Bn (C lac) → cf Mt

‫ ܐ ܐ ]ܘܐ‬Bn 13.15.36 (C lac) ̈

] ‫ܐ‬

Bn (C at the end of the

]

tr (H) Bn 2*.7.8.

‫ ܘܐ ܘܗܝ ]ܘܐ‬S Bn 1.2c.11.39 ¦ ‫ ܐ‬H (C lac) → Mt xxvii,2

357. Mk xv,1 •

] add ‫ܐ‬ S PGw H ‫ܣ‬ mg 7.8 .12 (C lac) → Mt xxvii,2

358. Mk xv,5 •

S PGw H ‫̣ ܒ‬ → Mt xxvii,14

359. Mk xv,9 •

PGw H ̣ ‫ ]ܘܐ‬add → Mt xxvii,17

360. Mk xv,11 •

PGw H xxvii,20

‫ܐ‬

‫]ܐ‬

]

‫ܐܓ‬

Bn

add

Bn 15.19 (C lac)

‫ܘܢ‬

S Bn 8.11 (C lac)

om S Bn (C lac) → Mt

80

Andreas Juckel

361. Mk xv,22 •

PGw H ‫ܘ ܐ ]ܕܘ ܐ‬ 23.40 (C lac) → Mt xxvii,33

362. Mk xv,23 •

PGw H ‫ܐ‬ → Mt xxvii,34

363. Mk xv,25

PGw ‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫]ܐ‬ vid 13.17 .19.23 ¦ ‫ܗܘܝ‬ ‫ ܗܘܬ‬H (C lac)

364. Mk xv,28

PGw Bncor ̣ ‫]ܕܐ‬ ‫ ܕܐ‬H Bn* ¦ S om verse 28 (C lac) → Greek: (¹ graf¾) ¹ lšgousa

365. Mk xv,29

PGw ‫ ܐܦ ]ܘܐܦ‬Bn 15 ¦ part of verse 29 (C lac)

366. Mk xv,32

PGw

367. Mk xv,46 •

S PGw (H) ‫ܗܘܐ‬ → Mt xxvii,60

368. Mk xv,46 •

S PGw (H) ‫ܓ‬ → Mt xxvii,60

369. Mk xvi,1

S PGw H ‫ܐ‬

370. Mk xvi,4

PGw Bncor H ‫ܐ ܐ‬ Bn*vid 14 ¦ ‫ܐ ܐ‬ Greek: Ð l…qoj

371. Mk xvi,6 •

S PGw (H) ‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ ]ܕ‬add lac) ¦ om ‫ ܗܘܐ‬32 → Mt xxviii,6

] ‫ܐ‬

S Bn 1.5c.15.21.

‫ ܕ‬Bn ¦ om S (C lac)

̈ ‫ܗܘܝ‬

‫ ܐ‬Bn 2.3.11.12. ̈ ‫ ܘܐ‬S ¦ ̇ ‫ܐ‬

̇

‫]ܕ‬

‫ܘ‬

H ¦ S om this

om SH Bn (C lac) → Greek: om dš

‫]ܕ‬ ‫]ܘ‬

‫ܐ ] ܒ‬

om

‫ ܗܘܐ‬Bn (C lac)

‫ ܘ ܓ‬Bn 36.40 (C lac) Bn (C lac)

‫̣ܗܘܬ ܐ ܐ ]̇ܗܝ‬ ‫ ܗܘܬ ܗܝ‬S (C lac) → ̇ ‫ ܒ‬Bn 40 (C

In Bn the Gospel of Mark ends at xvi,20 Subscr.

‫ܘܙܘܬܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐܘ ܓ ܢ‬ ‫ܘܐ ܙ‬ ‫ ܕ‬.‫ܒ ܐ‬ ‫ܣ‬ ‫ܐ܀‬ ‫ܪܘ ܐ ܒ ܘ ܐ‬

‫ܕ‬

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

81

The Gospel of Luke Inscr.

‫ܥ‬ ‫ܒ ܐ܀‬

372. Lk i,2

PGw ‫ܐ‬ ¦‫ܐ‬

‫ܐ ܕ ܢ‬ ‫ܐܘ ܓ ܢ‬ ‫ܐ܆ ܘܙܘܬܐ ܕ ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ]ܕ ̇ ܕ‬ ‫ܕ‬ ‫ ܕ‬Bn 1.12 ‫ ܕ‬SH (C lac)

373. Lk i,24

‫ ]ܘ‬om PGw H ‫ܐ ܗܘܬ‬ lac) → Greek: periškruben

374. Lk i,38 •

] add ‫ܐ ܐ‬ Bn 40 ¦ illeg S PGw H (C lac) → Greek: sine ADD, cf Lk i,34

375. Lk i,51

(S) PGw H ‫ܐ‬ (C lac)

376. Lk i,52

S PGw ‫ܐ‬ H (C lac)

̈ ‫]ܬ‬

377. Lk i,63

(Sin

PGw

vs 64)

‫]ܒ ܪ‬

‫ܘܐܬܕ‬

‫ܗܘܬ‬

Bn (SC

sey Bn 11.13.23.26.41

by err no sey Bn ¦

̈

‫ܐ‬

(H) ‫]ܘܐܬܕ ܘ‬ Bn 7.13.26.32.37.39.41 (C

lac) 378. Lk i,66

PGw (H) ‫ܘܐ‬ Bn ¦ ‫ܘܐ‬

̇

‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬

̈

]

‫ܘܐ‬

‫ܐ‬

S (C lac)

] ‫̈ ܐ‬

379. Lk ii,6

S PGw ‫ܗ‬

380. Lk ii,23

S PGw H

381. Lk ii,24

‫]ܐ ܐ ܕܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܐ ܕ‬S PGw ̇ Bn ¦ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܗܝ ܕܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬H (C lac) → Greek: kat¦ tÕ e„rhmšnon

382. Lk ii,25

] ‫ ܕ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܘܕ‬H S PGw (C lac) → Greek: ú Ônoma (+ aÙtoà v. l.)

383. Lk ii,27

S PGw

Bn 7*.12.21.26 (C lac)

̇

‫ܗܝ‬ 384. Lk ii,36

‫]ܕ‬

H Bn (C lac)

PGw

‫]ܘ‬

om

Bn ¦

‫ ܐ‬H (C lac) ‫]ܕ‬

om SH Bn (C lac) → Greek: sine dš

‫ܘ‬

82

Andreas Juckel

‫ܐ ܗܘܐ‬ ‫]ܕ‬ ‫ ܕ ܒ ܗܘܐ‬S ¦ ‫ܗܘܘ‬

‫ ܗܘܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܕ‬H (C lac) ‫ܬ ܐ ̈ ܘܢ ] ܬ ܐ‬

385. Lk ii,38

PGw

386. Lk ii,44

(S) PGw ‫ܬܗܘܢ‬ Bn 7 ¦ om H (C lac) → Greek: ™n to‹j suggeneàsin

387. Lk ii,46

S PGw ‫ܪ‬ H (C lac)

‫ܒ‬

388. Lk ii,46

S PGw H lac)

‫ܗܝ‬

389. Lk ii,49

PGw ‫ ܘܐ ̣ ]ܐ‬H Bn ¦ no diacr. point SC → Greek: kaˆ eŒpen

390. Lk ii,50

SC PGw (H) ‫ܘܢ‬

̣ ‫]ܕܐ‬

391. Lk iii,15

(SC) PGw (H) ‫ܗܘܘ‬

‫ܒ‬

om

‫ ܘܒ ܪ ]ܘ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܘܗܘܐ ܒ ܪ‬ ̣ ‫ܗܝ ]ܐ‬

‫ܘܐ‬

Bn (C

̇

̇ ‫]ܐܬܐ ܕ‬

add ‫ܥ‬

]

Bn

om ‫ ܗܘܘ‬Bn

392. Lk iii,16 •

add ‫ ܒ ܪܝ‬S Bn 7.8c.11. PGw H 12.17.37.40 ¦ illeg C → Mt iii,11; Mk i,7; Jn i,27

393. Lk iii,19

PGw ‫ ܕ ̣ܒ ܗܘܐ ]ܕ ܒ ܗܘܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܕ ̣ܒ‬ H ¦ no diacr. point S (C lac) → Greek: ™po…hsen

394. Lk iii,21

PGw ‫]ܘܐܦ‬ (C lac)

395. Lk iii,36

S PGw H sic legendum ‫ܒ ]ܒ ܐܪ‬ ‫ ܐܪ‬Bn 3.39 (C lac) → Greek: toà ’Arfax£d

396. Lk iv,4

S PGw H ‫ܐ‬

397. Lk iv,18

‫ܗܕܐ ]ܘ‬ PGw‫ܗܕܐ‬ ‫ ܘ‬32 ¦ 8.13.21 ¦ ‫ܗ ܐ‬ lac) → Greek: oá e†neken

398. Lk iv,18

̇

S PGw H‫ܐ‬ ¢n£bleyin

‫ ܐܦ‬S Bn 1.13.14.23.36.39 ¦ ‫ ܘ‬H

̇]‫ܐ ܐ‬

]

Bn 11 (C lac)

‫ܗ‬

(H) Bn ‫ ܕ‬S (C

sey Bn (C lac) → Greek:

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 399. Lk iv,18

PGw (H) sic legendum ‫ܪܘ‬ codd?. ¦ ‫ ܘܐ ܪ‬S (C lac)

83

‫ܪܘ ]ܘ‬

‫ ܘ‬Bn

The Pusey/Gwilliam volume of 1901 gives the ‫( ܘ‬Greek: ¢poste‹lai) by expected ‫ܪܘ‬ misprint; according to the Latin translation and the apparatus it was Gwilliam’s intention to give ‫ܪܘ‬ ‫( ܘ‬which is the text of the B.F.B.S. volume of 1920 and of Kiraz’ Comparative Edition). In the apparatus no manuscript attestation for ‫ܪܘ‬ ‫ ܘ‬is given (which is the text of the editions of J. Leusden/C. Schaaf [1709] and S. Lee [1816]). According to my own collations, ‫ܪܘ‬ ‫ ܘ‬is attested by Ms BL Add 14,453 (no. 14 in the Pusey/Gwilliam volume).

400. Lk iv,21

S PGw H‫ ܕܒܐܕ ̈ ܢ ]ܒܐܕ ̈ ܢ‬Bn (C lac) → Greek: ™n to‹j çsˆn Ømîn

401. Lk iv,23

S PGw Bn* H ‫]ܐܦ‬

402. Lk iv,24 •

PGw (H) ̣ ‫ ] ̣ܗܘ ܕ ܐ‬add ‫ܘܢ‬ lac) → Mt xiii,57; Mk vi,4

403. Lk iv,25

PGw

404. Lk iv,25

] no sey SH Bn 32.41 (C lac) → PGw‫̈ ܐ‬ Greek: Ð oÙranÒj

‫]ܓ‬

405. Lk iv,36 •

S PGw H Mk i,27

406. Lk iv,38

S PGw H (‫ܘܐܬܘ‬ ̣ )

407. Lk iv,40 •

PGw

‫ܒܐ‬

‫ܒ‬

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bncor (C lac)

om S Bn 8c.14 ¦

̇]

‫ܐ‬

̇

S Bn (C

‫ ܕ‬H (C lac)

Bn 6.21vid. (C lac) →

̣ ]

̣ ‫ ܘ‬Bn (C lac) → cf Mk i,29

]

‫ܒ‬

‫ܒ‬

H Bn 21.26 ¦ S (C lac) → Mk i,32

408. Lk v,1

S PGw Bncor ‫ܐ‬ ] ‫ ܐ‬H Bn* (C lac) → Greek: (par¦ t¾n) l…mnhn

409. Lk v,2

PGw‫ ܘ ̣ ܐ ] ̣ ܐ‬SH Bn 4*vid.6.7.8.12.13 (C lac) → Greek: kaˆ eι=den

84

Andreas Juckel

410. Lk v,2 •

S PGw ‫ܓ‬ ] → Mt xiii,1; Mk iv,1

Bn ¦ ‫ܬ‬

411. Lk v,3

S PGw‫ܐ‬ ] sey H Bn (C lac) → Greek: (™d…dasken) toÝj Ôclouj

412. Lk v,12

‫ ܘܐ‬Bn 1.4.8.12.17.21.26. PGw ̣ ‫]ܘܐ‬ ̇ ‫ ܐ‬H ¦ no diacr. point S (C lac) 32.41 ¦ → Greek: lšgwn

413. Lk v,13 •

PGw ‫ ]ܘܐܬܕ‬om SH Bn 4c.6.7.8.12.13.14.21. 32 (C lac) → Greek: ™kaqar…sqh (v. l.) → Mk i,42

414. Lk v,23 •

S PGw ‫]ܗ‬ ‫ ܘܗ‬H Bn (C lac) → Greek: (œgeire) kaˆ perip£tei; cf Mk ii,9

415. Lk v,25

PGw‫ܘܢ‬

H (C lac)

̇

̈

]

‫̈ ܘܢ‬

Bn 40 ¦ SH (C lac) → Greek: ™nèpion

‫ܘܢ‬ aÙtîn 416. Lk v,31

PGw‫ܐ‬

‫ܐ ]ܘ‬

417. Lk v,31

PGw ‫]ܕܒ ܒ‬ ‫ ܕܒ ܐ‬H Bn (SC lac) → Greek: kakîj → Mk i,32

418. Lk vi,4

PGw‫ܐ‬

419. Lk vi,5 •

PGw‫ܐ‬

‫ܒ ܗ ܕܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܘܗܝ ܒ ܗ‬ ‫ ܕܐ ܐ‬Bn sic ¦ ‫ܐ ܐܦ ܕ ܒ ܐ‬

420. Lk vi,7

PGw‫ܘ ]ܕܐܢ ܗܘ‬ ¦ ‫ ܕܐܢ‬H (SC lac)

421. Lk vi,8

PGw‫ܐܬܐ‬ ̣ ]

422. Lk vi,9 •

PGw (H) Mk iii,4

423. Lk vi,19

S PGw (H) lac)

‫]ܐ‬

‫ ܘ‬H (SC lac)

Bn ¦

add ‫ ܐܢ‬H Bn 21 (SC lac)

‫ܒ‬

‫]ܕ ̇ܗ ܗܘ ܕ ܒ ܐ‬ ‫ܕ ̇ܗ ܗܘ ܕ ܒ ܐ‬ ‫ܕ ܐ ܐ ܘܗܝ ܒ ܗ‬ ‫ ܕܐ‬H (SC lac) → Mt xii,8 ‫ ܐ‬Bn 4.7.12.14.17c.32.39

̇ ‫ ܐܬܐ‬Bn ¦ om H (SC lac) ‫]ܕ‬

tr Bn 32 (SC lac) →

‫] ܐ ܐ ܗܘܐ‬

om

‫ ܗܘܐ‬Bn (C

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 424. Lk vi,31

PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬ lac)

425. Lk vi,35 •

(S) PGw (H) ‫̈ܪܐ‬ Mt v,45; xxii,10

426. Lk vii,3

S PGw (H) ‫ܗ‬

427. Lk vii,4

85

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bn ¦ diff. constr. in S (C ] ‫̈ܒܐ‬

‫ܒܗ ] ܒ‬ ̇ PGw‫ ܗ ܢ ]̣ܗ ܢ‬H Bn

Bn sic (C lac) → Bn (C lac) ¦ om S (C lac) →

Greek: oƒ

̇

428. Lk vii,4

S PGw (H) ‫ ]ܘܐ‬add Bn (C lac) → Greek: lšgontej + aÙtù (v. l.)

429. Lk vii,5

S PGw H ‫]ܘܐܦ‬

430. Lk vii,7

] ‫ܐ‬ Bn ¦ PGw‫ܗܘ‬ ‫ ܗܕܐ‬H ¦ S om verse 7a (C lac)

431. Lk vii,12

(S) PGw

‫̣ ܒ‬ ‫ܕ ܐܬ ܒ‬

‫]ܘ‬ ‫ ܘ‬Bn 14.17 ¦ H (C lac) → Greek: ½ggisen

432. Lk vii,12

S PGw

]

‫ ܐܦ‬Bn 36 (C lac)

̇

‫ܐ ܗܘܐ‬

‫ܕ‬

Bn ¦

‫ܘܗܐ‬

H (C lac)

] ̇

433. Lk vii,14

PGw to ‫ܐ‬

434. Lk vii,20 •

PGw

435. Lk vii,22 •

(S) PGw‫]ܐ ܘ‬ ‫ ܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܐܘܕ‬H (C lac) → Greek: ¢pagge…late; → Mt xi,4

436. Lk vii,22 • 437. Lk vii,24 • 438. Lk vii,26

Bn ¦ om SH (C lac) → Bn refers (fem.)

̇ ‫]ܘܐ‬ ̇ ̣ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn 36 ¦ ‫ ܐ‬H ¦ ‫ ܘܐ‬S (C lac) → Greek: lšgwn; cf Mt xi,3

S PGw H ‫̈ ܐ‬ xi,4

‫̈ ܐ ]ܕ‬

S PGw H ‫ ] ܝ‬add ‫ܥ‬ 37 (C lac) → Mt xi,7

Bn (C lac) → Mt Bn 4*.6.7.12.13.17.

PGw‫ ] ܒ ̈ ܐ‬no sey SH Bn 6.7.8.12.32 (C lac) → Greek: (perissÒteron) prof»tou

86

Andreas Juckel

̇ ‫ܐ ܐ ]ܐ‬

‫ܐܐ‬

̇ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn (C

439. Lk vii,28

S PGw H lac)

440. Lk vii,28 •

S PGw H ‫ܬܐ ܕܐ ܐ‬ ‫]ܒ‬ ‫ܐ‬ Bn (C lac) → Mt xi,11

441. Lk vii,29

PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬

442. Lk vii,33 •

S PGw (H) illeg C → Mt xi,18

443. Lk vii,36 •

PGw (H) ‫ܐ‬ → Lk xi,37

444. Lk viii,7

S?C PGw H ‫ܒܐ‬

445. Lk viii,8

‫ܐ‬ PGw H diacr. point in SC

446. Lk viii,25

PGw‫ܐ‬

447. Lk viii,27

(S) (H) PGw‫̈ܪܐ‬

‫ܒ‬

448. Lk viii,28 •

SC PGw H

‫]ܬ‬

449. Lk viii,30

Bn ¦ PGw ] ‫ܢ‬ diacr. point SC

450. Lk viii,45

PGw 32.41 ¦

451. Lk viii,47

PGw‫]ܗܝ‬ point SC

‫̣ܗܝ‬

452. Lk viii,51

SC PGw‫ܐ‬

‫]ܐ‬

453. Lk ix,14

PGw

454. Lk ix,17

SC PGw

455. Lk ix,18 •

Bn SC PGw (H) ‫ ] ܐܠ ܐ ܢ‬add ‫ܥ‬ 4*.17.21 → Greek: kaˆ ™phrèthsen aÙtoÚj + Ð ’Ihsoàj (v. l.) → Mk viii,29

‫ܬ‬

‫ܒ‬

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܘ‬S (C lac) ̇ ‫ ܕ ܐ ܐ ̇ ] ܐ ܐ‬Bn ¦ partly ] ̈

‫]ܒ‬

̇

̈

‫]ܘ‬

]

‫ܐ‬

SC Bn

no sey Bn

̣ ‫ܐ‬

Bn 36 ¦ no

no sey Bn ¦ om SCH

̇

‫]ܒܒ‬

no sey (C) Bn

ܳ

‫ ܬ‬Bn → Mt viii,29 12 ¦ ‫ܐ‬

H ¦ no

̇ ‫]ܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܐ‬Bn 7.12.13.14.21. ̣ ‫ ܐ‬H ¦ no diacr. point SC

̇

Bn 8*.40 ¦ om H ¦ no diacr. add ‫ ܐܢ‬H Bn

̇ ‫]ܐ‬

̣ ‫ܘܐ‬

̈

] ‫̈ܐ‬

Bn ¦ ‫ ܐ‬SC → Greek: eŒpen

‫ܕ‬

̣ ‫ܐ‬

H ¦

H Bn

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 456. Lk ix,19 •

PGw (H) ‫]ܕ‬ ‫ ܗܘ‬SC → Mt xvi,14

457. Lk ix,26 •

(C) PGw

458. Lk ix,31

‫ܕ‬

87

‫ ܐ‬Bn ¦

‫ܕ‬

‫] ̇ ܕܒ ܬ ܒ ܕ‬ ‫̇ ܕ‬ ‫ ܕ ܒ ܬ ܒ‬Bn 40 ¦ ‫ܿܗܘ ܓ ܕܐܢ ܒ ܬ‬ H¦ ‫ܕ ܒ ܬ ܒ‬ ‫ ܕ‬S → cf Mk viii,38 SC PGw‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ܗܘܐ ]ܕ‬ ‫ ̇ܗܘ ܕ‬H Bn → Greek: ¿n ½mellen

̇

̇

459. Lk ix,34

PGw ‫]ܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܐ‬Bn 12.41 ¦ ‫ ܐ ܗܘܐ‬H ¦ no diacr. point SC → Greek: lšgontoj

460. Lk ix,44 •

PGw H xvii,22

461. Lk ix,48

‫ ] ܐ ܐ‬om PGw‫ܗ ܐ‬ 8*.11.14.23.26.39.40.41* → paid…on toàto (v. l.)

462. Lk ix,57

PGw H ̣ ‫]ܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬Bn 11.17 ¦ no diacr. point SC → Greek: eŒpen

463. Lk ix,58

SC PGw‫ܐ‬ t¦ tapein£

464. Lk ix,61 •

SC PGw‫ ]ܐܙܠ‬om H Bn → Greek: sine ¢pelqe‹n → cf Mt viii,21

465. Lk x,2

SC PGw‫ܐ‬ ‫ ̈ܐ‬H

466. Lk x,6

(S) (C) PGw H ‫ܐ‬ Bn 6.7.8c.12.37.40

467. Lk x,7 •

S PGw (H) x,10

468. Lk x,13

]

add ‫ ܗܘ‬SC Bn 32*vid.39 → Mt

‫ ܐ‬SCH Bn Greek: tÕ

̇

̈

‫]ܘ‬

sey H Bn → Greek: kaˆ

‫̈ ܐ ]ܘ‬

Bn ¦

‫ ]ܐܢ ܕ‬add ‫ܢ‬

‫ܒ ܬܗ ]ܐܓ ܗ‬ ̈

‫̣ܗ ܢ ܕ‬

C Bn → Mt

SC PGw ‫ ܬܒ ]ܬܒ‬Bn 12 ¦ ̈ ‫ ܕܬܒ‬H → Bn corrects according to the Greek and refers to the cities Tyrus and Sidon (not to the inhabitants)

88

Andreas Juckel

469. Lk x,14 •

PGw H ‫ܐ ܕܕ ܐ ]ܒ ܐ‬ ‫( ܒ‬S)C Bn c 6.7.8 .12.32.37 → Greek: ™n ¹mšrv kr…sewj (v. l.); → Mt xi,22

470. Lk x,16

(C) PGw ‫ܗܘ‬ this part of vs 10

471. Lk x,17

S PGw H ‫ ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬C Bn 14

472. Lk x,22

SC PGw H

473. Lk x,22

SC PGw H ‫ܐ‬

474. Lk x,32

S PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬

‫ ܘܐܦ‬C Bn 21

475. Lk x,35

C PGw H ‫̣ ܒ‬ Greek: œdwken

] ‫ܘ ̣ܒ‬

476. Lk x,37

PGw H ̣ ‫ ]ܐ‬add eŒpen äc aÙtù

477. Lk x,37

PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬

478. Lk x,41

PGw H ‫ ]ܕ‬om S Bn 6.8.32.40.41 ¦ C om the first words of verse 41 → Greek: dš

479. Lk xi,2

PGw‫ܐܪ ܐ ]ܒܐܪ ܐ‬ H Bn ¦ SC om verse 2c → Greek: ™pˆ tÁj gÁj (v. l.)

480. Lk xi,8

SC PGw‫ܐ‬ Óswn

481. Lk xi,17 •

̇

]

]

om

‫ܗܘ‬

H Bn ¦ S om

om Bn

‫]ܐ ܐ ܐܢ ܒ‬

om ‫ ܐܢ‬Bn

S Bn 8.12.36 →

SC Bn 36 → Greek:

‫ ܘܐܦ‬SC Bn 36

] ‫ܐ‬

H Bn → Greek:

PGw‫ ̣ ܥ ]ܕ ̇ ܥ ܗܘܐ‬Bn 40 ¦‫ܥ‬ ‫ܥ‬ SC → Mt xii,25

‫]ܐ‬

̣ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn 40c ¦

H¦

̣

‫ ܐ‬SC →

482. Lk xi,17 •

PGw H ̣ Mt xii,25

483. Lk xi,21

PGw (Impf) H Bn ¦ no diacr. point ̣] SC → Greek: kaqwplismšnoj

484. Lk xi,25

(S) PGw (H) Bn

̇

‫ܗ‬

‫ܗ ]ܐ‬

‫ܘܐ‬

(C)

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 485. Lk xi,34 •

PGw (H)

‫]ܬܗܘܐ ܒ ܐ‬

89

‫ܬܗܘܐ‬

‫ܒ ܐ‬

SC Bn 1.11.23.26 → Greek: (Ð ÑfqalmÒj sou v. l.) ponhrÕj Ï; → Mt vi,23

486. Lk xi,34

PGw‫]ܘܐܦ‬

‫ ܐܦ‬SCH Bn 1.21.23.26.41 ‫ ܐ ̇ ]ܐ‬Bn 4.17.23.26.36 ¦ no

487. Lk xi,39

PGw H ̣ diacr. point SC → Greek: eŒpen

488. Lk xi,50

S(C) PGw ‫]ܕ ܬܒ‬ ‫ܬܒ‬ Bn → Greek: †na ™kzhthqÍ

489. Lk xi,53

‫ ]ܘ‬add ‫ ܗܘܘ‬Bn 7.8cor.mg.12. PGw ‫ܘ‬ H ¦ SC om this part of 32.37 ¦ ‫ܝ‬ verse 53; → Greek: ™nšcein

490. Lk xii,7

SC PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bn 11.13

491. Lk xii,8

SC PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bn 40

492. Lk xii,9

‫]ܐ ܐ ܕ‬ ‫ ܐ ܐ ܓ‬Bn 40.41 ¦ ̇ ‫ ܘܐ ܐ‬C ¦ ‫ ܗܘ ܕ‬H ¦ S om verse 9 →

‫ܐ ܕ‬

‫ܐ‬

H

PGw

Greek: Ð dš 493. Lk xii,10 •

̇] ‫̇ܘ ܕ‬

‫ܪܘ ܐ ܕ‬ ‫ܕ‬ ‫ ܪܘ ܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܕܒ ܘ ܐ‬

SC PGw

‫ܕ ܕ‬ H → Mt

xii,32

̇‫ܐ‬

ܼ ‫]ܐ‬

494. Lk xii,13

PGw H

Bn 1.11.23.36.39 ¦ ‫ ܘܐ‬SC → Greek: eŒpen

495. Lk xii,17

SC PGw Bn* 4c.8*.11

496. Lk xii,24

PGw H

‫ܘܢ‬

‫ܠ‬

‫ܠ ]ܕܐ‬

‫ܐ‬

] no ̈ (= ‫ ) ܒ ܐ‬C ‫̈ ܒܐ‬ ]

‫ܐ‬

H Bncor

sey S? Bn 32.41 ¦

497. Lk xii,40 •

‫ܒ‬ PGw H 11.21.23.39.40 → Mt xxiv,44

498. Lk xii,43 •

C PGw‫ܒ ܐ ܗܘ ] ܘ ܒ ܐ‬ (H) Bn ¦ ‫ ܘ‬S → Greek: Ð doàloj ™ke‹noj, → Mt xxiv,46

̇

̇

SC Bn

90 499. Lk xii,45

Andreas Juckel

‫ܝ‬

SC PGw

‫ܝ‬

‫]ܕ‬

‫ܝ‬

Bn ¦

‫ܕ‬H

500. Lk xii,51

PGw H ‫ ] ܓ ܬܐ‬sey SC Bn 17.21.26.37.39. 40.41 → Greek: diamerismÒn

501. Lk xii,58

PGw H

‫]ܓ‬

502. Lk xiii,1

S PGw‫ܘ‬

̣ ‫ ܘܐ ̣ ܘ ]ܐ‬C Bn 14.36.41 ‫ ܕ‬H → Greek: ¢paggšllontej

‫ܕ‬

‫ ܕ‬Bn ¦ om SC → Greek: g£r

503. Lk xiii,11

‫ܐ‬ SC PGw ‫ܐ ܗܘܬ‬ 21.36.40.41 ¦ ‫ܐ ܗܘܬ‬ Greek: kaˆ m¾ dunamšnh

504. Lk xiii,16

SC PGw H ‫ ]ܗܐ‬om Bn → Greek: „doÚ

505. Lk xiii,27

SC PGw H ‫ܐ‬

506. Lk xiii,32

(C) PGw(H) ‫]ܕܗܐ‬

507. Lk xiii,35

SC PGw (H)

‫]ܒ‬

508. Lk xiv,3

C PGw‫]ܕܐܢ‬ Greek: e„ (v. l.)

‫ܐܢ‬

509. Lk xiv,5

PGw H (Impf.) ‫ ܕ‬Bn 12*.36.39.40 ¦ ̣ ‫]ܕ‬ no diacr. point SC → Greek: pese‹tai

510. Lk xiv,10

‫ ܕ ܐ‬H Bn 41 PGw‫ܕܐܬܐ ]ܕ ܐ ܕܐܬܐ‬ ̣ ¦ no diacr. point SC → Greek: †na Ótan œlqV

511. Lk xiv,17 •

SC PGw‫]ܗܐ‬ → Mt xxii,4

512. Lk xiv,18

SC PGw‫ܩ‬

513. Lk xiv,19

PGw ‫]ܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܐ‬Bn 23 ¦ no diacr. point SCH → Greek: eŒpen

514. Lk xiv,20

PGw Bncor H ‫]ܘܐ ܐ‬ 7.8.12.17.37.40.41 ¦ ‫ܐ‬ xiv,19

‫ܐ ]ܕ‬

‫]ܘ‬

¦

‫ ܗܘܬ‬Bn ‫ ܘܐ‬H → om

Bn 7.13.17.40

‫ ܕܗ ܐ‬Bn ex err ¦ om S ‫ ܕܒ‬Bn 8.14.17 SH Bn 8c.36.39.41 →

̇

̇

‫ ܕܗܐ‬Bn 40 ¦ ‫ܕܗܐ‬

‫ ܐ ܩ ]ܕܐ‬Bn ¦

H H

̇

‫ܐ‬ ‫ܘܕܬ‬

‫ܐ‬

S Bn* C → cf Lk

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 515. Lk xiv,22

SC PGw H ‫ܐ‬

516. Lk xiv,25

SC PGw (H)

‫] ܒ‬

add ‫ܗ‬

Bn

‫ܗܘܘ‬ ‫ܐܙ‬

‫ܒ ܪܗ‬

91

‫ܐܙ‬

‫]ܘ‬

‫ܘ‬

‫ܗܘܘ‬ Bn → Greek: suneporeÚonto aÙtù (a variant reading Ñp…sw aÙtoà is not attested)

517. Lk xv,10

SC PGw H ‫ܢ‬

518. Lk xv,15

PGw‫ܪܗ‬

‫ܐܐ‬

‫ܘܗܘ‬ ̣ ]

̇ ‫]ܐ‬

̇ ‫ܘܗܘ‬

‫ܪܗ‬

‫ ܓ‬Bn

add

Bn 32 ¦

‫ ܘ ܪܗ‬SCH 519. Lk xv,29

‫ܘܡ ]ܘ ܐ‬ PGw‫ܘܡ‬ 7.8.12.13.17.32.40 ¦ om ‫ܘܡ‬

520. Lk xvi,9

S PGw‫]ܘܐܦ‬

521. Lk xvi,15

SC PGw

‫ܕ‬ ‫ܕ‬

‫ܘܐ‬

H Bn

SC

‫ ܐܦ‬H Bn 1.8.23.26 ¦ ‫ ܘ‬C

‫ܐ ܘܢ ]ܐ ܘܢ ܐ ܢ ܕ ܕ‬ ‫ ܐ ܢ ̇ܗ ܢ ܕ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܐ ܘܢ‬ ‫ܕ‬ ‫ܢ ܗ‬ ‫ ܐ‬H → Greek:

Øme‹j ™ste oƒ dikaioàntej 522. Lk xvi,22

PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬

523. Lk xvi,26

SC PGw

524. Lk xvi,31

‫ ܘܐܦ‬C Bn 23.26.36 ¦ om S

‫]ܘܐ ܐ ܕ‬ ‫ ܐ ܐ‬Bn 32 ¦ ‫( ܐ ܐ ܕ‬H) 1.11.23.26.36 ̇ ‫]ܐ‬ PGw H ̣ ‫ ܐ‬Bn ¦ no diacr. point SC

→ Greek: eŒpen 525. Lk xvii,1

SC PGw‫ܗܘܐ‬ Greek: eŒpen

526. Lk xvii,2 •

SC PGw (H)

‫ܒ ܘܪܗ‬ ‫ܐ ܒ ܘܪܗ‬

̣ ‫]ܘܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܬ ܐ‬

om

‫ܗܘܐ‬

H Bn →

‫ܪ ܐ ܕ‬

‫ܐ ܗܘܬ ܪ ܐ ܕ‬

‫]ܐ‬ ‫ܪ‬

‫ܐ‬

Bn 11 → Mk ix,42 527. Lk xvii,7 528. Lk xvii,35 •

̇ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܐ‬SC ‫ܘ ̈ ]ܬ̈ܪܬ‬ ‫ ܘܬ̈ܪܬ‬Bn PGw H ̈ ‫ܘ‬ 1.4.7.12.14.17.32.40 ¦ ‫ ܘ ܘ ̈ ܬ̈ܪܬ‬SC → PGw H

̇ ‫]ܐ‬

Mt xxiv,41

92

Andreas Juckel

529. Lk xvii,35 • PGw H ‫ܐ‬ xxiv,41 530. Lk xvii,36

‫ܐ ]ܐ‬

PGw H ‫ܘܘܢ‬ ¦ ‫ܘܘܢ ܬܪ‬

‫ܒ‬

(SC) Bn → Mt

‫ܘܘܢ ]ܬ̈ܪ‬

‫ ܘܬ̈ܪ‬Bn 14

‫ ܘ‬SC → cf Lk xvii,35

531. Lk xviii,15

PGw‫ ]ܘ ̣ ܘ ܐ ܢ‬om ‫ܢ‬ Greek: „dÒntej sine ADD

532. Lk xviii,20 •

(S)C PGw

‫ܐ‬

SCH Bn →

‫ ܘ ܐ‬.‫ ܘ ܐ ܬܓ ܪ‬.‫ܠ‬ ‫]ܐܬ‬ ‫ ܘ ܐ ܬ ܕ‬.‫ܬܓ ܒ‬ ‫ ܘ ܐ‬... ‫ ܐ‬... ‫ ܐ‬... ‫( ܐ‬H) Bn codd → Mk

x,19

]

‫ ܘ‬Bn 13 → Mt xix,19

533. Lk xviii,20 •

SC PGw H

534. Lk xviii,24

SC PGw‫ܐ‬ „dën dš

535. Lk xviii,29 •

SC PGw ‫ܥ‬ ‫]ܐ‬ ‫( ܥ‬H) Bn 13 → Mt xix,28

536. Lk xviii,34

(SC) PGw

‫]ܘ‬ ̣

add

‫ ܕ‬H Bn → Greek:

̇

‫ܘܢ‬ ¦ ‫ܐ ܢ‬ legÒmena

̈

‫ܘܢ‬ ̈ ‫ܗܘܝ‬ ̈

‫̇ܗ‬

‫ܕ‬

̇‫ܐ‬

‫ܘܢ‬ ‫ܕ‬

‫]ܗ‬

‫ܕ‬

Bn (4c.17) H → Greek: t¦

537. Lk xviii,35 •

SC PGw (H) ‫ ]ܘ‬add 4c.8.21.40.41cor → cf Mk x,46

538. Lk xix,26 •

(SC) PGw (40) ¦ xxv,29

539. Lk xix,26 •

SC PGw xxv,29

]

540. Lk xix,29

S PGw‫ܓܐ‬

‫]ܒ‬

541. Lk xix,29 •

SC PGw H Mt xxi,1

542. Lk xix,30

SC PGw‫ ]ܗܐ‬om H Bn → Greek: sine „doÚ

‫̇ܗܘ ܕ‬ ‫̇ܗܘ ܕ ܕ‬

‫] ܪ‬

‫ܥ‬

Bn

‫ ]ܘ‬om ‫ ܘ‬Bn ‫( ܘ‬H) 32 → Mt H Bn 21vid → Mt

sey CH Bn 36.37.39

add

‫ܥ‬

Bn 11.14.41 →

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 543. Lk xix,30

SC PGw H ‫ܐܘܗܝ‬

544. Lk xix,31 •

SH PGw‫ܐ‬ xi,3

545. Lk xix,31 •

PGw‫ܢ‬

546. Lk xix,36

‫]ܗ‬

93

‫ ܘܐ ܐܘܗܝ ]ܐ‬Bn om C Bn → Mt xxi,3; Mk

]

‫ ܕ ܢ‬Bn 11.12.13.21.40 ¦ ‫ܗ‬ SC ¦ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ ܕ‬H → Mt xxi,3; Mk xi,3 ̇ ] ‫̣ܐܙ‬ ‫ܕ‬ Bn ¦ PGw (H) ‫ܕ ܐܙܠ‬ ‫ ܘ ܪܕܐ ܗܘܐ‬SC → Greek: poreuomšnou äc aÙtoà

]‫ܝ‬

Bn → Greek: ½rxanto (v. l.

547. Lk xix,37

SCH ½rxato)

548. Lk xx,2 •

PGw(H) ‫ܗܘ‬ xxi,23; Mk xi,28

549. Lk xx,10 •

(SC) PGw H ‫ܐ‬ xxi,34

550. Lk xx,12

S PGw‫ ܐܦ ]ܘܐܦ‬H Bn 7.12.17.21.36.37.39. 40 ¦ C om almost all of verse 12

551. Lk xx,13

PGw ‫]ܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܐ‬H Bn ¦ no diacr. point SC → Greek: eŒpen

552. Lk xx,18

PGw B* 1 39 ¦ ‫ܐ‬

553. Lk xx,24 •

̇

‫]ܘ‬

‫]ܘܒ ܒ‬

om

‫̇ܗܘ‬

SC Bn → Mt

add ‫ܐ̈ܪܐ‬

‫ ܕ‬Bn → Mt

̇

‫]ܘ‬

‫( ܘ‬H) Bn 7.8c.12.32.37.

SC → cf vs 18b

PGw Bn* H ‫̣ ܘ‬ 17.21.32.40.41 ¦

̇ ‫ ܐ‬Bncor 4.7.8.12.

‫]ܐ‬

‫ ܘܐ‬SC

̇

554. Lk xx,25 •

PGw ‫]ܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܘܐ‬sic Bn ¦ SC → cf Mt xxii,21

555. Lk xx,27

(SC) PGw (H) ‫ܒ‬ proselqÒntej

556. Lk xx,29 •

SC PGw H

557. Lk xx,32

SC PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬

̣ ]

] ̣

add

→ Mt xxii,21

̣ ‫ܐ‬H¦

‫ܐ‬

‫ ܗܘܘ‬Bn → Greek:

Bn → Mt xxii,25

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bn 7.12.13.32.37

94

Andreas Juckel

558. Lk xx,35 •

C PGw‫ ܐ ܐ ]ܘܐܦ ܐ‬Bn 8.13.21.36.37 ¦ ‫ ܐ‬S ¦ ‫ ܘ ܐ‬H → Mt xxii,30

559. Lk xx,37

SH PGw‫]ܐܦ‬

560. Lk xx,39

PGw

‫ܘ‬

561. Lk xx,46

‫ ܘܐܦ‬C Bn 4c.11.14.40.41

‫ ܘܐ ̣ ܘ ]ܘܐ‬Bn ¦

‫ ܐ‬SC ¦

‫ ܐ‬H → Greek: eι=pan ‫ ]ܒ‬no sey Bn → Greek: ™n SC PGw H ‫̈ ܐ‬ ta‹j ¢gwra‹j

562. Lk xxi,2

S(H) PGw‫ܐܦ‬ 8.13.14

‫ܘ ̣ ܐ ܘܐܦ ]ܘ ̣ ܐ‬

563. Lk xxi,6 •

SH PGw ‫ ]ܬ ܒ‬add xxiv,2; Mk xiii,2

564. Lk xxi,8 •

PGw‫ܢ‬ ‫ܢ ]̣ ܘ ܐܬ‬ ‫̣ ܘ ܐܬ‬ H Bn ¦ ‫ܢ‬ ‫ ܘ ܕ ܐ ܬ‬SC → Greek: blšpete m¾ planhqÁte; cf Mt xxiv,4

565. Lk xxi,21

(SC) PGw Bncor ‫ܕܒܓ ܗ ܐ ܢ‬ ‫ ]ܘܐ‬om ‫ ܐ ܢ‬H Bn* → Greek: oƒ ™n mšsJ aÙtÁj

566. Lk xxi,23

SC PGw‫ܐ‬ Greek: tù laù

567. Lk xxi,30

SC PGw‫]ܕ ܐ‬ Greek: Ótan

568. Lk xxi,36

SC PGw‫]ܕܬ ܘܢ‬ Greek: kataxièqhte

‫ܗܪ ܐ‬

C Bn

C Bn → Mt

̇

] ‫ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬ Bn ¦

‫ܘܘܢ‬

‫ܒ‬

H Bn →

‫ܝ‬

‫ܕܐ‬

‫ܕܬ‬

H Bn →

H →

Lk xxii,17-18 om PGw and Bn Lk xxii,19 (‫ )ܗܕܐ ܗܘ ܘܢ‬until 53 ( ‫ܘܢ‬ ‫ )ܐܘ‬lacuna, one fol missing

] ‫ܪܬܗ‬

‫ܘܐ‬

569. Lk xxii,54 •

SC PGw H ‫ܒ ܗ‬ xxvi,58; Mk xiv,54

570. Lk xxii,55 •

PGw‫ܢ‬ ‫ ]̣ܗܘ‬om ‫( ̣ܗܘ‬SCH) Bn 40* → Greek: Ð Pštroj; cf Jn xviii,18

Bn 13 → cf Mt

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

95

571. Lk xxii,58

SH PGw‫]ܐܦ‬

572. Lk xxii,59

SH PGw

1

573. Lk xxii,59

CH PGw

2

574. Lk xxiii,3 •

PGw‫ܥ‬ ] om SCH Bn 7.12.14.36.37.40.41 → Mk xv,2

575. Lk xxiii,4

SC PGw‫ܐ‬ toÝj Ôclouj

576. Lk xxiii,14

C PGw

‫ ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬C Bn ‫ ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬S Bn

‫]ܘ‬ ̈

‫ܢ‬

‫ܢ‬ 577. Lk xxiii,15

‫ ܘܐܦ‬Bn ¦ diff. constr. C

sey (H) Bn 40 → Greek:

]

̈

‫ܢ‬

S Bn ¦

H → Greek: ™nèpion

‫ܬܐ‬

PGw (H)

‫ܡܕ ܐ‬

‫]ܐ‬

‫ܬܐ ܐ‬ ‫ܡ ܕ ܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬by first hand, but outside the ‫ܬܐ ܐ ܐ‬ ‫ܘ ܡܕ ܐ‬ ‫ܡܕ‬ ‫ ܘܐ ܐ‬.‫ܒ ܪܗ‬

Bn (second col.) ¦

‫ܬܐ‬ SC 578. Lk xxiii,24

(S)C PGw (H) ‫ܗܘܢ‬ tÕ a‡thma aÙtîn

579. Lk xxiii,26 •

PGw‫ ]ܕܐܬܐ‬add ‫ ܗܘܐ‬SCH Bn 11.21.23.39. 40.41 → Mk xv,21

580. Lk xxiii,34

PGw‫ܐ‬ ] sey H Bn ¦ kl»rouj

581. Lk xxiii,39

SC PGw Bncor ‫]ܘܐ‬ H → Greek: lšgwn

582. Lk xxiii,41

SC PGw H ‫ܐ‬

sey Bn → Greek:

̇

̇

‫ܐ ]ܗ‬

583. Lk xxiii,50 • (SC) PGw (H) Bn → Mt xxvii,57 584. Lk xxiv,3

‫] ܐ‬

SC PGw Bncor Bn* 17

‫̈ ܝ‬

‫ ܘ‬SC → Greek: ̇ ‫ ܐ‬Bn* ¦ ̇ ‫ܐ‬ sic Bn

‫]ܓܒ ܐ ܕ‬

add

‫̈ ܝ ]ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬

H

96 585. Lk xxiv,7

Andreas Juckel PGw‫ܗܘܐ‬

̇‫ܐ‬

̇ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn 4.36 ¦

̣ ‫ܗܘܐ ]ܘܐ‬

H ¦ no diacr. point SC → Greek:

lšgwn 586. Lk xxiv,7 587. Lk xxiv,10 588. Lk xxiv,17 589. Lk xxiv,38

SC PGw‫ܡ‬

] ‫ܡ‬

‫ ܘ‬Bn ¦

H

̈

̈ ‫ ܕܐ‬Bn 23.26 ¦ ܼ ‫ܗܘܝ ]ܕܐ‬ ̈ ‫ ܐ ܢ ܗܘܝ‬SC ¦ ‫ ܕܐ ܢ ܗܘܝ‬H ̇ ‫ ܐ‬sic Bn ¦ ‫ܕ‬ PGw ̣ ‫]ܘܐ‬ ̣ ‫ܐ‬H¦ ‫ ܐ‬SC → Greek: eŒpen ̇ ‫]ܘܐ‬ ̇ ‫ ܐ‬Bn 7.12.14.21.36.37.38. PGw ‫ܐ‬ ‫ ܗ‬SC ¦ ̣ ‫ ܘܐ‬H → 39.41 ¦ PGw‫ܗܘܝ‬

Greek: kaˆ eŒpen

Subscr.

‫ܘܙܘܬܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܢ‬ ‫ܪܐ‬ ‫ܒܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܪܒ ܐ܀‬

‫ܐܘ ܓ‬ ‫ܐ ܕ‬

‫ܕ‬

The Gospel of John

‫ܥ‬

Inscr.

‫ܢ‬

‫ܐ܀‬ 590. Jn i,23 591. Jn i,25

‫ܐ ܕ‬ ‫ܘܙܘܬܐ ܕ‬

‫ܢ‬

‫ܐܘ ܓ‬

‫ܐ܆‬

̇ ̣ ‫ ܘܐ ̣ ]ܐ‬H Bn 10c.11.39 ¦ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬C (S lac) → Greek: œfh ̇ ‫ ܘܐ‬C Bn 9.41 ¦ illeg S PGw H ‫]ܘܐ ܘ‬

PGw 32 ¦

→ Greek: kaˆ eι=pan 592. Jn i,26 •

SC PGw ‫ܐ ܐ‬ → Mt iii,11; Lk iii,16

593. Jn i,28

(S)C PGw

‫ܗܘܐ‬

ܿ‫ܕ‬

̇

̇ ] add ‫ܢ‬

HAster Bn 1

̇ ‫]ܐ ܐ ܕ‬ ‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ ܐ ܐ ܕ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܐ ܐ‬ ‫ ܕܐ ܘܗܝ ܗܘܐ‬H →

Greek: Ópou Ãn Ð ’Iw£nnhj bapt…zein 594. Jn i,29

SC PGw(H) ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ ܕ‬Bn

‫ܗ ܕ‬

]

‫ܐ‬

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 595. Jn i,39

97

̇ ‫ ]ܐ ܐ‬add ‫ ܗܘܐ‬Bn ‫ܕܗܘܐ‬ ‫ ܐ ܐ‬H → Greek: poà mšnei

(S)C PGw

‫ܐ‬

¦

596. Jn i,40

PGw(H) Bn* ‫ܒ ܪܗ‬ ‫ܘܐܙ‬ ̣ ] ‫ܘܐܙܠ ܒ ܪܗ‬ ̣ Bncor 9 ¦ SC om this part of verse 40 → Greek: ¢kolouqhs£ntwn aÙtù

597. Jn i,48

‫ܥ ]ܐ‬ PGw ‫ܥ‬ ̣ ‫ ܐ‬Bn ‫ܘܐ‬ ‫ܥ‬ ‫ܗܘ‬ H (SC lac) → ¦ ̣ ̣ Greek: ¢pekr…qh ’Ihsoàj kaˆ eŒpen aÙtù

598. Jn ii,7

‫]ܐ‬ PGw H kaˆ lšgei (v. l.)

599. Jn ii,8

‫ ܐ ̣ ]ܐ‬Bn ¦ PGw Greek: kaˆ lšgei

600. Jn ii,16

PGw lac)

601. Jn iii,23

SC PGw H ‫ ]ܘܐܬ ܗܘܘ‬add ‫ ܬܗ‬Bn → Greek: kaˆ pareg…nonto + prÕj aÙtÒn (v. l.)

602. Jn iii,35 •

PGw H ‫ ]ܐܒܐ‬add v,20

603. Jn iv,2

SC PGw H ‫ܗܘܐ‬ Greek: ™b£ptizen

604. Jn iv,12

SC PGw Bncor Greek: œdwken

605. Jn iv,23

SC PGw H ‫ܐ‬ kaˆ nàn

606. Jn iv,23

PGw H ‫ ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬SC Bn

607. Jn iv,32

PGw H ‫ܘܢ‬

608. Jn iv,34

C PGw H ‫ܗܝ‬

̇

̇

̣ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn (SC lac) → Greek:

̇

‫ܝ ]ܬ ܒ ܘ‬

̇ ‫ ܘܐ‬H (SC lac) →

‫ ܬ ܒ ܘ‬SH Bn 1.17 (C ̇

‫ ܓ‬Bn ¦ om SC → cf Jn ܿ]

om

‫ܗܘܐ‬

‫̣ܒ ̇ ] ̣ܒ‬

Bn →

(H) Bn* →

‫ ܐܦ ܗ ܐ ]ܘܗ‬Bn → Greek:

‫ܐ‬

‫ ] ܐ‬add ̇

S(C) Bn 9

‫ܗܝ ]ܘܐ‬ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn ¦ S → Greek: kaˆ teleièsw aÙtoà (tÕ œrgon)

‫ܝ‬

‫ܘܐ‬

98

Andreas Juckel

609. Jn iv,37 •

SC PGw (H) ‫ܐ ܕ ܪܐ‬ ‫ ܕܐ ܐ‬Bn → cf Lk viii,11

610. Jn iv,37

SC PGw (H) ‫ܗܘ‬ end of the verse

611. Jn iv,49

C PGw H lšgei

612. Jn v,4

PGw ‫ ܕܐ ܗܘܐ ܒ ]ܕܐ ܗܘܐ‬Bn ‫ ܕܐܢ ܐ‬H ¦ C om verse 4 (S 9 ¦ ‫ܗܘܐ‬ lac) → Greek: kate…ceto

613. Jn v,12

] C PGw H → Greek: t…j ™stin

614. Jn v,27

PGw H ‫ ]ܐܦ‬om C Bn (S lac) → Greek: om ka…

615. Jn v,36

C PGw (H) ‫ܕ ܒ ܐ ܐ‬ lac) → Greek: sine OM

616. Jn v,41

C PGw H ‫ܐ‬ (S lac)

617. Jn v,46

S PGw H ‫ ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬C Bn

618. Jn vi,10

PGw

619. Jn vi,13

620. Jn vi,14

]

‫ܐ‬

‫ ]ܕܐ‬om ‫ ܗܘ‬Bn → cf the

̇ ‫ ܘܐ ]ܐ‬Bn (S lac) → Greek: ̣

̇

̇

‫ܐ‬

̇ ‫]ܐ‬

‫ ܕ‬Bn 6 ¦ S om verse 12

‫ ] ̈ܒ ܐ‬om Bn (36) (S

‫ ] ܐ‬om ex err ‫ ܐ ܐ‬Bn

̣ ‫ܘܐ‬

Bn ¦ ‫ܕ‬ ̣ ‫ ܐ‬SC → Greek: eŒpen (+ dš v.l.)

̈ ]‫̈ ܐ‬ PGw ‫̈ ܐ‬ ̈ ¦S ¦‫ܐ ܕ ̈ ܐ‬ kof…nouj klasm£twn ̇

C PGw ‫ܗ‬ ‫ܐ‬ oátÒj ™stin ¢lhqîj

̈

‫ܕ‬

‫ܐ‬

H ¦

̈

C Bn H → Greek:

] tr S (H) Bn → Greek:

621. Jn vi,23

̈ ] ‫ ܐ‬Bn 14.36 → Greek: SC PGw H ‫ܐܬܝ‬ (¥llwn ploiar…wn) ™lqÒntwn

622. Jn vi,23

SC PGw H ‫ܐ‬

623. Jn vi,26

PGw H ‫ܐ‬ ¢ll’ Óti

] add ‫̈ ܐ‬

‫ ]ܐ‬add

‫ ܬ‬Bn

SC Bn 9 → Greek:

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 624. Jn vi,42

‫]̇ܗܘ ܕ‬ ‫ ܘܐ‬S

PGw ¦

99

¦

‫ ̇ܗܘ ܕ‬Bn ‫ܘܐ‬

‫ܗܝ‬

‫]ܘܐ ܐ ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬C¦

̇ H → Greek: ‫ܕܗܘ ܕ‬

oá ¹me‹j o‡damen 625. Jn vi,54

SC PGw Bncor H ‫ܗܝ‬ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn*

626. Jn vi,57

SC PGw H ‫ܐ‬ kaqèj

627. Jn vi,58

PGw H ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ]ܗ ܐ‬ ‫ܗܐ‬ (SC) c Bn 1.7.8 .12.32.37.40.41 → Greek: (Ð trègwn) toàton tÕn ¥rton (v. l. tÕn ¥rton toàton)

‫ܐ ]ܐ‬

‫ܘܐ‬

Bn → Greek:

628. Jn vi,58

SC PGw H ‫ ̇ ܐ ] ܐ‬Bn 12c.17.38 → Greek: z»sei (v. l. z»setai)

629. Jn vi,60

C PGw

630. Jn vi,63

SC PGw H ‫ܐ‬ dš

631. Jn vi,71

PGw ‫ܗܘܐ ]ܐ ̣ ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬H Bn 1.12.41 ¦ no diacr. point SC → Greek: œlegen

632. Jn vii,12

PGw ‫ ܐ ܐ ]ܘܐ ܐ‬H Bn 32* ¦ ‫ ܗܘܘ‬SC → Greek: ¥lloi

633. Jn vii,23

S PGw Bn* H ‫ ܘܐܢ ]ܐܢ‬C Bncor 7.8.9c.11.12. 14.37.40.41 → Greek: e„

634. Jn vii,28

SC PGw

̇

‫ܐ ܗܝ‬ ‫ܐ‬H

] ‫ܐ ܗܝ‬

‫ ܕ‬S Bn ¦ ‫ܐ‬

‫ ] ܓ‬add ‫ ܕ‬Bn → Greek: sine ̇

‫ܘܐ‬

‫ܗܘ ̇ ܕ ܪ‬ ‫ܐ ܐ ]ܐ ܐ‬ ̇ ̇ ‫ܕ ܪ‬ ‫ܗܘ‬ Bn sic ¦ ‫ܐܐ‬ ̇ ‫ܐ ܗܘ ܕ ܪ‬ ‫ ܐ ܘܗܝ‬H → Greek:

¢ll’ œstin ¢lhqinÕj Ð pšmyaj me 635. Jn vii,35

PGw H ‫ܐ‬

‫ ] ܐ‬add

636. Jn vii,40

] no sey SCH Bn PGw ‫̈ ܐ‬ 1.4.12.32.33.36.37.41 → Greek: toà Ôclou

SC Bn

100 637. Jn vii,41 638. Jn vii,43

Andreas Juckel 1

C PGw H ‫ ]ܐ ܐ‬add 41a → Greek: sine dš

‫ ܕ‬Bn 28 ¦ S om verse

‫ ]ܒ‬no sey SCH Bn 32.(37).41 → PGw ‫̈ ܐ‬ Greek: ™n tù ÔclJ

639. Jn vii,47

‫]ܐ‬ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn ¦ SC PGw H → Greek: ¢pekr…qhsan

‫ܗ‬

640. Jn vii,48

‫]ܗ‬ ‫ ܗ‬S Bn C PGw H 1.4.9.21.25.27.28.41 → Greek: ™p…steusen

641. Jn vii,49

SC PGw ‫ܐܢ‬

‫ ]ܐ ܐ‬om ‫ ܐܢ‬H Bn 14

Jn vii.53/viii.11 (the woman caught in adultery) is absent 642. Jn viii,14

C PGw Bncor (H) ‫ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬

] om

643. Jn viii,16

PGw H

644. Jn viii,44

PGw Greek: ¢nqrwpoktÒnoj

645. Jn viii,44

PGw H ‫ ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܘ‬S (C lac)

646. Jn viii,45

S PGw H

647. Jn viii,52

S PGw H ™gnèkamen

648. Jn ix,3

S PGw oátoj

649. Jn ix,9

PGw

‫ ]ܕ‬om SC Bn 14 → Greek: dš ̇ ] no sey S Bn (C H ‫ܐ ̈ܐ‬

S Bn*

lac) →

] om Bn (C lac) → Greek: moi ̣]

Bn (C lac) → Greek:

‫ܗ ܐ ]̣ܗܘ‬

H Bn (C lac) → Greek:

‫ ܗܘ ]ܕܗܘ‬Bn 11.17.23.26.41 ¦ ‫ܕܗܘ‬ ‫ ܗ‬S ¦ ‫ ܕܗ ܐ ܐ ܘܗܝ‬H (C lac) → Greek:

om Óti (v. l.) 650. Jn ix,11

PGw ‫ ܘ ̣ ܐ ] ̣ ܐ‬Bn ¦ → Greek: ¢pekr…qh

651. Jn ix,15

PGw H ̣ ‫]ܐ‬ ‫ ܐ‬Bn ¦ no diacr. point S (C lac) → Greek: eŒpen

̇

H ¦ om S (C lac)

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 652. Jn ix,16

PGw ‫ܐ ܗܘ‬ ¦ ‫ܐ ܐ‬

101

‫ܐ‬

‫ ] ܐ ܗܘܐ‬om ‫ ܗܘ‬Bn ‫ ܐ ܐ ܘܗܝ‬H ¦ ‫ ܐ‬S (C lac)

‫ܐ ܐ ܗܘܐ‬ ̇

653. Jn ix,17

‫ܐ ܐ‬ S PGw ‫ܐ ܐ‬ om H (C lac) → cf vs 17a

654. Jn ix,30

PGw (H)

‫]ܐ‬

add

‫ܐ ܘܢ‬

‫ܗܝ‬

Bn ¦

‫]ܕܐ ܘܢ ܐ‬

‫ܐ ܗܘ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܘܢ‬ ‫ ܕܐ ܘܢ ܐ‬sic Bn ¦ ‫ܐ ܘܢ‬ ‫ܕܐ ܘܢ ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܗܘ‬ ‫ ܐ‬S (C lac) ‫ܐ ܗ ܐ ܐܬ‬ ‫] ̣ ܕ‬ ̣ ‫ܐ ܗ ܐ ܐܬ‬ ‫ ܗܘ ܕ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܗ ܐ ܐܬ‬ ‫ ܐ ܐ‬H (C lac)

655. Jn ix,39

S PGw

656. Jn ix,41

S PGw ‫ܐ‬

‫ܢ‬

‫ܐ‬ 657. Jn x,7

‫ܢ‬

‫ܗܘܬ‬

] ‫ܗܘܐ‬

sic (H) Bn (C lac)

PGw ‫ܘܢ ܕ ܬܘܒ‬ ‫ ܬܘܒ‬Bn (4) ¦ ‫ܘܢ‬

‫ܘܢ ܬܘܒ‬

̇ ‫ܘܢ ]ܐ‬ ‫ ܬܘܒ ܐ‬S ¦

‫ ܗ‬H (C lac)

̣ ‫ܐ‬ ̣ ‫ܐ‬

‫ܕ‬ ‫ ܬܪ ̇ ܕ ܐ ]ܬܪ‬Bn 12.32 ‫ ܬܪ ܐ ܕ‬H ¦ no diacr. point S (C

658. Jn x,7

PGw ‫ܐ‬ ¦ ‫ܒܐ‬ lac)

659. Jn x,9

PGw H ‫ܐ‬ x,7

‫ ]ܬܪ‬add ‫ ܕ ܐ‬S Bn (C lac) → cf Jn

660. Jn x,12

S PGw (H) qewre‹

‫]ܕ ̣ ܐ‬

661. Jn x,17 662. Jn x,18 663. Jn x,22

om Bn (C lac) → Greek:

̇ ‫ܐܒ ]ܐܒ ܪ‬ (S) PGw Bncor (H) Bn* (C lac) → Greek: me Ð pat¾r ¢gap´

̇‫ܪ‬

‫ ܕܐ ]ܐ‬Bn 40 (C lac) PGw ‫ ܐܕܐ ܕ ̈ ܕܬܐ ] ܐܕܐ ܕ ܕܬܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ̈ ܕܬܐ‬H ¦ ‫ܐ‬ S (C lac) → Greek: S PGw H

t¦ ™gkein…a

102 664. Jn x,39

Andreas Juckel S PGw ‫ܐ ̈ ܘܢ‬ ‫ ] ܒ‬om ‫( ܒ‬H) Bn (C lac) → Greek: ™k tÁj ceirÕj aÙtîn

‫ܘܢ‬

]

665. Jn xi,14

S PGw H aÙto‹j

666. Jn xi,15 •

‫ ]ܗ‬add ‫ ܐܙܠ‬S(H) Bn (C lac) → PGw Greek: ¥gwmen; → no. 216 (Mk i,38)

667. Jn xi,20

PGw ‫ܐܬܐ‬ ̣ ] ‫ ܐܬܐ‬H Bn ¦ no diacr. point S (C lac) → Greek: œrcetai

668. Jn xi,22

‫ ܕ ]ܕ‬Bn 37 ¦ ‫ܡ‬ PGw ‫ܐ‬ H (C lac) → Greek: Óti Ósa

669. Jn xi,44

‫]ܐ‬ PGw H Greek: lšgei

670. Jn xii,6

PGw Bn* ‫ܗܘܐ‬ ] ‫ܗܘܐ‬ H Bncor ¦ S om this part of verse 6 (C lac) → Greek: ™b£stasen

671. Jn xii,7

‫ ܕ ܒ ܪܬܝ ]ܕ ܒ ܪܝ‬Bn 9.12.40c ¦ ‫ ܕ ܒ ܪܬܐ ܕ‬H (C lac) ̇ Bn H 11.32 ¦ PGw ‫ܕܐܬܐ ]ܕܐܬܐ ܗܘܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܕܐܬܘ ܗܘܘ‬S (C lac) ̇ S PGw H ‫ܐ ܗܘ‬ ] tr Bn (C lac) → Greek: Ð

672. Jn xii,12 673. Jn xii,17

om Bn (C lac) → Greek:

̇

̇

̣ ‫ ܘܐ‬Bn ¦

‫ܕ‬S¦

‫ܕ‬

‫ ܐ‬S (C lac) →

S PGw

Ôcloj (Ð ín met’ aÙtoà) 674. Jn xii,21

PGw ‫ ܕ ܐ ] ܐ‬H Bn 32.41 ¦ ‫ܐ‬ (C lac) → Greek: „de‹n

675. Jn xii,34

S PGw H ‫ܗ ܕܐ ܐ‬ (homoiotel.) 40* (C lac)

676. Jn xii,45

PGw ‫ܐ ̣ ܐ‬ S¦‫ܐ ̇ ܐ‬ (...) qewre‹

677. Jn xii,47

S PGw H ‫ܐ ܐ‬ Greek: kr…nw

‫ܗܐ ܒ‬

]

S om Bn

̇ ] ‫ ̣ ܐ ̣ ܐ‬Bn 3.11.40 ¦ ‫ܐ‬ ̇ H (C lac) → Greek: qewrîn ̇ ] om ‫ ܐ ܐ‬Bn (C lac) → ‫ܕܐܢ‬

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 678. Jn xii,50

PGw

‫ܗܘ‬

103

‫ܐܒܐ ]ܐܒ‬

H Bn 3.4.14.17.23.40.41 ¦ S (C lac) → Greek: Ð pat»r

̇ ‫ ܐ ]ܐ‬Bn 3.9.23.41 ¦ ̣ ̇ ‫ ܘܐ‬H (C lac) → Greek: lšgei

679. Jn xiii,6

PGw

680. Jn xiii,10

PGw

681. Jn xiii,14

PGw (H)

‫ܐ‬

‫ܘܐܦ ܐ ܘܢ ]ܐܦ ܐ ܘܢ‬ ‫ ܐܦ ܐ ܘܢ ܕ‬H (C lac) ‫ܢ‬

‫ܢ ܘܪܒ‬

]

S ¦

S Bn ¦

‫ܢ‬

‫ܪܒ‬

‫ܢ‬

‫ ܘ‬S Bn 3 (C lac) → Greek: Ð kÚrioj kaˆ Ð did£skaloj

682. Jn xiii,22

S PGw

683. Jn xiii,23

PGw ‫ܥ‬

‫ܥ‬ ‫ܥ‬

‫]ܕ‬

‫ܕ‬

Bn 3c.14 ¦

H (C lac)

‫ܕܪ ̇ ܗܘܐ ]ܕܪ ̇ ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ ܕ ܢ ܪ‬S ¦ ‫ ̣ܗܘ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ ܕ‬H (C lac) → Greek: Ön

½g£pa Ð ’Ihsoàj

̇

̇

684. Jn xiii,26

S PGw ‫ ܘ ܒ ܐ ܐ ] ܒ ܐ ܐ‬Bn 3c.7*.8*vid.9.32.36.41 ¦ ‫ ܐܬܠ‬H (C lac) → Greek: kaˆ dèsw

685. Jn xiv,3

PGw

̇ ‫ܘܐܢ‬ ‫ܐܙܠ ܐ ܐ ]ܘܐܢ ̇ܐܙܠ ܐ‬ ‫ ܕܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫( ܘܐܢ ܐ ܠ ܘܐ‬S) H (C

lac) 686. Jn xiv,7

S PGw H ‫ ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬Bn 36 (C lac)

687. Jn xiv,9

PGw ‫ܐ‬

Bn 39.40 ¦ ¦ no diacr. point S (C lac) → Greek: Ð ˜wrakëj ™mš

688. Jn xiv,10

PGw H ‫ ܘ ܐ ] ܐ‬Bn 4*.7.8.12.32.36.37. 40.41 ¦ illeg C ¦S om this part of verse 10

689. Jn xiv,12

S Bn PGw H ‫ܬ ܐܒ ] ܬ ܐܒܐ‬ 4.9.23.36.37.39 ¦ illeg C → Greek: prÕj tÕn patšra

̇ ‫ܕ‬ ̣ ‫ ̇ܗܘ ܕ‬H ̈

̇ ]‫ܐ‬ ̣

‫ܕ‬

̇

̈

104

Andreas Juckel

690. Jn xiv,26

PGw(H) ‫ ܪܘ ܐ ܕ ܪܐ ]ܪܘ ܐ ܕ ܕ ܐ‬Bn ¦ ‫ ܗܝ ܪܘ ܐ ܕ‬S ¦ illeg C → Greek: tÕ pneàma tÕ ¤gion

691. Jn xiv,30

S PGw H ‫ܐ‬ ‫ ]ܕ‬add ‫ ܗ ܐ‬Bn 3c (C lac) → Greek: toà kÒsmou toÚtou (v. l.)

692. Jn xv,4

S PGw H ‫ ]ܗ ܐ ܐܦ ܐ ܐ ܘܢ‬om Bn (C lac) → Greek: oátwj oÙdc Øme‹j

693. Jn xv,6

S PGw ‫ܐ‬ ]‫ܐ‬ H Bn 3.4.14.17.39.41 (C lac) → Greek: mšnV

694. Jn xv,13

] tr S Bn 3*.4*.41 (C lac) PGw(H) → Greek: t¾n yuc¾n aÙtoà qÍ

695. Jn xv,22

S PGw ] kaˆ ™l£lhsa

696. Jn xv,23

PGw ‫]ܘܐܦ‬ lac)

‫ ܐܦ‬SH Bn 7.9.12.32.37.40.41 (C

697. Jn xvi,19

S PGw mikrÒn

‫]ܕ‬

698. Jn xvi,22

PGw H ‫]ܐܦ‬ lac)

699. Jn xvi,26

(S) PGw (H)

‫ܐܒ ܒ‬

‫ܐ‬

‫ ܘ‬H Bn (C lac) → Greek:

H Bn (C lac) → Greek:

‫ ܘܐܦ‬S Bn 3*vid.11.14.17.41 (C ‫ܬ ܐ ܢ ]ܕܬ ܐ ܢ ܒ‬

Bn (C lac) → Greek: ™n tù ÑnÒmat… mou a„t»sesqe 700. Jn xvi,26

] ‫ܐܒ‬ S Bn (C lac) → PGw (H) ‫ܐܒܐ‬ Greek: tÕn patšra + mou (v. l.)

701. Jn xvi,27

S PGw H ‫ܘ‬ ‫ܘ ܝ ]ܪ‬ ‫ ܪ‬Bn 9 (C lac) → Greek: ™mc pefil»kate (not attested: aÙtÕn p.)

702. Jn xvi,27

S PGw Bn* ‫]ܐ ܐ‬ 7.12.17*.26.37.41 (C lac)

703. Jn xvi,33

S PGw H ‫ܐ‬

704. Jn xvii,5

S PGw H

‫ܐܒܐ‬

‫ ܕܐ ܐ ]ܐ‬Bn (C lac)

] om Bn (C lac)

H Bncor

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 705. Jn xvii,11

]

PGw

‫ܘ‬

105

S Bn 14.26.32.39 ¦

‫ ܬܘܒ‬H (C lac) 706. Jn xvii,11

‫]ܕ ܘܘܢ ܐ ܐ ܕ‬ ‫ܕ ܘܘܢ‬ ‫( ܐ ܐ ܕ‬H) Bn ¦ S om this part

PGw

of verse 11 (C lac) → Greek: †na ðsin ˜n kaqëj ¹me‹j

‫ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬ ‫ ܕܐܦ‬H (C lac)

‫ܕܐܦ‬

‫ܐ‬

‫ܐ‬

707. Jn xvii,19

PGw

708. Jn xvii,23

PGw Bncor H ‫ ܕ ܥ ]ܘܕ ܥ‬S Bn* (C lac) → Greek: †na (v. l. kaˆ †na) ginèskV

709. Jn xviii,13

S PGw H lac)

710. Jn xviii,15

PGw

Bn ¦

‫]ܕܐ ܘܗܝ ܗܘܐ‬

‫ܗܘܘ ܒ ܪܗ‬ ‫ ܒ ܪܗ‬Bn ¦ ‫ܗܘܐ‬

S ¦

‫ܗܘܐ‬

om

̇ ‫]ܐܬ‬

‫ܗܘܘ‬

Bn (C

̇ ‫ܕܐܬ‬

H ¦ S om this part

of verse 15 (C lac). 711. Jn xviii,18

PGw ‫ ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬Bn 41 ¦ part of verse 18 (C lac)

712. Jn xviii,22

PGw

713. Jn xviii,25

S PGw H ‫ ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬Bn 39 (C lac)

714. Jn xviii,25

PGw Bncor ‫ܘܗܘ‬ ̣ ] ‫ ̣ܗܘ‬Bn* 36 ¦ H (C lac)

715. Jn xviii,35

PGw ‫ܗܘ‬

716. Jn xviii,37

PGw (H) 1 ‫ ܐ ܐ ] ܪܐ‬Bncor in rasura, illeg Bn* (SC lac) → Greek: (†na martur»sw) tÍ ¢lhqe…v

717. Jn xviii,38

PGw H ‫ ]ܬܘܒ‬om Bn (SC lac)

718. Jn xix,3

PGw

‫]ܘ‬

‫ ܘ‬HAster ¦ S om this

SH Bn 21.41 (C lac)

‫ ܗܘ ܕ‬S ¦ ‫̇ܗܘ‬

̈ ‫ ]ܒ‬om ‫ ܗܘ‬H Bn (SC lac)

] om H Bn 7*.23.26 (SC lac)

106 719. Jn xix,4

Andreas Juckel

‫ܣ ܬܘܒ ܒ‬ ̣ ‫]ܘ‬ ̣ ‫ܘ‬ ‫ܣ ܒ‬ ‫ ܬܘܒ‬Bn* ¦ ‫ܬܘܒ ܒ‬ ‫ܐ ܣ‬ H (SC lac) → Greek: kaˆ PGw

™xÁlqen p£lin œxw Ð Pil©toj

̇ ‫ ܐ ]ܐ‬Bn (SC lac) ̣ ̇ ‫ ] ̇ܗܘ‬om ̇ H Bn 3*.4*.9.11suppl.17*.

720. Jn xix,6

PGw H

721. Jn xix,11

PGw 21*.40vid.41 (SC lac)

722. Jn xix,15

PGw

‫ ]ܐ‬add

Bn 7.21c.32 et paucis ¦

H (SC lac)

‫ܘܐ ̣ ]ܘܐ ̣ ܘ‬ ‫ ܗ‬H (SC lac)

‫ܐ ̣ ܘ‬

Bn 12.37 ¦

723. Jn xix,24

PGw

724. Jn xix,34 725. Jn xix,35

̣ ] ̣ PGw H ‫̣ ܥ ] ̇ ܥ‬

726. Jn xix,39

PGw H ‫ ܘܐܦ ]ܐܦ‬Bn (SC lac)

727. Jn xix,39

PGw ‫ܐ‬ (SC lac)

]‫ܐ‬

Bn ¦

728. Jn xix,41

S PGw ‫ܗܘܬ‬ (C lac)

‫ܗܘܐ ]ܐ‬

‫ ܐ‬H Bn 4.36.41

729. Jn xx,6

PGw ‫ܐܬܐ‬ Bn ¦ ‫ ܐܬܐ‬H ¦ om S (C ̣ ] ‫ܘܐܬܐ‬ ̣ lac)

730. Jn xx,12

PGw ‫( ܐ̈ܪܓ ܗܝ ]̈ܪܓ ܗܝ‬S) Bn 4.9.17.21*. 23.26 (39) ¦ ‫ ̈ܪܓ ܐ‬H (C lac)

731. Jn xx,25

(S) PGw H lac)

732. Jn xx,26

PGw

733. Jn xxi,7

S Bn 4.7c.9.17.23.37.41. PGw ‫ܘܐܬܐ ]ܕ ܐܬܐ‬ ̣ 42 ¦ H om this part of verse 7 (C lac)

734. Jn xxi,9

PGw H

]

Bn 9.17.21.36.39 (SC lac) Bn (SC lac)

‫ܐ‬

H

̇

‫ܐܐ‬

‫]ܘ‬

om

‫ܐܐ‬

Bn (C

‫ ܘ‬SH Bn (C lac)

̈ (S) PGw ] ̈ ‫ ܕ‬H Bn (C lac) → Greek: (¢nqraki¦n) keimšnhn

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels 1

ܿ ̣ ‫ ܐ ]ܐ‬Bn ¦ no diacr. point S

735. Jn xxi,19

PGw H (C lac)

736. Jn xxi,24

‫ܐܦ ]ܘܐܦ‬ ‫ ܕܐܦ‬H (C lac)

Subscr.

‫ܐ‬ ‫ܒܐ ܕ‬ ‫ܒ‬ ‫ܗܝ ܘ ܒ ܘܗܝ‬ ‫ܐ܆ ܕ‬ ‫ܐܘ ܓ ̈ ܐ‬ ‫ܐ̈ܪܒ ܐ‬ ‫܀‬ .‫ܐ‬ .‫ܣ‬ .‫ܝ‬

PGw

107

Bn 9.40.42 ¦

‫ܘ‬

S ¦

‫̇ܗܘ‬

‫ܐܘ ܓ ܢ‬ ‫ܘܐ ܙܘܗܝ‬ ‫̈ ܐ܆‬

7. EVALUATION The following table gives a summary of the agreements of Ms BN syr. 30 with S and C and the Peshitta variants stored in the Pusey/Gwilliam Gospel volume (section I) as well as a summary of the disagreements (section II). Both sections are specified according to the singular (section Ia/IIab) and the individual (nonmajority) part (section Ib/IIc) of the codex. The last column provides the corresponding numbers of Codex Phillipps. It is important to note that the statistical approach to both codices is affected by the physical conditions of S and C and of the actual extent of the textual material presented in the Pusey/Gwilliam volume. Fuller collations and additional manuscripts can be expected to provide new Peshitta variants and reduce the singular parts (esp. in the Gospel of John) of Ms BN syr. 30 and of Codex Phillipps.

108

Andreas Juckel

Statistical comparison between Ms BN syr. 30 and Codex Phillipps 1388

Total of variants

Mt

Mk

Lk

Jn

Totals BN syr. 30

Totals Cod. Phillipps

201

170

218

147

736

387

I. Agreement with S/C35 a) Bn+S/C alone (in bold)

26

9

14

15

64 (8,7 %)

32 (8,3 %)

b) Bn+S/C+Pms(s)

35

27

32

19

113 (15,3 %)

93 (24,0 %)

II. Disagreement with S/C36 a) Bn alone (in italics)

50/ 20

56/ 0

70/ 40

59/ 18

235/78 (32,0/10, 6 %)

92/38 (23,8/ 9,8 %)

b) Bn+H (underl.)

alone

24/ 13

8/0

27/ 17

11/ 1

70/31 (9,5/ 4,2 %)

25/10 (6,5/ 2,6 %)

c) Bn+Pms(s) against S/C

60/ 30

67/ 0

70/ 44

40/ 6

237/80 (32,2/10, 8 %)

104/32 (26,9/ 8,3 %)

6

3

5

3

17 (2,3 %)

41 (10,6 %)

Other

35 The occasional agreement of H with Bn+S/C is neglected in this category. 36 The second (smaller) number in the table refers to such cases where both Old Syriac manuscripts are extant.

The Old Syriac Heritage of the Peshitta Gospels

109

The general evaluation has to realize that Ms BN syr. 30 is an outstanding and therefore not a representative Peshitta manuscript. In several respects Ms BN syr. 30 offers unexpected and surprising features, as A. Vööbus observed correctly. 1. The number of variants (without orthographica!) is enormous. There are seldom more than four hundred variants in Tetraeuangelia of the first millennium; the maximum is about five hundred. 2. The singular part (sections Ia/IIa,b) of Ms BN syr. 30 covers almost 50% of the variants, i.e., almost half of the variants is not attested in the textual tradition of the Peshitta. 3. The numbers of agreements with S/C (sections Ia,b) are impressive. The expected fading-out of the Old Syriac heritage not only failed to come; the actual extent of this heritage is even larger than in Codex Phillipps. However, an investigation in the singular part of the codex reveals that the remarkable dissociation of this codex from the earlier tradition derives from a thorough adaptation to the Greek,37 from assimilation38 and harmonization.39 We meet a revised edition of the Peshitta New Testament, which introduced revisional elements borrowed from the Diatessaron and the Harklean New Testament. These elements are used as stylistic features and do not reflect a genetic relation to the Diatessaron and the Harklean respectively. The revisor had no copies of the Gospel Harmony and the Harklean on his desk; it is more likely that he had access to a Greek New Testament and extensively used the miniature concordance fixed at the bottom margins of the Gospel manuscripts. Almost all of the harmonizations are based on the Peshitta or derive from variae lectiones of the Greek Bible text. While assimilation and adaptation to the Greek are well-known reasons for the production of Peshitta variants, harmonization is much neglected in this respect. Harmonistic variants are easily taken to reflect a genetic relation to the Diatessaron (via the Old Syriac or directly), thus being considered as ‘ancient traditions’ rather than secondary textual variations caused by revisors.40 37 The most obvious adaptations to the Greek/Harklean are the 70 singular agreements with the Harklean (underlined in the collation), see esp. no. 59, 156, 182 and 201; see also no. 39. 52. 78. 103. 146. 268. 270. 382. 428. 521. 547. 601. 38 See no. 13. 16. 61. 116. 149. 152. 168. 169. 170. 354. 602. 610. 653. 39 See no. 31. 36. 65. 66. 81. 92. 102. 144. 154. 160. 167. 178. 191. 197. 204. 224. 228. 265. 266. 278. 295. 298. 302. 307. 328. 329. 348. 362. 367. 419. 425. 435. 440. 448. 549. 556. 583. 609. 40 It is the red thread in Vööbus’s work on the Syriac New Testament to prove the continued existence of ‘ancient’ textual traditions in order to

110

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However, scholars noticed that Diatessaric influence in the proper sense is to be distinguished from spontaneous harmonization,41 which arose independently in later times. In fact there is a harmonistic heritage within the textual tradition of the Peshitta related to the Old Syriac heritage; and there are harmonizations, which came into being in the Peshitta tradition itself. In the collation of Ms BN syr. 30 we meet a great number of Peshitta harmonizations not attested by the two Old Syriac manuscripts.42 The original and secondary harmonistic heritage of the Peshitta are to be traced along the same lines as the Old Syriac heritage: The original heritage is mainly located in the majority part; the secondary (spontaneous) harmonizations are rather expected to belong to the non-majority part. Again, the knowledge of the quantitative proportion is necessary to see whether and how this harmonistic heritage developed.43

minimalize the role of the Peshitta. In his comments on selected passages of Ms BN syr. 30 (Studies in the History of the Gospel Text in Syriac II … p. 49–54) he points to agreements between numerous singular readings of this codex with the (versional tradition of the) Diatessaron and with quotations from early Syriac authors. Not a single reflection is offered on how the otherwise unattested ‘ancient’ textual traditions could have reached the 11th/12th-cent. Peshitta codex. As far as they are singular variants, they did not reach Ms BN syr. 30 by transmission within the Peshitta tradition. Vööbus emphasizes the singularity of the codex by saying (p. 54) that not a single reading of Ms BN syr. 30 is extant in Codex Phillipps. According to the collation given above, there are 90 agreements between ‘Bn’ (Ms BN syr. 30) and ‘41’ (Codex Phillipps). 41 A. F. J. Klijn, A Survey of the Researches into the Western Text of the Gospels and Acts (Utrecht, 1949), 60; W. L. Petersen, Tatian’s Diatessaron. It’s Creation, Dissemination, Significance, & History of Scholarship [Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, vol. 25]. Leiden, 1994, 5; J. Joosten, The Syriac Language of the Peshitta and Old Syriac Versions of Matthew. Syntactic Structure, Inner-Syriac Developments and Translation Technique [Studies in Semitic Languages and Linguistics, vol. 22]. Leiden, 1996, 13 (note 29). 42 See no. 34. 49. 50. 51. 63. 83. 98. 112. 113. 121. 128. 140. 262. 282. 289. 302. 311. 322. 323. 328. 330. 341. 342. 345. 346. 349. 357. 358. 368. 371. 374. 405. 407. 422. 435. 437. 455. 526. 528. 532. 535. 537. 539. 541. 569. 592. 43 The specialists distinguish between harmonizing readings, harmonistic readings, and parallel variants. On these distinctions see H. J. Vogels, Die Altsyrischen Evangelien in ihrem Verhältnis zu Tatians Diatessaron [Biblische Studien, 16:5]. Freiburg, 1911; J. Joosten, The Syriac Language of the Peshitta and Old Syriac Versions of Matthew … (Leiden, 1996), 11–16.

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8. THE OLD SYRIAC HERITAGE As far as the Old Syriac heritage in Ms BN syr. 30 is covered by Peshitta manuscripts of the first millennium (section Ib in the table), there is no reason to doubt that it is really a heritage. However, when Ms BN syr. 30 alone is agreeing with S and/or C (section Ia in the table) the question arises whether these agreements are part of the heritage too or developed independently. The general dissociation of the codex from the early tradition of the Peshitta puts some doubt on the participation of these singular agreements in the ‘traditional’ heritage. The large number of otherwise unattested variants in Ms BN syr. 30 (section IIa,b in the table) and their probable origin from adaptation to the Greek/Harklean, assimilation and harmonization invite for explaining the singular agreements with S and/or C along the same lines. The lacking attestation of these 64 variants the codex has in common with the Old Syriac disapproves the possibility that the agreements reached the 11th/12th-cent. codex by transmission within the Peshitta tradition. Additional collations of early Gospel texts will certainly show some of the agreements to be transmitted from the first millennium as well; but how to explain those agreements with S and/or C, which will never be attested in early Gospel manuscripts? It is possible to argue for a secondary origin of 57 (out of 64) singular agreements from the revisonal activity in Ms BN syr. 30, without excluding an earlier (though at present untraceable) origin for some of them. A number of 24 agreements is based on harmonistic variants created by the revisor of Ms BN syr. 30, who produced accidental (unintentional) agreements with the Old Syriac.44 All of these harmonizations are already extant in S and/or C but could independently be ‘re-invented’ in the Peshitta Gospels without adopting them from S and/or C in a properly genetic sense. The revisor simply exploited the harmonistic capacity of the Peshitta Gospels under stylistic or philological considerations and was unaware of the resulting textual identity with the Old Syriac.45 Such an unintentional production of singular agreements with S and/or C is reflected by additional 19 insignificant variants

44 No. 5. 12. 13. 20. 29. 54. 90. 104. 106. 115. 147. 154. 215. 216. 320. 360. 402. 443. 467. 529. 544. 548. 563. 666. 45 A possible source for the harmonizations are harmonistic variants of the Greek New Testament (in the collation above these variants are quoted).

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concerning waw, den, ger, d-, etc.46 Also the small number of assimilations (61. 169. 659) and the adaptations to the Greek/Harklean47 were hardly intentionally produced to arrive at an agreement with S and/or C. The small number of seven variants48 only cannot be explained by harmonization, assimilation or adaptation to the Greek/Harklean; they have a good claim to the original Old Syriac heritage but have to await the proof from future research. From Ms BN syr. 30 we learn that besides adaptation to the Greek/Harklean and assimilation to similar or identical passages, harmonization within single Peshitta manuscripts can be responsible for creating a secondary Old Syriac heritage. In Ms BN syr. 30, the majority of singular agreements with S and/or C came into existence this way and is independent from a genetic relation to the Old Syriac and the Diatessaron. Therefore, Ms BN syr. 30 rendered an inestimable service to our knowledge of the Old Syriac heritage in the Peshitta manuscripts. The codex provides the information that in later manuscripts the original Old Syriac harmonistic heritage of the Peshitta, which is genetically related to the Old Syriac, is faded out during transmission and supplemented by secondary non-genetic harmonizations. Although agreeing with S and/or C, the textual identity is not inherited from the Old Syriac. Usually the degree of the harmonistic dynamic in a Gospel manuscript is indicated by the number of those harmonizations, which are not agreeing with the Old Syriac; the more harmonisations in general, the more non-genetic agreements with S and/or C. For a better knowledge of the secondary harmonisation, additional late Gospel manuscripts should be collated; however, editorial policy will concentrate on manuscripts of the first millennium in order to trace the original genetic Old Syriac heritage. Secondary harmonizations are expected to be already effective in manuscripts of the first millennium; but the earlier the manuscripts, the better the protection against harmonistic dynamic.

9. CONCLUSIONS Research on the Old Syriac heritage in the Peshitta Gospels and the classification of the variants according to their singular and nonsingular (dis)agreement with S and/or C resume the efforts of A. 46 No. 62. 75. 93. 134. 151. 281. 308. 344. 347. 447. 484. 572. 573. 576. 606. 617. 629. 644. 680. 47 No. 11. 48. 139. 366. 384. 614. 619. 620. 700. 708. 732. 48 No. 107. 109. 125. 150. 381. 635. 642. 654.

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Allgeier and M. Black to trace the early history of the Peshitta Gospel text. The present situation of Peshitta research is unsatisfactorily based on the majority text of the Pusey/Gwilliam volume (1901), while the true extent of the non-majority part is still unknown. Black’s contribution to research on the Peshitta reminds us that the Peshitta majority text is not a ‘text’, but an artificial (though admittedly convenient) scholarly creation composed of majority readings. To introduce reflections of a textual history into Peshitta research, Black’s conjecture of a ‘Pre-Peshitta’ is to be reconsidered. The collation of an early (Codex Phillipps 1388) and late (Ms BN syr. 30) Gospel codex against the majority text provided an initial approach to the extent and structure of the Old Syriac heritage in the first and second millennium repectively. Both manuscripts were chosen for their substantial participation in this heritage. Classification of the variants and comparison with the textual material quoted in the apparatus of the Pusey/Gwilliam volume allow for some conclusions regarding a new edition of the Peshitta Gospels. 1. There is a general split of the Old Syriac heritage into a singular, a minority, and a majority part. Additional collations of early Gospel codices not included in the Pusey/Gwilliam volume will provide new variants and reduce the singular part of this heritage. To determine the extent of the Old Syriac heritage in the Peshitta manuscripts is the first step towards a new edition. Once the quantitative proportion of their (dis)agreements with S and/or C is determined, the non-majority part of the Peshitta Gospels can be set out by aligning it with S, C, and the Peshitta majority text in a comparative edition. 2. The Old Syriac heritage in the Peshitta Gospels includes a harmonistic heritage. Agreements with the Old Syriac by harmonistic Peshitta variants can derive from a genetic relation (thus being a heritage in the proper sense), or from non-genetic harmonization in single Peshitta manuscripts, which produced the agreement with the Old Syriac (thus being not a heritage in the proper sense). Identification of non-genetic agreements with the Old Syriac has to distinguish the original Old Syriac heritage from its secondary supplementation. In most of the cases this identification will remain ambiguous. Singular harmonistic agreements with the Old Syriac are more likely to be non-genetic than well attested ones; but for a sound judgement the individual profile of the manuscript in question must be known, esp. the full extent of its singular agreements with the Old Syriac. The new Gospel edition has to quote all agreements with the Old Syriac and

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to mark the harmonistic character of the variants where appropriate. The decision on the genetic or non-genetic part of the Old Syriac heritage will be a matter of scholarly discussion. 3. Once the agreements between the Old Syriac and the Peshitta are quoted, the disagreeing variants and their contribution to the history of the Peshitta text can be examined. According to section IIc of the table above, their number in both codices is considerable. In the early manuscripts, we can expect them to reflect the revisional shift from the Old Syriac/‘Pre-Peshitta’ towards the traditional Peshitta as well as the further development of the traditional Peshitta towards the ‘masoretic’ standard of the 7th/8th century. Research on the Old Syriac heritage of the Peshitta Gospels proves to be a promising starting point for bringing the conformity and the variants of the Peshitta text into a historical perspective. Both editors hope that the detailed comparative (i.e. diachronic and synchronic) presentation of the Peshitta along with the Old Syriac will provide a helpful tool for studying the revisional development of the Four-Gospel-canon in the realm of Syrian Christianity.

10. BIBLIOGRAPHY Aland, K. (ed.) Die alten Übersetzungen des Neuen Testaments, die Kirchenväterzitate und Lektionare [Arbeiten zur neutestamentlichen Textforschung, vol. 5]. Berlin-New York, 1972. Black, M. ‘The New Testament Peshitta and its Predecessors’, Bulletin of Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas 1 (1950) 51–62. ________ ‘Rabbula of Edessa and the Peshitta’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 33 (1950–51) 203–210. ________ ‘The Gospel Text of Jacob of Serug’, The Journal of Theological Studies N. S. 11 (1951) 57–63. ________ ‘Zur Geschichte des syrischen Evangelientextes’, Theologische Literaturzeitung 77 (1952) 705–710. ________ ‘The Text of the Peshitta Tetraevangelium’, in Studia Paulina … (1953) 20–27. ________ ‚The Syriac Versional Tradition’, in: K. Aland (Hrsg.), Die alten Übersetzungen des Neuen Testaments … Berlin-New York 1972, p. 120-159. Burkitt, F. C. Evangelion da-Mepharreshe. The Curetonian Version of the Four Gospels, with the Readings of the Sinai Palimpsest and the Early Patristic Evidence, 2 vols. (Cambridge, 1904/Piscataway, 2003). Joosten, J. The Syriac Language of the Peshitta and Old Syriac Versions of Matthew. Syntactic Structure, Inner-Syriac Developments and Translation Technique [Studies in Semitic Languages and Linguistics, vol. 22]. Leiden, 1996.

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Juckel, A. ‘A Re-examination of Codex Phillipps 1388’, Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 6:1 (2003). ________ ‘The “Syriac Masora” and the New Testament Peshitta’, in Bas ter Haar Romeny (ed.), The Peshitta: Its Use in Literature and Liturgy. Papers Read at the Third Peshitta Symposium [Monographs of the Peshitta Institute Leiden, vol. 15]. Leiden, 2006, 107–121. Kiraz, G. A. Comparative Edition of the Syric Gospels. Aligning the Sinaiticus, Curetonianus, Peshîttâ and Harklean Versions, 4 vols. [New Testament Tools and Studies, vol 21/1-4]. Leiden, 1996. Klijn, A. F. J. A Survey of the Researches into the Western Text of the Gospels and Acts. Utrecht, 1949. ________ A Survey of the Researches into the Western Text of the Gospels and Acts. Part two: 1949–1969 [Supplements to Novum Testamentum, vol. 21]. Leiden, 1969. Leroy, J. Les manuscrits syriaques à peintures conservés dans les bibliothèques d’ Europe et d’Orient. Contribution à l’étude de l’ iconographie de langue syriaque, 2 vols (Paris, 1964). McConaughy, D. ‘A recently discovered folio of the Old Syriac (syc) text of Luke 16,13–17,1’, Biblica 68 (1987) 85-88. Metzger, B. M. The Early Versions of the New Testament. Their Origin, Transmission and Limitations. Oxford, 1977. Nau, F. ‘Corrections et additions au catalogue des manuscrits syriaques de Paris’, Journal Asiatique 5 (11e série) 1915, 489–536. Petersen, W. L. Tatian’s Diatessaron. Its Creation, Dissemination, Significance, & History of Scholarship [Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, vol. 25]. Leiden, 1994. Smith Lewis, A. The Old Syriac Gospels or Evangelion da-mepharrshê, being the text of the Sinai or Syro-Antiochene Palimpsest. London, 1910/Piscataway, 2005. Studia Paulilna in honorem Johannis de Zwaan septuagenarii, ed. J. N. Sevenester & W. C. van Unnik. Haarlem, 1953. Vogels, H. J. Die Altsyrischen Evangelien in ihrem Verhältnis zu Tatians Diatessaron [Biblische Studien, 16:5]. Freiburg, 1911. Vööbus, A. Studies in the History of the Gospel Text in Syriac I [CSCO 128/subs. 3]; II [CSCO 496/subs. 79]. Louvain, 1951/1987. ________ Early Versions of the New Testament. Manuscript Studies [Papers of the Estonian Theological Society in Exile, vol. 6]. Stockholm, 1954. Zotenberg, H. Manuscrits orientaux. Cataloge des manuscrits syriaques et sabéens (mandaïtes) de la Bibliothèque Nationale. Paris, 1874.

Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies, Vol. 12.1, 117-134 © 2009 by Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute and Gorgias Press

DENDRITES AND OTHER STANDERS IN THE HISTORY OF THE EXPLOITS OF BISHOP PAUL OF QANETOS AND PRIEST JOHN OF EDESSA† KYLE SMITH DUKE UNIVERSITY GRADUATE PROGRAM IN RELIGION DURHAM, NC

ABSTRACT This paper summarizes evidence for tree-dwelling monks in late antiquity and outlines a little-known, fifth-century hagiography that has a peculiar focus on trees: the History of the Exploits of Bishop Paul of Qanetos and Priest John of Edessa. In the text, there is an encounter with a long-bearded dendrite living in a mountaintop tree and a duel with an Arabian tree-god. An edition of the text—along with an introduction and an annotated translation by Hans Arneson, Christine Luckritz-Marquis, and Kyle Smith— is in preparation.*

An earlier version of this paper was delivered at the Syriac Studies Symposium V at the University of Toronto (June, 2007). I would like to thank Lucas Van Rompay, Susan Ashbrook Harvey, and Sebastian Brock for their comments and criticism. Work on Paul and John began in a †

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In 1767 a young Italian of noble birth, the Baron Cosimo Piovasco di Rondò, acted with unparalleled defiance. Refusing to eat the platter of snails served to him for dinner, he pushed back his chair, exited the dining room, and scurried up an oak tree in the garden. In protest against the mores of society, as much as those of his aristocratic father, Cosimo resolved to live the rest of his life in an airborne, arboreal existence. Never again would he set foot on solid ground. Yet Cosimo was not an unlettered misanthrope, but rather a patron of the poor and a man of erudition who would insist that anyone “who wants to see the earth properly must keep himself at a necessary distance from it.”1 Cosimo is the hero of Italo Calvino’s 1957 neorealist novel, The Baron in the Trees, and his decision to take to the trees addresses—much like the Syriac hagiography that is the topic of this paper—the existential division between the solitary life and the worldly one, between duty to oneself and civic responsibility. While keeping a distance from the world is imperative for any ascetic, in late antiquity “the primary contrast” between a dendrite and a stylite was, as Susan Ashbrook Harvey notes, the degree to which each was bound to society: “The tree-dwelling ascetic,” she says, “seems to have maintained the life of a recluse without the demands for spiritual and political patronage that generally plagued the late ancient holy man.”2 Dendrites were, of course, not completely isolated from society, but various texts do confirm that their level of social engagement was not that of their columndwelling brethren. In the rare references to dendrites in late ancient hagiography, a literary genre that Harvey appropriately describes as one “in which form is as important as content in understanding the text,”3 living in trees “seems to have been a temporary discipline in ascetic careers marked by changing locations and practice.”4 Whereas stylitism was often an enduring ascetic and public vocation, dendritism was typically the precursor to other forms of graduate seminar at Duke University directed by Lucas Van Rompay; Hans Arneson and Christine Luckritz-Marquis joined me in that seminar. 1 I. Calvino, The Baron in the Trees, trans. A. Colquhoun (New York: Random House, 1959), 144. 2 S. A. Harvey, “Dendrites,” in Late Antiquity: A Guide to the Postclassical World, eds. G. W. Bowersock, P. Brown, and O. Grabar (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 1999), 407. 3 S. A. Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis: John of Ephesus and the Lives of the Eastern Saints (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), xiii. 4 Harvey, “Dendrites.”

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asceticism. As an ascetic practice, dendritism was rooted not just in Syria, although, interestingly, even the Greek sources that refer to dendrites typically specify that the tree-dwellers were of Syrian (or Mesopotamian) origin. David of Thessalonica, for example, a dendrite originally from Mesopotamia, inaugurated his ascetic feats by spending three years in an almond tree. Only after this relatively short stint as a dendrite did David then confine himself in a cell outside the city walls, a cell where he would remain for the next twenty years.5 Maro the Dendrite, known to us from John of Ephesus’s Lives of the Eastern Saints, lived in a hollowed-out tree near where his brother, Abraham, presided as the resident stylite of their monastery. Unlike David of Thessalonica who, it seems, welcomed visitors to his cell, Maro the Dendrite would shut the door of his tree and remain silent whenever someone approached in search of healing.6 When Abraham died, Maro reluctantly left his enclosure in the tree and took his brother’s place atop the column, evidently displeased to be inheriting not only his brother’s pillar but

5 John Moschos, Pratum Spirituale, 69, in The Spiritual Meadow (Pratum Spirituale) by John Moschos (also known as John Eviratus), trans. J. Wortley (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1992), 51–53. According to John, another monk of Thessalonica, Adolas, shut himself up in the hollow of a plane tree, even carving out a little window through which he would speak with those who came to see him (Pratum Spirituale, 70). Though David of Thessalonica spent only a few years of his long ascetic career in the almond tree, it seems that this early period of his ascetic life is what is remembered most: a fourteenth-century fresco depicting David remains on the walls of the Chora Monastery in Istanbul. See C. P. Charalampidis, The Dendrites in Pre-Christian and Christian Historical-Literary Tradition and Iconography, Studia Archaeologica 73 (Rome: ‹‹l’Erma›› di Bretschneider, 1995): plate 14. See also A. Vasiliev, “Life of David of Thessalonica,” Traditio: Studies in Ancient Medieval History, Thought and Religion 4 (1946): 115–147. 6 Michael Whitby, “Maro the Dendrite: An Anti-Social Holy Man?” in Homo Viator: Classical Essays for John Bramble, eds. Michael Whitby, P. Hardie, and Mary Whitby (Oak Park, Ill.: Bristol Classical Press, 1987), 309–317. In this article, Whitby sets Maro in contrast to the classic expression of the late ancient holy man, thereby confirming Harvey’s thesis. Maro, according to Whitby, “is the saint who questions the validity of a certain type of socially-engaged holiness” (311). While a difference in form should probably be noted between dendrites who, like Maro, shut themselves up inside trees and those who stand in the open among a tree’s branches, the connection between dendritism and relatively minimal social involvement seems to hold.

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also the requisite public responsibility that came with it.7 John of Ephesus describes in no uncertain terms Maro’s frustration over being cast in the role of a holy man: [it was] very hateful to him that anyone should come and bring him a sick person or one possessed with a demon, but he would at once drive him out, saying these words: “O wretched men, what has misled you into leaving God’s altar and his great power which took up its dwelling in the saints who were slain for his name, and loved him and did his will, and coming to me the wretched man and provoker of God? … It was because of my sins that I came up here to ask mercy like every man, not because of my righteousness.”8

Maro’s anxiety over public adulation and demands for spiritual assistance is echoed by the story of another dendrite, an anonymous monk who lived atop a cypress tree in the village of Irenin, near Syrian Apamea. By way of thwarting the devil—who reveled in shoving the monk from his literal and spiritual perch— the man tethered his ankle to a main branch so that when the devil attacked and threw him down from the tree he would not come crashing to the ground. This tactic was not entirely successful. After a bout with the devil the poor man would invariably be left suspended upside down by his foot until one of the local villagers happened along and helped him back up into the tree. As his reputation for holiness grew (apparently only after he was able to restore himself to an upright position unaided) the dendrite began receiving so many visitors that he finally abandoned his cypress and went out into the desert. There, he believed he would be immune to the distractions of the villagers and sheltered from the vainglory brought about by his celebrity.9 Yet another story about a dendrite tells of a prince who escaped to a monastery without his father’s permission. The king found his son after much searching, but, once he found him, the John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, 4, trans. E. W. Brooks, PO 27 (Paris, 1923), 56–84. See also the discussion about Maro in Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 50–52. It should be noted that Abraham, too, endured a period of asceticism prior to ascending his column; John of Ephesus does not, however, indicate what form this period of testing took, explaining only that Abraham ascended the column “after he had broken himself for a space of ten years by great labours” (Brooks, 57). 8 Lives of the Eastern Saints, Brooks, 64. 9 F. Nau, “Opuscules maronites,” ROC 4 (1899): 337–40. See also H. Delehaye, Les saints stylites, Subsidia Hagiographica 14 (Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1923), clxxiv. 7

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king, too, decided to live the rest of his days in a monastery. In mourning after the king’s death, the prince climbed a tree and never came down, rather morbidly keeping the decapitated head of his father always before him.10 Two other glancing references customarily taken to indicate ascetics who might be dendrites must be added to the foregoing list. The first, from Eusebius, indicates that, according to Philo, when ascetics “begin the philosophical way of life … they give their possessions away to relatives, and, renouncing life’s concerns, go beyond the walls and live in lonely fields and gardens.”11 The clear implication for Eusebius is that contact with non-ascetics hinders the budding monk, but it seems to be a bit of a stretch to suggest that a renunciatory flight to “lonely fields and gardens” should be taken to mean an initiation into the dendritic life. Another, perhaps slightly more concrete, reference to dendrites is from the early eighth century in the poetry of George, Bishop of the Arabs. He mentions monks who are tossed about by the winds, sustaining themselves on the fruits and leaves of trees.12 While these examples are too few and too rooted in rhetorically formulaic hagiography to develop any substantive phenomenology of late ancient dendritism, a recently translated Syriac text, the History of the Exploits of Bishop Paul of Qanetos and Priest John of Edessa, provides another intriguing perspective to the study of dendrites among Syrian ascetics.13 The History of Paul and John is preserved in at least five Syriac manuscripts, including one that is dated 569 CE and two others that are safely datable to the sixth century as well.14 The Greek version of Paul and John was Vasiliev, “Life of David,” 133. Eusebius of Caesarea, Hist. Eccl. II.17.5. My emphasis. 12 See V. Ryssel, Georgs des Araberbischofs Gedichte und Briefe, aus dem Syrischen übersetzt und erläutert (Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1891). 13 Summaries of this text have been published previously, but, to my knowledge, there is no published translation in any language—for a further explanation, see note 14 below. For the summaries, see F. Nau, “Hagiographie syriaque,” ROC 15 (1910): 56–60; and S. Brock, “Syriac on the Sinai: The Main Connections,” in Eukosmia: Studi Miscellanei per il 75. di Vincenzo Poggi, S.J., eds. V. Ruggieri and L. Pieralli (Catanzaro: Soveria Mannelli, 2003), 104–105. 14 (1) BL Add. 14,597, f. 144v-156r, dated 569; (2) BL Add. 12,160, f. 134v-146v, 6th c.; (3) BL Add. 14,646, f. 178v-194v?, 6th c.—most of the text in this manuscript, from folio 183 to 194, is difficult to read because it is overwritten with a 10th c. hand; (4) Paris Syr. 235, f. 19r-25v, 13th c.— this is an acephalous copy preceded immediately by the Man of God; and (5) Damascus Patriarchate 12/18, 12th/13th c. For the Damascus 10 11

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published on the basis of a single tenth-century manuscript that has some considerable lacunae.15 Neither the Syriac text nor a modern translation of either the Greek or the Syriac has yet been published; however, an edition and English translation of the text is presently in preparation. Further research is necessary to more definitively determine whether the original language of composition was Syriac or Greek, though it seems more likely that it was Syriac. Nevertheless, biblical quotations in the text occasionally reflect the Greek Bible rather than the Peshitta. Additionally, there are geographical considerations. Bishop Paul, the hero of the text, is said to be from Attaleia in Pontos in the Greek text, but this is echoed by only one of the Syriac manuscripts. The others indicate that Paul is from Qanetos, a city of Italy, not Attaleia.16 Whatever the origin of the text, the language and style are idiomatic Syriac manuscript, to which we have not had access, see Y. Dolabani, R. Lavenant, S. Brock, and S. Samir, “Catalogue des manuscrits de la bibliothèque du Patriarcat Syrien Orthodoxe à Homs (auj. à Damas),” ParOr 19 (1994): 612. Mention must also be made of “Rahmani’s manuscript” (or, as we are calling it in our edition, “ms. X”). This manuscript was found in a fifth volume of Studia Syriaca that was apparently never published and was shelved in the library of the Pontifical Oriental Institute formatted only in its galley proofs. The volume contains an un-annotated version of Paul and John, lacking both an introduction and a translation. Supposedly, an edition and translation of Paul and John was prepared by François Nau and given to Ignatius Rahmani. Nau’s edition was never published, and it is unclear whether the galleys of Studia Syriaca V preserve the (unfinished?) work of Nau or Rahmani. Nau explains: “Nous avions préparé aussi l’édition de l’histoire de «Paul l’évêque et Jean le prêtre.» Nous l’avons remise à Mgr. Rahmani, en août 1907, avec introduction, traduction, copie du texte grec, et copie ou collation de quatre mss. syriaques.” See F. Nau, “Littérature canonique syriaque inédite,” ROC 14 (1909): 35, n.1. Sebastian Brock, through Lucas Van Rompay, brought the contents of this unpublished volume of Studia Syriaca to my attention. 15 BHG 1476 (Cod. Coislin. 303, 10th c.). See A. PapadopoulosKerameus, Analekta Hiersolymitikês Stachyologias V (St. Petersburg, 1888), 368–83. 16 Sebastian Brock comments, “The name of the town of which Paul is said to have been bishop is Attaleia in Pontos in the Greek; in the Syriac, PNTWS (Pontos) is found only in Add. 12160; the other manuscripts have QNYTWS, QYNTWS, and ‘Italy’ [’YTLY’] instead of Attaleia [’TLY’]. Since Attaleia is in Pamphylia, not Pontus, perhaps Nau is right to suggest that the Greek may be an adaptation of the Syriac, rather than the other way around.” See S. Brock, “Syriac on the Sinai,” 104–105.

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and there are many stock expressions and concepts common to Syriac ascetic literature. Since Rabbula and Edessa are mentioned prominently on more than one occasion, one might presume that the bilingual milieu in Edessa could be the text’s place of origin. In what follows, I will briefly summarize some highlights of the text, noting especially the references to trees and dendrites. The History of Paul and John is not a very long text, but it is rich in adventure and intrigue. The text details the life in Edessa and the subsequent voyage of two men to the monasteries of Mount Sinai: one is Bishop Paul, a pious, miracle-working foreigner who toils as a day-laborer and conceals that he is a bishop and a holy man; the other is John, a priest native to Edessa, who had hired Paul for a building project and found out only through stealthily watching Paul pray that he was a man of great spiritual power. Both before the two leave Edessa for the Sinai, and while they are on their journey, they encounter various forms of ascetics: troglodytes, mourners, mountaineers, and even a dendrite. As John’s great love for Paul is slowly revealed, the text verges on becoming something of a romantic epic.17 Paul and John’s journey is alive with demons, visions, revelations and a run-in with a band of Arabs who imprison the two pilgrims and threaten to sacrifice them. Paul and John’s zealous, and unrequited, love for Paul is clearly evident in the text. For example, John pleads with Paul that he might stay and live with him, calling upon Paul as his beloved. Later in the text, when Paul surreptitiously leaves town, John is heartbroken and spends six months searching for him. This sort of one-sided attachment of one monk to another has parallels in other texts. Take, for example, Derek Krueger’s vivid translation of Leontios of Neapolis’ Life of Symeon the Holy Fool. When Symeon declares to his fellow monk, also called John, that he is leaving after twenty-nine years of ascetic practice together with him in the desert, John begs Symeon to stay. He says to him, “do not leave wretched me … You know that, after God, I have no one except you, my brother, but I renounced all and was bound to you … we agreed not to be separated from each other. Remember the fearful hour when we were clothed in the holy habit, and we two were as one soul, so that all were astonished at our love.” See D. Krueger, Symeon the Holy Fool: Leontius’s Life and the Late Antique City (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 142–43. Krueger has done interesting work on what he calls “monastic companionship,” pointing out instances of strong love between monastic friends. In addition to his forthcoming work, see also his “Homoerotic Spectacle and the Monastic Body in Symeon the New Theologian,” in Toward a Theology of Eros: Transfiguring Passion at the Limits of Discipline, eds. V. Burrus and C. Keller (New York: Fordham University Press, 2006), 99–118. 17

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John encounter an anonymous dendrite, who tells the story of Abraham, the “head of the mourners.” They discover a community of mountaineers, whose abbot secretly invited a young woman disguised as a eunuch to live among his monks, causing great commotion when her true identity was revealed. The text demonstrates stylistic parallels to the Syriac Life of the Man of God, and episodes in the text echo those in the Lives of the Eastern Saints and the Life of Rabbula.18 Like Alexis, the Man of God, the Syriac text indicates that Paul, too, came to Edessa from Italy, that he worked among and with the poor, and that he distributed what little money he earned as a laborer to those at the xenodocheion. Moreover, Rabbula is mentioned twice as the reigning bishop of Edessa, thereby placing Paul and John’s adventures sometime between 411 and 435 CE. In the first reference to Rabbula, his see is described as “a city of the Parthians” and, in the second, John gains permission from Rabbula to live with Paul in a cave “with the blessed ones” during the winter months, and then in a house in Edessa where they would work during the summer months. Linking Paul and John to other Syriac hagiographies, Paul’s healing of a woman who had suffered many years with an incurable disease has narrative similarities to both the hermit’s miracle that spurred Rabbula to convert to Christianity and the nighttime watch that the Man of God kept over the poor who slept at the threshold of the church.19 At least four major themes are evident in the text. First, an insistence on the necessity of using one’s labor to benefit the poor: Paul’s decision to come work as a day laborer in Edessa, and, To cite just two examples among the many likely parallels, see the Lives of Paul of Antioch and Paul the Anchorite in John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, PO XVIII: 671–75 and 112–17. Paul of Antioch is described as a strenuous worker who labored in the day and served the sick at night; he is said to have worked in one city for a while before moving on to another place, eventually getting as far as the sea of Pontus. Paul the Anchorite, on the other hand, went to a cave inhabited by evil spirits where he put up a cross, arranged stones in the shape of an oratory, and knelt in prayer as phantoms of snakes arrayed against him; eventually, twenty brothers joined him to make a monastery in the cave. In Paul and John, our Paul is a day laborer (a builder) who stays in one town only until he acquires a reputation for holiness, at which point he moves on. In the text’s account of John secretly watching Paul pray, Paul stands in a cave in prayer, oblivious to the ferocious snakes and asps that appear before him as manifestations of the adversary. 19 See Stewards of the Poor: The Man of God, Rabbula, and Hiba in FifthCentury Edessa, trans. R. Doran (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Studies, 2006). 18

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ultimately, his departure to Nisibis for the same task underscores this. Even when Paul and John are on Mount Sinai, Paul desires to get back to his work in Edessa, and more than once Paul voices apprehension at benefiting from the labor of others. A second theme is the prevalence of visions, which functions as both a mechanism for foreshadowing events in the text and as a way that secrets and hidden identities are revealed: for example, Paul’s vision that impels him to leave Italy and come to Edessa; the visions of both John and the abbot of the mountaineers that reveal to them that Paul is no ordinary laborer, but actually a bishop from Italy; and, the vision of a cave-dwelling anchorite that Paul and John would be captured on their way to Sinai but would ultimately convert their captors to Christianity. Third, there is the importance of anonymity and concealed identity: Paul’s anonymity is reckoned as imperative in that he wishes no one to know that he is a bishop, and, like the anonymous Man of God, desires to serve the poor without gaining a personal reputation for holiness. Paul came from Italy to Edessa to work anonymously on behalf of the poor, and, while in Edessa, as soon as word spreads that he healed a woman from her chronic suffering, he quickly departs for another city where he is not known. Likewise, the woman living in disguise as a eunuch among the mountaineers is forced, by necessity, to conceal her identity from her fellow monks. The dendrite of the text, too, is anonymous: the villagers who process with “torches and incense” to bury him after his death know that he died only on account of yet another vision, not because they frequented his tree seeking his patronage or cures for their ailments. In fact, the dendrite specifically tells Paul and John that he has been alone for decades, excluding only occasional visits by two men who deliver bread and water to him. The fourth major theme of the text concerns trees. In the three episodes of the text that deal with trees, the narrative goes from discussing an Arabian tribe that worships a tree-god, to comparing the cave-dwelling monks of Edessa to trees in paradise, and then to relating the story of the dendrite who lived alone on a mountaintop tree for decades. These “tree” sections of the text begin with Paul and John departing Edessa, bound for Sinai to see the place where God descended. Nothing is said about their journey from Edessa, but, when they reach the base of Mount Sinai, they are captured by a band of Arabs who take them down to the land of the Himyarites (or Homerites) where they are shackled, kept in a tent, and told that they will be sacrificed the next day. In the middle of the night, however, a girl in the camp awakens everyone, wailing that fiery

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arrows are coming from Paul and John and striking her in the face. Paul calmly explains to the enraged Arabs that the only way this torture can cease is if the girl believes in Jesus Christ and receives baptism. The girl, of course, consents to this, her pain is quenched, and all those who witnessed the miracle are also baptized. When news of these events reaches the king of the Arabs, he is infuriated and sends his warriors to round up Paul and John and all those they baptized so that they may be sacrificed to the god of the camp—a palm tree. Paul then speaks with the king, saying, “Well, then, gather and bring here all your power and when your god is standing in his place, we will also call our god. And they will battle with one another, and that god which is victorious, you will deliver his host from the sword.” The king heartily accepts this challenge, and Paul invokes the god who “planted all the cedars of Lebanon” to send his wrath upon the palm tree and “uproot it” so that he and John “might plant many after it.” Immediately, the Spirit descends, tears up the roots of the palm tree and withers its fruit and branches. The king and all of his men are converted on the basis of this miracle and Paul and John baptize them and make a church out of a great tent. This episode in the narrative is quite interesting. The Himyarites, a southwestern Arabian tribe from the mountains of Yemen, are known in Syriac circles from the fragmentary Book of the Himyarites and (according to Irfan Shahîd) from a letter attributed to Simeon of Beth-Arsham, wherein the persecution of the Christians of Najran by Himyarites led by a Jewish king in the early sixth century is described in detail.20 The Himyarites were known, The Book of the Himyarites: Fragments of a Hitherto Unknown Syriac Work, trans. A. Moberg (Lund: C.W.K. Gleerup, 1924); La lettera di Simeone vescovo di Beth-Arsham sopra i martiri omeriti, trans. I. Guidi, Atti della R. Accademia dei Lincei. Memorie della Classe di scienze morali, storiche e filologiche, ser. 3, vol. 7 (Rome, 1881). See also I. Shahîd, The Martyrs of Najran: New Documents, Subsidia Hagiographica 49 (Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1971); and “Byzantino-Arabica: The Conference of Ramla, A.D. 524,” JNES 23 (1964): 115–131. The date of the persecution is disputed. A letter by Jacob of Serug indicates a date of 518; the other sources attest to the later date of 523. For Jacob’s account, see G. Olinder, Iacobi Sarugensis epistulae quotquot supersunt, CSCO 110 (Louvain, 1937), 87–102. For more on the persecution of the Christians of Najran, see J. Beaucamp, F. Briquel-Chatonnet, and C. J. Robin, “La persécution des chrétiens de Nagran et la chronologie himyarite,” ARAM 11 (1999– 2000): 15–83; and J. Ryckmans, “Les rapports de dépendance entre les récits hagiographiques relatifs à la persécution des Himyarites,” Le Muséon 100 (1987): 297–305. For accounts of the women martyrs of Najran, see 20

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especially, to make their livelihood as traders in frankincense, which is produced from the resin of a tree native to the southern Arabian Peninsula, thus their supposed reverence for trees is unsurprising.21 The text is not clear about what the Himyarites were doing at the base of Mount Sinai where they intercepted Paul and John, but what is clear is that tribes in this area of southwestern Arabia are known to have worshipped trees. (Among more notable examples of tree-worship in other early Christian literature, it is said that villagers initially held back Martin of Tours from felling a pine tree standing near a pagan temple because it was venerated as holy.) Indeed, tree worship was a fashionable point of research among a number of scholars in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century who took the (now much maligned) “Myth and Ritual School” approach to the study of religion.22 What is perhaps most interesting about this episode in Paul and John is that it is probably the source for al-Tabari’s account of Christianity in Najran.23 According to al-Tabari, Christianity arose in Najran from the followers of Faymiyun, “a pious man, a zealous fighter for the faith and an ascetic.” Faymiyun was a builder, an itinerant laborer who “lived entirely off what his own hand gained,” who kept his “real nature” hidden and would depart from any village once his wondrous deeds became known there. Faymiyun’s follower, Salih, “felt a love for him such as he had never felt for anything previously.” When Faymiyun and Salih were enslaved by a caravan of Arabs, Faymiyun “invoked God’s curse” on a date palm, the god of the camp, and God “sent a wind that tore it up from its roots and cast it down.” As in the story of Paul and John, the Arabs of the camp were thereby converted to S. P. Brock and S. A. Harvey, Holy Women of the Syrian Orient. Transformation of the Classical Heritage 13 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 100–21. 21 G. W. Van Beek, “Frankincense and Myrrh in Ancient South Arabia,” JAOS 78:3 (1958): 141–52. 22 Notably, E. B. Tylor, Sir James Frazer, W. Robertson Smith, and, later, E. O. James. 23 Others have made this connection, but it is clear that a more comprehensive study—specifically, that is, about the connections between the Syriac “Paul and John” and al-Tabari’s “Faymiyun and Salih” and their respective roles in the legends about the origins of Christianity in Yemen—could be worthwhile. See W. W. Müller, “Himyar,” RAC 15 (1991): 330; J. Tubach, “Die Anfänge des Christentums in Südarabien. Eine christliche Legende syrischer Herkunft in Ibn Hisham,” ParOr 18 (1993): 101–11; and T. Hainthaler, Christliche Araber vor dem Islam, Eastern Christian Studies 7 (Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 123.

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Christianity—in al-Tabari’s account to “the faith of ‛Isa b. Maryam.”24 The Christian missionary activity described by John of Ephesus may be a particularly apt lens through which to read the episode about tree worship in Paul and John. As Susan Harvey points out, “the ascetics who accompanied John [on his missions] were ‘strenuous workers,’” and, as John of Ephesus is keen to note, “Each one of them … was strengthened to abolish paganism, and overthrow idolatry, and uproot altars and destroy shrines and cut down trees in ardent religious zeal.”25 Presumably, this last bit about cutting down trees in their missions to convert the pagans has at least some reference to Arabian tribes such as the Himyarites. After the Himyarites allowed Paul and John to go in peace and continue on their journey, the pair came to the mountain of God and “ascended to the place upon which the presence of the Lord had descended.”26 They stayed there in prayer for five days, and then visited the cave of Moses and the “multitude of monks who were dwelling on the mountain.” But their pilgrimage did not last long. Paul soon implored John that they had to make haste to return to Edessa, for he had had a vision, seeing “men in magnificent raiment” ascend to the cave of the twelve blessed anchorites in Edessa and “cut from [the twelve] seven shoots” that were subsequently planted “in the paradise of God.” John, hearing this, agrees that they should hurry home to Edessa, and, as they made their way, “they reached a certain mountain” at the top of which stood a lone tree. As Paul and John approached, they noticed a man standing in the tree, and, in fear, called out to him, declaring themselves as Christians. The man in the tree answered that he, too, was a Christian. In response to Paul and John’s inquiries, the man then begins to explain how he had come to be in that place. A journey, he said, had called him to pass by the summit of the mountain and, as he was passing, he noticed a man standing on top of the very same tree—a man “heavy with white hair” who

24 The History of al-Tabari, 920–22. See C. E. Bosworth, trans. The History of al-Tabari (Ta’rikh al-rusul wa’l-muluk, vol. V, The Sasanids, the Byzantines, the Lakhmids, and Yemen (Albany: SUNY Press, 1999), 196–99. 25 Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 99; Lives of the Eastern Saints, 659. 26 The Syriac uses the word ‘shekinta,’ a loanword from Hebrew that is rare in Syriac; see N. Sed, “La Shekinta et ses amis araméens,” in Mélanges Antoine Guillaumont: Contributions à l’étude des christianismes orientaux. Cahiers d’orientalisme 20 (Geneva, 1988), 233–242.

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was called Abraham, head of the mourners.27 Abraham asked the man to stay with him for three days and spent the time telling the wayward visitor all about his various spiritual contests. After three days, Abraham died, so, the man now in the tree explains, “I brought him down and buried him, and because my soul wished for the serenity of his soul, I ascended and stood in [Abraham’s] place, and lo, I am awaiting the salvation of God … and thirty-five years I have stood in this position and no man has noticed me except two men who come to me from time to time to bring me provisions of bread and water.” This anonymous dendrite then asks Paul and John to stay with him three days, and, unsurprisingly, on the third day the dendrite dies, mirroring his own account of Abraham’s death.28 Paul and John then go to retrieve his body from the tree for burial, and, as they are bringing him down, “many people came bearing torches and burning incense” having had a vision that a holy one of God had died in that place. The villagers deposited the bones of Abraham, whom they seem to have known, along with the corpse of the anonymous dendrite together in a wood coffin and processed back to the village with their relics in tow. Even Paul and John feel compelled to take relics for themselves, bringing with them the dendrite’s plaited breadbasket

This phrase, “head of the mourners,” (resha d-abile) initially seems odd in this context; if the man is alone, why is he the “head” of a group of ascetics? This can be explained if “head” is read as a term of respect— something like “most excellent of” or “first among” the mourners. The phrase used as a term of respect for a solitary shows up (probably among other places) in the Life of Onesima where the anchorite Dudina (Dobina/Dobinos) is referred to as the “head of the mourners” even though he has lived alone in his cell for years. See Select Narratives of Holy Women, from the Syro-Antiochene or Sinai Palimpsest as Written above the Old Syriac Gospels by John the Stylite, of Beth-Mari-Qanun in A.D. 778, Studia Sinaitica X, trans. A. Smith-Lewis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1900): 65–66. I thank Lucas Van Rompay for the reference. 28 A similar story is told by al-Tabari. Faymiyun, with Salih following close behind him, was “walking somewhere in Syria” and passed by a tree from which a man called Faymiyun’s name and said, “I have been continuously awaiting you and have kept saying, ‘When is he coming?’ until I heard your voice and knew that you were its owner. Don’t go away until you have prayed over my grave, for I am now at the point of death.” History of al-Tabari, 921; trans. Bosworth, 198. In his note to this passage, Bosworth reasonably suggests that the man in the tree is a dendrite; alTabari himself, however, comments neither about why the man was waiting in the tree nor how he knew that Faymiyun was coming. 27

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and his pitcher of water, which “provided great healings … through the prayer of the blessed one.” When the text reveals that the dendrite dies after Paul and John’s third day in his company, two things happen that seem rather peculiar, especially given that the rest of the text generally mirrors traditional Syriac hagiographical forms. The first, and most obvious, oddity is that neither Paul nor John become a dendrite— in fact, they do not even seem to contemplate it. The anonymous dendrite waited with Abraham, the head of the mourners, for three days and then took his place when he died; Paul and John wait with their dendrite friend for three days, too, but then continue their voyage after his death without concern that the dendrite’s form of asceticism would be discontinued in that hallowed place. The second odd thing that happens after the dendrite’s death is that the narration of the story shifts from the third person to the first person—this is attested by only the Syriac, not the Greek. Up until this point, the third-person omniscient narrator described the story in close, but unsympathetic, detail. With the death of the dendrite, however, the narration abruptly switches to the first person plural—we, meaning Paul and John. Later, it is clear that it is John who is doing the talking and thereupon the pathos of the story becomes dramatically more pronounced. John’s great love for Paul and his desire to spend all his days with him is made clear early on in the story, but now the reader is struck profoundly that this is not the story of two saints, Paul and John, but that it is John’s story of his great love for Paul. And it is Paul who ends up breaking John’s heart when he furtively leaves Edessa and “[steals] himself away from the blessed John.” For one hundred and eighty days John searched for Paul, in Jerusalem and in every direction thereabouts, seeking Paul as far as Nisibis, “between the territories of the Persians and the Romans.” It is in Nisibis that John, after much asking about town, finally finds Paul working again as a laborer, “carrying a vessel of clay and ascending a staircase.” And from his gladness [John] could not wait until [Paul] descended, but rose, and behold, called to him: “Paul! Paul!” And when [Paul] turned and saw him, he recognized him. And he said to him, “Wait for me while I come down.” But Paul went up and placed the vessel of clay that he was carrying upon the wall and he went out by another way and no one ever gave confirmation of him again. But John, after he had waited a long while and [Paul] had not descended, walked around the whole city asking [for him]. And when he could not find him, he went in and threw

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himself into the guesthouse among the poor. Concerning the sadness and distress that had taken hold of him, a tongue is not able to speak. But in that night, when he had fallen asleep in the guesthouse, that saint Paul appeared to him in a dream, saying to him, “My brother John, do not be troubled to find me, because you will not see my face again in the life of the body. Not in order to give you peace will I divulge the true reason I departed from my city. But rise, go home and ascend to those blessed ones in the cave and with them wait for the salvation of God. For we are departing from this world in a little while, and with our Lord we will truly be gladdened with one another.”

There are a lot of loose ends in the narrative of Paul and John, a lot left unanswered, and here I offer only some preliminary thoughts about the continued play with the striking motif of trees in this text. There is a concerted effort to “Christianize” the symbolic importance of the tree—a trope conspicuously absent in hagiographies of stylites in late antiquity who, some have argued, also put pagan symbols (in this case, the pillar) to good employ in Christian asceticism.29 The tree-god of the Himyarites is quashed by the strength of the God who “planted all the cedars of Lebanon.” In the next episode, there are obvious allusions to the Christian notion of the Tree of Life, and the common refrain in Syriac thought of the ascetic life as a return to the Garden of Eden. One thinks immediately of Ephrem’s Hymns on Paradise. We hear of the seven of the twelve blessed ones in the cave in Edessa who are described as “shoots” that were cut down and “re-planted” in paradise. This is echoed in the Book of Steps, not only in the twentyfirst memra “On the Tree of Adam,” but more specifically in the second memra that lists seven “large trees of the spiritual paradise, 29 David Frankfurter makes a good case for the unspoken continuity between pre-existent, pagan instances of pillar-standing and the Christian stylites—a continuity never once mentioned in hagiographies of these stylites: “The hagiographical literature itself has traditionally been the major obstruction to any argument for continuity with the phallobates, for it brought up the question of Symeon’s self-consciousness. That is, could Symeon have known that he was carrying out a feat which had such a ‘pagan’ prototype? Might he have planned it that way in order to facilitate the conversion of the rural masses?” Frankfurter suggests that a way “into” Symeon’s mind is looking at the “continuity of rural Syrian culture through the sixth century, rather than an apologetically-presumed rupture with the conversion of Constantine.” See D. T. M. Frankfurter, “Stylites and Phallobates: Pillar Religions in Late Antique Syria,” VC 44 (1990): 189.

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of which those who keep the major commandments eat.”30 Of the five blessed “shoots” who remain in the cave, perhaps one can say they are like the five immovable trees in paradise from the Coptic Gospel of Thomas (logion 19) that do not move in summer or in winter—unlike Paul and John who were said to have worked in Edessa in the summer and led a contemplative life in the anchorites’ cave in the winter. Finally, the anonymous dendrite, rooted firmly in his tree for thirty-five years, and so little known that he is visited only by two mysterious men who occasionally bring him bread and water: he can be read as demonstrating, too, the ascetic and Christian re-appropriation of the sacred tree: a place of spiritual refuge, battles with demons, and world-denying solitude. Beyond these speculations about possible meanings of the “tree” section of the narrative, there are, as I have noted briefly already, a number of intriguing parallels and nods toward the Man of God, the Life of Rabbula, and John of Ephesus’s Lives of the Eastern Saints that undoubtedly merit further study. Much remains to be said. With these parallels, the text’s references to dendrites, mourners, and mountaineers, and the connection with al-Tabari and the history of Christianity in Arabia, the History of the Exploits of Bishop Paul of Qanetos and Priest John of Edessa will surely be a useful supplement to future studies of late ancient Syriac hagiography and asceticism.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Beaucamp, J., F. Briquel-Chatonnet, and C. J. Robin. “La persécution des chrétiens de Nagran et la chronologie himyarite.” ARAM 11 (1999–2000): 15–83. Brock, S. “Syriac on the Sinai: The Main Connections.” In Eukosmia: Studi Miscellanei per il 75. di Vincenzo Poggi, S.J., eds. V. Ruggieri and L. Pieralli, 103–117. Catanzaro: Soveria Mannelli, 2003. Brock, S. P. and S. A. Harvey. Holy Women of the Syrian Orient. Transformation of the Classical Heritage 13. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987. Calvino, I. The Baron in the Trees, trans. A. Colquhoun. New York: Random House, 1959.

30 Book of Steps, II.7; The Book of Steps: The Syriac Liber Graduum, trans. R. A. Kitchen and M. F. G. Parmentier (Kalamazoo, Mich.: Cistercian Studies, 2004), 19. See also R. A. Kitchen, “Syriac Additions to Anderson: The Garden of Eden in the Book of Steps and Philoxenus of Mabbug,” Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 4.1 (2003).

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Charalampidis, C.P. The Dendrites in Pre-Christian and Christian HistoricalLiterary Tradition and Iconography. Studia Archaeologica 73. Rome: ‹‹l’Erma›› di Bretschneider, 1995. Delehaye, H. Les saints stylites. Subsidia Hagiographica 14. Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1923. Dolabani, Y., R. Lavenant, S. Brock, and S. Samir. “Catalogue des manuscrits de la bibliothèque du Patriarcat Syrien Orthodoxe à Homs (auj. à Damas).” ParOr 19 (1994): 555–661. Doran, R. Stewards of the Poor: The Man of God, Rabbula, and Hiba in FifthCentury Edessa. Kalamazoo, Mich.: Cistercian Studies, 2006. Frankfurter, D. T. M. “Stylites and Phallobates: Pillar Religions in Late Antique Syria.” VC 44 (1990): 168–198. Guidi, I. La lettera di Simeone vescovo di Beth-Arsham sopra i martiri omeriti. Atti della R. Accademia dei Lincei. Memorie della Classe di scienze morali, storiche e filologiche, ser. 3, vol. VII. Rome, 1881. Hainthaler, T. Christliche Araber vor dem Islam. Eastern Christian Studies 7. Leuven: Peeters, 2007. Harvey, S. A. Asceticism and Society in Crisis: John of Ephesus and the Lives of the Eastern Saints. Transformation of the Classical Heritage 18. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990. _____. “Dendrites.” In Late Antiquity: A Guide to the Postclassical World, eds. G. W. Bowersock, P. Brown, and O. Grabar, 407. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 1999. The History of al-Tabari (Ta’rikh al-rusul wa’l-muluk), vol. V, The Sasanids, the Byzantines, the Lakhmids, and Yemen, trans. C. E. Bosworth. Albany: SUNY Press, 1999. John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, trans. E. W. Brooks, PO 17–18. Paris, 1923. John Moschos, Pratum Spirituale, in The Spiritual Meadow (Pratum Spirituale) by John Moschos (also known as John Eviratus), trans. J. Wortley. Kalamazoo, Mich.: Cistercian Publications, 1992. Kitchen, R. A. “Syriac Additions to Anderson: The Garden of Eden in the Book of Steps and Philoxenus of Mabbug.” Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 4.1 (2003). Kitchen, R. A. and M. F. G. Parmentier. The Book of Steps: The Syriac Liber Graduum Kalamazoo, Mich.: Cistercian Studies, 2004. Krueger, D. Symeon the Holy Fool: Leontius's Life and the Late Antique City. Transformation of the Classical Heritage 25. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996. Moberg, A. The Book of the Himyarites: Fragments of a Hitherto Unknown Syriac Work. Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup, 1924. Müller, W. W. “Himyar.” RAC 15 (1991): 303–31. Nau, F. “Opuscules maronites.” ROC 4 (1899): 337–40. _____. “Littérature canonique syriaque inédite.” ROC 14 (1909): 37–38. _____. “Hagiographie syriaque.” ROC 15 (1910): 56–60. Papadopoulos-Kerameus, A. Analekta Hiersolymitikês Stachyologias V, 368– 83. St. Petersburg, 1888.

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Ryckmans, J. “Les rapports de dépendance entre les récits hagiographiques relatifs à la persécution des Himyarites.” Le Muséon 100 (1987): 297–305. Ryssel, V. Georgs des Araberbischofs Gedichte und Briefe, aus dem Syrischen übersetzt und erläutert. Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1891. Sed, N. “La Shekinta et ses amis araméens,” in Mélanges Antoine Guillaumont: Contributions à l’étude des christianismes orientaux, 233– 242. Cahiers d’orientalisme 20. Geneva, 1988. Shahîd, I. “Byzantino-Arabica: The Conference of Ramla, A.D. 524.” JNES 23 (1964): 115–31. _____. The Martyrs of Najran: New Documents. Subsidia Hagiographica 49. Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1971. Smith-Lewis, A. Select Narratives of Holy Women, from the Syro-Antiochene or Sinai Palimpsest as Written above the Old Syriac Gospels by John the Stylite, of Beth-Mari-Qanun in A.D. 778. Studia Sinaitica X. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1900. Tubach, J. “Die Anfänge des Christentums in Südarabien. Eine christliche Legende syrischer Herkunft in Ibn Hisham.” ParOr 18 (1993): 101–11. Van Beek, G. W. “Frankincense and Myrrh in Ancient South Arabia.” JAOS 78:3 (1958): 141–52. Vasiliev, A. “Life of David of Thessalonica.” Traditio: Studies in Ancient Medieval History, Thought and Religion 4 (1946): 115–147. Whitby, Michael. “Maro the Dendrite: An Anti-Social Holy Man?” In Homo Viator: Classical Essays for John Bramble, eds. Michael. Whitby, P. Hardie, and Mary Whitby, 309–317. Oak Park, Ill.: Bristol Classical Press, 1987.

Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies, Vol. 12.1, 135-165 © 2009 by Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute and Gorgias Press

BRIEF ARTICLES

FROM DAMASCUS TO EDESSA TRAVELOGUE OF A VISIT TO SYRIA AND TURKEY UTE POSSEKEL Since ancient times, people have traveled to Syria from the West. Merchants have come to trade and geographers to survey the land, intellectuals have come to learn and pilgrims to visit holy sites. In March of 2008, our group of fifteen scholars from Northern Europe and the United States, expertly led by Inga-Lill and Samuel Rubenson (Lund University), followed in their footsteps to discover and experience the East. We gathered at Copenhagen airport on a cold morning and embarked on a flight to Damascus, where we were met by our local guide and driver. As we passed through Damascus on this quiet Friday afternoon, we watched local families everywhere enjoy the warm spring weather, picnicking in the parks and olive groves that line the streets, and we even caught a glimpse of the city walls through which the Apostle Paul is said to have escaped (Acts 9:25; 2 Cor. 11:32–33). Leaving the city behind, the bus slowly wound its way up into the mountains towards our first night’s destination, the small town of Ma’aloula, some 60 km north of Damascus. This town, nestled in the foothills of the Anti-Lebanon mountains, is inhabited by a largely Christian population that prides itself on being the only remaining Aramaic-speaking community in Syria. In addition to its linguistic fame, Ma’aloula attracts visitors on account of an ancient church and a pilgrimage site associated with Thecla. 135

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Photo 1: Ma’aloula

We awoke the next morning to a stunning view of the AntiLebanon mountain range and of the colorful village houses built right into the hillsides. Some of us attended the morning liturgy in the ancient church of St. Sergius. Later, the entire group returned to see the building in more detail. The church is named after the early Christian martyr-saints Sergius and Bacchus, said to have been soldiers at the Roman frontier who were executed during the reign of Diocletian after refusing to sacrifice to the pagan gods. The main cult center of Sergius in antiquity was Rusafa, a Roman garrison town located in the desert further to the north-east and identified as the place of his martyrdom. The church in Ma’aloula testifies to the popularity of Sergius’ cult throughout the Syrian region. The church of St. Sergius is of great antiquity and said to have survived earthquakes on account of its architectural design, which integrates horizontal layers of wood into the masonry structure. The object of greatest interest here is an altar with a marble top, shaped like a horse-shoe with a raised edge. This altar was apparently modeled upon pagan altars—the raised edges functioned to contain the blood of sacrificed animals—but unlike its pagan counterparts the altar top in St. Sergius lacks the typical opening which allowed the sacrificial blood to flow down. The local Christian who proudly showed us the church maintained that this unique altar must precede the Council of Nicaea in 325,

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claiming that a Nicene prohibition of sacrifice resulted in flat altar tops; however, a review of the council canons can not sustain this claim. And while this altar certainly appears quite ancient and its shape rather unusual, it is not unique, for in the museum of Apamea is displayed a nearly identical piece (there labeled as a table top). Our Christian guide of St. Sergius concluded her tour with a recitation of the Lord’s Prayer in her Aramaic mother tongue. From the church of St. Sergius, we proceeded to the town’s second major attraction, a shrine dedicated to Thecla. The path led through a deep gorge, dotted on both sides with caves and empty tombs. At the end of the gorge stand the church and monastery of St. Thecla. According to the Acts of Paul and Thecla, Thecla escaped a group of pernicious suitors by taking refuge in a crack that miraculously opened up in the rock and immediately closed again after her. This church was built around the very cave believed to have been the site of this miracle. Thecla’s tomb is venerated in a niche of the cave, and votive offerings give testimony to her healing power and to the local Christian devotion to this saint.

Photo 2: Monastery of St. Thecla

From Ma’aloula, we turned East into the Syrian desert towards Palmyra. Soon we left behind the olive groves and villages, and in front of our eyes extended the vast, beautiful steppe region, seemingly limitless, that for centuries marked the shifting frontier between Rome and Persia. The only vegetation consists of little tufts of dry grass here and there—enough, however to sustain the sheep and camels of the nomad tribes. After several hours we

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stopped at the one and only modern oasis on the road to Palmyra, a restaurant called the Baghdad Cafe 66 after the 1988 movie of the same name. Here we rested, as travelers might have done ages ago, sitting down in the tent-like structure where a family of former Bedouins served a delicious lunch. In the late afternoon we reached the greatest oasis of the Syrian desert—and one of the most grandiose cities of antiquity—Palmyra. The oasis came into sight first: palm trees, olive groves, and lush gardens of fruit and vegetables, all surrounded by mud walls to keep out the roaming animals of the steppe. Then, all of a sudden, we found ourselves in front of the monumental gate to Zenobia’s city. Beyond the gate extend long, colonnaded streets, baths, theatre and agora, temples, remains of residential neighborhoods, Roman military camps, and Christian churches: an entire city indeed, vaster than one imagines and much more magnificent. We explored the ruins until after the sun had set behind the valley of the tombs beyond the western wall. When night fell upon the desert, the terrace of the Hotel Zenobia (built right in the middle of the archaeological site!) offered us refreshments and a stunning view of the temple of BaalShamin.

Photo 3: Palmyra, Monumental Gate

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Photo 4: Palmyra, Tomb Towers

Palmyrene history, culture, and religion are discussed in many publications and need not be dwelled on here, but perhaps a few words on the Christian remains are in order. Two churches have been identified. The first of these is located just north of the main East-West colonnade, or cardo, about half way between the tetrapylon and Diocletian’s camp. This church is of modest size, built in basilica style with an apse on the East side. Near the apse, there seem to have been wells, but it was unclear to us when they were constructed and what purpose they may have served.

Photo 5: Palmyra, Fragment of Church Building

Photo 6: Palmyra, Apse of Church

The second church is located a bit further to the northeast and much larger in size, perhaps indicating a later time of construction. This building likewise has basilica shape with the apse on the East side. The excavators dug a trial trench, and future archaeological research may bring to light further details of this (presumably Byzantine) edifice. There is a third building, just off the cardo to the north, that by some has been judged to be a Christian house of worship on account of its apse. However, the general layout of the

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building did not to our group appear to support this conjecture. But since large sections of Palmyra still lie hidden underneath the rubble, it is not impossible that future excavations might bring to light more traces of its early Christian community. The night was spent in a hotel near the oasis, and the morning light brought once again a surprising view: from the breakfast room on the hotel’s upper floor we had a magnificent prospect of the ancient ruins, especially the gigantic Temple of Bel, and of the modern town. An early morning stroll through the oasis provided us insight into the agricultural techniques of growing food in the steppe, as well as into one of the preferred pastimes of the Palmyrenes: a large soccer field is situated within the grove of palm trees. We started our day with a visit to several of the many dozens of ancient tombs. The wealthy Palmyrene families buried their dead either in tomb towers, a type of funerary monument unique to the Euphrates region, or in hypogaea (underground tombs), or in tomb temples. The less affluent, we may surmise, buried their deceased in unmarked graves that have not left any traces. In many of the tomb towers and hypogaea, stunningly beautiful reliefs of the deceased decorate the loculi, the spaces in which the buried were placed. Time allowed us to visit only two of these tombs. The tomb tower of Yambliqu, dated by an inscription to the year 83 AD, was originally five stories high and provided space for about 200 interments. Today the visitor can still climb up to the fourth floor; however, the extraordinary funerary reliefs that once adorned the tombs have been removed to museums in Palmyra and Damascus. Next we visited the Hypogaeum of the Three Brothers, constructed in the second century, which offered space for more than three hundred of the family’s deceased. Its interior is accessible through ancient stone doors and has the layout of an upside-down T. The section directly in front of the visitor is beautifully decorated with wall paintings, whereas the side chambers contain sarcophagi with marvelously carved family banquet scenes.

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Photo 8: Palmyra, Cella of Temple of Bel Photo 7: Palmyra, Tomb Tower of Yambliqu

We then returned to the western part of Palmyra and explored its largest and most imposing monument, the Temple of Bel, which in its current form was dedicated in 32 AD. The vast temple enclosure, the temenos, measures approximately 205 by 210 meters and is surrounded by a massive wall 11 m high. Inside this wall there is a single row of columns on the entrance side to the west, and a double row of columns on the other three sides. One can easily imagine how the entire Palmyrene population might have gathered here for rituals and sacrifices. Clearly visible still is the tunnel through which the sacrificial animals were led into the temenos, the benches where the populace sat and watched, the washing basin for the priest, the altar and its elaborate underground tunnel system, and the remains of a hall where the sacrificed animal was consumed by priests and special guests. In order to attend such a ceremonial meal, guests were required to have “invitation cards,” little clay tokens now on display in the museum. The enormous temple cella, where only the priests were permitted to enter, still dominates the site. Its interior and exterior is beautifully decorated with relief carvings. In the northern niche of the cella, the ceiling relief is surrounded by a zodiac circle, reminiscent of synagogue decorations in late antiquity. At some point in time, the cella was used by Christians as a sanctuary, for remains of their wall paintings are still noticeable. Later, the site became a mosque, and once again it is the stone walls that witness to this usage with their Arabic inscriptions. The Archeological Museum of Palmyra is not to be missed, for it displays many of the remarkable funerary reliefs, pagan altars,

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coins, and other finds from Palmyra’s past, including several mummies. Quite interesting are funerary representations of a woman holding a small child, anticipating the later Christian iconography of Mary and Jesus. The many Palmyrene inscriptions in the museum’s collection are neither translated nor transliterated in the exhibition halls, but those interested in epigraphy—or simply in learning the names of those immortalized in stone—may consult a small publication by M. Gawlikowski, which can be obtained in the shop in the theatre of Palmyra. Before our departure, we had time for one last stroll through this most magnificent of ruined cities, down the colonnaded streets, past the restored theatre and the tetrapylon, to the temple of Allath and the watch tower of Diocletian’s camp, whence one has an amazing view of the entire field of ruins, columns, and tumbled-down Palmyrene inscriptions. In the afternoon we set out into the desert once more, traveling eastwards towards the Euphrates. In the distance, there were the flocks and dark tents of the Bedouins. When a large herd of camels came into view, the bus stopped and we paused to observe these animals that we do not usually have occasion to encounter in their natural habitat. The camels moved ever closer to us, as their nomad owners were shepherding them across the busy road towards different pastures. We greeted the passing Bedouins, whose lives differ so fundamentally from ours, and they welcomed us with the kind hospitality of the desert, offering us to taste their camel milk: it was warm, creamy, and delicious.

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In the evening we reached Deir Ezzur, a busy modern industrial city on the Euphrates. There was not much ancient history to discover here, but an enjoyable stroll through the streets and shops gave a feeling for life in an oriental city. A museum near the hotel contains a memorial to the victims of the terrible Armenian genocide at Deir Ezzur in the early twentieth century. At dinner time, we gathered at a restaurant on the banks of the Euphrates and finally set eyes on “the rolling waters that are charged with the history of the ancient world.”1 Later we crossed over into Mesopotamia on a somewhat dilapidated foot bridge, the symbol of Deir Ezzur, gazing at the dark river beneath. Next morning we departed early for Dura Europos, approximately a ninety-minute bus ride to the south of Deir Ezzur. During the journey we had occasion to observe the quotidian life of the Syrian people: local residents farming their fields, the children in their blue uniforms going to school, business being done. The landscape became ever more desolate until suddenly we saw at the dusty horizon the ruined walls of one of early Christianity’s most famous sites, Dura Europos. The city, a Hellenistic foundation that served the Romans as frontier garrison town, sits atop the steep right bank of the Euphrates and is protected by natural gorges on the north and south sides. In the third century, attempting to strengthen the fortifications against attacking Sassanian troops, the inhabitants piled mud and debris against the city wall, but despite their efforts Dura fell to the troops of Shapur I in 256 and was not thereafter inhabited. When Ammianus Marcellinus accompanied Julian on his eastern campaign in 363, the location of this deserted town was still known.2 Yet in later ages, Dura’s location was forgotten until archaeologists began to excavate in the early 20th century and discovered, inter alia, a Christian church underneath the dirt that once had served to fortify the crumbling walls against the approaching enemy. We approached the city from the west, the only side that provides easy access, and entered through the Palmyra Gate. Even for those of us who had long been familiar from the literature with the city’s plan and major buildings, entering Dura came as a surprise. In front of us extended indeed the ruins of an entire ancient city, measuring at its widest points about 1.5 km in width and 1.2 km in length! Unlike Palmyra, Dura has no long G. Bell, Amurath to Amurath (London: Heinemann, 1911), 27. Ammianus Marcellinus, Res gestae 23.5.8, ed. W. Seyfarth, Ammiani Marcellini rerum gestarum libri qui supersunt, vol. 1 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1978), 303. 1 2

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colonnaded streets, for the city was built largely of mud-brick. What can be observed very well is the Hellenistic grid plan. Excavated buildings scattered throughout the entire town reveal remnants of civic and religious architecture: baths, agora, palaces, and religious buildings of many kinds, indicating the tolerance and religious diversity prevalent in this frontier city. We first visited the remains of the Christian church. The wall paintings of the baptistery—which survived the centuries because they were covered by the rubble piled up to support the city walls—are now in storage at the Yale University Museum, but with the help of the pictures we brought, the architecture came alive. We walked past Roman baths on our way to the site of the synagogue, which, like the Christian building, stood adjacent to the city wall and hence was largely preserved. The wall paintings of the synagogue are now on display in the museum in Damascus. Dura’s Jewish community must have been sizable and affluent, for their synagogue was quite large and beautifully decorated. We failed, unfortunately, to locate the site of the Mithraeum (whose wall paintings are also kept by the Yale University Museum but not currently on display), but we did visit some of the temples, another large Roman bath, the agora and the residential neighborhoods of ancient Dura. At the far end of town, the view opens up over the Euphrates, a mighty river here, and far beyond over the Mesopotamian plains. We climbed up into the New Citadel (dating from the 2nd century BC!) which fortified the city on the East side, and there we enjoyed the view over river and plains. A newly built museum near the citadel offers the visitor a survey of Dura’s history and monuments.

Photo 9: Dura, Agora

Photo 10: Dura, View of Euphrates from Citadel

The bus then took us further south along the Euphrates, to the ancient city of Mari (now quite near the Iraqi border). Mari, dating

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back to the third millennium BC, is a huge archaeological site. And despite almost a century of digging, only a small fraction of the area has been excavated. In Mari, numerous cuneiform tablets were discovered that contain invaluable information on ancient Near Eastern culture and history. The key site in Mari is the palace of Zimri-Lim, a mud-brick construction of several hundred rooms that served as the kingdom’s administrative center. Esteem for the archaeologist’s work immediately rose upon seeing Mari, for much expertise is required to distinguish an ancient mud-brick wall from the surrounding mud. The antiquity of the site becomes quite evident as one sees the entire, excavated palace being located deep beneath the ground level. We descended into its throne room, admired the temple sanctuary, noted the advanced water and sewage systems, and saw the “library” where the archive of 25,000 clay tablets was found. The man who lives with his family at the site showed us the area adjacent to the palace, where we found further traces of the water system and baths, and saw a newly excavated area which used to house the bakeries. The astonishing continuity between this most ancient civilization and the contemporary life of the Syrian people became apparent when our local guide informed us that the ovens from 2000 BC, which we saw excavated several meters below our feet, are essentially the same as his family still uses to bake the flat, Syrian bread!

Photo 11: Mari, Palace of Zimri-Lim

Photo 12: Mari

On the next day the bus crossed the Euphrates into Mesopotamia at Deir Ezzur. The road took us north through desert landscape to Raqqa—a city somewhat more isolated and less Westernized than Deir Ezzur—where we stopped to take a quick look at its monumental fortifications. A substantial part of Raqqa’s city walls is still standing; their construction in Abbasid times was modeled upon the circular fortification of Baghdad. From Raqqa, we continued through northern Mesopotamia and reached the

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Turkish border around noon time. Here a Turkish bus, driver, and guide awaited us, since the Syrian bus could not easily exit the country at one border station and re-enter at a different location. Unfortunately, an administrative problem suddenly arose: the recently rebuilt Turkish border station was at this time unable to issue visas to some of our party who were required to obtain them, and despite lengthy deliberations no solution was found other than to turn back. Much to the amusement of the truck drivers patiently waiting in long lines at the border, we hauled our luggage back to the Syrian frontier, boarded the Syrian bus, and embarked on a long and time-consuming detour to the next border station, far to the west. On the positive side, this diversion gave us occasion once more to cross the Euphrates and to pause for a while, sitting at the edge of its cool and clear waters, and to enjoy the view of the enormous river slowly winding its way between the gently sloped hills. We had now reached the northern part of the fertile crescent: the countryside here was much more lush, there were large olive groves, and the fields of almond trees were just beginning to bloom. As we passed through Aleppo on our way to the border crossing, dusk was already falling upon the land, but many more hours of driving lay before us. It was after midnight when we finally reached our destination: Edessa, known today as the Turkish city of Urfa. The original itinerary had called for a visit to Harran en route to Edessa, and in order not to bypass this renowned city entirely, some of us got up early to take a quick tour of the site. As the bus took us from Edessa to Harran (also known as Carrhae), we contemplated history. Crassus was defeated in the Harran plain in 54 B.C., a fact the Romans never forgot. And Caracalla, after wintering in Edessa prior to his Persian campaign, was assassinated as he traveled toward Harran to honor the moon-god Sin.3 While Harran’s pagan cults are ancient, the city also played from early on an important role in the Judeo-Christian tradition, for it is usually identified as the biblical town where Abraham dwelt. Owing to its place in the story of the biblical patriarchs, it became a favorite destination of religious tourism in late antiquity. In Islamic times Harran became associated with the Sabians, and it continued to be Cassius Dio, History 79, ed. E. Cary, Dio’s Roman History, vol. 9, LCL 177 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), 348; Historia Augusta, Vita Caracallae 6.6, ed. D. Magie, The Scriptores Historiae Augustae, vol. 2, LCL (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), 16–18; Herodian, History 4.13.3–5, ed. C. R. Whittaker, Herodian, vol. 1, LCL (London: Heinemann, 1969), 448–450. 3

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a vibrant urban center until the Mongol conquests. But despite some recent excavations, most of Harran’s rich and diverse history still lies hidden, buried beneath an enormous tell in the middle of the ancient city. Similarly concealed are the stories of many nearby towns and villages that lie beneath hundreds of mounds scattered across the Harran plain. The modern Harran is a fairly small settlement around and on top of the field of ruins that must have been the ancient city. Only a small area of this vast site has been excavated. The top layer of the tell reveals a residential area dating from medieval Islamic times. Somewhat further to the north are the ruins of a large building, apparently a mosque. A survey of ancient Harran conducted in the 1950s marks a church in the city’s northeastern section,4 but unaware of this publication and constrained by time, we did not venture into that part of town. Rather, our attention was drawn to the monumental palace at the southeastern wall. We explored its three stories of halls and chambers as well as its watchtower, being careful not to fall through the large holes that had been cut in the floor to open up the view to rooms below. Besides the ancient city and the palace, the third attraction Harran has to offer are its traditional bee-hive houses, fashioned from mud today in much the same way as they were built ages ago. Such dwellings can be seen throughout the region but are particularly plentiful here. This building style is not only inexpensive and quick; it is also apparently quite suitable for the hot climate, since the raised roof keeps the interior relatively cool in the scorching summer heat. Time did not permit further exploration of the Harran region and its archaeological treasures, since we were expected back in Urfa by mid-morning.

S. Lloyd, W. Brice und C. J. Gadd, "Harran," Anatolian Studies 1 (1951), 77–111. 4

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Photo 13: Harran, Ruins of Mosque

In antiquity, Edessa was called “the blessed city” on account of Jesus’ promise that it would forever remain unconquerable (Doctrina Addai), a title Edessa once again bears today: in 1983 it was granted the name change from Urfa to Sanliurfa (“glorious Urfa”) to honor it as a Muslim holy site. Here pilgrims from near and far venerate the cave in which Abraham is said to have been born, and legends pertaining to this patriarch abound. For instance, locals claim that Nimrud catapulted Abraham from the two columns on the citadel into a fire, which was miraculously changed into a pool of water just in time to have Abraham plunge in and be rescued. The fire’s coals, one is informed, were altered into fish. This legend is not new, however, for already more than a century ago Oswald Parry was told much the same story! And the fish that swarm in the pool of Edessa no doubt have been there for much longer still: they were judged to be very tasty by the fourth-century traveler Egeria. Sanliurfa is a devout Muslim city, and to the disappointment of the Christian pilgrim, hardly any traces now remain of Edessa’s long and illustrious past as a major center of Syriac Christianity. Some of the mosques incorporate columns that may originally have adorned Christian churches, but otherwise there is precious little evidence of the time of Ephrem or Jacob. The most spectacular place in the entire city no doubt was— and still is—the park-like region in the southwest, sheltered by the citadel mount and watered by a river and springs. Its unusual

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abundance of water made Edessa a highly desirable place to live. On the other hand, the rushing rivers brought danger as well. Even on a sunny spring morning one can easily envision how, if waters were rising, destruction might follow, as happened in 201 AD when a flood destroyed a Christian church according to the Chronicle of Edessa. Between the fish pool and another pond now stands Abraham’s mosque. In former times, this urban island was occupied by a church, the dedication of which an anonymous poet praised in the famous Soghita on the Church of Edessa: For truly it is a wonder that its smallness is like the wide world, Not in size but in type; like the sea, waters surround it. Behold! Its ceiling is stretched out like the sky, without columns (it is) arched and simple, It is decorated with golden mosaic, as the firmament (is) with shining stars.5

Photo 14: Edessa, Mosque and Pond

5 Soghita on the Church of Edessa 4–5. After a flood destroyed the Great Church of Edessa in 525, it was rebuilt, and it is this new construction that the poet praises. Ed. and tr. K. E. McVey, “The Domed Church as Microcosm: Literary Roots of an Architectural Symbol,” DOP 37 (1983), 91–121; tr. here quoted from p. 95 (slightly altered).

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In earlier centuries, this was most likely the location of King Abgar’s palace, destroyed in the disastrous flood of 201 AD, which also damaged a Christian church. Today, the pools and parks of this locale at the foot of the citadel offer a quiet, shady space for relaxation. We climbed the impressive citadel mount which towers high above the town. From here, one has a splendid view of the entire area and can easily make out the original bed of the Daisan river. The famous columns with an inscription dedicated to Queen Shalmat stand tall and mysterious, still keeping the secret of their original function. We also visited Edessa’s Archeological Museum in which artifacts from prehistoric through Islamic times are on display. The museum garden is particularly impressive, with its vast collection of funerary reliefs, pagan altars and stelae, inscriptions in Syriac and Greek, and a beautiful baptismal font from Harran. Of the celebrated mosaics, only three are displayed here—a hunting mosaic, a geometric mosaic, and a family scene—the latter two in a piteous, unrestored state. We left Edessa and turned west towards the Euphrates once again. The modern road crosses quite near the ancient town of Zeugma (Birek), now submerged by the waters of the Euphrates dammed up into a large lake. Prior to the completion of the Birecik dam, an international team of archaeologists undertook salvage excavations to rescue as much as possible of the ancient site. Their efforts were richly rewarded, for they discovered numerous amazing mosaics that once decorated the floors of Roman villas in this affluent town. These mosaics have been carefully restored and are now exhibited in the Gaziantep Museum. The mosaics often depict themes from mythology or literature and exhibit an astonishing craftsmanship; it has been suggested that Zeugma was the location of a school of mosaicists. One of the most famous mosaics from the collection, and the one that has come to symbolize Zeugma, is only a small fragment, showing in amazing detail the beautiful face of a person variably identified as a gypsy girl, Maenad, or Alexander the Great. In addition to this marvelous collection, the museum contains many relief sculptures and funerary monuments from the region, as well as artifacts from antiquity and medieval times. From Gaziantep we traveled southwards back into Syria and reached Aleppo late in the evening.

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Photo 15: Ganziantep, Mosaic

To the West of Aleppo lies one of eastern Christianity’s most famous and celebrated pilgrimage destinations, Qalat Siman, the enormous church built at the very site of the column of St. Simeon the Stylite. The stylite’s story is well known, and we reminded ourselves of it as we ascended the steep, ancient path towards the hill-top complex of buildings. An impressive propylaeum stands at the beginning of this via sacra, and another one marks the entrance to the actual pilgrimage site. As we climbed up, we noted the remains of many buildings, including another small church that once served to accommodate the visitors. In between the ruins the local people farmed their fields, and a donkey grazed peacefully in a beautiful house abandoned centuries ago. The morning was bright and warm, and after many days in the arid steppe regions, we rejoiced over the colorful spring flowers scattered over the hillsides.

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Photo 16: Church of St. Simeon

Photo 17: Detail of Column Capital

Our visit to the site of Qalat Siman took us first to the enormous octagonal baptistery and its adjacent church. The interior of both church and baptistery is spacious and beautifully designed. Steps lead into and out of the baptismal font, located on the east side of the octagonal baptistery. The font is well preserved; even a section of its mosaic floor is still intact. From the baptistery we proceeded towards the enormous Church of St. Simeon, a cruciform structure built around the central octagon that surrounds the remains of the stylite’s pillar. The intricate craftsmanship and enormous size of the church, built in only a few decades shortly after the saint’s death in the middle of the fifth century, are certainly impressive. The well-preserved structures of monastery, crypt, and chapels surrounding the church testify to the vibrancy of St. Simeon’s cult. Whereas the ancients came to admire, some modern visitors have been less enthusiastic about the stylite’s calling. Having one evening climbed upon the pillar’s base, Gertrude Bell pondered: There was no moon; the piers and arches stood in ruined and shadowy splendour.… I sat and thought how perverse a trick Fortune had played that night on the grim saint. She had given for a night his throne of bitter dreams to one whose dreams were rosy with a deep content that he would have been the first to condemn. So musing I caught the eye of a great star that had climbed up above the broken line of the arcade, and we agreed together that it was better to journey over earth and sky than to sit upon a column all your days.6

Not far from Qalat Siman stands the very well-preserved church of Mushabbak, now isolated and empty on a hilltop, with G. Bell, Syria: The Desert and the Sown (London: Heinemann, 1907, reprint New York: Arno Press, 1973), 276. 6

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no traces of a town nearby. The interior design is highly unusual: all the columns have capitals in different styles! This church once must have accommodated a significant Christian population, and the relief on the lintel of the west door, which shows trees and a small depiction of the stylite, hints that the building may have served as a way-station for pilgrims journeying to the famous site of Simeon.

Photo 18: Church of Mushabbak

After returning to Aleppo we visited its museum, which houses, together with the National Museum in Damascus, the majority of finds from ancient sites in Syria. We admired some of the cuneiform tablets from Mari and the celebrated statue of a water goddess, likewise found in Mari. Afterwards, there was opportunity to explore the old city and the suqs, and to glance at the imposing citadel. By chance we even happened upon a soap factory and were shown by the workers the production process of the famous Aleppo soap. Having completed this fascinating tour, we wandered through Aleppo’s Christian quarters and saw some of the modern churches.

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Photo 19: Soap Factory in Aleppo

To the west of Aleppo, for a stretch of several miles, the modern street runs alongside the ancient Roman road that connected Antioch with Aleppo and all the East. We alighted from the bus, and children immediately came to greet us, presenting us with freshly picked wild flowers. For a while we strolled on this historic thoroughfare—one of the largest extant segments of the Roman road system—following in the footsteps of Julian and his troops. The road once was significantly lower than the surface level of the land to ensure its stability, but soil erosion has resulted in it now sitting perhaps 30 cm above the ground. The bus then took us to the region of the so-called Dead Cities, a vast area of towns and villages that flourished between the second and sixth centuries on account of their olive production, but were later abandoned because of shifting politics and declining agriculture. These towns were not generally re-inhabited, nor was their building material reused, and so they stand today much as they did in antiquity, rewarding the visitor with an abundance of magnificent ruins. The many Christian sites here were surveyed and mapped in the early twentieth century by George Tchalenko, whose learned tomes still provide the most comprehensive treatment of their architecture. Above the ancient town of Baqirha still towers the temple of Zeus Bomos. The Thundering Zeus did justice to his name upon our arrival, for immediately a strong wind picked up and dark storm clouds began to gather. No sooner had we arrived in the town itself, than rain, hail, thunder and lightning descended upon

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us, making it entirely impossible to survey the ruins in detail. If it were not for some tumbled-down stones and walls, Baqirha could have been inhabited but recently, for streets and houses, olive presses and churches are well preserved. Our attention focused on a small church, perhaps once part of a monastic complex, whose large bema can be clearly discerned even under weeds and bushes. Greek inscriptions and pretty carvings of many kinds adorn the stone lintels of this building complex. A baptistery of square floor plan stands virtually intact adjacent to the church, and at the far end of town there is another, larger basilica church.

Photo 20: Baqirha, Baptistery

Photo 21: Baqirha, Detail of Carving

The weather was slightly more agreeable in Qirqbize, the site of an early fourth-century house church. Christians here made a church from the triclinium of an ancient villa, that in all else resembles the neighboring residences, by modifying the walls, adding a bema, and constructing a side chamber to serve as baptistery. Reliefs and carved stones are heaped up in the ancient sanctuary, and an oil reliquary lies toppled over on its side; however, with some imagination one can envision the community at prayer, their chants, liturgies, and homilies. Our last stop in the Dead Cities was the famous and magnificent basilica of Qalb Lozeh, built in the middle of the fifth century and today situated in a small Druze village. We admired the church’s delightful and spacious architecture, its finely carved ornamentations, and its sizeable bema that takes up virtually the entire width of the central aisle. The congregation, one can surmise, must have filled up the side aisles. The central apse of Qalb Lozeh has three windows on the east side and protrudes beyond the lines of the main church building, as is the case with many of these Syriac churches. Its exterior is beautifully decorated with columns, capitals, and finely crafted moldings. Even in the pouring rain this jewel of churches shines brightly.

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Photo 22: Qalb Lozeh, Apse

Photo 23: Qalb Lozeh, Exterior of Apse

As our journey continued towards the coastal city of Ugarit, we traveled far back in time. The mighty city-state of Ugarit flourished in the middle of the second millennium B.C., but the site had been inhabited for millennia prior. Ugarit traded with Cyprus, Egypt, and Mesopotamia. Like Mari, Ugarit was identified only in the twentieth century; here, too, hundreds of cuneiform tablets have been discovered, revolutionizing the study of Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical History. In Ugarit, a cuneiform alphabet of 30 characters was invented, and among the many tablets found was a very small one that just lists these letters. Ugarit was constructed from stone, and hence the city’s residential, administrative, and religious architecture is extremely well preserved. From the palace complex with its archives, large halls, and even a pool for recreation, we proceeded into the residential quarters. The layout of Ugarit is easily discernible, and so we walked the ancient streets and visited houses built thousands of years ago. Most fascinating were the burial chambers: in Ugarit, unlike in Roman towns, the dead were not laid to rest outside the city walls but in spacious subterranean chambers in the residential quarters, covered up with large stone slabs. We descended from what might have been the living room of a well-off Ugaritic family into the partially uncovered, pitch-dark underground burial chamber where their deceased had rested. Good thing we had a flashlight ready! The space beneath is very well constructed and in an excellent state of preservation. Niches in

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the walls served to supply the dead with what they might need in the afterworld. After exploring several of the numerous tomb chambers, we proceeded to the temple district where the ruins of a Temple of Baal and a Temple of Dagan await the visitor. Mount Casius, in Ugaritic myth considered the residence of Baal, rises magnificently in the distance. Mount Casius, “a hill clothed in woods from which one can get one’s first sight of the sun at the second cock-crow,” was still considered a sacred place in Roman times, for Hadrian ascended it at night to offer sacrifice, as did Julian when he passed by.7

Photo 24: Ugarit, Mt. Casius

Photo 25: Ugarit, Tomb

From Ugarit we traveled inland across a steep mountain range, bypassing crusader castles, and in the early afternoon reached Apamea in the fertile and beautiful Orontes valley. Apamea was one of Seleucus’ four major foundations (alongside Antioch, Laodicaea, and Seleucia) and was named after his wife Apamea. It fell to the Romans after Pompey’s conquest in 64 B.C. Apamea was home to influential philosophers: Numenius was born here, and in the third century Iamblichus set up his Neoplatonist school. Christianity established itself probably in the fourth century, and 7 Hadrian’s sacrifice is recorded in Historia Augusta, Vita Hadriani 14.3, ed. Magie, vol. 1, 44. Julian’s visit is mentioned by Ammianus Marcellinus, Res gestae 22.14.4, ed. Seyfarth, vol. 1, 281. The description is quoted from Ammianus 22.14, tr. W. Hamilton, Ammianus Marcellinus, The Later Roman Empire (A.D. 354–378) (London: Penguin, 1986), 250.

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important architectural and artistic remains of the Christian presence can still be seen. Before walking down the marvelous colonnaded streets of Apamea, we stopped at the Archaeological Museum, located in the barrel-vaulted halls of an old khan. The exhibition space is drafty and dimly lit, and little effort has been made to restore or adequately to house the marvelous mosaics found in Apamea and its vicinity. Beautifully crafted, these mosaics show animal and hunting scenes, mythological figures, and Socrates with his philosopher-friends, but there are also mosaics with dedicatory inscriptions that presumably once adorned the floors of churches, geometric patterns with crosses, and an astonishing depiction of Adam, seated on a throne like Christus pantocrator, surrounded by the animals. Some of the mosaics found at Apamea are too large to be exhibited in the building and must await better times, stored in fragments in one of the museum’s wings. Apamea is dominated by the long, colonnaded cardo that extends for several kilometers from east to west; adjacent to it are the ruins of a bath, the agora, temples, shops, and other buildings. Several churches are marked on our plan, but as it was already late in the afternoon, we could only visit the remains of the city’s cathedral. In Apamea, as often on our tour, we seemed to be the only visitors at the site. Local children came to greet us and asked to have their pictures taken. Other youngsters were occupied with shepherding their unruly flock through the ruins, until a guard raced up on his motorcycle and yelled at them, presumably telling them to get lost. We stayed in this captivating Roman city until the shadows of the tall columns fell long across the ancient road, and a cool evening wind blew.

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Photo 26: Apamea

Next morning, we saw Hama, famous for its wooden water wheels that creak and crank as they slowly lift up the water of the Orontes into aqueducts to provide the city with this precious resource. As we strolled through the alleyways, we peered into a shop where men were at work repairing the wooden planks of a water wheel. This technology is very ancient, as is vividly illustrated by a mosaic depiction from Roman times of one such wheel, on display in the museum. The museum of Hama houses many treasures from antiquity, including an astonishing large mosaic of seven women playing seven different instruments, a Mithraic wall painting, and a basalt relief depicting a stylite climbing up his column—presumably Simeon or one of his many imitators.

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Photo 27: Hama, Water Wheel

The bus then took us into the desert once more to visit Deir Mar Mousa, a monastery precariously perched on a hilltop overlooking the desert plain and hills. The monastery is named after Mar Mousa al-Habashi, who is said to have dwelled in this region around the year 500. As we ascended the steep path to the monastery, we noticed numerous caves and caverns cut into the sides of the gorge. These perhaps indicate the existence of an ancient lavra; today they still serve the men and women of the monastic community as places of withdrawal for meditation and prayer. The monastery of Mar Mousa flourished in medieval times, providing lodging to pilgrims. The contemporary community, recently re-founded under the leadership of the Jesuit priest Paolo dall’Oglio, still offers welcome to pilgrims and travelers. Moreover, the members of Deir Mar Mousa seek to build spiritual bridges to the neighboring communities.

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Photo 28: Deir Mar Mousa

As we arrived at Deir Mar Mousa on this splendid Sunday, many guests had already found their way hither to celebrate a baptism during the morning liturgy. The terrace was full of joyful people: the French family and friends of the newly baptized, the women and men of the community, and visitors from near and far. We were invited for a meal, and afterwards there was occasion to see the monastic library, consisting of several rooms seemingly cut into the rock, linked by tunnel-like passages. We then met with Fr. Paolo while seated in the carpeted (and chair-less) church, listening to his story and gazing at the renowned wall paintings of Deir Mar Mousa. Many of these have been restored to their original vivid colors; they depict various saints (including Mar Mousa, Simeon the Stylite, and saints on horseback), the Annunciation, and the Last Judgment. As daylight faded, we departed from the solitary monastery and journeyed towards Syria’s bustling capital. Damascus is Syria’s largest and most cosmopolitan city, and for the next two days we explored its ancient bazaars, medieval buildings, and antique treasures. We began our tour in the National Museum, which houses the most important finds from throughout Syria, illustrating the history of the region from prehistoric through medieval Islamic times. Walking through the exhibition halls, we re-lived the various stages of our journey, encountering artifacts from many of the sites we had visited. Most impressive are those rooms of the museum which reconstruct entire ancient chambers. The Palmyrene hypogaeum of Yarhai (dating from 108 AD) is

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completely rebuilt here, with its dozens of sculpture portraits of the deceased men and women, and a beautifully decorated sarcophagus. Another room reconstructs the Dura Europos synagogue; its well-preserved wall paintings instantly transport the visitor back to the ancient world. The National Museum, like almost every museum we saw, contains an amazing collection of Roman mosaics. Another wing of the museum is dedicated to artifacts from Ugarit, including the small, ancient Ugaritic alphabet tablet. The extensive museum gardens display statues and mosaics, tomb stones and amphorae, pagan altars and Christian oil reliquaries.

Photo 29: Damascus, National Museum

Photo 30: Damascus, National Museum

On the next day, we traced Damascus’ earliest Christian history. At the south-east city wall is a church dedicated to St. Paul’s vision on his road to Damascus (though the gate adjacent to the church is unlikely to have been the one through which Paul entered). A modern sculpture in the church yard commemorates the biblical event. The Church of Ananias, a windowless subterranean chapel in the Christian quarter, commemorates Ananias’ meeting with Paul (Acts 9:10–19) and is a large tourist

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attraction. The Straight Street mentioned in Acts 9:11 is easily recognizable even today, for indeed it is the only street running straight through the old city of Damascus! Damascus’ long Christian history comes alive with a visit to the extensive Christian part of town and its multitude of churches belonging to various Orthodox, Oriental, and Western traditions. And although the historical traces of John of Damascus can not be recovered, the memory of this great patristic writer is kept alive by both a church and a street named after him. Our stay in Damascus also included an opportunity to see the recently founded Danish Institute, an independent cultural institution dedicated to supporting research and the arts. The Institute is located in a beautifully restored medieval house. The façade of the building, as is often the case, is modest and somewhat bland, but the interior offers an inviting courtyard with fountain, exquisite stone inlay decorations, and several meeting rooms with fine medieval Islamic wood paneling. The director informed us about the Institute’s work. He also imparted some details concerning the restoration of the building, during which the upper section of a Roman arch was discovered in a wall. Medieval buildings in Damascus, we were reminded, were constructed upon many previous layers.

Photo 31: Damascus, Courtyard of Danish Institute

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No visit to Syria’s capital is complete without a tour of the eighth-century Ummayad mosque, built upon a site where once stood a monumental Temple of Jupiter, of which there are not insignificant remains. Prior to the construction of the mosque, this area was occupied by a church dedicated to St. John, but its only remnant is a Greek inscription from the Septuagint over the south portal. In the mosque’s spacious courtyard, children were at play and adults sat together and talked. Inside the mosque, the Muslim faithful venerate a shrine said to contain the head of John the Baptist. The Ummayad mosque is situated in the heart of the old city, and thus we concluded our visit to Syria by strolling once more through the suqs, this quintessential element of Near Eastern urban life. Unusual scents waft through the alleys, people bargain and negotiate, and spices and food unknown to the westerner attract one’s curiosity. In a highly practical fashion, the suqs are organized by merchandise. There is one area where traders offer the beautiful damask fabric named after this city, another one with ordinary household goods, and even a street for horses’ bridles. Interspersed with the shops there are old khans and Muslim palaces. And after a stop for one more cup of Syrian tea, it was time to depart. Syria is a country with a vastly diverse, beautiful countryside and an almost unimaginably long history. It has been inhabited since the dawn of human civilization, and has seen empires come and go. Cities once bustling with activity have disappeared under dust and dirt, and their partial excavations allow us glimpses into their former magnificence. Other towns, however, have been settled continuously for millennia, and layer has been built upon layer. What makes this region unique is that it allows a visitor to view a cross section of human history: prehistoric settlements, ancient Near Eastern cities, Roman houses and temples, early Christian churches, Islamic architecture, crusader castles, and modern edifices. And what made this trip a truly enjoyable experience was the companionship of our international group and the genuine welcome the Syrian people extended to us wherever we went.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I wish to thank Samuel and Inga-Lill Rubenson (www.karavanen.se) for leading us on a fascinating journey. Thanks are also due to Hugo Lundhaug (University of Oslo) for permission to use his photographs (photos number 2, 9, 20, 29).

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SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY Al As'ad, K. and M. Gawlikoswi. The Inscriptions in the Museum of Palmyra: A Catalogue. Warsaw: Kontrast, 1997. Ammianus Marcellinus. (tr.) W. Hamilton. Ammianus Marcellinus, The Later Roman Empire (A.D. 354–378). London: Penguin, 1986. Bell, G. W. Amurath to Amurath. London: Heinemann, 1911. Bell, G. W. Syria: The Desert and the Sown. London: Heinemann, 1919. Burns, R. Monuments of Syria: An Historical Guide. New York: New York University Press, 1992. Hadjar, A. Die Kirche des St. Simeon Stylites und weitere archäologische Fundstätten in den Bergen von Simeon und Halaqa. Tr. by A. Hadjar. Damascus: Sidawi, 2002. Lloyd, S., W. Brice and C. J. Gadd. “Harran.” Anatolian Studies 1 (1951), 77–111. Parry, O. H. Six Months in a Syrian Monastery. London: Cox, 1895. Reprint Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2001. Sachau, E. Reise in Syrien und Mesopotamien. Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1883. Scheck, F. R. and J. Odenthal. Syrien: Hochkulturen zwischen Mittelmeer und Arabischer Wüste. 2nd edition. Köln: DuMont, 2001. Schenke, G. “Frühe palmyrenische Grabreliefs: Individuelle und kulturelle Identität durch Selbstdarstellung im Sepulchralbereich.” In: Kulturkonflikte im Vorderen Orient an der Wende vom Hellenismus zur römischen Kaiserzeit, ed. K. S. Freyberger, A. Henning and H. v. Hesberg. Rahden/Westf.: Marie Leidorf, 2003, 109–116. Segal, J. B. Edessa ‘The Blessed City’. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970. Reprint Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2001.

Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies, Vol. 12.1, 167-171 © 2009 by Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute and Gorgias Press

BRIEF ARTICLE

RECENT BOOKS ON SYRIAC TOPICS PART 12 SEBASTIAN P. BROCK UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD ORIENTAL INSTITUTE PUSEY LANE, OXFORD OX1 2LE, GB The present listing continues on from previous listings in the first number of Hugoye for each of the years 1998-2008. Once again it should be noted that reprints are not included (for a number of important ones, see http://www.gorgiaspress.com). 2006 A. Muraviev, Mar Afrem Nisibinskii (Prp. Efrem Sirin). Iulianovskii tsykl (Moscow: Smaragdos Philokalias). [Text and tr.]

2007 R. Y. Akhras, Egrotho d- ‘al haymonutho I-II, Syome ruḥonoye I, d-Mor Philuksinos d-Mabbug (Ma‘arret Saidnaya: Monastery of St Ephrem). M. Casadei, Didascalia di Addai. Introduzione, traduzione e note (Testi dei padri della Chiesa 87; Magnano: Communità di Bose). J. C. Haelewyck, Sancti Gregorii Nazianzeni Versio Syriaca IV, Orationes XXVIII, XXIX, XXX, XXXI (Corpus Christianorum, Series Graeca 65; Corpus Nazianzenum 23 (Turnhout: Brepols/ Leuven: University Press). L. Hage, Les mélodies-types du chant syriaque (Bibliothèque de l’Université Saint-Esprit de Kaslik 50).

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R. D. Miller (ed.), Syriac and Antiochian Exegesis and Biblical Theology for the Third Millennium (Piscataway NJ: Gorgias). Mar Theophilus George Saliba, Way of Teaching Syriac/Purso rishoyo da-swodo suryoyo (2nd edn, Mount Lebanon). A. Sauma (ed. J. Shabo), Mar Ephrem’s Commentary on Genesis. A Critical Edition with Arabic Translation, Introduction and Notes [Syriac and Arabic] (Stockholm/Aleppo). E. Vergani and S. Chialà (eds), La tradizione cristiana Siro-occidentale (V-VII secolo) (Milan: Centro Ambrosiano). R. J. Wilkinson, Orientalism, Aramaic and Kabbalah in the Catholic Reformation. The First Printing of the Syriac New Testament (Studies in the History of Christian Traditions 137; Leiden: Brill). A. Zeitoune, Music Pearls of Beth Nahrin. An Assyrian/Syriac Discography (Augsburg: Assyrische Demokratische Organisation).

2008 L. Ambjörn, The Life of Severus by Zachariah of Mytilene (Texts from Christian Late Antiquity 9; Piscataway NJ: Gorgias). R. Aydin, Ktobo qadisho meṭul ṭloye (Glane: Bar Hebraeus Verlag/Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press). Ignatius Afrem Barsaum (ed. Ignatius Zakka I d-Bet ‘Iwas), Sriṭotho d-Ṭur ‘Abdin/Makhtutat Ṭur ‘Abdin (Ma‘arret Saidnaya: Mar Ephrem Monastery). Ignatius Afrem Barsaum (ed. Ignatius Zakka I d-Bet ‘Iwas), Sriṭotho dDayro d-Kurkmo (Ma‘arret Saidnaya: Mar Ephrem Monastery). A. H. Becker, Sources for the Study of the School of Nisibis (Translated Texts for Historians 50; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press). P. G. Borbone (tr. E. Alexandre), Un ambassadeur du Khan Argun en Occident. Histoire de Mar Yahballaha III et de Rabban Sauma (1281-1317) (Paris: L’Harmattan). [Updated tr. of Italian edition of 2000] F. Briquel Chatonnet, A. Desreumaux, J. Thekeparampil, Receuil des inscriptions syriaques, I, Kérala (Paris: de Boccard). F. Briquel Chatonnet, Ph. Le Moigne (eds), L’Ancien Testament en syriaque (Études syriaques 5; Paris: Geuthner). S. P. Brock (tr. M. Campatelli), “Una fontana inesauribile”. La Bibbia nella tradizione siriaca (Rome: Lipa). S. P. Brock, Studies in Syriac Spirituality (2nd expanded edn, Bangalore: Centre for Eastern and Indian Christian Studies). S. P. Brock, The Holy Spirit in the Syrian Baptismal Tradition (Revised edn, Piscataway NJ: Gorgias). S. P. Brock (tr. A. Parker and Mor Polycarpus A. Aydin), De wijsheid van Sint Isaak van Ninevé (Partuté: Schatten van de Syrische Vaders, 1; Glane: Barhebraeus Verlag/Piscataway NJ: Gorgias). [Bilingual, Dutch-Syriac]. A. Chahwan (ed.), Mélanges offerts au Prof. Louis Hage (Université SaintEsprit de Kaslik, Faculté de Musique, Études 9; Kaslik: Université Saint Esprit de Kaslik).

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I. Carbajosa (tr. P. Stevenson), The Character of the Syriac Version of Psalms. A Study of Psalms 90-150 in the Peshitta (Monographs of the Peshitta Institute Leiden, 17; Leiden: Brill). Sh. Cherian (ed.), Bringing Light to the World. Syriac Tradition Re-Visited. Essays in honour of the Very Rev. Dr Adai Jacob Corepiscopa (Tiruvalla: Christava Sahitya Samithy & M.S.O.T. Seminary, Udayagiri). C. Ciancaglini, Iranian Loanwords in Syriac (Beiträge zur Iranistik 28; Wiesbaden: Reichert). B. E. Colless, The Wisdom of the Pearlers. An Anthology of Syriac Christian Mysticism (Cistercian Studies Series 216; Kalamazoo). F. del Rio Sánchez, Manuscrits syriaques conservés dans la Bibliothèque des Maronites d’Alep (Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press). F. del Rio Sánchez, Catalogue des manuscrits de la fondation Georges et Mathilde Salem (Alep, Syrie) (Sprachen und Kulturen des Christlichen Orients 16; Wiesbaden: Reichert). E. Fiori (tr.), Sergio di Resh‘ayna, Trattato sulla vita spirituale (Testi dei Padri della Chiesa 93; Magnano: Monastero di Bose). L. Greisiger, C. Rammelt, and J. Tubach (eds), Edessa in hellenistischrömischer Zeit. Religion, Kultur und Politik zwischen Ost und West (Beiruter Texte und Studien 116; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner). J. Guirau and A-G. Hamman, Odes de Salomon (Les Pères dans la Foi 97; Paris). H. Gzella and M.L. Folmer, Aramaic in its Historical and Linguistic Setting (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz). [Several contributions on Syriac]. A. Heinz, Licht aus dem Osten. Die Eucharistiefeier der Thomas-Christen, der Assyrer und der Chaldäer mit der Anaphora von Addai und Mari (Sophia 35; Trier: Paulinus). C. B. Horn and R. R. Phenix, John Rufus: The Lives of Peter the Iberian, Theodosius of Jerusalem, and the Monk Romanos (Writings from the Greco-Roman World 24; Atlanta: SBL). J. Isaac, Le Sacrement de Pénitence dans la liturgie chaldéo-assyrienne. Analyse liturgique [in Arabic] (Baghdad: Nagm al-Mashriq). [[email protected]] C. Jullien, Controverses des chrétiens dans l’Iran Sassanide (Chrétiens en terre d’Iran, II) (Studia Iranica Cahier 36; Paris). F. Jullien, Le monachisme en Perse. La réforme d’Abraham le Grand, père des moines de l’Orient (CSCO 622, Subs. 121; Leuven: Peeters). S. A. Kaufman, Jacob of Sarug’s Homily on the Judgement of Solomon (The Metrical Homilies of Mar Jacob of Sarug 4; Texts from Christian Late Antiquity 17; Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press). G. Khan, The Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Barwar, I-III (Handbook of Oriental Studies: 1, The Middle East, 96; Leiden: Brill). G. Khan (ed.) Neo-Aramaic Dialect Studies (Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press). D. King, The Syriac Versions of the Writings of Cyril of Alexandria. A Study in Translation Technique (CSCO 626, Subs. 123; Leuven: Peeters). G. Kiraz (ed.), Malphono w-Rabo d-Malphone. Studies in Honor of Sebastian P. Brock (Gorgias Eastern Christian Studies 3; Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press).

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T. Kollamparambil, Jacob of Sarug’s Homily on Epiphany (The Metrical Homilies of Mar Jacob of Sarug 2; Texts from Christian Late Antiquity 4; Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press). T. Kollamparambil, Jacob of Sarug’s Homily on Palm Sunday (The Metrical Homilies of Mar Jacob of Sarug 3; Texts from Christian Late Antiquity 5; Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press). T. Kollamparambil, Jacob of Sarug’s Homily on the Resurrection (The Metrical Homilies of Mar Jacob of Sarug 5; Texts from Christian Late Antiquity 14; Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press). T. Kollamparambil, Jacob of Sarug’s Homily on the Transfiguration of our Lord (The Metrical Homilies of Mar Jacob of Sarug 8; Texts from Christian Late Antiquity 13; Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press). C. Lange, Ephraem der Syrer. Kommentar zum Diatessaron (Fontes Christiani 54/1-2; Turnhout: Brepols). V. Menze, Justinian and the Making of the Syrian Orthodox Church (Oxford: Oxford University Press). K. Moolayil (ed.), Syriac Orthodox Church Trilingual Eucharist Service Book (Cheeranchira, Changanacherry: Mar Adai Study Centre). [Syriac, English, Malayalam]. M. Moosa, The Crusades. Conflict between Christendom and Islam (Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press). [Much use of Syriac sources] A. Muraviev, Mar Iskhak s gori Matut (St Petersburg: Smaragdos Philokalias). [Text and tr. of Part I, Hom. 1]. A. O’Mahony (ed.), Christianity in the Middle East. Studies in Modern History, Theology and Politics (London: Melisende). [Several chapters of Syriac interest]. R. R. Phenix, The Sermons on Joseph of Balai of Qenneshrin. Rhetoric and Interpretation in fifth-century Literature (Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum 50; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck). Philothée du Sinaï, Nouveaux Manuscrits Syriaques du Sinaï (Athens: Fondation du Mont Sinaï). I. Rammelt, Ibas von Edessa. Rekonstruktion einer Biographie und dogmatischen Position zwischen den Fronten (Arbeiten zur Kirchengeschichte 106; Berlin: de Gruyter). A. M. Schilling, Die Anbetung der Magier und die Taufe der Sasaniden. Zur Geistesgeschichte des iranischen Christentums in der Spätantike (CSCO 621, Subs. 120; Leuven: Peeters). C. Shepardson, Anti-Judaism and Christian Orthodoxy. Ephrem’s Hymns in Fourth-Century Syria (Patristic Monograph Series 20; Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press). Syrian Orthodox Patriarchate of Antioch (ed. Mor Severios Hazail Soumi), Constitution de l’Église Syriaque Orthodoxe d’Antioche [French, English, Syriac, Arabic]. B. ter Haar Romeny (ed.), Jacob of Edessa and the Syriac Culture of his Day (Monographs of the Peshitta Institute Leiden, 18; Leiden: Brill). H. Teule, Les Assyro-Chaldéens. Chrétiens d’Irak, d’Iran et de Turquie (Fils d’Abraham; Turnhout: Brepols).

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Ignatius Yacoub III (tr. M. Moosa), History of the Monastery of Saint Matthew in Mosul (Piscataway NJ: Gorgias Press).

BOOK REVIEWS Pauline Allen, Majella Franzmann, Rick Strelan, “I Sowed Fruits into Hearts” (Odes Sol. 17:13): Festschrift for Professor Michael Lattke (Early Christian Studies 12; Strathfields, NSW: St. Pauls Publications, 2007) KRISTIAN S. HEAL BRIGHAM YOUNG UNIVERSITY PROVO, UT, 84602, USA

Professor Michael Lattke is well known to students of the early Syriac tradition for his work on the Odes of Solomon, principally contained in his four volume study (Die Oden Salomos in ihren Bedeutung für Neues Testament und Gnosis, 1979–98). His substantial contribution to this early and enigmatic work will surely be foundational to future studies, as will the contributions of his pupil, Dr. Majella Franzmann. It is fitting therefore that we bring notice of the Festschrift honoring Professor Lattke’s sixty-fifth birthday to the attention of the readers of Hugoye. The Festschrift itself largely honors Lattke’s labors in other parts of the academic vineyard, however, two of the contributions deserve our particular attention. For the remainder of the Festschrift it is sufficient to simply list the titles and contributors, which I will do below. Sebastian Brock’s contribution (p. 13–30) offers a translation of Jacob of Serugh’s memra on the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus. The basis of the translation is the copy of the memra found in Vatican Syriac 115, which was first edited by Guidi and then reproduced in the sixth volume of the Gorgias Press reprint of the Bedjan edition of Jacob’s works. In the footnotes to the translation Brock notes the major variants in the copy of the memra found in Vatican Syriac 217, of which there are not a few. The translation is prefaced by a review of the early Syriac texts concerning the Seven Sleepers and a useful comparison between Jacob’s memra and two of these sources. As with so many of Brock’s articles, this brief piece provides a firm basis for a more substantial study. James Charlesworth continues his own contributions to the study of the Odes of Solomon with a paper (p. 31–43) arguing for the influence of the Parables of Enoch (1 Enoch 37–71) upon the Odes of Solomon. Recognizing the inherent problems in positing a relationship between two ancient texts (34–35), Charlesworth nevertheless proceeds to argue that the naming of the Son of Man 173

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in Odes 36:3 has a striking relationship with the Son of Man scene in 1 Enoch 48:1ff. The argument is supported by observing additional possible points of contact between the two texts. The case is carefully built up and the discussion nuanced, but one is left with the nagging feeling that all one can hope to do in these cases is pile suggestion on supposition until it reaches the height of a genuine claim. This is simply to acknowledge the difficulty of the task, rather than undermine the value of Charlesworth’s contribution. The table of contents is as follows: xi xv 1 13 31 45 67 87 107 117 137 157 177 189 203

A Tribute to Michael Lattke Michael Lattke: Bibliography of Published Works (1975– 2004) Pauline Allen, Full of Grace or a Credal Commodity? John 2:1–11 and Augistine’s View of Mary Sebastian Brock, Jacob of Serugh’s Poem on the Sleepers of Ephesus James H. Charlesworth, The Naming of the Son of Man, the Light, and the Son of God: How the Parables of Enoch May Have Influenced the Odes of Solomon Johan Ferreira, Seeking for Righteousness according to the Gospel of Matthew Majella Franzmann, Manichaean Views of Women: A Study of the Teaching and Perspectives on Women from the Kephalaia of the Teacher and the Manichaean Psalm Book. Stephen Haar, “Waterless Springs” and “Driven Mists”: Language and Argument in 2 Peter 2:17. Max Küchler, “Niemand verändert Deinen heiligen Ort…”. Zum antikjüdischen Hintergrund der erste Stanza von Od Sal 4. William Loader, Jubilees and Sexuality. David Luckensmeyer, Βασιλεία in First Thessalonians (2:12) Takashi Onuki, Das Drei-Schichten-Prinzip im “Tractatus Tripartitus” Kurt Randolph, Gemeinsame Sachverhalte in Gnosis und Neuplatonismus Rick Strelan, Midday and Midnight in the Acts of the Apostles. Anointing/Washing Feet: John 12:1–8 and Its Intertexts within a Socio-Rhetorical Reading.

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The Wisdom of the Pearlers: An Anthology of Syriac Christian Mysticism, translated, with an Introduction, by Brian E. Colless (Cistercian Studies 216; Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 2008) xvii + 240 pp; $34.95 ROBERT A. KITCHEN KNOX-METROPOLITAN UNITED CHURCH REGINA, SASKATCHEWAN

Brian Colless’ anthology of Syriac mystical writers is an intriguing and idiosyncratic contribution to the resources available for the study and appreciation of Syriac literature. This observation is not intended to be negative; simply that in the original sense of the word, Colless presents the Syriac tradition and heritage in his own way. The amount of information he provides is remarkable for a relatively slim volume, although in the organization of the materials in a variety of formats, it does take some time for the reader to be able to coordinate and assimilate what is presented. Appropriately for a student of the Christian East, Colless entitles the initial section “Orientation,” in which he reviews modern scholarship, along with journaling his own involvement and passion in the field since the mid-1960’s. The description of his visit to St. Catherine’s Monastery on Sinai notably marks for him a euphoric peak experience. Not surprisingly, therefore, the content of this book has an autobiographical agenda, for the authors and books Colless includes are largely those that have captured his imagination from his student years on. As sometimes is the case with studies of mystical writers, Colless does not address directly the definition of mysticism or how mysticism has functioned inside or outside of the particular faith traditions, though he acknowledges that ascetical discipline and spirituality constitute important manifestations of the mystical spirit. The unifying theme apparent from the title is that the various authors are “pearlers,” those who dive for the prized pearl (margānītā), the pearl of great price of the Gospel, a persistent image in Syriac literature. The second section, “The Mystic Pearlers,” is an introduction to the authors and works included in the anthology, along with a number of non-Syriac authors deemed critical for the development of Eastern thought. The desert ascetics, Evagrios, Makarios, Dionysios are appropriately included and summarized, but since these authors do not have a reading in the anthology some incongruity develops between the purpose of this

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introductory section and the corresponding entries in the anthology. At first glance the structure implies a short overview of each reading in the introduction. However, Colless seems more intent to provide a sweeping overview of the Syriac mystical tradition, including its Greek influences and antecedents, than to offer a precise description of the anthology’s readings. The introductions are uneven in length, some quite brief, others quite extended. Colless’ system of transliteration of the names of authors and works follows an Eastern/Greek pattern (Evagrios Pontikos, Makarios, Esaias of Sketis, Dionysios, Adelphios) which appears idiosyncratic to those familiar with Syriac scholarship. The Book of Degrees (i.e. Book of Steps), Joseph the Visionary (Hazzāyā) and John the Venerable (Sabā, of Dalyāthā) catch one off guard at first, but one should remember that Cistercian Publications’ series is targeted for a general audience interested in Eastern spirituality, an audience that knows neither the old nor the new names. Colless provides excellent appendices: “Textual Sources” with precise references to the original editions behind the readings in the anthology; an annotated Reference Bibliography to the secondary literature; Scriptural references, a Glossary and Index of technical terms and names. Colless emphasizes the wandering and itinerancy of Syriac monks in contrast to the stability of the Egyptian monastic tradition. Escorting the reader through the Egyptian Tale of Sinuhe, the Epic of Gilgamesh, and the legend of Mar Awgin, he lands in the Acts of Judas Thomas, in which is imbedded the “Song of the Pearl,” the poem that provides his organizing motif for the anthology. The Song of the Pearl is the first text in his anthology and earns his longest analysis. Rejecting the interpretation of the poem as a Gnostic redeemer myth, Colless perceives it as a parable or allegory of the Christian’s pilgrimage through life. While indicating the various scriptural, doctrinal and personal allusions in the poem, Colless recognizes that his reading is only one of many possible readings. Indeed, his orthodox Christian interpretations are quite complex and do not always follow sequentially the text, rendering the flow of his argument difficult at times to follow amid a dazzling array and range of images and metaphors. At times, he connects the images in the Song to canonical New Testament and Syriac ascetical symbols with a little too much effort that is not always convincing. He sees the poem structured “analogous to the classical mystical framework of the three stages” of purgation, illumination and unification. It is not surprising, therefore, that

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Colless understands the Song of the Pearl on a mystical level, similar in details to the teachings of later Syriac mystical writers. As he proceeds, Colless usually does not stick strictly with the author at hand, but will introduce allied concepts and images from other authors, some not yet formally introduced. One needs to read this Introduction as a whole, which opens to the reader the entire scope of Syriac mysticism and its movements, rather than concise summaries of particular authors, their ideas and biographies. The Spiritual Homilies of Makarios the Great are shown particularly to have had a deep and wide-ranging influence upon much of Eastern and Western spiritual and mystical writing. (Pseudo-) Dionysios the Areopagite is explored at length as much for the influence of his writings as for their content. For a reader not familiar with Eastern Christian and Syriac theology and literature, however, this may be a bewildering section not easy to grasp. With Aphrahat the Persian, Colless chooses to focus on the Sons of the Covenant whom he characterizes as “monks” and their institution as monasticism. A little more problematic vocabulary is his linking qyāmā with “resurrection,” although Sebastian Brock has refuted this suggestion since the form for resurrection is qyāmtā. His use of “serenity/serene” for šapyūtā, however, is a good alternative and addition to the range of translations for this term. Ephrem the Syrian receives a more impressionistic than detailed introduction, though Colless includes here an elegant translation of Ephrem’s Hymns on Faith 32, in which meditation is symbolized as commerce rendering profit and treasure, that could easily have been placed in the anthology. The Book of Degrees (Book of Steps/Liber Graduum) receives extensive treatment, a solid and even exposition, mostly attempting to solve the mystery of the anonymous authorship and its relationship to the Messalian controversy. Colless does point to the possible influence on Christian asceticism of Buddhist practices, perhaps mediated through Manichaeism. Focusing primarily on Mēmrā Twelve with its description of the three forms of the Church—the visible Church, the Church of the Heart, and the Hidden/Heavenly Church—Colless comments that such a hierarchical construction is a normal development for established churches. Colless continues with the thorny issue of authorship, presenting his candidate, Adelphios of Edessa, a disciple of Julian Saba. Adelphios reputedly visited Anthony the Great and on return immersed himself in severely ascetical practices. But according to a

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later report of Philoxenos of Mabbug, his ascetical endeavors were without humility and eventually he abandoned discipline and became the founder of Messalianism. Colless embarks on a lengthy discussion of the affinities of the Book of Degrees to the alleged traits of Messalianism, and while he does not say absolutely that Adelphios is its author, he proposes to test this hypothesis. However, in raising hypothetical possibilities Colless nearly converts some of these into actualities, and at several points his logic slips. After listing the four primary precepts of Messalianism, Colless declares, “In my opinion, this (Book of Degrees) is essentially a Messalian book.” He reiterates that this is not a value judgment and suggests that the four Messalian principles are “distorted versions of ideas that actually appear in the book.” He proceeds to offer examples of other works that have been distorted, as well as those works for which two versions are found—one ‘heretical,’ the other ‘cleaned up’—by a subsequent sympathetic editor. Colless suggests that extant copies of the Book of Degrees might contain “alterations, omissions, and interpolations” to correct its errant tendencies. In making these suggestions, he is indicating that the Book of Degrees is not a Messalian text per se. Messalianism, by his own definition, is the distortion of some ideas of the Book of Degrees —so if the Book were ‘real’ Messalianism, how is the historical phenomenon of Messalianism then to be named and interpreted? Colless’ attempt to draw the Book into the second Messalian error—that baptism and other sacraments are inefficient—focuses on the Church of the Heart as the mystical church, a worrisome concept to bishops obviously invested in the earthly and physical institution. The emphasis of the Book on assiduous prayer, à la Jesus groaning in the Garden, is interpreted by Colless in too absolutist a way. If one prays with great effort, devotion and passion, does this practice automatically make one into a Messalian? Every time the “Messalian” author urges prayer, does it necessarily mean that this prayer is superior to and exclusive of all other means of salvation? Colless attempts to paint the Book into a Messalian corner, declaring that “the Messalian stance of attempting to stay within the church is consistent with the position taken by the author of the Book of Degrees.” If we affirm the earthly institutional church, are we, therefore, half-way to becoming Messalians? Yet Colless acknowledges that the Book of Degrees was handed down in Syriac monasteries and its doctrines influenced subsequent Syriac mystics, but these latter neither cite nor refer to the Book by name. The intention here is not be overly critical, for the issue of

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Messalianism’s relationship to the Book of Degrees is still seeking an answer, and thus Colless’ probes are needed—even if this reviewer believes there are flaws in his approach. An excellent introduction is provided for John the Solitary of Apamea, drawing attention to John’s emphasis on the eschatological nature of perfection after resurrection. The efforts of Colless to include the image of the pearl in John’s thought and thus a connection to the Song of the Pearl is strained, based on a metaphor or image used by the Solitary, not an inclusive symbol. Colless constructs an analogy with first century Buddhist scripture that is helpful for a global picture of the phenomenon of asceticism, but he is not able to demonstrate a real connection between John and the Buddhist authors. Philoxenus of Mabbug is briefly introduced, centering upon his Letter to Patriq, in which links are made to Evagrius and the Book of Degrees in the search for a contemplative vision. Stephen bar Sudaili is an unusual choice for an anthology, but it is the Book of Hierotheos that Colless wants to investigate, recognizing that this Book did not sustain lasting popularity. In the Book of Hierotheos he lifts out examples of Evagrian Origenism, “revealing things that Paul did not dare tell” in Hierotheos’ words. Colless describes this book as “eschatological pantheism,” in which “God will be all in all” (1 Corinthians 15:8). It offers a mystical system of ascent and descent resulting finally in the perfected intellect becoming absorbed in Unity beyond love and beloved, in which there is neither height nor depth, nor God, Christ or Spirit. Abraham of Nathpar, an early seventh century hermit and ascetic, is another singular choice. His disciple Job translated his writings from Syriac into Persian, but ten works survive under his name in Syriac, mostly taken from earlier writers—Colless wonders whether anything extant is authentic and whether he should have included Abraham in the anthology! Gregorios the Hermit, a sixth-seventh century hermit who entered a monastery in Cyprus, eventually became its superior, and then returned to Mount Izla. His work “On Holy Contemplation” shows the influence of the concepts of Evagrios and John the Solitary. His goal, like that of Evagrios, is impassibility or apatheia. Sahdona-Martyrios, a seventh century monk who died near Edessa, hounded by the Church of the East for alleged heresy after being a bishop for fifteen years. His most important work is The Book of Perfection, showing the influence of Evagrios, Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianzus. Martyrios focuses his mysticism on Paul’s antithesis between the outer and inner person

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(2 Corinthians 4:16). Perfect prayer without blemish is the target, an interior offering of the heart. Simon Taibutheh, a seventh-century East Syrian monk and physician, wrote a medico-mystical book in which the mystical path involves seven stages and then three ascents, again owing something to Evagrios. Noteworthy for Colless’ symbolic talisman, Simon utilizes the symbol of musk rather than that of a pearl. Isaac of Nineveh not only receives an excellent overview, but Colless also presents brief synopses of several anthology passages. Dadisho Qatraya is briefly summarized, referring to the one extract in the anthology. Joseph the Visionary (Hazzāyā) is also given a good measured introduction, not only to his biography and literary works, but also to the scope of his mystical vision. By his own admission, John the Venerable (Sābā/Dalyāthā) is Colless’ favorite. This eighth century mystic is attributed the most passages in the anthology, to which Colless provides insightful explanations of the key concepts. Another seldom chosen author is Abraham bar Dashandad, an eighth century teacher at Bashesh in Persia, two of whose better known pupils became patriarchs of the Church of the East Katholikos Timotheos I (780-823) and Isho’ bar Nun (d. 828). His only known text is familiar from Alphonse Mingana’s Woodbrooke Studies. Colless again works to align Abraham’s mystical theology with the narrative of the Song of the Pearl, but becomes distracted with the Song, leaving behind Abraham for the most part. Closing out the introduction and the anthology is Bar Hebraeus. Colless gives a brief summary of Bar Hebraeus’ life and work without being exhaustive, proceeding quickly to his mystical system which owes much to previous mystics, especially John the Venerable and John the Solitary. The citation here of sections in the texts becomes a little confusing in order to keep track of the references. One last time, Colless tries to press the pearl imagery, but Bar Hebraeus offers no real opportunity. Finally, one arrives at the anthology of readings, clearly the best part of the book. The excellent translations capture the poetic and mystical spirit of the writers. Colless keys the readings to an index indicating the precise published source, although the translations are untitled and so leave the reader without a ready context. While it is obvious Colless has collected as many texts around the pearl theme as he could find, the readings do provide a lectionary of spiritual reading for the person interested primarily in the insights of these Syriac authors.

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Where I have outlined some concerns, these surround the virtually bifurcated nature and purpose of this volume. On one hand, Colless has provided a very useful anthology of readings for their own sake; but on the other hand, his introduction appears to aspire more to be an overview of Syriac mysticism in general, and only secondarily as a synopsis of the individual authors and readings. In a number of cases the anthology entry is ignored in the introduction, and vice versa, the long exposition on the Book of Degrees and its possible author Adelphios of Edessa is illustrated by only a short section from Mēmrā Twelve which has already been translated three times (Murray, Brock, Kitchen & Parmentier). Nevertheless, the idiosyncrasies of this volume work to highlight its contributions to an understudied aspect of Syriac literature and theology. Hopefully, this is not the last word, for as with all mysticism, one is never able to comprehend the whole picture at once.

Bas ter Haar Romeny, ed. The Peshitta: Its Use in Literature and Liturgy. Papers Read at the Third Peshitta Symposium (Monographs of the Peshitta Institute Leiden, 15; Leiden: Brill, 2006). Pp. xxiv + 412. Cloth, $188.00. ISBN: 978-90-04-15658-6 EDWARD G. MATHEWS, JR. ST. NERSESS ARMENIAN SEMINARY, NEW ROCHELLE, NY, 10804, USA

The Leiden Peshitta Institute was founded nearly a half century ago. Its first members were primarily biblical scholars who set out to produce a critical text of the Syriac Old Testament “that would satisfy the needs of students of biblical exegesis and textual criticism.” This task is nearly completed but the Institute, now made up of primarily Syriac scholars, is also now realizing the importance of non-biblical texts for the history of Syriac biblical versions. This volume, the proceedings of a conference held in August 2001, contains twenty-four papers that are intended “to gain a fuller picture of the textual history of the Peshitta, . . . and to provide a context for this textual history.” Three keynote addresses, from the top scholars in the respective areas, give a sweeping overview of the entire corpus of literature addressed in this volume. Brock discusses the biblical text as found in liturgical texts. The papers of Van Rompay and Petersen then address the issue of the reception of the Syriac Old Testament and New Testament, respectively. All three sound a strong warning that while these texts can be utilized in reconstructing the biblical text one must do so only with the greatest of caution, even with a text that is clearly a commentary on a biblical book. Brock (pp. 3–25) opens the volume with a brief outline of five stages of liturgical lections that he has identified in biblical texts. He then examines three words and one phrase, prominent already in biblical texts and found in Eucharistic anaphoras. Brock demonstrates that while the anaphoras might actually preserve older—even so-called Diatessaronic—readings, they also betray an already sophisticated reflection on biblical themes and have thus altered or adopted vocabulary to make thematic connections more explicit. This phenomenon is also found by Shemunkasho (pp. 351–363) in his study of the Syrian Orthodox Breviary, and by Varghese (pp. 379–389) who demonstrates that biblical readings in 182

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the Anaphora of St. James still reflect an underlying Greek text not the Peshitta; later Syriac Anaphoras reflect the Peshitta more closely, but also reveal significant theological reworking. Surveying the New Testament materials, Petersen (pp. 53–74) argues vigorously for biblical scholars not to neglect the Syriac version of the New Testament, which often preserves older readings no longer available in extant Greek manuscripts. He then also cautions researchers about the differences between the Syriac OT and NT: OT was translated from its sister tongue, Hebrew, whereas NT was translated from Greek; the text and canon of the Hebrew OT were more or less set by the time of translation, while NT was barely out of its developmental stage. Petersen further delineates three major problems in dealing with early Syriac exegesis and the unique way that Syriac commentators handled them. Morrison (pp. 186–205) discovers that, contrary to Diatessaron scholars, of two NT citations in the Syriac Acts of Judas Thomas one reflects the Vetus Syra, the other possibly even a Vetus Latina tradition. Lange (pp. 159–175) uncovers two layers of Commentary on the Diatessaron, one of Ephrem who knew the Vetus Syra and another of his students/redactors who knew of an emerging Peshitta text and cited the Vetus Syra as “Greek.” Joosten (pp. 99– 106) studies the OT citations found in the various Syriac NT versions and concludes that early translators generally followed the Peshitta, whereas later versions tended to correct the text to accord with the Greek. But the bulk of this volume is taken up with the reception of Old Testament books. Van Rompay’s keynote address (pp. 27–51), illustrated by a comparison of Ephrem and Theodore of Mopsuestia, the two major commentators in Western and Eastern Syriac tradition, insists that one must first determine the general purpose, style and editorial technique of the commentary before any question of biblical text can be broached; even commentators edited the text for their own purposes. He also notes that the pervasive practice of citing Hebrew and Greek versions is “firmly rooted in the worldview of the Syrian Christians. By all sorts of references, commentators created awareness that the Peshitta had its place in the broader stream of the tradition of the biblical text.” A number of papers address a single biblical book in a single author or work. Van Peursen (pp. 243–258) examines four citations of Sirach in the Discourses of Philoxenus and finds that all four reflect the Peshitta text. Ryan’s study of The Commentary on the Psalms by Dionysius Bar Salibi (pp. 327–338) and Hayman’s

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examination of the biblical texts cited in Sergius the Stylite’s Disputation with a Jew (pp. 77–86) both also demonstrate that their authors cited only from the Peshitta. Owens (pp. 223–241) too, though somewhat against the grain, finds that Aphrahat’s citations from Proverbs reflect a majority Peshitta text, while van Rooy (pp. 311–325) concludes that the translator of Athanasius’s Commentary on the Psalms used a text midway between the Peshitta and the SyroHexapla. Van der Kooij (pp. 123–129) investigates an exegetical gloss in Peshitta Dan 7 and discovers that Aphrahat may have been familiar with the work of Porphyry. Others cast a slightly wider net. Koster (pp. 131–141) examines Aphrahat’s use of the OT, predominantly typological, and sets out new guidelines of his use of typology. Lane (pp. 143–158), the volume’s honoree, examines the use of Leviticus in several different literary genres, vehemently warning against including patristic citations in an edition of the Peshitta. Heal (pp. 87–98) demonstrates, from five dramatic dialogue poems on Joseph, the unique creativity and imagination of Syrian exegetes in resolving conundrums in the biblical text. A final group of papers do not address the text directly but nonetheless contribute greatly to the question of the “context” of the Peshitta. Lund (pp. 177–186) shows that despite a plethora of citations, Isho‘dad of Merv (fl. 850) knew Hebrew only secondhand through other sources and what he labels “Hebrew” was not a textual reading but rather data derived from Jewish tradition. Phillips (pp. 259–295) argues that the East Syrian Church had accepted the book of Chronicles as canonical at least by the time of ‘Abdisho of Nisibis (XIII century). Haar Romeny (pp. 297–310), by examining exegetical excerpts from what he calls the London Collection, shows that even in West Syrian tradition the Peshitta was not eclipsed by any Greek version. Even Syrian readers had certain difficulties with some textual readings, as Salvesen (pp. 339–349) shows in her study of a list of obscure words in the books of Samuel found in the Scholion of Theodore bar Koni. Taylor (pp. 365–378) outlines the tradition of the almost ignored Psalm headings found in Syriac manuscripts, especially as found in the Commentary of Daniel of Salah. Juckel (pp. 107–121) argues “the Syriac Masora,” a large eighth- or ninth-century compilation of philological and grammatical materials, reflects the work of Jacob of Edessa who standardized a previously disordered Syriac orthography. Finally, Muto (pp. 207–222) compares the methodology of Greek and Syriac exegesis, with a primary focus on John Chrysostom and Ephrem.

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Such a brief resume cannot possibly do justice to the breadth, depth and detail of the studies published in this volume. In varying degrees, nearly all the papers echo the warning of the keynote addresses about the extreme caution required for work with Syriac literature—even the commentaries. And, of necessity in a single volume such as this, there remains much that is unaddressed, yet these papers all combine to provide a detailed study—and a surprisingly coherent one!—of both the textual history of the Peshitta and its context. This volume also sets down basic guidelines and parameters for further study of the question and will thus long serve as a veritable vade mecum for future students and scholars of the history and reception of the Peshitta in Syriac literature. It is a reference tool that no Peshitta scholar, despite the high price, should be without.

KEYNOTE LECTURES The Use of the Syriac Versions in the Liturgy Sebastian P. Brock Between the School and the Monk’s Cell: The Syriac Old Testament Commentary Tradition Lucas Van Rompay Problems in the Syriac New Testament and How Syrian Exegetes Solved Them William L. Petersen

PAPERS The Biblical Text in the Disputation of Sergius the Stylite against a Jew A. Peter Hayman Reworking the Biblical Text in the Dramatic Dialogue Poems on the Old Testament Patriarch Joseph Kristian Heal The Old Testament in the New: The Syriac Versions of the New Testament as a Witness to the Text of the Old Testament Peshitta Jan Joosten

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The ‘Syriac Masora’ and the New Testament Peshitta Andreas Juckel The Four Kingdoms in Peshitta Daniel 7 in the Light of the Early History of Interpretation Arie van der Kooij Aphrahat’s Use of his Old Testament Marinus D. Koster ‘There is No Need of Turtle-Doves or Young Pigeons . . .’ (Jacob of Sarug). Quotations and Non-Quotations of Leviticus in Selected Syriac Writers David J. Lane Ephrem, his School, and the Yawnaya: Some Remarks on the Early Syriac Versions of the New Testament Christian Lange Isho‘dad’s Knowledge of Hebrew as Evidenced from his Treatment of Peshitta Ezekiel Jerome A. Lund The Text of the New Testament in the Acts of Judas Thomas Craig E. Morrison, O.Carm. Interpretation in the Greek Antiochenes and the Syriac Fathers Shinichi Muto The Book of Proverbs in Aphrahat’s Demonstrations Robert J. Owens Sirach Quotations in the Discourses of Philoxenus of Mabbug: Text and Context Wido van Peursen The Reception of Peshitta Chronicles: Some Elements for Investigation David Phillips The Greek vs. the Peshitta in a West Syrian Exegetical Collection (BL Add. 12168) Bas ter Haar Romeny

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The Peshitta and Biblical Quotations in the Longer Syriac Version of the Commentary of Athanasius on the Psalms (BL Add. 14568), with special attention to Psalm 23 (24) and 102 (103) Harry F. van Rooy The Reception of the Peshitta Psalter in Bar Salibi’s Commentary on the Psalms Stephen D. Ryan, O.P. Obscure Words in the Peshitta of Samuel, according to Theodore bar Koni Alison Salvesen New Testament Quotations in the Breviary of the Syrian Orthodox Church. Example: The Annunciation (Luke 1:26–38) Aho Shemunkasho The Psalm Headings in the West Syrian Tradition David G.K. Taylor Peshitta New Testament Quotations in the West Syrian Anaphoras: Some General Observations Baby Varghese

Tjalling H. F. Halbertsma. Early Christian Remains of Inner Mongolia: Discovery, Reconstruction, and Appropriation. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2008, xxx + 356 pp; hardcover. $185.00. JOEL WALKER, UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON, DEPARTMENT OF HISTORY, SEATTLE, WA

Recent conferences have signaled a vigorous revival of research into the history and archaeology of Christianity in Central Asia and China. In June of 2009, scholars from around the world will gather in Salzburg, Austria for the third international conference on the Church of the East in China and Central Asia.1 This promising international dialogue follows closely on the heels of several monographs and essay collections investigating the processes of acculturation and syncretism that accompanied Christian expansion into China, most intensively during the Tang (618–907) and Yuan (1271–1368) dynasties.2 Collectively, this new research is documenting a Christian presence in Asia that was more populous, diverse, and enduring than has traditionally been assumed.3 Yet, the emerging picture is far from complete, with large gaps and ambiguities in the historical record. Much of the evidence—literary, documentary, and artistic—is fragmentary and difficult to interpret For the conference announcement, see Hugoye 11, no. 2 (Summer, 2008). The papers from the first Salzburg conference (2003) have been published as Jingjiao: The Church of the East in China and Central Asia, ed. Roman Malek with Peter Hofrichter (Sankt Augustin: Institut Monumenta Serica, 2006). The papers from the second Salzburg conference (2006) are scheduled to appear later this year (2009). 2 For a useful overview, see Gunnar Mikkelsen’s critique of Li Tang’s A Study of the History of Nestorian Christianity in China and Its Literature in Chinese: Together with a New English Translation of the Dunwuang Nestorian Documents (Frankfurt am Rhein: Peter Land AG, 2004), in China Review International 14, no. 1 (Spring, 2007): 232–35. See also Roman Malek, ed., The Chinese Face of Jesus Christ: Volume I (Sankt Augustin: Institut Monumenta Serica and China-Zentrum, 2002), especially 159–79 (Y. Raguin on Syrian monks in Tang China), 180–218 (S. Eskildsen on theological terminology in Chinese Nestorian texts), and 259–83 (H. Klimkeit on the symbolism of the cross in syncretistic contexts). 3 The results are also reflected in recent syntheses. See esp. Christoph Baumer, The Church of the East: An Illustrated History of Assyrian Christianity (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2006), 160–223. 1

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(or even to translate); and continued international collaboration is essential given the large number of languages and national jurisdictions involved. More urgent still, population growth, modernization, and the growth of the antiquities trade in both China and Central Asia have imperiled many archaeological sites. T. Halbertsma’s Early Christian Remains of Inner Mongolia: Discovery, Reconstruction, and Appropriation, provides a model of the type of research that is now needed. Inner Mongolia is an officially autonomous region of what is today north-central China along the southern edge of the Gobi desert. It is an enormous land, encompassing some 1,200,000 square kilometers, or nearly twice the size of Texas. Halbertsma’s study focuses on a relatively small slice of this vast region: a territory of roughly 60,000 square kilometers in eastern Inner Mongolia, between the region’s capital, Hohhot, and the modern Chinese-Mongolian border. During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries C.E., this was the land of the Öngüt, a Turkic people closely allied with the Mongols. Halbertsma’s book offers a meticulous and multi-faceted account of the Christian heritage of the Öngüt before, during, and after the Mongol Empire of Genghis Khan (r. 1206–27). Part I (of the book’s four parts) explains how Christianity reached the land of the Öngüt during the “second wave” of Christian expansion along the Silk Road beginning in the tenth century. After a brief discussion of the Chinese terminology for Christians,4 Halbertsma introduces the small cluster of European and Syriac literary sources that remain vital for all historians of Christianity in the Mongol world. These texts include the acute observations of the Franciscan William of Rubruck, who arrived in the Mongol capital of Karakorum in 1253, and the reports of the Franciscan papal envoy, John of Montecorvino, the first archbishop of Peking (1308–28). In his letters back to Rome, In Chinese documents of the Yuan period, Christians are most often referred to as the yelikewen or the diexie. The first term is a transcription of the Turkic term erke’ün, whose origin remains unclear, while the second (diexie) is “possibly a Chinese transcription of the Persian word tarsâ,” meaning a God-fearer. Halbertsma, 10. Both terms are distinct from the principal names assigned to Christianity during the Tang dynasty, when Christianity was called the “Persian teaching” (Bosi-jiao) and later the “luminous religion of the Daqin” (Daqin jingjiao), a phrase indicating the religion’s origin in Syria. For the Tang-era terminology, see T. H. Barrett, “Buddhism, Taoism and the eighth-century Chinese term for Christianity: a response to recent work by A. Forte and others,” Bulletin of SOAS 65, no. 3 (2002): 555–60. 4

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Montecorvino even claims to have converted to Catholicism “the good King George” of the Öngüt in the late 1290s (25). Prior to this flirtation with Catholicism, King George and other Öngüt elites were already active patrons of the Church of the East, the East-Syrian or “Nestorian” church that had gained many adherents among neighboring Turco-Mongolian tribes, such as the Keraits and Naiman.5 The gradual Christianization of the Öngüt must also be seen against the backdrop of their political history. As clients of northern China’s Jin dynasty (1115–1234), the Öngüt were assigned a segment of the Chinese-nomadic frontier north of the Daqing Mountains and Huang River in eastern Inner Mongolia (35). With the rise of Genghis Khan, they wisely shifted their allegiance away from the Jin, eventually gaining a privileged position as Mongol allies, a bond consolidated through regular intermarriage between ruling families.6 The political and cultural power of the Öngüt reached its apex under King George (d. 1298), who built “at his home” a massive library, where he “daily discussed with scholars the classics and history, philosophy, astrology, and mathematics.”7 While the Chinese author of this praise may have exaggerated King George’s erudition, his remarks underscore the willingness of the Öngüt royal house to adopt cultural traditions that were alien to the nomadic ways of their ancestors. This trend toward sedentarization has crucial ramifications for understanding the material remains that still dot their former kingdom. Halbertsma presents in part II a systematic review of the “discovery and documentation of Nestorian remains in Inner Mongolia” (72), providing a valuable précis of every archaeological expedition to the region between the mid-nineteenth century and today. Already in the 1880s, Belgian missionaries based in Hohhot 5 According to the thirteenth-century chronicler Barhebraeus, the Keraits, whose territory bordered that of the Öngüt on the north, were converted to Christianity en masse in 1007 C.E. But the historicity of this story, as Erica Hunter has stressed, is dubious. See E. C. D. Hunter, “The Conversion of the Kerait to Christianity in AD 1007,” Zentralasiastische Studien 22 (1989/1990): 158–76; Halbertsma, 30. No literary account of the conversion of the Öngüt has survived. 6 According to the Yuanshi (the official Chinese history of the Mongols), this Mongol-Öngüt alliance was established in 1204, when the Öngüts double-crossed the Naiman, who had requested their assistance in fighting the Mongols. Halbertsma, 36. 7 The description is part of a long funerary inscription written in King George’s honor by a Chinese administrator named Yan Fu and preserved in a later literary compilation of the Yuan dynasty (the Yuan Wenlei).

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began to discover and publish Christian tombstones from the region. Other international researchers soon followed, including the American Owen Lattimore, who published in 1934 the first detailed description of the extensive ruins at Olon Sume, ca. 130 km northwest of Hohhot, which he recognized as the remains of a “Nestorian city.” It was not, however, until the 1950s that the Japanese scholar Egami Namio correctly identified the finds at Olon Sume as the capital of the Öngüt.8 Halbertsma’s review of Inner Mongolian archaeology serves a dual purpose. As a case study in regional archaeology, it explains the methods and motives of the various international researchers who were attracted to the region. This reconstruction also allows him to plot the location and/or movements of the region’s Christian artifacts, including, for example, items described by Egami but missing since the mid1940s. Between 1949 and the 1990s, the Öngüt sites in Inner Mongolia became “the exclusive domain for Chinese researchers and archaeologists” (111). While excavation techniques remained “crude” for much of this period, Chinese fieldwork in the 1970s succeeded in identifying and recording several new Nestorian graveyards in the Hohhot district. Research methods have greatly sharpened since the 1990s, as local governments have increasingly collaborated with Chinese museums and research institutes on rescue projects aimed at sites already disturbed by looters. Halbertsma concludes his survey with a description of his own fieldwork in the Hohhot district, which began in 2001 “from a journalist’s perspective” (125), but developed into a wide-ranging archaeological reconnaissance. By the end of their field research in the summer of 2005, Halbertsma and his assistant, Erhelt Dashdoorov, had recorded “over forty gravestones or fragments of gravestones, a trilingual stele, and contextual materials” from nearly two dozen sites, local villages, and museum storerooms (127).9

8 Namio Egami, “Olon-Sume et la découverte de l’église catholique romaine de Jean de Montecorvino,” Journal Asiatique 240, no. 2 (1952): 155–67; idem, The Mongol Empire and Christendom (Tokyo: Sanpauro, 2000). Halbertsma, 90–102, describes the long ark of Egami’s research on the Öngüt, including his return to Olon Sume in 1990, nearly sixty years after his original field research. 9 Halbertsma signals the depth of his gratitude for Dashdoorov’s collaboration in the book’s dedication and acknowledgments. Dashdoorov’s local contacts and ability to speak English, Chinese, and Mongolian, were clearly essential for the success of their fieldwork.

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Halbertsma turns in part III to the material evidence, introducing by site and then typology all of the major Christian artifacts with known provenance from eastern Inner Mongolia. First, he tackles the thorny issue of the historical identification of Olon Sume, the region’s most impressive pre-Ming site, an urban encampment with dried-brick walls enclosing a rectangle measuring ca. 960 by 575 meters with three or four city gates. Egami had identified Olon Sume as the Öngüt royal capital Koshang, where the father of the future East-Syrian patriarch Yabhallaha III (1281–1317) served as the archdeacon, and where King George had built his “Hall of a myriad volumes” described in Yan Fan’s epitaph. Egami also argued that the ruined Church still visible at Olon Sume is none other than the Catholic Church described by John of Montecorvino (139). Halbertsma does not dismiss this identification, but views it as “problematic” and hints at the need for a full architectural study.10 He proposes instead that the Öngüt royal family had two capitals (a suggestion made already by Lattimore) and that the ruins at Olon Sume represent only the summer capital. The city of Koshang, where the future patriarch Yabhallaha III grew up, must have been located on the southern side of the Daqing Mountains, closer to the Mongol capital Khanbaliq (modern Beijing).11 Whether Koshang can also be identified with the city of “Tenduc,” which Marco Polo names as the base of King George, remains uncertain. Other evidence for the settlement of the Öngüt in the Hohhot region consists mainly of graves and horizontal tombstones, the latter undated, but apparently from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The most striking tombstones are decorated in both low and high relief with “crosses, lotuses, flowers, vines, clouds, birds, wave-patterns and other elaborate abstract designs” often framed in squares, circles, or lantern windows (192).12 Many include short Egami suggests that the floral designs on the church’s blue decorative tiles, as well as other features, indicate the Church’s European design. Halbertsma’s critique (143–44) remains cautious and noncommittal on this crucial topic, since he has not yet been able to consult the publications of the Italian archaeologists, who conducted a systematic survey at Olon-Sume between 2000 and 2002 (122). 11 Halbertsma (154) emphasizes that two other researchers have also reached this same conclusion by other routes: the Italian historian Maurizio Paolillo and the Chinese archaeologist Gai Shanlin. The latter has proposed to identify Tuoketuo, a site east of Hohhot, as Koshang. 12 The book’s color plates show twenty-five of these tombstones from various angles. For individual tombstones, with dimensions, black 10

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Turkic inscriptions in Syriac script listing the name and title of the deceased according to a formula very similar to that used on the roughly contemporary East-Syrian tombstones found in Semericye (Kyrgyzstan). The Christians commemorated in these inscriptions often bear names and titles already attested from Nestorian graveyards in both Semericye and Quanzhou (the medieval port of Zaytun in southern China).13 The epigraphy of these tombstones, which will be published in full elsewhere, also matches well with literary descriptions of Christianity in the Mongol empire. The frequent use of the title “priest” (kashisha beg in Uighur) on the Inner Mongolian tombstones, for example, recalls William of Rubruck’s observation that “all the male children, even those in the cradle, are ordained as priests” (228). Despite their use of the Syriac script, it appears that few Öngüt could write the Syriac language. A bilingual stele from Olon Sume invokes the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in Syriac, but switches to Uighur for the rest of the inscription (206). As Halbertsma concludes, such liturgical borrowings suggest, “that the Nestorian Christians of Inner Mongolia were acquainted with the basic invocations of the Church of the East, but did not master the Syriac language sufficiently to write personal and thus varied epitaphs in this language” (226). In addition to the gravestones and stele mentioned above, Halbertsma presents a small number of other artifacts associated with the Christian sites of Inner Mongolia. The damaged tomb sculptures found at Olon Sume and two other Nestorian graveyards include statues in traditional Chinese style of military figures, lions, sheep, and turtle bases. The detailed Chinese inscription found amidst the sculpture at one site, Wangmuliang, describes the dead man’s service as “ administrator of the yelikewen” (201). It is probable, but not certain, that some of the administrators honored by these traditional Chinese tombs were themselves Christians. A stone coffin now on display at a site called Bailingmaio is decorated with images of Chinese-style furniture typical of Song and Jin-dynasty tombs; an “unusually inconspicuous” small cross in low relief is the only clear indication and white photographs, and rubbings, see Halbertsma, “Some field notes and images of stone material from graves of the Church of the East in Inner Mongolia, China (with additional rubbings of seven stones by Wei Jian),” Monumenta Serica 53 (2005): 113–244, with corrections and additions at Halbertsma, 329–30. 13 Typical names include, for men, Abraham, Eugene, George, Jonathan, and Stephen, and, for women, Elizabeth, Julia, and Helena. Halbertsma, 194 and 228.

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of the occupant’s Christianity.14 Other tombs, found intact and excavated by the Chinese archaeologist Gai Shanlin during the mid1970s, yielded numerous grave goods, such as “combs, hairpieces, golden earrings and rings, lamps, coins and mirrors and a seashell” (186). Full publication of these tomb contents would be helpful. Meanwhile, new artifacts continue to emerge from other areas of Inner Mongolia as well. As recently as 1983, a Chinese farmer near Chifeng (ca. 350 km NE of Beijing) found a thirteen kg. fired brick inscribed in Syriac and Uighur with an epitaph dated (in the Seleucid system) to the year 1253 C.E.15 The book’s final section (part IV), shifting from archaeology to ethnography, explores how various groups (foreign, Mongolian, and Han Chinese) have “appropriated” the Nestorian artifacts and sites of the Hohhot region for their own purposes. This process of reuse began already in the Ming era, when at Olon Sume, for example, Buddhist architects lay Nestorian gravestones as foundation blocks for a sixteenth- or seventeenth-century temple inside the city walls.16 European missionaries interpreted as exclusively Christian the more than one thousand metal amulets with crosses and other symbols recovered from the Ordos region south of the Daqing Mountains, ignoring the ambiguity of the objects’ symbolism.17 But the most revealing contrast is the difference in attitude between local Mongol herdsmen and Han Chinese farmers. Building on the observations of Lattimore and Egami, Halbertsma documents the Mongols’ customary aversion to excavating or removing artifacts from the Öngüt sites, which they often associate with strange supernatural guardians or incidents (278–82). The Han Chinese, by contrast, are often relatively new immigrants to the region with “no attachment to the land of Inner Mongolia, and thus neither to its legends or heritage” (255). Not Halbertsma, 207, n. 243. Halbertsma, 118–19, with an excellent color photo at fig. 94. For the text and translation, see James Hamilton and Niu Ruji, “Deux inscriptions funéraires turques nestoriennes.” Journal Asiatique 282, no. 1 (1994): 147–64. 16 Halbertsma, 251–52, citing three further examples of the reuse of Nestorian gravestones in the region’s Buddhist monasteries. 17 Halbertsma (298) cautiously concludes that the Nestorian stone objects documented in his book and the bronze “Ordos crosses” appear to “originate from different traditions,” since only one Nestorian gravestone has been found south of the Daqing Mountains and Halbertsma is not aware of any “Ordos crosses” excavated in Nestorian graves north of the mountains. 14 15

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surprisingly, many of these local farmers have become vigorous treasure-hunters among the medieval tombs. Many Nestorian sites had already been raided by the time of Lattimore’s fieldwork in the 1930s, but the volume and intensity of looting has grown exponentially in recent years. At the Nestorian graveyard at Wangmuliang (due north of Hohhot), Halbertsma encountered in November 2004 more than one hundred illegal excavators (262); at the cemetery near the ruined city of Mukhor Soborghan, he counted in August, 2003 “over three hundred freshly dug holes” (265). These are sobering statistics. The book concludes with five brief appendices, a fourteenpage bibliography, a well-made index, and 122 half-page color plates. Particularly valuable is the one-page catalogue of sites in the region where Nestorian artifacts have been found: a total of 21 sites, including three graveyards and three former urban settlements. The book’s production quality is excellent with very few typographical errors.18 Although the book’s numerous color plates illustrate and amplify its argument, fewer photos could have reduced its price and perhaps increased its circulation. In sum, Halbertsma has produced an admirable study, eclectic in its methodology, yet consistently meticulous and stimulating. By combining archaeology, history, and ethnography, his book marks a major advance in the documentation and interpretation of the Christian heritage of Inner Mongolia and, by extension, the cultural history of the Mongol empire. As a regional archaeological history, Early Christian Remains of Inner Mongolia also illustrates how the preconceptions and research techniques of various scholars have shaped the recovery and interpretation of medieval Christian artifacts. Finally, the book reminds us that this process of interpretation continues today, not only by scholars, but also by Mongol herdsmen and Han Chinese farmers, who live and work every day in the land once inhabited by the Öngüt.

18 I have found only two: on p. 297 (“were” for “where”) and the spelling of the first Italian book title on p. 345. The book’s three maps, however, could have been made more useful by the addition of a scale at the bottom of each.

Volume 12 (2009)

Number 2

HUGOYE JOURNAL OF SYRIAC STUDIES A Publication of Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute

Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies, Vol. 12.2, 199-234 © 2009 by Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute and Gorgias Press

THE SYRIAC LIFE OF JOHN OF TELLA AND THE FRONTIER POLITEIA† NATHANAEL J. ANDRADE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

ABSTRACT After the Syrian bishop John of Tella died in 538 C.E., his disciple Elias wrote his hagiography and recounted his ministry of priestly ordinations within the frontier zone of Rome and Persia. Elias and other contemporary anti-Chalcedonians of Syria conceived of the network of priests and ascetics that John created along the frontier as a politeia, a society that could transcend the imperial boundaries that divided Roman and Persian territories. Elias’ viewpoints are thereby significant in showing how John’s partisans understood his ministry, and they demonstrate how John’s politeia could be regarded as a viable alternative to participating in imperial systems that sustained idolatrous behavior.

INTRODUCTION In the early sixth century C.E., the bishop John of Tella struggled with Ephrem, the Chalcedonian patriarch of Antioch, over their definitions of Christian orthodoxy.1 Two stark contrasts within the † I offer my gratitude to Ray Van Dam, John Fine, and the anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments and criticisms, as well as to

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region, one political and the other religious, strongly affected the terms of their debate. First, two political entities hotly contested the region where John spent his life. The Persian victory over the emperor Julian’s army in 363 had restored Nisibis and many Mesopotamian territories that Rome had controlled at that time to the Persians, and it had offered further hope that they might retake other territories previously lost. After a period of relative peace, in the late fifth and throughout the sixth centuries, the Persian and Roman empires waged numerous wars along their frontier zone in Mesopotamia. Many of these wars were centered on the definition of an administrative and imperially contrived boundary dividing the Roman and Persian empires.2 Second, after 518, the emperors Justin and Justinian had decided to uphold the doctrine of a Christ with two natures espoused by the Council of Chalcedon, and the “Chalcedonians” who supported the council were thereby encouraged to persecute their doctrinal opponents, the “antiChalcedonians.”.3 John of Tella, one of the anti-Chalcedonian disEric Reymond, who advised me on matters of Syriac translation. Parts of this essay were presented at the Near and Middle Eastern Civilizations Graduate Student Symposium at the University of Toronto, March 2, 2006 and the 4th Annual Greek and Latin Graduate Student Colloquium at The Ohio State University, April 15, 2006. I thank the participants for their comments. All mistakes are my own. 1 For a concise description of John’s life and activities, see the prosopography of E. Honigmann, Évêques et évêchés Monophysites d’Asie antérieure au VIe siècle, CSCO 127/Subsidia 2 (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1951), 51–2. The city of Tella, also called Constantia or Constantina, was located in the Roman province of Mesopotamia. 2 The unrelenting effort to define the extent of Roman and Persian territory, one characteristic of Justinian’s reign, is usefully formulated by Geoffrey Greatrex, “Byzantium and the East in the Sixth Century,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, ed. Michael Maas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 490. In this essay, I will use the term “Syria” to refer generically to the region that consisted of the Roman provinces of Syria Prima, Syria Secunda, Euphratensis, Mesopotamia, and Osrhoene. I will also make references to “Roman Mesopotamia” and “Persian Mesopotamia” to describe the regions between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers under the theoretical control of Rome or Persia. These terms are to be distinguished from the specific Roman province of Mesopotamia. 3 The propriety of using the term “Monophysite” has been challenged over the last few decades, and Sebastian Brock, for instance, states that Severus of Antioch and his supporters should be classified as “henophysite” or “miaphysite.” See Sebastian Brock, “The Christology of the Church of the East in the Synods of the Fifth to the Early Seventh Centu-

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senters within Syria, was deprived of his episcopal see by his opponents in 521, and he subsequently relocated to the frontier zone with numerous other persecuted clergymen and monks. It was there that he began to ordain priests and to circulate his own written canons to clerics presiding over village congregations.4 His efforts served as a starting point for the gradual development of a dissenting anti-Chalcedonian clerical hierarchy and ultimately a separatist church of “Syrian Orthodox,” a development which was stimulated by the activity of Jacob Baradeus (Bard‛āyā) after 542 and which gained momentum over the following century.5 Some time after 542, an author named Elias wrote John’s hagiography in Syriac.6 The Life of John of Tella consists of an extenries,” in Aksum-Thyateira, a Festschrift for Archbishop Methodius, ed. G. Dragas (London, 1985), 132 and “The ‘Nestorian’ Church: A Lamentable Misnomer,” (BJRL 78.3 [1996]), 26. In this essay, I will use the term “antiChalcedonian” which, although not a theologically based label, does adequately encapsulate the opposition to the Council of Chalcedon which served as a rallying point for clerics and monks like John of Tella. It is also a convenient term to use for the opponents of the council of Chalcedon within Syria before the development of a separate “Syrian Orthodox” church with a fully developed and autonomous clerical hierarchy. However, see the objections raised to the term “anti-Chalcedonian” by Volker Menze, Justinian and the Making of the Syrian Orthodox Church (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 2–3. 4 According to Volker Menze, “Priests, Laity, and the Sacrament of the Eucharist in Sixth-Century Syria” (Hugoye, Journal of Syriac Studies 7:2 [2004]), par. 6, John had circulated his canons in order to educate the many relatively inexperienced priests that he had ordained. 5 The gradual formation of a separate hierarchy after John’s death, largely driven by the activity of Jacob Baradeus (Bard‛āyā), is described by Lucas Van Rompay, “Society and Community in the Christian East,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, ed. Michael Maas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 248–52. See Menze, Justinian, 145–93 for the role that the generation of John of Tella played. 6 The name Elias corresponds to the Hebrew Elijah, which scholars sometimes use to describe this author. The author provides the consonantal structure of this name (‫ )ܐ ܐ‬in Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 31. The Peshitta Gospels, such as Matt 11:14, Mark 9:4–5, and Luke 9:8, provide paradigms for vocalizing the name. See Tetraeuangelium Sanctum juxta simplicem Syrorum versionem ad fidem codicum, massorae, editionum denuo regcognitum, ed. P. E. Pusey and G. H. Gwilliam (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1901), 70, 250, and 374. However, I will refer to the author as Elias in order to be consistent with how most previous scholars have referred to him and therefore to avoid confusion. In Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 38–9, the author refers to the Persian sacking of John’s native city of Callinicum in

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sive letter that Elias addressed to certain anti-Chalcedonian faithful during the hardships that arose after John’s death in 538, and it was clearly intended to encourage them to persist in their faith amid persecution and uncertainty. The letter, which follows many of the conventions of the hagiographical genre, depicted John as an unwavering proponent of Severus of Antioch and his doctrines in the face of Chalcedonian persecution.7 Severus, the deposed bishop of Antioch, advocated a theological position in which Christ was understood to have one incarnate nature, but after Severus’ deposition in 518, John emerged as a leading proponent of his doctrinal outlook in the borderlands of Rome and Persia.8 Over the course of his letter, Elias casts himself as a personal disciple of John who went to the same extremes as his mentor in his resistance to imperial mandates. Elias, however, is a shadowy figure, virtually unre542, which provides the earliest possible date for his Life. The standard edition for the text is still Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae, ed. and tr. by E. W. Brooks in Vitae virorum apud Monophysitas, CSCO III 25 (7–8) (Paris: E Typographeo Reipublicae, 1907), 29–95 and 21–60 (for his Latin translation). The only extant English translation of the text is The Biography of John of Tella by Elias, trans. J. R. Ghanem (Diss. University of Wisconsin, 1970). For an extremely helpful analysis of Elias’ literary technique and his authorial persona, see Andrew Palmer, “Saints’ Lives with a Difference: Elijah on John of Tella (d. 538) and Josephus on Theodotos of Amida (d. 698),” in IV Symposium Syriacum 1984: Literary Genres in Syriac Literature, ed. H. J. W. Drijvers et al., Orientalia Christiana Analecta 229, 203–16. Also valuable is Menze, Justinian, 229–35. 7 In fact, the author may have been trying to dispel rumors that John had converted to the Chalcedonian position. According to the Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 82, 91–2, during the disputation held at Reshaina shortly after John’s abduction from Singara, John’s opponents had ostensibly tricked him into admitting that Christ had two natures. John had cited a passage from Cyril, Epistulae 45 (PG 77, c. 232), in which Cyril affirmed that the human mind could comprehend the existence of two natures before the Union but then stressed that only one nature could be discerned after it. However, John’s enemies rose into a clamor before he could present the second part of Cyril’s argument and claimed that John had admitted that Christ had two natures. Elias was clearly embarrassed by this development and stressed that John had not departed from how Severus of Antioch interpreted Cyril’s theology. In fact, he asserts that John claimed that Severus was his “head” (85). 8 For Severus’ theological formulations, see Roberta C. Chesnut, Three Monophysite Christologies: Severus of Antioch, Philoxenus of Mabbug, and Jacob of Sarug (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), 9–56. Refer to Pauline Allen and C. T. R. Hayward, Severus of Antioch (London: Routledge, 2004), 34–8 for a concise summary.

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corded in sources of this period. According to his own testimony, he had lived with John on the mountain of Singara, and he claimed that both he and John had been abducted by Ephrem and brought together to Antioch, where John died the following year.9 Yet, it is difficult to gauge the reliability of Elias’s description of his relationship with John. His claim that he had personally witnessed the events that he described, in addition to his statement that he had consulted John’s mother, tutor, and other friends to obtain reliable information, could easily reflect an effort to establish his authoritative voice as narrator and to work within the normative conventions of the hagiographical genre.10 He may not have been as close a friend and disciple to John of Tella as he claims. Yet, Elias’ Life is an important text because it reflects an effort to frame the significance of John’s ministry during the years of tribulation that followed John’s death. Much like the Life of John written by John of Ephesus, Elias’ letter depicts John of Tella as the leader and linchpin of a clerical hierarchy and a network of priests and monks that cut across the frontier of the Roman and Persian empires.11 Both Lives in fact described John as a liminal figure who imagined a community that could incorporate the dispossessed and persecuted of two separate empires. At the same time, while Elias depicted John as the creator of a true Christian politeia, he defended John against charges of treason that he claimed to have been leveled against him by both Roman and Persian authorities, who had likened John to a bandit and a social outsider. For this reason, the author claimed that Ephrem, the bishop of Antioch, had conspired with Persian magistrates to have him kidnapped from the Persian wilderness, and he endeavored to explain 9 The author inserts himself into his narrative of John’s captivity in Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae when he claims that on one occasion their pagan abductor Cometas told “us” that he had sacrificed a bull before coming to torment them (67) and when he claims that he witnessed the miracles that the monk Heliodorus had performed during John’s captivity in Antioch (92–3). Andrew Palmer, “Saints’ Lives with a Difference,” 209– 11 convincingly argues that the author’s vivid details of the Persian attack on John’s community and his interrogation at Nisibis by the Marzban indicate “the presence of the author” (210). 10 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 38, 43. 11 John of Ephesus includes a biography of John of Tella within his Lives of the Eastern Saints 24, ed. and tr. by E. W. Brooks, PO 18 (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1924), 513–26 [312–24]. According to the testimony of John of Ephesus, he was ordained deacon by John of Tella in 529. See Lives of the Eastern Saints 24 (Life of John of Thella), 521 [319].

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why the creation of John’s politeia did not constitute political treason but instead consisted of a divinely sanctioned society of ascetics and priests who were restoring their church and disseminating Severan doctrines within the frontier zone. In such ways, the Life situates John of Tella in a position of mutual antagonism with Ephrem of Antioch in ways that posited a breach between upright “orthodox” behavior and participation in the Roman imperial regime. While John’s own writings highlight the primary concerns of his ministry within the frontier zone and do not present the idealized vision of his ascetic network that appears in the works of sympathetic authors, the Life written by Elias, as well as that of John of Ephesus, reflect how his sympathizers interpreted the significance of his life and activities in the years following his death. For them, the clerical hierarchy and ascetic network that John had established constituted a spiritual politeia, a society of priests and monks that provided an alternative to potentially idolatrous participation in the empires of Rome and Persia.

THE CREATION AND DESTRUCTION OF JOHN’S POLITEIA During the 520s, the exiled bishop John, along with numerous ascetic and clerical companions, had retired to the countryside of the frontier zone to appoint priests for nearby communities. Sympathetic contemporaries, such as an anonymous author of an ecclesiastical chronicle, employed the Greek loan word politeia (Syr: ‫ܐ‬ ) to conceptualize John’s network of monks and priests as a corporate society for which John and his colleague Thomas of Dara served as “heads”: Indeed, it was a politeia of distinguished priests and believers, and it was a tranquil brotherhood that was with them. They were harmonious in their love, and they abounded with love of each other. They were beloved and welcomed among everyone. Nothing was lacking, for the venerable heads of the body consisting of all the limbs of the body, the holy John of Tella, an ascetic and fasting man, [and Thomas of Dara] came with them.12

Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae rhetori vulgo adscripta Vol. 2, 8.5, ed. E. W. Brooks, CSCO III 5–6 (Paris: E Typographeo Reipublicae, 1919– 21), 81–2. Note that The Syrian Chronicle Known as that of Zachariah of Mitylene, tr. F. J. Hamilton and E. W. Brooks (London: Methuen & CO., 1899), 211 translates politeia as “commonwealth.” John probably had begun to ordain priests in the early 520s with the result that a comprehensive network of priests had emerged by 530. Menze, Justinian, 175–86. 12

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̈ ‫ܙܗ ܐ‬ .‫ܘܢ‬

‫ܕ ̈ ܐ‬ ‫ܗܘܬ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܘ ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܕ‬ ‫ ܘܐ ܬܐ ܒ‬.‫ܘ ̈ ܐ‬ ‫ܗܘܘ ܒ‬ ‫ ܘ ܬ‬.‫ܘܐܘ ܗܘܘ ܒ ܒܐ‬ ‫ ܘ ܡ‬. ‫ܗܘܘ ܘ ܒ‬ ‫ ܘܪ‬.‫̈ ܕܐ‬ ‫ܘܢ ܓ ̈ܪ ܐ‬ ‫ܗܘܘ‬ .‫ܗܘܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ̈ .‫ܗܕ ܐ ܕ ܓ ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܕ ܘܢ‬ ‫̈ ܐ ܕܓ‬ .‫ܐ ܘܨ ܐ‬ ‫ ܓܒ ܐ‬.‫ܕܬ ܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬

As shown in the quotation above, the term politeia, which encapsulated notions such as “commonwealth,” “constitution,” or “way of life,” was used by the chronicle’s author to describe the perceived community of shared values and practices that John had created. The association of John’s community with the flexible concept of politeia seems to have persisted among his sympathizers after his death. According to John of Ephesus, the “politeia of the faithful faction” was in dire need of priests because John could no longer ordain them.13 The term politeia had numerous and overlapping meanings in Christian literature, both past and contemporary, and its varied connotations raised diverse interpretive possibilities for how the “politeia of the faithful faction” that John and his colleagues had established could be conceived. It was a word firmly grounded in the Greek classical tradition, and it had always been linked to scenarios of community formation and the behaviors that facilitated it. Philosophers such as Plato, Aristotle, and their successors had used it to formulate their theories of the constitutions of the Greek citystate.14 After Roman expansion had integrated the Mediterranean coastline into a single imperial system, dissenting groups often cited the term to describe how the customs and habits of their communities were both different and superior to those that Roman imperial oppression was endeavoring to foist upon them. The Jewish writer Josephus had celebrated the politeia established by Moses for the Jews as conducive to the formation of an exemplary community.15 In response to Greek and Roman detractors who criticized

13 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 49 (Life of James), PO 18, 490 [692]. 14 Plato, Respublica, ed. S. R. Slings (Oxford: Clarendon, 2003), 544a–d describes the four basic forms of politeia as the Cretan or Lakonian, oligarchy, democracy, and tyranny. Aristotle, Politica, ed. W. D. Ross (Oxford: Clarendon, 1957), 1289a and 1292a establishes a politeia as a civic order maintained by laws and magistrates. 15 Josephus, Ap., Flavii Josephi opera, Vol. 4, ed. Benedict Niese (Berlin: Teubner, 1890), 2.145–89 (the term politeia is cited in 188) and AJ, Flavii

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the Jewish way of life, Josephus claimed that Greek and Roman philosophers and lawmakers had in fact crudely imitated the laws and customs that Moses had invented.16 Likewise, early Christian authors habitually asserted that the virtues of their politeia were vastly superior to those of Greeks, Romans, or Jews, and in the same vein, the members of various philosophical schools, including Christian ones, had argued that the intellectual views, daily habits, or general ways of life that characterized their politeia were better than those of their rivals.17 After the reign of Constantine and his legitimation of Christianity, the term was increasingly assumed by monastic or ascetic communities to delineate how their elevated and rigorous way of life distinguished them from other Christians who did not share their ascetic regimens.18 Preachers intent on reforming the daily habits and attitudes of their congregations also cited it frequently in their efforts to prompt their audiences to cultivate a Christian way of life.19 In this sense, the term was also often Josephi opera, Vol. 1, ed. Benedict Niese (Berlin: Teubner, 1887) 3.212–86 (politeia is cited in 212). 16 Josephus, Ap., 2.280–2. 17 Eph 2:12 describes Christians as “alienated” from the politeia of Israel. Tatian, Oratio ad Graecos, ed. Miroslav Marcovich, Patristische Texte und Studien, Vol. 43 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995) pits the politeia of Christians against those of Greeks and Romans. See especially 4.1–2 and 28.1. Like Josephus, Tatian, 34–42 argued that the politeia of Jews and Christians predated that of the Greeks. Similarly, Justin Martyr distinguished between a Christian politeia and that of the Romans in Apologia maior 4.2. See Justini Martyris apologiae pro Christianis, ed. Miroslav Marcovich, Patristische Texte und Studien, Vol. 38 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1994). Also, Eusebius, HE 2.1.1, 4.7.14, 4.23.2, and 7.32.30, ed. Eduard Schwartz and Theodor Mommsen in Die Kirchengeschichte, GCS 6.1–2 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1999). 18 The Historia Lausiaca of Palladius, for instance, focuses on the politeia of ascetics in Egypt. See The Lausiac History of Palladius, Vol. 2, ed. Cuthbert Butler (Cambridge University Press, 1898–1904), Proem, 9–10 and 33, 96. Likewise the term occurs countless times in Theodoret’s Historia religiosa in reference to the ascetic way of life, and in his prologue he frames his efforts to describe the politeia of such ascetics. Theodoret, HR Prol. 2.9, 9.2, and 10.2 in Histoire des moines de Syrie, Vol. 1, ed. Pierre Canivet et Alice Leroy-Molinghen, SC 234 (Paris: Cerf, 1977). Also, Eusebius, de mart. Palaest. 11.2, ed. Eduard Schwartz and Theodor Mommsen in Die Kirchengeschichte, GCS 6.2 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1999). For differences between philosophical outlooks, namely those of “Hellenes” and Christians, see Eusebius’ citation of Porphyry in HE 6.19.7. 19 John Chrysostom, In Matt. 1.4 (PG 57, c. 18) expressed his desire to have his congregation assume the politeia of monks or the early church

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used to describe an individual’s disposition or character, but even then it framed this individual, however unique, as included within a categorical group defined by the possession of certain common characteristics. For instance, to describe the politeia of individual Christians or ascetics was to narrate the qualities that framed them, and others like them, as Christians or ascetics. It is for this reason that when Eusebius described Jesus Christ “during the times of his incarnate politeia,” he was narrating Jesus’ life as a human who, like all other humans, had an incarnate politeia and human characteristics despite possessing unique individual traits.20 In this sense, the term politeia had traditionally been invoked to describe the elevated habits of a community and to locate differences between such a perceived community and “others” who allegedly conducted themselves in ethically inferiors ways. Originally used to distinguish the civilized inhabitants of Greek city-states from outsiders, Jewish and Christian authors had cited it to assert the supremacy of their community’s habits over those of the Roman empire at large and eventually over other Christians who did not practice a monastic or ascetic lifestyle. As those sympathetic to John’s activities assumed this term, it encapsulated all these connotations, and it thereby framed John’s network as a community of “orthodox” ascetics operating beyond the vicissitudes of alternative politeiai, whether those of perceived heretics, pagans, Christians unaccustomed to rigorous asceticism, or the Roman and Persian imperial systems. It is therefore significant that while the use of this term to describe an ascetic community had been common among Christian writers, politeia was also the Greek translation of the Latin respublica and was a term employed in reference to the Roman and Persian empires.21 The politeia of John and his associates could be fathers, and in In Jo. 28.2 (PG 59, c. 264) he distinguished the upright politeia of Christians from that which characterized the practitioners of pagan “Hellenism.” Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 41.8 (PG 36, c. 440) describes a politeia of those who profess the Holy Spirit. 20 Eusebius, HE 1.4.1. See a similar usage in Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae rhetori vulgo adscripta Vol. 1, 1.1, 2. It describes the base “earthly character” that afflicted all humans. 21 In his Ecclesiastical History, John of Ephesus routinely refers to the Roman empire as the politeia of the Romans or occasionally the politeia of Christians to distinguish it from the Persian empire. See Iohannis Ephesini historiae ecclesiasticae pars tertia, ed. E. W. Brooks, CSCO 105, Scriptores Syri 54 (Series 3, Vol. 3) (Louvain: Imprimerie Orientaliste, 1952), 73, 126–7, 153, 215, 271, 274, 276, 278, 285, 291, 306, and 319. It is also used this way in a letter of Severus cited at length in Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae rhetori vulgo adscripta Vol. 2, 9.17, 131.

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construed not merely as a group of people sharing a doctrinal outlook and ascetic behaviors but as an alternative to idolatrous politeiai, and this spiritual politeia was responsible for organizing villagers into an “orthodox” church. The network of ascetics and priests that sympathetic authors would classify as a politeia in their writings is in certain ways elucidated by John’s own writings, Canons and Questions and Answers. Although they do not explicitly use the term politeia, his compositions outlined the ways by which his priestly candidates were to maintain modes of behavior that differentiated them from both heretics and the members of village congregations that they were to oversee.22 They therefore defined the priestly hierarchy and ascetic network that sympathetic authors would conceptualize as a politeia. The foremost aims of Canons and Questions and Answers were to ensure that their readers persisted to condemn all heresies defined as such by Severus of Antioch and Philoxenos of Mabbug and to avoid contact with those who supported the Council of Chalcedon, the tome of Leo, or the views of Julian of Halicarnassus.23 The texts contain specific prohibitions against eating and exchanging blessings with heretics, and they regulated how greetings and burials among both faithful priests and heretics were to be conducted.24 Scholars generally believe that John of Tella and John bar Qursus were the same individual. If so, under either name John wrote various letters and didactic texts. Canons and Questions and Answers, of specific relevance here, are published with translations by Arthur Vööbus, The Synodicon in the West Syrian Tradition, CSCO 367–8, Scriptores Syri 161–2 (Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1975), 145–56 (142–51) and 211–21 (197–205). These treatises deal chiefly with the daily and routine issues of officiating over the village congregations with which John was concerned during his ministry on the frontier. These texts harmonize with John’s two biographies, written by Elias and John of Ephesus, to present a portrait of John’s frontier ministry, and they highlight the daily hardships that John faced in ensuring righteous behavior among his priests and laity. See Volker Menze, “Priests,” pars. 6–10, 15–7 and “The Regula ad Diaconos: John of Tella, his Eucharistic Ecclesiology, and the Establishment of an Ecclesiastical Hierarchy in Exile,” (OrChr 90 [2006]), 69–90 for thorough treatments of the problems that John’s treatises sought to address. Refer to Menze, “The Regula ad Diaconos,” 49–54 for the complex details concerning John’s extant literary corpus and 55–60 for an edition and translation of his Regula ad Diaconos. An edition and translation of John’s letter stating his faith is forthcoming in Kutlu Akalin and Volker Menze, John of Tella’s Statement of Faith, TeCLA. Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press. 23 Synodicon 147, Canon 1. 24 Synodicon 147 and 215–7, Canon 2 and Answers 23, 25–8. 22

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These texts also prescribed strict modes of behavior that were to distinguish ascetic priests from the typical village congregation that they administered. Such prescriptions included restrictions on diet, drink, dress, contact with women, usurious practices, and physical deportment.25 Finally, it should be stressed that John’s works indicate that he and his followers had developed ways to collect and redistribute wealth. John’s Canons noted that many priests offered gifts to both their local church and their villagers upon their ordination, and he sought to regulate such donations in order to ensure that such conduct did not lapse into outright simony.26 At the same time, he mandated that such gifts, as well as the tithes that priests collected from villagers, should be invested in the maintenance of the church and hospitality toward strangers, the poor, orphans, and widows.27 In short, John’s writings outlined a social system for collecting and redistributing wealth among “orthodox” villagers, and as will be highlighted in subsequent sections, Elias claimed that John’s ability to “collect gold” was a matter of concern for Persian authorities. Amid John’s efforts to create a network of priests and monks characterized by a common mode of behavior and to establish a clerical hierarchy, Severus of Antioch, the deposed antiChalcedonian bishop of Antioch, sent letters to John and his associates. According to the Syriac translations of these letters, he praised their politeia and compared it to that of the Old Testament figure Elijah.28 If the Syriac translation reflects Severus’ use of politeia in Greek, this analogy had manifold connotations for John’s activity at the time. After escaping from the hands of idolaters by hiding in the wilderness, Elijah had been told by God that the seven thousand Israelites who had kept his covenant would be spared, and Severus’ references to the Old Testament figure of Elijah suggested that John had effectively assembled a community Synodicon 149–51, 153, 155, Canons 9–11, 15, and 26. Synodicon 152–3, Canon 14. 27 Synodicon 151–2, Canons 11–12. 28 Severus of Antioch, The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus, Patriarch of Antioch 5.14, ed. and tr. by E. W. Brooks (London: Williams & Norgate, 1904), 389–90. 5.14, addressed to John, Philoxenos, and Thomas at Marde, is the focus here. Also relevant is 5.15, written to Sergius of Cyrrhus and Marion of Sura, which endorses the ordination of priests (402–4). For discussion of the seventh-century translator Athanasius, who was responsible for the Syriac version of the sixth book of letters, see the introduction of Brooks in The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus, Patriarch of Antioch, ix–xi. 25 26

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of ascetics and priests characterized by an elevated and spiritual lifestyle.29 Yet, in addition to maintaining an ascetic regimen, they, like Elijah, were effectively maintaining a society of pious “Israelites” in the face of idolatrous forces. Severus’ use of the term politeia thereby indexed the diverse meanings that the world encapsulated, and it cast John’s network as an ascetic society that also resisted the current heretical inclinations of the Roman empire. While constituting an alternative to the temptations of the “world,” it also could be the site of resistance to the idolatry of empires. Although they otherwise do not develop what the concept of politeia signified for John’s activity, it is significant that Syriac translations of Severus’ letters and homilies in general cite the term politeia in ways that exhibit its numerous and overlapping potential meanings. If it is accepted that the Syriac translation of the term reflects Severus’ usages in Greek, such letters and homilies reflect the complexity with which the term politeia had been endowed during the lifetime of John of Tella. For instance, Severus’ letter to Simeon, a cleric and the archimandrite of the monastery of Teleda, exhorted him to receive into the “orthodox” fold those who had previously been opposed to it and criticized his recent reluctance to do so.30 In a reference to a passage from Proverbs, Severus’ letter argued that according to this “priestly text,” the cultivation of patience enabled kings or emperors to “prosper” or be “consecrated,” ݁ ), and it then proceeded to outline how Simeon (‫̈ ܐ‬ should exercise similar forms of patience.31 Accordingly, if the Syriac translation accurately reflects the premises of Severus’ Greek, the letter was suggesting a comparison between Simeon’s duties as archimandrite and the conduct of an Old Testament king. Severus’ letter then told Simeon, an ordained cleric himself, that “it befits your politeia” to receive with patience and humility wayward monks into a community of the faithful.32 Such use of the term Severus of Antioch, The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus, Patriarch of Antioch 5.14, 389–90. In this specific passage, Severus is citing the description of Elijah’s activities presented in 1 Kings 19:13–4. By referring to Elijah’s flight onto the hill of Horeb explicitly, Severus was intent on comparing how both Elijah and John’s companions were responsible for consolidating the faithful in a time of idolatrous persecution. 30 Severus of Antioch, The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus, Patriarch of Antioch 5.9, 365. 31 Severus of Antioch, The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus, Patriarch of Antioch 5.9, 365. Citing Pr 25:15. 32 Severus of Antioch, The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus, Patriarch of Antioch 5.9, 365. 29

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politeia stressed that Simeon, as archimandrite, was supposed to assume the patience of the Old Testament kings of Israel, but it also emphasized Simeon’s leadership over a community with a shared set of ascetic behaviors and doctrinal outlook. To have a politeia was to be a member of a community and to assume the character and behavior of that community. Simeon belonged to a politeia of patient and forgiving monks, and as its abbot, he was to act as a “priestly emperor” who upheld its righteous ways. Likewise, another letter of Severus used the term politeia to describe the community and laws that Moses had established for Jews. In this letter, Moses’ politeia served as a point of contrast with that of the Gospel, which had supplanted it through the intercession of Christ.33 In a homily that he composed as bishop of Antioch, Severus described how demons exploited the laws and politeia of “tyrants and governors” in order to make such imperial figures set upon martyrs like wild beasts.34 As described above, Jewish and Christian authors had in certain instances pitted their politeiai against those of worldly empires that could engage in repressive activity toward them, and Severus’ multi-faceted employment of the term highlights the various interwoven significances with which sympathizers could have endowed John’s ministry. His was a politeia of ascetic “orthodox” which contravened the mandates of the worldly, idolatrous politeia of an empire, and the activities of its spiritual leaders, its “priestly emperors” modeled on the divinely anointed kings of the Old Testament, could posit challenges to the tenets of earthly ones. Because of the polyvalent connotations of the term politeia, John’s clerical and ascetic network could be construed as an alternative society and political entity that challenged the sovereignty of Roman and Persian magistrates and not a mere philosophical concept or a group of ascetic practitioners.35 Indeed, the word encompassed many meanings and operated in many semantic contexts, and John’s supporters could thereby exploit its endless ambiguity to describe a network of ascetic and priestly communities binding 33 Severus of Antioch, The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus, Patriarch of Antioch 10.1, 486–8. 34 Severus of Antioch, Homélie 86, in Homiliae cathedrales, ed. Maurice Brière, PO 23 (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1932), 44–5 [312–3]. 35 For a similar postulation of a “commonwealth” of the antiChalcedonian faithful, especially in reference to the activity of Simeon of Beth-Arsham, see Garth Fowden, Empire to Commonwealth: Consequences of Monotheism in Late Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 129–30.

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together the frontier territories of Rome and Persia. Yet, the ambiguity encapsulated in the word politeia made John more vulnerable to the attacks of his enemies, who could claim that he was not merely undergoing an ascetic retreat within the frontier, but that he was also engaging in politically treasonous activity by persuading locals to value the authority of his politeia over that of the Roman and Persian imperial administrations. This vulnerability could only have been exacerbated by the fact that the Roman imperial administration supported Chalcedonian bishops whereas the Persian monarchy at this time recognized the Church of the East, which John’s missionary efforts also targeted, to be the only legitimate Christian sect within its realm.36 A frontier politeia of Severan priests and monks trying to edify their enfeebled church could easily transgress the interests of the two mighty empires.

THE FRONTIER POLITEIA AND CULTURAL INTERACTION In his endorsement of John’s ordinations, Severus, the exiled bishop of Antioch, had exhorted John and his colleagues to gather followers “from those who are near you and far from you throughout the lands,” and John’s politeia took on connotations of cultural interaction.37 According to both his biographers, the ministry of John and his companions was extensive, and would-be clerics came from all regions of the eastern empire and even from Persia and Armenia.38 Many of these Persians became bishops and returned to Persian territory in order to administer congregations.39 The members of John’s politeia thereby consisted of various groups of “distinguished priests and believers” dispersed throughout the fron-

36 For the attempt of John and his colleagues to guide Persians from the “error” and “wicked doctrine” of Nestorius, “the servant of humanity,” see Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 36 and 60–1. For Persian recognition of the Church of the East, see Wilhelm Baum and Dietmar W. Winkler, The Church of the East: A Concise History (London: RoutledgeCurson, 2003), 14–7. 37 Severus of Antioch, The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus, Patriarch of Antioch 5.14, 393. 38 Described by Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 58–62; John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 24 (Life of John of Thella), 317 [519]. John of Ephesus also claims that visitors came from Arzanene, which was a Mesopotamian district controlled by the Persians. Perhaps Elias is referring to men from this region specifically when he mentions the “Persian” episcopal candidates. 39 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 58–62.

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tier.40 The writings of John of Tella himself also reflect such a trend. In addition to reinforcing distinctions between the “orthodox” and “heretics” and asserting the authority of priests over common laypersons, John’s Questions and Answers addressed the issues that arose because of the networking that occurred among clerics and ascetics from both Roman and Persian regions. John, for instance, expressed concern that frequent contact among people on both sides of the frontier would make it easy for altars and other objects that members of the Church of the East used in their rites to be unwittingly incorporated into the sacred rituals of the “orthodox.”41 John also mandated that when Christians from Roman and Persian territory met in friendship, Romans should not give their Persian counterparts a piece of the Eucharist in order to solidify social bonds.42 Not content with integrating those who inhabited the Persian frontier into his ascetic network, as Elias claimed, John also sought to convert Arabs and nomads. He sent letters to the phylarch al-Mundir, and his enemies’ allegation that he ate camel suggests that he interacted with nomads personally.43 According to John of Ephesus, John rigorously maintained an archive of documents that recorded the various faithful priests whom he had appointed through numerous lands, just as the Persian Simeon of Beth-Arsham had done before him.44 By the mid-530s, John had even relocated to Mt. Singara in Persian territory, where he was eventually captured by Persian military forces. John’s ministry extended to both sides of the frontier, and his ordinations thereby enabled the anti-Chalcedonians of both Roman Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae rhetori vulgo adscripta Vol. 2, 8.5 describes at length the mass exodus of monks driven from monasteries into the remote regions of the East. Severus of Antioch, in The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus, Patriarch of Antioch 5.15 addressed to Sergius of Cyrrhus, had exhorted John and his companions to ordain priests, and John accordingly began to attract monks, clerics, and ordination prospects. 41 Synodicon 220–1, Answers 43–7. 42 Synodicon 219–220, Answer 42. 43 See Irfan Shahîd, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century, Vol. 2 (Washington: Dumbarton Oaks, 1995), 710 for missionary activity that can possibly be linked to John of Tella. See Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 62– 3 for John’s letters to the camp of al-Mundir and 92 for John’s alleged camel diet. John’s letters to al-Mundir were intended to contest the alleged spread of Julianist doctrines among Arabs. 44 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 24 (The Life of John of Thella), 518–9 [316–7] and 522 [320] and 10 (Life of Simeon the Bishop), ed. E. W. Brooks, PO 17, 155–6. 40

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and Persian controlled Mesopotamia to be integrated conceptually into a single united church. In fact, John of Ephesus interpreted John’s activity as the precursor to that of Jacob Baradeus (Bard‛āyā), who appointed priests on both sides of the frontier, and his own account of John’s activity resembles his description of himself as a leader of deacons originating from Syria, Armenia, and Persia.45 That is, John of Ephesus cast himself as perpetuating the culturally eclectic ministry of John of Tella. Both biographers of John thereby perceived that the membership of “believers” within John’s politeia was determined by faith and ascetic behavior, not ethnicity, culture, or native region, and it had the potential to transcend the authority of the imperial institutions that sanctioned persecution and endorsed religious impiety.46 The members of such a politeia, bound by their common faith, could claim not to differentiate between territory administered by Persians and Romans. This aspect of John’s ministry, however, encouraged his opponents to claim that he was revolting against the emperor and that he refused to acknowledge each empire’s authority and definition of civic 45 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 49 (Life of James), 490 (692) for Jacob as continuing John’s work. For John’s account of his activity in converting pagans in Asia Minor, during which time he was supported by numerous Syrian priests, in addition to others who belonged to a genos beyond the eastern frontier, such as those to be found in Persia and Armenia, see John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 43 (Lives of Four Deacons), PO 18, 456–7 [658–9]. 46 According to Sebastian Brock, “Christians in the Sasanian Empire: A Case of Divided Loyalties,” in Religion and National Identity, Studies in Church History 18 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1982), 13 and 18, it was typical for Persian Christians not to divide their conceptual world between Roman and Persian but between “The People of God” and “those outside,” or between the “true ‘People of God’ and ‘heretics.’” Christians whose earthly loyalty was to the Roman emperor seem to have exercised a similar perception of the world. Also see Drijvers’ comments, which suggest that the Greek, Iranian, and Semitic cultural strands that flourished in second century Edessa were experienced as an indistinguishable unity. Although his comments are focused on the city of Edessa during the lifetime of the philosopher Bardaisan, they show that the eastern frontier had enjoyed a tradition of cultural interaction that John’s politeia could utilize. Han J. W. Drijvers, “Bardaisan von Edessa als Repräsentant des syrischen Synkretismus im 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr.,” in Synkretismus im syrisch-persischen Kulturgebiet, ed. A. Dietrich (Göttingen: Symposion, 1971), 119. For comments on the frontier zone’s ability to create a sense of common identity among Christians, “whether Roman, Iranian, or from somewhere in between,” see Elizabeth Fowden, The Barbarian Plain: Saint Sergius between Rome and Iran (Berkeley: University of California, 1999), 58–9.

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identity.47 In fact, he had continued to ordain priests even though the emperor Justinian, at a disputation held in Constantinople in 532, commanded him not to do so, and his activity therefore exposed him to accusations of treason.48 For such reasons, Elias’ Life is extremely preoccupied with dispelling any premise that John’s activity was treasonous, even as it suggested that John’s community undermined the imperial authority of both the Romans and the Persians. He therefore presented John’s encounter with the Persian Marzban and his surrogates in ways that articulated that John and his companions had upheld the will of God amid the Roman emperor’s current failure to do so. He also outlined the ways by which Persian authorities had misinterpreted John’s ministry as some form of criminal activity. According to him, the Persian comes directly responsible for his capture classified him as an “evil man” who was “worthy of an evil death,” and in his account both Roman detractors and Persian authorities are depicted as asserting that John had amassed a personal following of villagers and nomads by appointing priests over rural congregations.49 In addition, Elias claimed that the bishop Ephrem had per47 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 58. For this reason, Elias stated that John “despised the threats of monarchs” when he began his ministry of priestly appointments. 48 John’s conduct at the disputation at Constantinople, which most likely occurred in 532, is recorded in Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 59–60. John’s migration to Singara is described in 60–1, although the name of the mountain is not actually given until 66. For information on the documents recording the proceedings, see Sebastian Brock, “The Conversations with the Syrian Orthodox under Justinian (532)” (OrChrP 47 [1981]), 88. An anonymous summary of the proceedings generated by anti-Chalcedonian partisans has been published by F. Nau, Textes Monophysites, PO 13 (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1919), 192–6. An edition and translation of the acephalous doctrinal statement of John and his companions at Constantinople, as well as a translation of the summary given by the anti-Chalcedonians, has been presented by Sebastian Brock, “The Conversations with the Syrian Orthodox under Justinian (532),” 87–121. This anonymous summary and Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 59 record how Justinian ordered John and his colleagues to stop performing ordinations. See Brock, “The Conversations,” 115 for his analysis of Brook’s edition of Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 59 and his conclusion that Justinian prohibited John from ordaining more priests but allowed him to perform baptisms and to give the sacrament to his congregations. For recent examination of the disputation and the significance of the Libellus of Hormisdas in affecting its development, see Menze, Justinian, 58–67 and 94–105. 49 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 68.

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suaded the Persian Marzban of Nisibis to send out a joint force of Persian and Roman soldiers to raid John’s community on the mountain of Singara by telling lies and offering bribes.50 Once John was captured and brought to Nisibis, the Marzban in Elias’s account accused him of a series of crimes that were based, as Elias hinted, on Ephrem’s presentation of John’s activity. The first was that John had “crossed into our land without our permission,” thereby entering “another politeia.”51 The second was that he was “collecting much gold from those who came” to him, thereby collecting and redistributing wealth among the local communities over which he had influence.52 The third was that he was “rebelling against Caesar and those who rule his land.”53 According to Elias, John’s enemies had in such ways expanded initial charges of simony and illicit priestly ordinations into an accusation that he was staging a revolt apparently facilitated by his ability to collect wealth and to assemble a gang of followers, and they had stressed that John was openly defying the authority of both Roman and Persian imperial magistrates. Since Elias cast the Persian authorities as being less concerned with John’s ecclesiastical infractions than his potentially disruptive influence over local communities in the frontier zone, he presented the Marzban’s three accusations as reflecting his suspicion of the ability of John and his associates to acquire resources, attract followers, and administer local congregational communities within both Roman and Persian territory. Because of such interpretations of John’s activity, as Elias claims, his benign religious ministry had been likened to rebellion. However, according to Elias, when John heard the Marzban’s allegations, he denied that his activities in Persia constituted disloyalty or unlawful conduct. In response to the Marzban’s first accusation about his illegal entry into the Persian politeia, John stressed that the present peace enabled him to ignore the distinction be-

50 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 68 and 71–3. Elias claims that Ephrem told many lies (66) about John in order to persuade the Persians to abduct him, and the Persians, before they captured him, had a preconceived notion that he had committed treason. 51 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 71. The line reads: ‫ܓܒ ܐ ܕܐ ܬܟ܇ ܕܬ ܒ ܐܬܪܢ‬ ܼ ‫ܐ݁ ܐ ܐ‬ ݁ .‫ܐ ܗܝ ܗܕܐ ܐ ܬܐ‬ ‫ ܐ ܥ ܐ ܕ‬. ‫ܒ‬ 52 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 72. The line reads: ݀ ‫ܕ‬ ݁ ‫ܗܘܘ‬ ‫ܐܬ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܕܗܒܐ ܓ ܐܐ‬ .‫ܬܟ‬ 53 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 72–3. The line reads: . ‫ܒܐܪ‬ ‫ܕ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܘ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ‬

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tween the “commonwealths” and between the inhabitants of Rome and Persia. He proclaimed: Today, when there is this complete peace between these two empires, I do not know politeia from politeia, for the two emperors are brothers in love. If I am here, I think that I am among the Romans. If I am among the Romans, I think that I am here because of the peace.54

‫ܬ̈ܪܬ‬ ‫ܐ ܒ‬ ‫ܗܐ‬ ‫ܐ ܕܐ‬ ̈ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܐ ݁ ܥ ܐܐ‬ ‫ܬܐ܈‬ ̈ ‫ܐ ܐ ̈ܐ‬ ‫ ܬ̈ܪ ܘܢ ܓ‬.‫ܐ‬ ‫ ܘܐܢ ܗܪ ܐ ܐ ܝ ܒ‬.‫ܘܢ ܒ ܒܐ‬ ‫̈ܪܘ ܐ‬ ‫ ܘܐܢ ܒ‬.‫ܐ ݁ ܒ ܐ ܐ ܕܐ ܝ‬ .‫ܗ ܕ ܐ‬ ‫ܼܝ ܗܪ ܐ ܐ ݁ ܝ‬

‫ܗ‬ ‫ܘ‬ ‫ܐ‬ ‫̈ܪܘ‬ ݁‫ܐ‬

After making this statement, John then denied that he had collected any gold, and he assured his interrogator that he obeyed the Roman emperor in worldly affairs but could not be fully reconciled with him until he ruled “his kingdom according to God’s will.”55 So long as the emperor ruled without God’s will, the Roman imperial administration had no authority over him. This sentiment was also articulated in the biography of John of Tella written by John of Ephesus, who claimed that John had professed to have rejected an earthly emperor for a heavenly one and explicitly compared his captivity in Antioch to the martyrdom of Ignatius in Rome.56 The purpose of John’s responses, as the author of his Life presented them, was to assure the Marzban that he was not hostile to either the politeia of the Persians or that of the Romans; the rigid distinction between them had been made obsolete by the current peace between the Roman and Persian monarchs and by the holy community that John had created in the frontier zone during this period of calm. Similarly, John recognized the temporal authority of the emperor, but because the emperor refused to yield to divine authority, he and his companions had to create a community that actually did. According to the author, John’s explanations satisfied the Persians; they decided that John was not in revolt against the Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 72. Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 73. Although John maintained that he was subject to the emperor, he also claimed that he prayed that he would rule his kingdom according to God’s will. The clear implication was that John had to conduct his frontier ministry beyond the Roman empire’s authority until the emperor and his administration changed how they governed their realm. 56 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 24 (Life of John of Thella), 318 [520], 320–1 [523–4]. 54 55

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Roman emperor, and they handed John over to Ephrem only in exchange for gold.57 Still, in Elias’ account John never agreed to obey the Roman emperor when he acted against John’s religious convictions, and the needs of his frontier Christian politeia therefore retained precedence over imperial mandates, whether Roman or Persian. In fact, such an interpretation also emerged in the biography of John written by John of Ephesus, who too presented John’s ascetic and clerical network as adhering to the will of the heavenly emperor while resisting the idolatrous mandates of earthly ones. Accordingly, in Elias’ estimation, John’s ability to persuade the Marzban of his innocence reaffirmed the authenticity of his politeia as a society transcending the political divide between Rome and Persia. John proclaimed his denial of a boundary between the two empires in the disputed city of Nisibis, and his alleged success in persuading the Marzban, a figure of authority whose primary function was to discern and defend the boundary of the Persian politeia, enabled the author to cast John as the legitimate leader of an authentic commonwealth. According to Elias’s perspective, John had exposed the artificiality of the border located between Nisibis and Dara, which only existed through administrative logistics and the rigorous implementation of military force. His peaceful and divinely sanctioned politeia was authentic, but so long as they sustained idolatry, the Roman and Persian politeiai were the flawed figments of human artifice and embedded only within the material world, to be obeyed by servants of corporeal matter. For this reason, Elias conceived of them as contrived and fake empires “of men,” not God.58 In the years following John’s death, both Elias 57 In “Christians in the Sasanian Empire,” 14, Brock points out that Persian Christians had succeeded in recognizing both “Christ and a temporal Shah.” Accordingly, John’s statement that he recognized an “earthly emperor” would have sounded reasonable to Persians who by this period accepted Christians who belonged to the Church of the East as loyal subjects. 58 This is argued by Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 54–6 in its description of John’s resistance to imperial authority during his brief tenure as active bishop of Tella. According to Elias, John’s lay opponents, who wanted to acquiesce to the will of the emperor, were bound by “the corporeal” (‫) ܓ ܐ‬, but they denounced “the spiritual” (‫ܐ‬ ‫( )̈ܪܘ‬54–5). They had therefore argued that they could not resist the emperor’s mandates. Elias elaborated further that such men were “serving corporeal pleasures” ), and he claimed that John reproached them for (‫݁ ̈ ܐ ܓ ܐ‬ gratifying men and not God (55–6). In fact, the author claims that John made a nearly identical statement to the emperor Justinian at the disputation which he held in Constantinople in 532 (59). The author’s arguments

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and John of Ephesus produced their versions of John’s life to emphasize that these empires and their contrived boundaries were not to be heeded by the truly faithful, who were to obey the heavenly emperor and not an earthly one when their mandates were contradictory. For such authors, John’s politeia represented a community of ascetics and priests who had done exactly that, despite the hardships and tribulations that earthly empires had wrought.

JOHN AND EPHREM: STRATEGIES OF AUTHORITY While framing John’s ascetic network and clerical hierarchy as a politeia, both biographies of John of Tella portray him and his nemesis Ephrem as polar opposites. In addition to contrasting John’s moral elevation with the degeneracy of Ephrem, both sources indicate that their careers were anchored in entirely different criteria of authority. John had been born into a family of notables who had educated him in Greek letters, and he had been an apprentice of the dux of Callinicum. Yet, he had eventually renounced a career within the Roman imperial administration, had become an ascetic, and had been compelled by anti-Chalcedonian priests to be the bishop of Tella.59 After his exile, he fled to the wilderness frontiers of Roman Syria and Persia where he remained beyond the reach of Roman magistrates, except for his participation at the disputation which Justinian assembled in Constantinople in 532.60 During his extended exile, John challenged the arbitrary political boundaries dividing frontier communities which in many ways shared a common culture and language, namely Syriac.61 In thereby located the Roman imperial mechanisms that sustained the Chalcedonian position within human artifice and the material realm, as opposed to the spiritual and divinely sanctioned underpinnings of John’s politeia. 59 These statements summarize the sequence of events of Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 39–57. 60 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 57–74; John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 24 (Life of John of Thella), 313–8 [515–20]; Brock, “The Conversations, 87–121; F. Nau, Textes Monophysites, 192–6. 61 J. H. W. G. Liebeschuetz, The Decline and Fall of the Ancient City (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 259–60. See also W. H. C. Frend, The Rise of the Monophysite Movement: Chapters in the History of the Church in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 320–1. These authors emphasize the increasing solidarity among the anti-Chalcedonians on both sides of the frontier. This is not to say that the culture of Mesopotamia was homogenous during this period; the previous interventions of Greeks, Romans, and Persians had influenced

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short, John had built his reputation by conducting his ministry beyond the hegemony of Roman and Persian imperial structures. In Elias’ account, John’s resistance to imperial idolatry and his answers to the accusations of his Persian captor are presented as neither circumstantial nor isolated occurrences. While John of Ephesus framed the bishop as a second Ignatius, for Elias, he was cast in the likeness of Paul the “Apostle,” and his imitation of Paul over the course of his entire life had made his resistance to imperial idolatry inevitable. According to Elias, John’s reading of Paul’s letters or accounts about Paul’s ministry had determined his course of action during every significant turning point of his life: his ascetic conversion, his efforts to flee the episcopate, his conduct as bishop, and his frontier ministry.62 Not only that, Elias’ account portrayed John as not only modeling his personal behaviors on those of Paul but as quoting his epistles so often that the two figures become increasingly indistinct. Elias’ John was virtually a reanimated Paul who breathed new life into Paul’s own words during his frontier ministry, and when Elias claims to repeat the injunctions that John had spoken to him or others, these quotations mostly consist of citations of Paul’s letters.63 According to Elias, the cultural practices of the region, and various communities certainly possessed their own local customs. Nonetheless, the Syriac language was dominant in both western and eastern Mesopotamia, and this feature distinguished the culture of Mesopotamia from that of western Syria, where Greek was more widely used. Syriac was also widespread among the villages with which John and his followers were in contact. See Segal, “Mesopotamian Communities from Julian to the Rise of Islam” (PBA 41 [1955]), 109–10, 121–2, 130 and Sebastian Brock, “Greek and Syriac in Late Antique Syria,” in Literacy and Power in the Ancient World, ed. Alan K. Bowman and Greg Woolf (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 152. 62 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 42, 44, 51–2, 58, 63–4. By Paul’s letters, I refer to all the letters of the New Testament that were generally attributed to Paul in antiquity. In 42, John’s ascetic conversation is motivated by his reading of the account of the “blessed Thecla,” Paul’s notable female disciple. Elias typically has John pondering a slew of Paul’s quotations in his own mind whenever he has to make a personal decision about his lifestyle and speaking them aloud to others when exercising his pastoral charge. The number of specific Pauline citations or paraphrases are too innumerable to recount or discuss in detail, but Brook’s Latin Versio of Elias’ account diligently records the biblical verses used for the pages cited here. 63 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 63–4. See the previous footnote for Elias’ treatment of John’s verbal citation of Paul.

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John had so thoroughly imitated Paul and his detachment from the corrupting affairs of the “world” that he had even become incapable of “rendering unto Caesar the things of Caesar’s.”64 It was no surprise that John had abandoned his position in the imperial administration to become an ascetic and an obstacle to its idolatrous forces. By contrast, near contemporary sources indicate that Ephrem’s career and authority were based on his involvement within the Roman imperial system.65 Born in Amida, he had received a Greek education, had risen through the ranks of the Roman administration, and had served in Antioch as comes Orientis, a powerful office that aided him in his appointment as bishop of Antioch and allowed him to exploit his previous political connections to destroy dissident monasteries with soldiers.66 Instead of being the pastor of peasants and nomads on both sides of the frontier, he aligned himself with Roman imperial authority, its official religious doctrine, and the clerical hierarchy that it sustained in Constantinople and Antioch. Accordingly, while John’s career and his notion of a Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 42. John makes this claim to his mother. Ephrem’s surviving works were written in Greek. For details and bibliography about Ephrem’s fragmentary works, see Patrick Gray, The Defense of Chalcedon in the East (451–553) (Leiden: Brill, 1979), 141–54. Ephrem’s surviving fragments are extremely theological in orientation and unfortunately reveal little about how he interacted socially with his congregation or with his enemies, such as John of Tella. 66 See Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 62 for further details and bibliography on Ephrem. Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae rhetori vulgo adscripta Vol. 2, 8.4, 76 reports that Ephrem was comes Orientis when he was appointed bishop. Ephrem’s embodiment of both imperial and ecclesiastical power was exemplified by his ability to negotiate with Persian authorities, abduct John, and try him in an ecclesiastical court without interference. During Justinian’s reign, the Chalcedonian church had developed its own court system that functioned independently of other civil courts. See Caroline Humfress, “Law and Legal Practice in the Age of Justinian,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, ed. Michael Maas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2005), 178–9 for the development of ecclesiastical courts. Humfress stresses that the emperor Justinian upheld the decisions of church councils as though they “emanated from the res publica itself” and that the defensores ecclesiae or ekdikoi could intervene in both civil and criminal cases to protect the church’s interests. Accordingly, although Ephrem prosecuted John within the ecclesiastical court system with his own scholastici and ekdikoi, he embodied the prerogatives of the Roman politeia. For the hostility of the scholasticus Rufinus, see 79–85. For the presence of ekdikoi at John’s trial in Antioch, refer to 87. 64 65

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Christian politeia highlighted the commonality of people on both sides of the frontier, Ephrem’s career and outlook demanded conformity to the old order. His destruction of John’s community can therefore be seen as an attempt to keep eastern Syria within the sphere of Chalcedonian religion, but it also had the effect of ensuring the regional primacy of Antioch and the prerogatives of a Roman imperial administration anchored within urban communities. Equally as significant, Elias hinted that if John’s divinely authenticated politeia was characterized by peace on the frontier, then the joint assault that the Romans and Persians launched against it at Ephrem’s behest had violently reaffirmed the artificial boundary between Rome and Persia. In Elias’s narrative, such violence exemplified the activity of humanly contrived imperial structures mired within a corrupt sensory world. By serving the emperor during a period of idolatry, Ephrem served humanity and a corporeal politeia, not God and a spiritual one. Yet, Elias was not alone in his deployment of rhetorical strategies; if his account is accurate, John’s opponents frequently resorted to similar tactics. By integrating the ascetic communities and villages of the frontier into an inclusive network that his supporters conceptualized as a politeia, John had raised the possibility that religious and cultural authority could be centered on the frontier of Rome and Persia. Nonetheless, the very nature of his activity made him vulnerable to the attacks of his opponents in Roman Syria, who stressed his marginality and isolation from more traditional centers of political and cultural authority, such as Antioch and Constantinople. The author was undoubtedly aware of this. He carefully recorded how John’s enemies accused him of rebelling against Caesar. He noted how in his youth John coaxed his paidagogos to neglect Greek literature in favor of learning the psalms in Syriac, a language more suitable for his future ministry on the frontier than for participation in the Roman imperial administration or contact with other churches in the eastern Roman empire.67 In fact, 67 See Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 92 for the accusation of camel and donkey consumption. For John’s education in the Syriac psalms, see 43 and Sebastian Brock, “Greek and Syriac in Late Antique Syria,” 156. It is important to emphasize, however, that Syriac was not merely spoken in the countryside and among peasants, but it certainly penetrated Syrian cities and found use among aristocrats. John’s usage of the Syriac language did not limit his pastoral intentions to villagers. See David G. K. Taylor, “Bilingualism and Diglossia in Late Antique Syria and Mesopotamia,” in Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Text, ed J. N. Adams, Mark Janse, and Simon Swain (Oxford: Oxford University Press,

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the author believed that Ephrem exploited John’s immersion within local frontier culture in order to liken him to the nomads with whom he consorted. The accusations of camel and donkey eating, the trademarks of a pastoral and un-civilized lifestyle, were certainly meant to have his effect.68 But in addition, John’s enemies treated his ascetic retreat as evidence of his savage behavior, his evil character, and his lust for rebellion.69 He wore a hair shirt and a long beard not because of his rigorous asceticism but to deceive people into obeying his authority and to conceal his rebellious in-

2002), 304–6, 330–1. The recent work of Adam Becker, Fear of God and the Beginning of Christian Wisdom: The School of Nisibis and Christian Scholastic Culture in Late Antique Mesopotamia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), 35–6, 38 emphasizes the significance of John’s conversion to Christian asceticism and his cultivation of the Syriac psalms to be his “rejection of an elite Greek form of learning” and his re-orientation towards Scripture and Christian works. The recent study of Fergus Millar, The Greek Roman Empire: Power and Belief under Theodosius II (408–450) (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 93–107 stresses that Greek was the lingua franca that facilitated communication among the inhabitants of all regions of the Greek east, and it was therefore the dominant language of church councils and the language that magistrates used to communicate with local populations. Although Syriac was a significant language within Syrian regions, it was not familiar to magistrates and churchmen from other areas of the eastern Roman empire and not nearly as serviceable at places such as Constantinople, as argued in 114–6. The author therefore certainly emphasizes John’s interest in Syriac in order to stress his orientation towards the frontier of Rome and Persia, not towards Antioch and Constantinople. At the same time, this is not to argue that Syriac, as opposed to Greek, had become an exclusive expression of Syrian nationalism or identity. In fact, many anti-Chalcedonians, including Severus of Antioch, were Greek speakers, and the Chalcedonian faction certainly included individuals fluent in Syriac. However, John’s ministry, which relied heavily on Syriac to communicate with villagers on both sides of the frontier, raised the possibility that Syriac could perhaps displace or decenter Greek and Latin as languages of power and authority among the anti-Chalcedonians of the region. 68 For an exploration of “pastoralism” as being at “the distal end of the spectrum from agriculture” and the association between “flesh eating” and pastoralism in classical sources, see Brent Shaw, “‘Eaters of Flesh, Drinkers of Milk’: The Ancient Mediterranean Ideology of the Pastoral Nomad,” (Ancient Society 13–4 [1982/3]), 12–9, 29–30 (quotation on 18). 69 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 68. The comes that captured John claimed that he would not have lived remotely in desert mountains and among lions and boars if he had not been evil and rebellious.

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tentions.70 If Elias’ representation is accurate, by transforming John’s ascetic qualities into emblems of savagery and treachery, John’s enemies had emphasized his activity on the margins of civilization in order to liken him to the exemplification of social and political subversion: the bandit. Neither the Roman nor the Persian imperial systems entirely integrated the populations of the geographical landscapes that they claimed to govern. Imperial authorities therefore reckoned such groups of people as bandits, as virtual non-persons who possessed no status because of their inability to be functioning members of an imperial system.71 Similarly, John himself was no longer adequately integrated into the governing structures of either Rome or Persia.72 Although his enemies never accused him of violent acts of banditry, his isolation from the governing structures of Rome and Persia and his authority among the villages of the frontier exposed him to accusations of treason and savagery from the representatives of imperial regimes. Like a bandit, John had exerted tremendous charismatic authority within a frontier territory where imperial institutions had limited influence. Because of this, Elias’ account emphasizes that representatives of imperial authority, such as Ephrem and the Persian Marzban, had conceptualized John as both a “disturber of the Church” and a savage agitator against imperial stability, and they negated this threat through force.73 According to roughly contemporary sources, when Ephrem abducted John to Antioch, he further displayed these perceived differences between his civilized status and John’s savagery. John’s Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 77–8. See the analysis of Brent Shaw, “Bandits in the Roman Empire,” Past and Present 105 (1984), 21–2, 41–2. Bandits did not belong to the same category as other types of criminals because their actions occurred outside the authority of the empire’s civil and criminal legal system and therefore effectively challenged the actual legitimacy of “state” institutions. Because of this, imperial representatives virtually rendered bandits as “nonpersons,” as people who did not possess any defined status within the Roman imperial system or within that of a rival state, such as Persia. For a recent study that emphasizes bandits as a literary type, see Thomas Grünewald, Bandits in the Roman Empire: Myth and Reality (London: Routledge, 2004). 72 In fact, John’s ascetic retreat on Mt. Singara was so remote that the Marzban’s soldiers had to bribe a local Julianist ascetic to find it, and when they captured John, they had great difficulty navigating their way back to the road leading to Nisibis. Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 67, 69–70 73 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 77. According to John’s biographer, Ephrem’s supporters had accused him of terrorizing “the Church.” 70 71

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captivity in Antioch occurred during Ephrem’s enkainia (in Syriac: ‫)ܐ ܐ‬, or restoration, of the Great Church at Antioch that an earthquake had destroyed in 526.74 Ephrem celebrated this enkainia by assembling a council of one hundred and thirty-two bishops, who then excommunicated Severus of Antioch and all his supporters who refused to accept the doctrines of Chalcedon.75 Ephrem’s role in rebuilding the city and its Great Church was significant in reaffirming his episcopal legitimacy. While Ephrem could claim to be responsible for helping rebuild a city that had been ravaged, perhaps providentially, by the forces of nature, his sympathizers, whether Roman or Persian, ridiculed John for fleeing urban life and for living “in desolate and terrible mountains among lions and wild boars,” where he ate animals that only nomads would eat.76 At the same time, by rebuilding the Great Church, Ephrem challenged another vital aspect of John’s legitimacy as a rival bishop. John’s charismatic authority was sustained by his alleged ability to “build” or “edify” a church of the faithful.77 This act of “building” (‫)ܒ ܐ‬ was metaphorical; John had not erected a church building, but he had “built” a church of people within frontier territory. Many textual representations of Ephrem, however, stressed his ability to erect actual buildings, and they suggest that his material structures were generally construed as physical reflections of the church community that he patronized and protected. Ephrem first earned a reputation for restoring both buildings and the communities that they represented when he, as comes Orientis, rebuilt Antioch after the earthquakes of 526 and 528.78 His benefactions justified Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 90. Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae rhetori vulgo adscripta Vol. 2, 10.5, 190. 76 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 68. John’s association with lions and boars was emphasized by the Persian commander who captured him, but when Ephrem’s supporters mocked his alleged camel diet, they were in a similar way indicating that John’s retreat into the wilderness did not constitute upright moral or ascetic behavior but savagery. 77 For John’s talent for “building” or “edification,” as encapsulated by the noun ‫ܒ ܐ‬, see Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 36 and 65. Likewise, note the emphasis that John of Tella placed on building in his Statement of Faith, as translated in Menze, Justinian, 90–2. 78 This episode is stressed by the later writings of John Moschus, Pratum spirituale 37, (PG 87:3, c. 2885–8), who claims that an unknown bishop predicted Ephrem’s episcopal tenure as bishop of Antioch when the city’s “public buildings were being restored” after one of the earthquakes of the 520s. His account could very well be derived from a more contemporary perspective that linked Ephrem’s episcopal legitimacy in part to his restoration of the city of Antioch. 74 75

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his episcopal appointment despite his previous lack of clerical status, and his ability to erect physical buildings correlated easily to his reputation for spiritual edification. He was “the great pillar of the church of the Antiochenes” in both a material and a conceptual sense, and he in turn was known to bring down “heretical” stylites from their columns.79 Indeed, Ephrem did not share John’s credentials as a self-mortifying ascetic or as a resistor of imperial persecution, but he possessed an official position as bishop of a metropolitan city, his status as a former imperial governor, and the emperor’s support. Ephrem’s building projects were therefore physical manifestations of these aspects of his identity and authority, and by rebuilding the Great Church and bringing John there to be humiliated, Ephrem was usurping John’s status as a “church builder” and stressing that John had no meaningful affiliation with a legitimate episcopal see.80 John’s church, a disorderly collection of rogues, was no church at all. Equally as significant, after the earthquake of 528, the emperor Justinian renamed Antioch Theopolis, the city of God. The fact that this event occurred during Ephrem’s episcopal tenure suggests that he had some influence on the emperor’s decision or that he was at least poised to benefit from it.81 The name Theopolis indicated that God himself had re-founded the destroyed city, and accordingly, Ephrem’s efforts to rebuild the Great Church were symbolically linked to his reconstruction of “God’s polis.” At the same time, Ephrem’s reconstituted Theopolis was intended to serve as the divinely sanctioned metropolitan city of the Chalcedonian Christians of Syria, and his re-consecration of the Great Church was certainly analogous to his efforts to edify his “orthodox” church community by assembling a council of Syrian bishops that excommunicated 79 Simeon the Younger is accredited with referring to Ephrem as “the great pillar” when he had a vision about his death. See Vita Simeonis Stylitae Iunioris 71, published in La vie ancienne de Syméon stylite le jeune (521–592), ed. and tr. Paul van den Ven, 2 Vols. SH 32 (Bruxelles: Bollandistes, 1962– 70). According to John Moschus, Pratum spirituale 36, c. 2884–5, Ephrem, through his zeal for the “orthodox faith,” persuaded a follower of Severus to dismount his column by throwing into a fire a garment that did not burn. 80 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 36 and 65. 81 Evagrius Scholasticus, Historia ecclesiastica 4.6, in The Ecclesiastical History of Evagrius, ed. J. Bidez and L. Parmentier (London: Methuen, 1898), 156. Also, Evagrius Scholasticus, Historia Ecclesiastica: Kirchengeschichte, ed. and tr. Adelheid Hübner, Fontes Christiani 57.1–2 (Turnhout: Brepols Publishers 2007), 461–2.

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anti-Chalcedonian “heretics.”82 As a result, the enkainia of the Great Church in Antioch was, judging from Ephrem’s conduct, a symbol of victory over the destructive chaos of idolatry.83 Because John’s “heretical” movement posed a potent danger to what “the city of God” and the restoration of Ephrem’s church represented, Ephrem ensured that Severus’ excommunication and John’s captivity in Antioch occurred during the enkainia festival. John’s destruction marked the consummation of Ephrem’s efforts to rebuild the Great Church, “the City of God,” and an “orthodox” Syria. Indeed, these elements of Ephrem’s ministry indicate why he was so intent to kidnap John from the Persian wilderness and to bring him to Antioch. While his own church, which was sustained by the consensus of a church council and imperial approval, was the ideological center of the Chalcedonian community in Syria, the body and charismatic authority of John, not a building, was the foundation of the politeia of the anti-Chalcedonian faithful. The humiliation of John’s flesh was the symbolic antithesis to the rebuilding of Ephrem’s church and indisputable evidence of his legitimacy. While sustaining the regional primacy of Antioch, it also marked how Ephrem’s Christian community was fundamentally antagonistic to John’s church. Ephrem’s ecclesiastical community was urban and sustained by Roman imperial support. By contrast, John’s consisted of anti-Chalcedonian churchmen and peasants inhabiting imperial margins, and after John’s abduction, it had dissolved.

THE DESTRUCTION OF EPHREM’S CHURCH Nonetheless, the supremacy of Ephrem’s church and what it represented came under close scrutiny in the years directly followJohn Moschus, Pratum spirituale 37 (PG. 87.3, c. 2888) shows how later generations connected Ephrem’s divinely sanctioned efforts to make Antioch, and by extension, Syria into an “orthodox” community with his previous building activities. When Ephrem, as comes Orientis, had been rebuilding the city after the earthquake of 526, an unknown bishop predicted, “God is bringing you onto the apostolic throne of this church of Theopolitans, so that you may shepherd His people…strive for almsgiving and orthodoxy.” John Moschus’ treatment of Ephrem most likely stems from the ideologies and reputation that the bishop and his supporters had crafted. 83 For a helpful article on the enkainia festivals in Syria, see Matthew Black, “The Festival of Encaenia Ecclesiae in the Ancient Church with Special Reference to Palestine and Syria” (JEH 5 [London: Faber, 1954]), 78–85. 82

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ing John’s death. Ephrem’s triumph was not an enduring one, and his church building was ephemeral. By 540 the Persians had sacked Antioch and had stripped its Great Church of its marbles and its treasures. In fact, the Persians brought the Great Church’s treasures and numerous of Antioch’s population into “Assyria,” and at a site near Ctesiphon, they used such plundered material and captive manpower to establish a new “Antioch.”84 The location of a Roman Antioch on the Mediterranean coast and a Persian Antioch near Ctesiphon could have only further emphasized that the intervening frontier zone was disputed and marginal territory, divided according to the administrative and military capacities of two imperial centers. In response to such calamities, many antiChalcedonians, including Elias, turned to the Old Testament in order to categorize the invasions of 540 and their consequences as God’s wrathful punishment for idolatrous behavior, and they imposed the commonplace term “Assyrian” on the Persians in order to draw a connection between the recent invasions and the devastation which an impious Judea had endured in biblical antiquity.85 An anonymous chronicle explicitly stated that God, “who casts judgment in favor of the oppressed,” had “incited the Assyrian against him [Ephrem] and the city” in response to the church council through which Ephrem had excommunicated the supporters of Severus of Antioch.86 Equally as significant, Elias drew an implicit connection between the destruction of John’s ascetic community and the invasions that occurred shortly after by claiming that the “Assyrians” had perpetrated both. The “Assyrian” had sacked both John’s monastic settlement at Singara in 537 and his native town of Callinicum in 542.87 Procopius, de bellis libri 2.9.14–6, 2.14.1–5, ed. Jacob Haury in Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia, Vol. 1 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1905). See Michael G. Morony, “Population Transfers between Sasanian Iran and the Byzantine Empire” in La Persia e Bisanzio (Rome: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 2004), 173–5 for relevant discussion and bibliography. 85 Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae rhetori vulgo adscripta Vol. 2, 10.5, 190; Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 38. Both authors seemed to be referencing Isa 10:5–6, in which God sends an Assyrian invasion against His rebellious people. Conversely, since the Chalcedonian faction had firm control over Antioch, its proponents were more inclined to blame the attacks on the premise that pagan beliefs still persisted within the city. See Vita Simeonis Stylitae Iunioris 57. 86 Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae rhetori vulgo adscripta Vol. 2, 10.5, 190. 87 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 38–9, 68. The comes of the Persians who led the attack and verbally berated John was referred to as “the Assyrian” (68). As Joel Walker, The Legend of Mar Qardagh: Narrative and Christian 84

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By linking together the “Assyrian” attacks against John’s camp and the “Assyrian” invasions of Syria, the author was able to remind his audience that the abduction of John and the destruction of his ascetic community represented a breach in a divine covenant that was ultimately responsible for the Persian invasions of Roman Syria initiated in 540.88 This perspective had consequential implications. Because Elias had also connected John’s divinely sanctioned politeia to the peace that flourished on the frontier, by cooperating to destroy John’s community, Ephrem and the Persian Marzban had perpetuated the relentless endeavors of imperial Rome and Persia to affirm contrived political boundaries through military violence. Equally as important, as an exemplar of Roman imperial authority, Ephrem had violated this divinely sanctioned community in an effort to enforce idolatrous and corrupt doctrines, thereby prompting God to punish both the just and the wicked through Persian invasion.89 The author was therefore able to attribute the Persian invasions of Roman Syria to Ephrem’s villainy and his dissolution of John’s spiritual politeia. Ephrem’s church, like Justinian’s empire, was mired in the corporeal, and it served the corruption of human artifice. Indeed, the Persian invasions and the destruction of Antioch’s Great Church had further importance for the anti-Chalcedonians who endeavored to reconstruct their clerical hierarchy after John’s death. Although the rebuilding of the Great Church presumably had spiritual significance for Ephrem and his supporters, the author and likeminded historians inevitably emphasized his church and the imperial regime that sustained it as merely material and ensconced in the corrupt sensory world. An anonymous contemporary author therefore insinuated that Ephrem had rebuilt the Great Church of Antioch with the expectation that his subordinate Heroism in Late Antique Iraq (Berkeley: University of California, 2006), 249–54 has shown, Assyrian traditions and identities still survived within the region of Adiabene during this period. However, in Elias’s case, the use of the term Assyrian most likely follows biblical precedent and refers casually to Persians in general. 88 In this vein, John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 24, (Life of John of Thella), 319–20 (521–2) noted that the frontier was closed off during the wars of the 540s, and he treated this process as the fulfillment of John’s prediction of his own doom and the intensified persecution of those who resisted Chalcedon. 89 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 38–9 cites an array of scriptural passages to show that God allowed John’s home city Callinicum to be sacked by the Persians in 542 in order to punish both the just and the wicked.

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bishops would grant him gifts before eventually noting that God had destroyed it because of Ephrem’s unjust activities.90 The perceptions of Ephrem’s critics reflect those conveyed decades earlier by a homily that Severus of Antioch had presented at a festival for the enkainia of the Great Church of Antioch, and it is possible that anti-Chalcedonians in Syria were using it to fuel their criticisms. Severus had emphasized to the members of his audience that the festival of enkainia or “renewal” was not celebrated merely to honor the rebuilding of a “visible church” of wood and stone. It was also celebrated to commemorate how they and their predecessors had steered their souls from ancient ignorance and evil toward renewal through faith in Christ.91 Anti-Chalcedonians portrayed Ephrem as having violated this principle. Since such a church was void of spirituality, it was thereby bound to be fleeting. Yet, by contrast, the afflicted remnants of John’s church, to whom John’s biographer had addressed his Life, had a “foundation” (‫ ) ܐ ܐ‬that was “true” (‫ܐ‬ ), everlasting, and 92 legitimate. In the wake of John’s captivity and death, the pillaging of Antioch and its cathedral therefore seemed to verify the perspectives of many beleaguered anti-Chalcedonians, who saw Ephrem’s behavior as both idolatrous and vain. Like the Roman and Persian empires, Ephrem’s church had been humanly contrived, and it had been maintained through imperial violence and worldly corruption. Conversely, John’s politeia, like that cited in Severus’ description of Elijah, had been divinely sanctioned and authentic, and when John of Ephesus cast John in the likeness of the martyr Ignatius, he intimated that John’s politeia was the true Antioch, the home of the first community of self-named Christians, whereas Ephrem’s Antioch was Rome, a center of imperial oppression.93 Such sentiments undoubtedly comforted many anti-Chalcedonians in Syria who would have to wait for the activity of Jacob Baradeus (Bard‛āyā) to assume the “pastoral staff” of John of Tella and create a church of “Jacobites” in Syria,

Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae rhetori vulgo adscripta Vol. 2, 10.5, 190. Severus of Antioch, Homélie 112, in Homiliae cathedrales, ed. Maurice Brière, PO 26 (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1948) 795–6 [289–90]. 92 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 32. 93 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 24 (Life of John of Thella), 514 [312] and 523 [321], citing Ignatius, Romans 5. For Ignatius’ imprisonment and martyrdom, see Eusebius, HE 3.26, ed. Eduard Schwartz and Theodor Mommsen, GCS 6.1 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1999). For Antioch as the residence of the first “Christians,” see Acts 11:26. 90 91

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“Jacobites” in Syria, Armenia, and Persia.94 For them, the humiliation of Ephrem’s base material church was unavoidable. All sensory beauty, as Elias readily argued, was “like a shadow.”95 It could be gone in an instant.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Allen, Pauline and C. T. R. Hayward. Severus of Antioch. London: Routledge, 2004. Aristotle. Politica, ed. W. D. Ross. Oxford: Clarendon, 1957. Baum, Wilhelm and Dietmar W. Winkler. The Church of the East: A Concise History. London: RoutledgeCarson, 2003. Becker, Adam. Fear of God and the Beginning of Wisdom: The School of Nisibis and Christian Scholastic Culture in Late Antique Mesopotamia. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2006. The Biography of John of Tella by Elias, tr. J. R. Ghanem. Diss. University of Wisconsin, 1970. Black, Matthew. “The Festival of Encaenia Ecclesiae in the Ancient Church with Special Reference to Palestine and Syria.” JEH 5 (1954): 78–85. Brock, Sebastian. “Christians in the Sasanian Empire: A Case of Divided Loyalties.” In Religion and National Identity, Studies for Church History 18, 1–19. Oxford: Blackwell, 1982. ________ “The Christology of the Church of the East in the Synods of the Fifth to the Early Seventh Centuries.” In Aksum-Thyateira, a Festschrift for Archbishop Methodius of Thyateira and Great Britain, ed. G. Dragas, 125–42. London: Thyateira House, 1985. ________ “The Conversations with the Syrian Orthodox under Justinian (532).” OrChrP 47 (1981): 87–121. ________ “Greek and Syriac in Late Antique Syria.” In Literacy and Power in the Ancient World, ed. Alan K. Bowman and Greg Woolf, 149– 60. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. ________ “The ‘Nestorian’ Church: A Lamentable Misnomer.” BJRL 78.3 (1996): 23–36. Chesnut, Roberta. Three Monophysite Christologies: Severus of Antioch, Philoxenus of Mabbug, and Jacob of Sarug. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976. Cyril of Alexandria. Epistulae, ed. Migne in PG 77: 1–390. Drijvers, Han J. W. “Bardaisan von Edessa als Repräsentant des syrischen Synkretismus im 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr.” In Synkretismus im syrischThe Spurious Life of James, ed. and tr. E. W. Brooks in John of Ephusus’ Lives, PO 19 (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1921), 236 [582] and 256 [602]. This life presents much of the material of John of Ephesus’ Life of James and Life of James and Theodore, and it therefore reflects a later interpretation of Jacob’s activity. 95 Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae 41. 94

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persischen Kulturgebiet, ed. A. Dietrich, 109–22. Göttingen: Symposion, 1971. Eusebius, Historia ecclesiastica, ed. Eduard Schwartz and Theodor Mommsen in Die Kirchengeschichte, GCS 6.1–3. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1999. ________ De martyribus Palaestinae, ed. Eduard Schwartz and Theodor Mommsen in Die Kirchengeschichte, GCS 6.2. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1999. Evagrius. Historia ecclesiastica, ed. J. Bidez and L. Parmentier in The Ecclesiastical History of Evagrius. London: Methuen, 1898 and Adelheid Hübner in Evagrius Scholasticus, Historia Ecclesiastica: Kirchengeschichte, Fontes Christiani 57.1–2. Turnhout: Brepols Publishers, 2007. Fowden, Elizabeth Key. The Barbarian Plain: Saint Sergius between Rome and Iran. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999. Frend, W. H. C. The Rise of the Monophysite Movement: Chapters in the History of the Church in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979. Gray, Patrick. The Defense of Chalcedon in the East (451–553). Leiden: Brill, 1979. Greatrex, Geoffrey. “Byzantium and the East in the Sixth Century.” In The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, ed. Michael Maas, 477–509. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Gregory of Nazianzus. Orationes, ed. Migne in PG 35–6, 393–1252, 62– 665. Grünewald, Thomas. Bandits in the Roman Empire: Myth and Reality. Tr. John Drinkwater. London: Routledge, 2004. Harvey, Susan Ashbrook. Asceticism and Society in Crisis: John of Ephesus and the Lives of the Eastern Saints. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990. Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae rhetori vulgo adscripta, ed. E. W. Brooks, CSCO III 5–6. Paris: E Typographeo Reipublicae, 1919–21. Honigmann, E. Évêques et évêchés Monophysites d’Asie antérieure au VIe siècle, CSCO 127/Subsidia 2. Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1951. Humfress, Caroline. “Law and Legal Practice in the Age of Justinian.” In The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, ed. Michael Maas, 161–84. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. John Chrysostom. In Jo., ed. Migne in PG 59: 1–482. ________ In Matt., ed. Migne in PG 57–8. John of Ephesus. Iohannis Ephesini historiae ecclesiasticae pars tertia, ed. and tr. E. W. Brooks, CSCO, Scriptores Syri 54–55 (Series 3, T and V 3). Louvain: Imprimerie Orientaliste, 1952. ________ Lives of the Eastern Saints, ed. and tr. by E. W. Brooks, PO 17– 19. Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1923–5: 1–310, 513–698, 153–285. John Moschus. Pratum spirituale, ed. Migne in PG 87:3: 2852–3112. John of Tella (bar Qursus). Canons, ed. and tr. Arthur Vööbus in The Synodicon in the West Syrian Tradition, CSCO 367–8, Scriptores Syri

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161–2. Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1975: 145–56 (142– 51) ________ Questions and Answers, ed. and tr. Arthur Vööbus in The Synodicon in the West Syrian Tradition, CSCO 367–8, Scriptores Syri 161–2. Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1975: 211–21 (197–205). ________ Statement of Faith, ed. and tr. Kutlu Akalin and Volker Menze in John of Tella’s Statement of Faith, TeCLA. Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, forthcoming. Josephus. Antiquitates Judaicae. ed. Benedict Niese in Flavii Josephi opera, Vols. 1–4. Berlin: Teubner, 1887–90. ________ Contra Apionem., ed. Benedict Niese in Flavii Josephi opera, Vol. 4. Berlin: Teubner, 1890. Justin Martyr. Apologia maior, ed. Miroslav Marcovich in Justini Martyris apologiae pro Christianis, Patristische Texte und Studien, Vol. 38. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1994. Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G. The Decline and Fall of the Ancient City. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Menze, Volker. Justinian and the Making of the Syrian Orthodox Church. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. ________ “Priests, Laity, and the Sacrament of the Eucharist in SixthCentury Syria.” Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies 7.2 (2004): pars. 1– 21. ________ “The Regula ad Diaconos: John of Tella, his Eucharistic Ecclesiology, and the Establishment of an Ecclesiastical Hierarchy in Exile.” OrChr 90 (2006): 44–90. Millar, Fergus. The Greek Roman Empire: Power and Belief under Theodosius II (408– 450). Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006. Morony, Michael G. “Population Transfers between Sasanian Iran and the Byzantine Empire.” In La Persia e Bisanzio: Atti del Convegno internazionale (Roma, 14–18 ottobre 2002), 161–79. Rome: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 2004. Nau, F. Textes Monophysites, PO 13. Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1919: 161–269. Novum Testamentum Graece et Latine. Ed. Barbara and Kurt Aland. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1984. Palladius. Historia Lausiaca, ed. Cuthbert Butler in The Lausiac History of Palladius, Vol. 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1898– 1904. Palmer, Andrew. “Saints’ Lives with a Difference: Elijah on John of Tella (d. 538) and Josephus on Theodotos of Amida (d. 698).” In IV Symposium Syriacum 1984: Literary Genres in Syriac Literature, ed. H. J. W. Drijvers et al., 203–16. Orientalia Christiana Analecta 229. Roma: Pont. Institutum, 1987. Plato. Respublica, ed. S. R. Slings. Oxford: Clarendon, 2003. Procopius. De bellis libri, ed. Jacob Haury in Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia, Vol. 1. Leipzig: Teubner, 1905. Segal, J. B. “Mesopotamian Communities from Julian to the Rise of Islam.” PBA 41 (1955): 109–40.

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Severus of Antioch. Homiliae cathedrales LXXXIV–XC and CXX–CXXV, ed. and tr. Maurice Brière, PO 23 and 26. Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1932 and 1948: 1–176 and 259–450. ________ The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus, Patriarch of Antioch, ed. and tr. by E. W. Brooks, 4 Vols. London: Williams & Norgate, 1904. Shahîd, Irfan. Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century, 2 Vols. Washington: Dumbarton Oaks, 1995. Shaw, Brent. “Bandits in the Roman Empire.” Past and Present 105 (1984): 3–52. ________ “‘Eaters of Flesh, Drinkers of Milk’: The Ancient Mediterranean Ideology of the Pastoral Nomad.” Ancient Society 13–14 (1982/3): 5–31. The Syrian Chronicle Known as that of Zachariah of Mitylene, tr. F. J. Hamilton and E. W. Brooks. London: Methuen & Co., 1899. Tatian. Oratio ad Graecos, ed. Miroslav Marcovich, Patristische Texte und Studien, Vol. 43. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995. Taylor, David G. K. “Bilingualism and Diglossia in Late Antique Syria and Mesopotamia.” In Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Text, ed. J. N. Adams, Mark Janse, and Simon Swain, 298–331. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Tetraeuangelium Sanctum juxta simplicem Syrorum versionem ad fidem codicum, massorae, editionum denuo regcognitum, ed. P. E. Pusey and G. H. Gwilliam. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1901. Theodoret. Historia religiosa, ed. Pierre Canivet et Alice Leroy-Molinghen, Histoire des moines de Syrie, Vol. 1. SC 234. Paris: Cerf, 1977. Van Rompay, Lucas. “Society and Community in the Christian East.” In The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, ed. Michael Maas. 239–66. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Vita Iohannis Episcopi Tellae, ed. and tr. by E. W. Brooks in Vitae virorum apud Monophysitas CSCO III 25 (7–8). Paris: E Typographeo Reipublicae, 1907: 29–95 and 21–60. Vita Simeonis Stylitae Iunioris. In La vie ancienne de Syméon stylite le jeune (521– 592), ed. and tr. Paul van den Ven, 2 Vols. SH 32. Bruxelles: Bollandistes, 1962–70. Walker, Joel. The Legend of Mar Qardagh: Narrative and Christian Heroism in Late Antique Iraq. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006.

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MONKS, MANUSCRIPTS, AND MUSLIMS: SYRIAC TEXTUAL CHANGES IN REACTION TO THE RISE OF ISLAM MICHAEL PHILIP PENN MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE, 50 COLLEGE STREET, SOUTH HADLEY, MASSAHCHUSETTS, 01075

ABSTRACT Syriac scribes and readers often changed the texts that they were reading. In some cases, these modifications were motivated by the political and religious challenges brought about by the Islamic Conquests and subsequent Muslim rule. Such emendations provide important, material witnesses for how Syriac Christians reacted to the rise of Islam. They also challenge modern scholars to reevaluate the ways we read manuscripts and how we understand Syriac manuscript culture.

There has been a gradual shift in how modern scholars approach ancient manuscript culture. Although the production of critical editions that attempt to recover an ur-text remains the focus of most manuscript work, researchers in fields ranging from biblical text criticism to early modern studies have become increasingly interested in also analyzing how later revisions reflect changing social and political contexts.1 Such work, often categorized under the 1 Among biblical text criticism Bart Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture: The Effects of Early Christological Controversies on the Text of the New

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monikers new philology, new medievalism, or the history of the book, has led to a greater recognition of the malleability of manuscript text and has begun to challenge the primacy of original authorship.2 Although rarely examined from such a perspective, Syriac manuscripts are particularly rich sources for this type of analysis Even a brief perusal of extant manuscripts shows that Syriac scribes did not simply reproduce the works that they were copying. Instead, their own beliefs occasionally motivated them to modify texts in ways that reflected particular ideological biases. An especially striking example can be found in British Library Additional 14,509. William Wright categorized the manuscript’s contents as “a collection of Choral Services for the festivals of the whole year,” a Testament (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993) has been particularly influential. Similar approaches can be found in Anne Marie Luijendijk, Greetings in the Lord: Early Christians in the Oxyrhynchus Papyri (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008); Kim Haines-Eitzen, “Engendering Palimpsests: Reading the Textual Tradition of the Acts of Paul and Thecla,” in The Early Christian Book, William E. Klingshirn and Linda Safran, eds. (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University Press of America, 2007), 177–193; Jennifer Wright Knust, “Early Christian Re-Writing and the History of the Pericope Adulterae,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 14:4 (2006): 485–536; Eldon Jay Epp, Junia, The First Woman Apostle (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005); Eldon Jay Epp, “The Oxyrhynchus New Testament Papyri: ‘Not without Honor Except in their Hometown,'” Journal of Biblical Literature 123:1 (2004): 5–55; Kim Haines-Eitzen, Guardians of Letters: Literacy, Power, and the Transmitters of Early Christian Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000); Eldon Jay Epp, “The Multivalence of the Term ‘Original Text’ in New Testament Textual Criticism,” Harvard Theological Review 92:3 (July 1999), 245–281. 2 The bibliography of recent works often categorized as “history of the book” is immense. Especially influential are the works of Roger Chartier and Anthony Grafton as well as the University of Pennsylvania Press’s Material Texts series. Of particular import to the debate surrounding “new philology” and “new medievalism” was the January 1990 special issue of Speculum and the collection of essays Towards a Synthesis? Essays on the New Philology, ed. Keith Busby (Atlanta: Rodopi, 1993). An especially articulate critique of both “new” and “old” philology by a scholar who nevertheless remains very committed to studying medieval manuscript culture can be found in John Dagenais, The Ethics of Reading in Manuscript Culture: Glossing the Libro de Buen Amor (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994). A more recent discussion of these issues can be found in Andrew Taylor, Textual Situations: Three Medieval Manuscripts and Their Readers (Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press, 2002), 1–25, 197–200.

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characterization that fits well with its various hymns and prayers addressing such events as the annunciation, the nativity, and the commemoration of various saints.3 This eleventh-century codex begins with a madrasha set to the tone “the priest Zacharias.”4 As written, however, this would be a particularly difficult madrasha to sing as every few lines one comes across an illegible word, illegible that is until you turn the page 180 degrees (Figure 1). The scribe has written upside down the names of figures such as Bardaison, Marcion, and Mani whom he considered heretical. Such modifications were not limited to scribes trying to make a point. Later readers also changed manuscript text. Consider one of the most famous of Syriac manuscripts, British Library Additional 14,451. This fifth-century codex is one of two extant witnesses to the early gospel translation now known as the Old Syriac.5 In the last century and a half, there have been numerous studies on the differences between the Old Syriac and the Peshitta.6 For at least William Wright, Catalogue of the Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum, 3 volumes (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1870–1873; reprinted Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2002), v. 1, 271–272. As noted by Wright, ten folio that originally belonged to this codex are now bound as BL. Add. 17,216. 4 BL. Add. 14,528, f. 1a. Unfortunately this manuscript does not have an extant colophon and its dating is dependant on Wright’s paleographic judgment. 5 The fifth-century BL. Add. 14,451 was the first manuscript known to preserve the Old Syriac. Its version of the gospels is now called the Curetonian after its discoverer William Cureton. In 1893 Agnes Smith Lewis discovered a second version of the Old Syriac in a fifth-century manuscript at Saint Catherine’s Monastery at Mount Sinai, now referred to as the “Sinaitic Version.” Scholars generally date the composition of the Old Syriac to about the third century. For a detailed comparison of these versions with each other and with the more common Peshitta version see George Anton Kiraz, Comparative Edition of the Syriac Gospels, 4 volumes (Leiden: Brill, 1991). 6 There is an extensive literature on the Old Syriac versions of the Gospels. Bibliographic references can be obtained from Cyril Moss, Catalogue of Syriac Printed Books and Related Literature in the British Museum (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1962; reprint, Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2007); Sebastian Brock, Syriac Studies: A Classified Bibliography (1960–1990) (Lebanon: Parole de l’Orient, 1996), 54–61; Sebastian Brock, “Syriac Studies: A Classified Bibliography (1991–1995),” Parole de l’Orient 23 (1998): 265–267; Sebastian Brock, “Syriac Studies: A Classified Bibliography (1996–2000),” Parole de l’Orient 29 (2004): 291–294. For brief discussions of the Old Syriac versions of the New Testament, see Bruce Metzger, The Early Versions of the New Testament: Their Origin, Transmission, 3

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one ancient reader this variation was not merely academic. He became so upset at the variances that, in the course of just two folios, he inserted nine words, removed twenty-four, and changed over a hundred in order to make the text correspond with the Peshitta (Figure 2).7 After expending so much energy on only four pages, faced with over one hundred and twenty more, he apparently gave up.8 Textual changes often stemmed from more fundamental disagreement with a manuscript’s content than simply a difference in bible translations. For example, British Library Additional 14,528 contains alterations made by three different readers who shared similar motives. This sixth-century manuscript consists of ecclesiastical canons and letters translated from Greek into Syriac.9 Not surprisingly, later Syriac readers were particularly concerned with those parts of the manuscript most closely aligned with the Council of Chalcedon. One reader erased over two and a half folios from the manuscript’s first references to the decisions of Chalcedon and then wrote a brief marginalia telling later readers not to be alarmed by the removed sections.10 Later in the same document, another and Limitations (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977), 36–48 and Sebastian Brock, The Bible in the Syriac Tradition, 2nd rev. ed. (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2006), 33–34. 7 BL. Add. 14,451, ff. 6b-8a. Despite this reader’s zeal and diligence he still did not remove all the variants. Even with his modifications, over a dozen variations remain between the amended manuscript pages and our version of the Peshitta. 8 It is unclear why the reader targeted these particular pages of the Sermon on the Mount. He begins at the top of folio 6b which corresponds to the last few words of Mt 5:17 and finishes at the bottom of folio 8a which corresponds to the first few words of Mt 6:8. His beginning and ending points do not relate to complete sentences or phrases in the gospel, but simply to the beginning and ending of these folios. He is not the only reader to modify the manuscript. Other hands have also made small changes to the biblical texts (e.g., ff. 11a, 31b, 43b, 45b, 54b, 59b, 71b) as well as adding various rubrics and marginalia (e.g., ff. 3b, 4a, 5b, 33b, 40a, 45a, 54a, 57a, 59a, 60b, 76b, 81a, 83b, 86a). 9 The work’s colophon states that the codex contains 193 canons which in 812 AG (501 CE) were translated from Greek into Syriac. Wright, Catalogue, v. 2, 1030–1033 describes the manuscript’s content in greater detail. On paleographic grounds, Wright dates the codex to the “earlier half of the sixth century.” Wright suspects that “this manuscript was not improbably written in the same year” as the canons’ translation, but he provides no further evidence to support this. 10 The middle of folio 8b begins a listing of the canons from the Council of Chalcedon that continues until 14a. There are several modifica-

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reader made three further erasures and additions. Through effacement and marginal glosses he changed “the holy council” of Chalcedon to “the wicked council,” its “illustrious” participants became “despised,” and a letter addressed “To Leo the Head of the Bishops,” now reads “To the Wicked Leo” (Figure 3).11 Another reader, perhaps inspired by these alterations, added an additional marginalia at the end of the same letter reading, “Woe to your mouth, wicked, unclean Leo.”12 A list of such emendations could easily be expanded. For instance, Wright’s catalog of Syriac manuscripts now held in the British Library refers to more than 239 cases of manuscript erasure. The frequency of such changes should alert us to the instability of Syriac manuscript text. It also suggests that analyzing the ways scribes and readers altered the works they were studying could tell us much about the history of Syriac Christianity. As just one illustration of this sort of study, I want to briefly examine five sets of manuscript changes. At first glance these five cases are quite diverse: the earliest of these codices was composed in the sixth century, the latest in the twentieth; they are now housed in Berlin, Birmingham, London, Mardin, Paris, and Vatican City; their contents range from a copy of the bible to a story about demon possessed monks. They do, however, share one thing in common. Each has been modified in response to Islam. •••

tions to this material. In particular, at the bottom of folio 8b there is a note in the lower margin: “Leaves came from here. Reader, do not be disturbed.” The next folios—9a, the top part of 9b, and the bottom of 10a—have all been erased thus removing several canons. A single canon was erased on 10b. On the top of folio 9a over the erased material is a note from the monk Abraham stating that he encountered this codex in 1802 AG (1490/91 CE) and asking for future readers’ prayers. Wright, Catalogue v. 2, 1030 attributes the erasures on folios 8–10 to this Abraham. It seems more likely, however, that Abraham encountered these pages having already been erased and simply added his prayer petition to the top of the first blank page he found. His handwriting varies considerably from the marginalia found at the bottom of 8b (a more likely culprit for the erasure) and nowhere in his note does he express displeasure with the manuscript’s discussion of the Council of Chalcedon. 11 BL. Add. 14,528, ff. 119a, 119a, 138a. 12 BL. Add. 14,528, f. 144b.

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ADDING A TEXT—BRITISH LIBRARY ADDITIONAL 14,461 The best known and most straight forward of these manuscript changes is the composition of a text now called The Account of 637. This short notice appears on the front of the first folio of BL. Add. 14,461, a sixth-century biblical codex that preserves the Peshitta version of the gospels of Matthew and Mark.13 The Gospel of Matthew appears on the verso of the codex’s first page thus initially leaving the recto blank. In 637 CE a writer used this extra space to compose what appears to be an eye-witness report of the Islamic Conquests. Like the exterior folio of many Syriac codices, this one is poorly preserved permitting only a partial reconstruction of the notice.14 Nevertheless, even in its fragmentary state the extant text clearly refers to Muhammad, to Arabs, to towns surrendering, and to substantial Byzantine casualties. The dates and places that can still be made out suggest that The Account of 637 may also contain a reference to the Battle of Yarmuk, perhaps the most important battle of the Islamic Conquests. In addition to the inherent drama of an autographon most likely written while the Conquests were occurring, this brief note provides a vivid example of how the rise of Islam directly affected the content of a Syriac manuscript.

CHANGING A NAME—BRITISH LIBRARY ADDITIONAL 14,643 A more complicated set of manuscript changes appears in BL. Add. 14,643. The majority of this codex contains a document now known as The Chronicle of 640.15 At the end of this chronicle, howThe original manuscript is described in Wright, Catalogue, vol. 1, 65–66 where, on the basis of paleography, Wright dates this copy of Mark and Matthew to the sixth century. A later writer, from the ninth or tenth century, according to Wright’s judgment, added a number of additional quires so that, as it is now bound, the manuscript contains all four canonical gospels (Wright, Catalogue, vol. 1, 68). 14 Edition in Theodor Nöldeke, “Zur Geschichte der Araber im 1. Jahrh. d.h. aus Syrischen Quellen,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 29 (1876): 77–79 and Brooks, CSCO 3, 75. English translations appear in Robert G. Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings on Early Islam (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1997), 117 and Andrew Palmer, The Seventh Century in the West-Syrian Chronicles (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1993), 2– 4. Discussions found in Nöldeke, “Zur Geschichte der Araber,” 79–82; Palmer, The Seventh Century, 1,4; Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 116–117. 15 Modern scholars also refer to this text as The Chronicle of Thomas the Presbyter. An edition can be found in Brooks, CSCO 5, 77–155. A Latin 13

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ever, there has been appended a two-page list of Muslim rulers.16 J. P. N. Land published an edition of these pages in 1862 and E. W. Brooks published a slightly different edition in 1904.17 The caliph list consists of a brief notice concerning Muhammad and then the names and lengths of reigns for subsequent caliphs up to Yazid (d. 724 CE).18 In their analysis of the text, Andrew Palmer and Robert Hoyland successfully argue that this short notice’s dependence on a lunar calendar and its preservation of Arabic words such as fitna indicate that this work is a Syriac translation of a no longer extant Arabic text. They also note that the Arabic original was most likely written after Yazid’s death in 724 but before the death of his successor Hisham in 743.19 According to the paleographic judgment of Wright, our Syriac copy comes from a mid- eighth-century manuscript.20 If Wright is correct, then only a few years after this list’s composition in Arabic a Christian scribe translated it into Syriac. Apparently this Syriac scribe produced a literally faithful copy of the Arabic for the Syriac begins: “A notice of the life of Muhammad, the rasul of God” (Figure 4).21 The surprise for modern readers is, of course, the willingtranslation is in J. B. Chabot, CSCO 4, 633–119. An English translation of selections appears in Palmer, The Seventh Century, 13–23. For a discussion of this text see Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 118–120; Palmer, The Seventh Century, 5–12, 23–24; and especially Andrew Palmer, “Une chronique syriaque contemporaine de la conquête Arabe” in La Syrie de Byzance à l'islam VIIeVIIIe siècles, Pierre Canivet and Jean-Paul Rey-Coquais, eds. (Damas: Institut Français de Damas, 1992), 331–346. 16 BL Add. 14,643, ff. 56b-57a. Wright, Catalogue, vol. 2, 1040–1041 summarizes the codex’s content. 17 J. P. N. Land, Anecdota Syriaca (Leiden: Lugnuni Batavorum, 1862), vol. 1, 40, and E. W. Brooks, CSCO 5, 337–349. 18 As noted by Palmer, The Seventh Century, 49–50 and Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 395–396, the list is not completely accurate in terms of its chronology and never speaks of the caliphate of Ali but simply refers to five years of fitna (dissension). 19 Palmer, The Seventh Century, 49–50; Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 395–386. 20 Wright, Catalogue, vol. 2, 1040. 21 The last word of the list’s first line has been erased. In his edition Land, Anecdota Syriaca, 40 reconstructs the word as ‫( ܒ ܐ‬prophet) while Brooks CSCO 5, 337 reconstructs ‫ܐ‬ ‫( ܪ‬messenger). The manuscript itself gives greater support for Brooks’s reading than Land’s. One can still make out some of the upper line of the ‫ ܪ‬and even more decisive, the dot over the ‫ ܪ‬remains quite clear. Both Palmer and Hoyland also follow Brooks’s reading. Both the eighth-century Chronicle of Zuqnin (CSCO 104, 396, 398) and the twelfth-century Dionysius bar Salibi’s A Response to the

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ness of an eighth-century Christian to describe Muhammad as God’s messenger. This did not shock only modern readers. At least one ancient reader became so affronted that he erased this word leaving simply “Muhammad of God.”22 In and of itself, this single erasure provides important information concerning what various Syriac Christians thought was, and later was not, an acceptable way to refer to Muhammad.23 I suspect, however, that the later reader made a more intricate intervention than previously has been recognized. Land’s and Brooks’s editions of this document represent the text as: “A notice of the life [of] Muhammad the [messenger] of God.”24 If one looks only at the Syriac in these editions there is no difficulty; my objection is not to the text but to the text-critical notes. The notes indicate two issues. They first denote that the possessive ending of the word “of his life” (‫ )ܕ ܗܝ‬is no longer extant but easily reconstructed by the modern philologist. They then mark the last word in the line with footnotes that read “vox erasa.” An examination of the original manuscript, however, reveals a problem with these transcriptions. The last two letters of the word for “of his life” seem not simply to have decayed over time but appear to have been purposefully erased in the same manner as the word “messenger.”25 In other words, contrary to Land and Brooks, the manuscript does not contain one erasure but two. So why would a reader remove a fairly meaningless possessive ending? By erasing these two letters the reader has changed what

Arabs (CSCO 614, 6, 86, 87) also use the term ‫ܐ‬ ‫ ܪ‬in reference to Muhammad. 22 Land, Anecdota Syriaca, 40, and Brooks, CSCO 5, 337. 23 For a more general treatment of Syriac Christian discussions of Muhammad see Sydney H. Griffith, “The Prophet Muhammad His Scripture and His Message According to the Christian Apologies in Arabic and Syriac from the First Abbasid Century,” in La vie du prophète Mahomet (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1980), 99–146. 24 Brooks, CSCO 5, 337. Like Brooks, Land, Anecdota Syriaca, 40 indicates only a single erasure but, as noted above, reconstructs the erased word as “prophet.” 25 There are several factors pointing toward this being a deliberate erasure: 1) It is visually similar to the erasure found at the end of the line. 2) In the previous 55 folios there are many places where various letters have faded over time. None look like this. 3) The damage to the velum at this spot is identical to that found in a series of ownership erasures appearing in the manuscript’s colophon at folio 60b.

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originally was a noun, “of the life of” into a verb “reject” ( ‫)ܕ‬.26 Thus, with these two erasures the sentence now reads, “The notice that Muhammad (is) of God is rejected.” This both explains the reader’s removal of the possessive ending from “of his life,” as well as the otherwise surprising fact that he kept intact the phrase “Muhammad of God.” This reader was none too subtle in how he erased the text. Both the erasures themselves and the motives behind them are easily ascertained. As a result, to us this sort of intervention might appear to be either trivial, or at best, clever. I would suggest, however, that for ancient manuscript readers this was a very serious endeavor. Syriac Christians did not take manuscript changes lightly. Syriac manuscripts contain anathemas attempting to protect codices from erasure, marginalia cursing individuals who erased part of a text, and requests asking later readers to fill-in previously erased data.27 A canon from the famed School of Nisibis even proclaims that whoever erases ownership notices from the school’s manuscripts will be expelled.28 I suspect that one reason Syriac Christians were so concerned about manuscript modifications lay not in their finesse but in their blatancy. Alterations such as this double erasure in BL. Add. 14,643 were not attempts at subtle subterfuge, rather they were observable displays of power. Such interventions allowed later readers to express their displeasure with a manuscript’s initial content and, by manipulating the text, to express their control over 26 For the pa’el of ‫ ܕ‬being translated as “reject” see R. Payne Smith, Thesaurus Syriacus (Clarendon Press: Oxford, 1879; reprinted Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2007), 862; Carolo Brockelmann, Lexicon Syriacum (Halis Saxonum, Sumptibus M. Niemeyer: Gottingon, 1928), 148; Louis Costaz, Dictionnaire Syriaque-Français (Imprimerie Catholique: Beruit: 1963), 62. 27 For example, in the British Library collection of Syriac manuscripts anathemas against those who erase part of a manuscript include BL. Add. 12,172, f. 195a; BL. Add. 14,442, f. 48a; BL. Add. 14,485, f. 121b; BL. Add. 14,486, f. 91a; BL. Add. 14,487, f. 71b; BL. Add. 14,503, f. 178b; BL. Add. 14,522, f. 26a; BL. Add. 14,531, f. 159b; BL. Add. 14,550, f. 1a; BL. Add. 14,577, f. 130a; BL. Add. 14,587, f. 135b; BL. Add. 14,593, f. 2a; BL. Add. 17,102, f. 59b, 60b; BL. Add. 17,124, f. 68a; and BL. Add. 17,181, f. 136b. An example of curses that a later reader wrote against his predecessor who erased part of the manuscript he was reading can be found in BL. Add. 17,264, f. 12b, 15a. A marginalia requesting that later readers fill-in information erased by a previous reader appears in BL. Add. 17,264, f. 65a. 28 Canons of Henana 8 in Arthur Vööbus, The Statues of the School of Nisibis (Stockholm: Estonian Theological Society in Exile, 1961), 96.

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it. So while there was little a reader could do about the outcome of the Islamic Conquests, he could change what was originally a simple list of Muslim caliphs into a polemic against Muhammad.

ADDING A TITLE—BIBLIOTHÈQUE NATIONALE SYRIAC 62, MARDIN 310, 322, 337, MINGANA SYRIAC 8, SARF 73, 87 VATICAN SYRIAC 148, 560 While the rise of Islam could motivate a Syriac Christian to add a new text to a manuscript or a reader to change the content of a previously composed work, it could also inspire a scribe to reframe an earlier document. In the late 680s, the Miaphysite patriarch Athanasius of Balad wrote an encyclical letter presenting a multipage critique against Christians who participated in pagan festivals and ate from pagan sacrifices.29 The word Athanasius used for “pagans” was the typical Syriac term to denote polytheists, ‫ ܐ‬.30 Although after Athanasius’s reign the term ‫ܐ‬ continued to be used to describe polytheists, in the century following his patriarchate it was employed also to speak of Muslims and of Islam.31 For example, in 775 C.E. the author of the Miaphysite Chronicle of ZuArthur Voobus, CSCO 35, 200–202 discusses the manuscripts that contain this letter. An edition of the letter and a French translation appears in Francois Nau, “Litterature canonique syriaque inedite” Revue de l’orient chretien 14 (1909): 128–130. Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 147–148 discusses the document’s contents and provides an English translation of part of the letter. For a brief overview of Athanasius of Balad see Michael Penn, “Athanasius (II) of Balad” in Encylopedic Dictionary of the Syriac Heritage (Piscataway: N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2009). 30 Smith, Thesaurus Syriacus, 1322; Brockelmann, Lexicon Syriacum, 244. It remains possible that Athanasius used ‫ܐ‬ as several later writers did and was really talking about Christians participating in Muslim feasts. There are, however, several factors that make this unlikely: 1) The use of ‫ܐ‬ to mean Muslim is unattested in the seventh century. 2) The letter reads as a straight forward polemic against Christian participation in polytheist feasts and nothing in its content hints at Muslims being present. 3) The repeated reference to ‫ܐ‬ sacrifices makes much more sense when speaking about polytheists whose sacrifices have been the target of Christian invective since the first century than about Muslims. 4) The letter refers to the “food of their sacrifices and to what is strangled,” an allusion to Acts 15:20, 29 and 21:25 each of which speaks of what has been sacrificed to idols—that is, by polytheists—and what has been strangled. 31 Brockelmann, Lexicon Syriacum, 244 briefly notes this change of meaning in his Lexicon by citing the eleventh-century writer Elias of Nisibis. 29

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qnin referred to Islam as paganism (‫ܬܐ‬ ).32 A few years later, the East Syrian scholar Theodore bar Koni cast his disputation against Islam as a debate between a teacher and a ‫ ܐ‬.33 Soon afterward, the ninth-century Nonnus of Nisibis did the same in his anti-Muslim tractate and, at one point, even called Muslims the ‫) ܐ‬.34 Labeling Muslims as pagans “new pagans” (‫ܬܐ‬ distinguished them from Christians, maligned them, and, as pointed out by Sidney Griffith, was a bilingual pun because the Syriac ‫ܐ‬ sounded like one of the Qur’an’s terms for a follower of Islam, hanif.35 As a result of the changing meaning of ‫ ܐ‬, for subsequent generations of readers the subject of Athanasius’s invective may have become somewhat ambiguous. Had the patriarch written against Christians mingling with polytheists or Muslims? Once, however, the letter was preceded by its present incipit, such ambiguity was removed. In extant versions the letter is titled, “A letter of the blessed patriarch Athanasius concerning that a Christian should not eat of the sacrifices of these Hagarenes who now hold power.”36 in Athanasius’s It is possible that upon finding the term ‫ܐ‬ letter, whoever wrote the incipit sincerely believed that Athanasius had been writing against Muslims. Alternatively, the scribe may have seen an easy opportunity to redirect the now dead patriarch’s authority against Islam. In either case, instead of using Athanasius’s term ‫ ܐ‬, this later scribe called the ‫ ܓ ܐ‬, a term exclusively used for Muslim.37 Just to be safe, he even specified “the ‫ܓ ܐ‬ Chronicle of Zuqnin (CSCO 104, 381, 383, 392). Thedore bar Koni, Scholion 10 (CSCO 69, 232). 34 Nonnus of Nisibis, Apologetic Tractate (Albert van Roey, Nonnus De Nisibe: Traité Apologétique [Louvain: Bureaux du Muséon, 1948], 9*, 12*, 17*, 33*). 35 Sidney Griffith, “The Prophet Muhammad His Scripture and His Message According to the Christian Apologies in Arabic and Syriac from the First Abbasid Century” in La vie du prophète Mahomet, T. Fahd, ed. (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1980), 120–121; Sidney Griffith, “The Apologetic Treatise of Nonnus of Nisibis” ARAM 3, no. 1&2 (1991): 127; Sidney Griffith, Syriac Writers on Muslims and the Religious Challenge of Islam (Kerala: St. Ephrem Ecumenical Research Institute, 1995), 9. 36 Nau, “Littérature canonique,” 128. 37 Isho‛yahd III, Letter 48B (CSCO 11, 97); The colophon of BL Add. 14,666 [dated 682] (BL Add. 14,666, f. 56); Jacob of Edessa, Questions of Addai (Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 604–695); Jacob of Edessa, Letter II to John Stylites (CSCO 367, 237); The Life of Theodūṭē (excerpts translated in Andrew 32 33

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who now hold power.” With the addition of this title the scribe repackaged what most likely was originally an anti-pagan polemic and redeployed it against Muslims. This strategy’s success can be seen in the eight extant manuscripts that preserve this letter; all contain this same incipit.38 Although a careful reader might still ascertain that Athanasius’s original concern was most likely not Islam, the combination of later Syriac Christians using ‫ ܐ‬, as a polemical way to connote Muslims and the letter’s title now referring to Hagarene sacrifices effectively transformed the patriarch’s letter into an anti-Muslim tractate.

ADDING POLEMIC—SACHAU 315 Centuries after a scribe reframed Athanasius’s letter, the same term, ‫ ܐ‬, played a similar role in a reader’s marginal addition to Sachau 315. Preserved in this fifteenth-century Miaphysite codex is a most likely eighth-century work that modern scholars call The Qenneshre Fragment.39 The Qenneshre Fragment contains a series of anecdotes concerning what happened when the monastery of Qenneshre suf-

Palmer, “Amid in the Seventh-Century Syriac Life of Theodore,” in The Encounter of Eastern Christianity with Early Islam. Emmanouela Grypeou, Mark N. Swanson, and David Thomas, eds. [Leiden: Brill, 2006], 111– 138); The Kamed el-Loz Inscriptions [dated 714/15] (P. Mouterde, “Inscriptions en syriaque dialectal a Kamed [Beq’a],” Mélanges de l’Université SaintJoseph 22 [1939]: 83, 96); John and the Emir (Michael Philip Penn, “John and the Emir: A New Introduction, Edition and Translation,” Le Muséon, 121 [2008]: 100, 102); The Chronicle ad 724 (CSCO 3, 155); Chronicle of Zuqnin (CSCO 104, 341); The Chronicle ad 775 (CSCO 5, 348); The Canons of Giwargi (CSCO 375, 4); The Qenneshre Fragment (François Nau, “Notice historique sur le monastère de Qaramin, suivie d’une note sur le monastère de Qennesré,” in Actes du XIVe congrès international des orientalistes, Alger 1905, Part 2 [Paris: 1907]: 131); St Mark Colophon [dated 806] (cited in Sebastian Brock, “The Use of Hijra Dating in Syriac Manuscripts: A Preliminary Investigation,” in Redefining Christian Identity, 283); Moshe bar Kepha, “On Free Will” (BL Add. 14,731, f. 11a);. 38 Two of these manuscripts, Mardin 310 and Vatican Syriac 148, are from the eighth century, Bibliothèque National Syriac 62 is from the ninth century and Vatican Syriac 148 is dated 1576 CE. The remaining manuscripts are from the twentieth century. 39 The colophon of Sachau 315 states that it was copied by the scribe Jesus bar Isaiah in AG 1792 (1480/1481 CE). For a description of Sachau 315 and its contents see Eduard Sachau, Verzeichniss der syrischen Handschriften der Königlichen Bibliothek zu Berlin, 3 volumes (Berlin: A. Asher & Company, 1899), 521–530.

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fered a demon infestation.40 Part way through the story, one of the possessed monks is bound and the demon within him is interrogated regarding general demonic preferences. The grilling begins with the question “Who is more loved by you (demons), the ‫ܐ‬ or the Jews?” Needless to say, being the demons’ beloved is far from a compliment. The demon’s original answer was, “The ‫ܐ‬ are greatly cherished and loved by us. And the Jews, they know a little concerning He who lives in heaven. But we rejoice greatly in because they crucified them and love them more than the ‫ܐ‬ God their Lord.”41 As in Athanasius’s letter, it is clear that the to mean pagans. The text implies original author intended ‫ܐ‬ that at first glance one could assume that the demons would prefer the ‫ܐ‬ because, unlike the Jews who “know a little concerning He who lives in heaven,” they are unaware of God. Nevertheless, according to the original author, the demons find the Jews’ crucifixion of Christ even more appealing than the ‫’ ܐ‬s polytheism. A later reader, however, added a marginal note expanding the demon’s response. The marginalia reads that the demons love the ‫ܐ‬ “because they do not believe that Christ is God but say that He is a created man.”42 With the original statement addressed to pagans, there would have been no need to supply more specifics regarding the ‫’ ܐ‬s beliefs. The later reader added the marginalia not to provide further information but to change the ‫’ ܐ‬s identity. The statement that the people in question considered Christ not to be God but to be a created man was a standard Christian critique of Muslims and would have been unmistakable to Syriac readers. Thus with a brief marginal note, the demons’ love has been redirected from polytheists to Muslims.

40 François Nau, “Notice historique sur le monastère de Qaramin, suivie d’une note sur le monastère de Qennesré” in Actes du XIVe congrès international des orientalistes, Alger 1905, Part 2 (Paris: 1907), 124–135 provides an edition, although it unfortunately contains a number of substantial errors and must be used with care. So too, Nau’s French translation (Nau, “Notice historique,” 114–123). Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 144–146 provides an English translations of a few passages. A discussion of the text can be found in Gerrit J. Reinink, “Die Muslime in einer Sammlung von Dämonengeschichten des Klosters von Qennesrin” in VI Symposium Syriacum 1992, René Lavenant, ed. (Rome: Pontificio Instituto Orientale, 1994), 335–346 and Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 142–147. 41 Sachau 315, 61b. 42 This marginal addition was first noted by Reinink, “Die Muslime,” and briefly discussed in Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 146.

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The Qenneshre Fragment is extant in only a single manuscript, so unlike the case of the multiple copies of Athansius’s letter we cannot measure the effect of this intervention on later manuscript traditions. This marginalia did, however, have a surprising afterlife in printed text. In the only published edition of The Qenneshre Fragment, François Nau included this marginalia in the body of the text and gave no indication that it was not original to the document but rather came from a later marginalia.43 That a Syriac scholar as renown as Nau would make such an error serves as a poignant reminder of how powerfully seemingly minor interventions could affect future readings of a text.

ORDERING DOCUMENTS—BRITISH LIBRARY

ADDITIONAL 17,193

In addition to the composition of a new document, the erasure of part of a previous text, the insertion of a title, or the adding of a marginalia, a text could also be affected by how a scribe decided to position it within a manuscript. For instance, on August 17, 874 a monk named Abraham completed a codex containing 125 short pieces ranging from biblical passages to lists of councils, caliphs, and calamities.44 Despite scholars referring to Abraham’s work as a miscellany, there may have been a method to his madness, particularly when he sequentially ordered two key works. The first is perhaps the best known Syriac disputation against Islam now called The Disputation of John and the Emir.45 Immediately after this alleged Nau, “Notice historique,” 130. The codex’s content is summarized by Wright, Catalogue, vol. 2, 989–1002. Information regarding the manuscript’s composition is found in Abraham’s colophon on f. 1a. For a list of modern editions and translations of documents found in BL Add. 17,193 see Sebastian P. Brock, “An Excerpt from a Letter to the People of Homs, Wrongly Attributed to Ephrem” Oriens Christianus 86 (2002): 1–4. 45 Edition and English translation in Penn, “John and the Emir.” French translation in Nau, “Un colloque,” 257–264. Recent discussions of this text include Penn, “John and the Emir”; Barbara Roggema, “The Debate between Patriarch John and an Emir of the Mhaggrāyē: A Reconsideration of the Earliest Christian-Muslim Debate” in Christians and Muslims in Dialogue in the Islamic Orient of the Middle Ages, ed. Martin Tamcke (Beirut: Ergon Verlag Würzburg, 2007), 21–39; Harold Suermann, “The Old Testament and the Jews in the Dialogue between the Jacobite Patriarch John I and ‛Umayr Ibn Sa‛d Al-Ansari” in Eastern Crossroads: Essays on Medieval Christian Legacy, Juan Pedro Monferrer-Sala, ed. (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2007), 131–141; Abdul Massih Saadi, “The Letter of John of Se43 44

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conversation between the Miaphysite patriarch John and an unspecified Muslim leader appears a much less known document aptly named The Chronicle of Disasters.46 After discussing how “our sins” have resulted in comets, plagues, earthquakes, drought, locust swarms, and hurricanes, the author of this uplifting list ends anticlimatically with a hail storm killing a number of birds. Even more interesting than these fowls’ unfortunate fate, however, is how the author interweaves these natural catastrophes with two political references: one to the reign of the Umayyad caliph Walid and the other to Walid’s successor Suleiman. Although the text does not explicitly link “the kingdom of Ishmael” with other listed items, the intercalation of these two rulers in the midst of more conventional misfortunes certainly suggests that these caliphs may also be part of God’s chastisement of Christian sinners. This strategy of suggestion by proximity was not limited to the original author of The Chronicle of Disasters but appears to have been taken up by the scribe Abraham as well. Given that only four of the 125 documents that Abraham collected explicitly speak of Islam, the chance of any two of them randomly following one another is less than ten percent.47 More likely by far is that Abraham deliberately positioned these two documents next to each other. By placing The Chronicle of Disasters directly after John and the Emir’s multipage discussion of Muslim theological challenges to Christianity, this ninth-century scribe created the impression that catastrophes naturally follow in Islam’s wake. ••• Although in recent years there have been a number of studies analyzing how Syriac authors originally wrote about Muslims, predreh: A New Perspective on Nascent Islam” Karmo 1, no. 2 (1999): 46–64 reprinted in Abdul Massih Saadi “The Letter of John of Sedreh: A New Perspective on Nascent Islam” Journal of the Assyrian Academic Society 11, no. 1 (1997): 68–84; Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 459–465; Gerrit Reinink, “The Beginnings of Syriac Apologetic Literature in Response to Islam” Oriens Christianus 77 (1993): 165–187; Khalil Samir, “Qui est l’interlocuteur Musulman du patriarche syrien Jean III (631–648)?” in IV Symposium Syriacum 1984, H. J. W. Drijvers, R. Lavenant, C. Molenberg and G. J. Reinink, eds. (Rome: Pontifical Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1987), 387–400. 46 Edition and French translation found in Nau, “Un colloque,” 253– 256. An English translation and brief commentary appear in Palmer, The Seventh Century, 45–48. 47 Special thanks to statistics professor George Cobb for calculating this probability.

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vious scholars have never concentrated on how the Islamic Conquests affected the ways Syriac Christians physically modified the texts they were copying and reading.48 Works such as The Account of 637, The Caliph List of 724, The Letter of Athanasius of Balad, The Qenneshre Fragment, John and the Emir, and The Chronicle of Disasters help us to better appreciate the materiality of manuscripts and to treat the alterations they underwent as essential evidence for the ongoing development of Syriac Christianity. Such an approach to manuscript culture has important pay-offs both for our understanding of early Christian/Muslim interactions and, more generally, for how we approach Syriac texts. An examination of how the rise of Islam affected extant manuscripts builds upon the important work of text critics such as Bart Ehrman and Kim Haines-Eitzen.49 It suggests that Ehrman and Haines-Eitzen’s insight that early theological debates affected the ways Greek scribes transmitted biblical texts is also quite applicable to later theological and linguistic contexts. The type of interventions we find among Syriac manuscripts also indicates that ancient reading practices were physical endeavors in which later readers, not just scribes, often changed the text. As a result, manuscripts are material witnesses for how Syriac Christians read Islam. It is important to note that the strategies which readers and scribes used in their physical interactions with manuscripts concerning Muslims strongly corresponded with the exegetical techniques employed by Syriac authors.50 For example,

Some of the most recent discussions concerning Syriac texts about Islam can be found in Sidney H. Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008); The Encounter of Eastern Christianity with Early Islam, Emmanouela Grypeou, Mark N. Swanson, and David Thomas, eds. (Leiden: Brill, 2006); Redefining Christian Identity, J. J. van Ginkel, H. L. Murrevan den Berg, and T. M. van Lint, eds. (Leuven: Peeters, 2005). For a bibliography of earlier studies see Michael Penn, “Syriac Sources for Early Christian/Muslim Relations,” Islamochristiana, 29 (2003), 59–78 and Robert Holyland, Seeing Islam. 49 Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture; Haines-Eitzen, The Gaurdians of Letters. For an example of a similar approach to changes in Syriac New Testament manuscripts see Sebastian P. Brock, “Hebrews 2:9b in Syriac Tradition,” Novum Testamentum 27 (1983): 236–244. 50 An intriguing parallel can be observed in the Pericope Adulterae found in many later manuscripts of the Gospel of John. Knust, “Early Christian Re-Writing and the History of the Pericope Adulterae,” does a masterful job of showing how patristic exegesis and textual composition 48

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the erasure of the term rasul allowed a reader to challenge a traditional way of addressing the prophet Muhammad. So too whenever the medieval author Dionysius Bar Salibi wrote about the “apostle Muhammad,” he intentionally misspelled the Syriac word for aposwhich allowed tle.51 Likewise, the very ambiguity of the term ‫ܐ‬ a scribe to repackage Athanasius’s letter as a diatribe against Islam, also permitted the ninth-century author Nonnus of Nisibis to use ‫ܐ‬ as a code for Muslims in his prison writings.52 Throughout Syriac anti-Muslim polemics more generally, addition, erasure, redeployment, glossing, and reordering were important author as well as scribal and reader strategies. This leads to a broader methodological point concerning how we read Syriac manuscripts. An analysis of how ancient scribes and readers interacted with codices suggests that we should treat Syriac manuscripts less as literature and more as what medievalist John Dagenais calls “lecturature.”53 That is, we need to remember that the works we study are not so much the product of individual authors as the accumulation of a series of readers. Similarities between the ways authors, scribes, and readers interpret a historical development, such as the rise of Islam, should not be analyzed as one group unilaterally influencing another. Rather, their shared exegetical strategies suggest that in antiquity there was much greater permeability between these categories than is commonly acknowledged. An approach to manuscript culture that refuses to sharply delineate between author, scribe, and reader shifts one’s focus from the recovery of an ur-text to transmission history, where manuscripts reflect an evolving, frequently contested, multi-layered process of meaning making. Such a perspective can present a more nuanced picture of the interactions between monks, manuscripts, and Muslims. I suspect that it could do the same for other topics as well.

influenced each other in shaping and reshaping the story of Jesus and the woman caught in adultery. 51 As noted by Joseph P. Amar (CSCO 615, 6n. 11; CSCO 614, 6), Dionysius bar Salibi created a neologism ‫ܪܐ‬ to avoid calling Muhammad the ‫ܐ ܕܐ ܐ‬ . 52 Nonnus of Nisibis, Apologetic Tractate (van Roey, Nonnus De Nisibe, 1*-29*). 53 Dagenais, The Ethics of Reading in Manuscript Culture, 23.

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A B Figure 1. British Library Additional 14,509, f. 1a (with permission of the British Library). This twelfth-century codex begins with a madrasha containing the names of several figures whom the scribe considered heretical. Wherever these names appear on this page, the scribe has written them upside down. The inverted names in this detail include: (A) Bardaison, (where Bar is upright and Daison is inverted) and (B) Marcion.

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Figure 2. British Library Additional 14,451, ff. 6b–7a (with permission of the British Library). This fifth-century codex contains one of two extant copies of the Old Syriac translation of the gospels. A later reader made numerous changes to four of the manuscript’s folios in an attempt to have its version of Matthew correspond with the Peshitta’s.

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A

B Figure 3. British Library Additional 14,528, f. 119 (with permission of the British Library). This sixth-century codex contains a number of canons from the Council of Chalcedon prompting three anti-Chalcedonian readers to alter the manuscript. On this page a later reader has changed the “holy” council of Chalcedon to “despised” (A) and the “illustrious” Leo has become “wicked” (B).

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B

Figure 4. British Library Additional 14,643, f. 60b (with permission of the British Library). This eighth-century caliph list originally began, “A notice of the life of Muhammad, the messenger of God.” A later reader erased the word messenger (A). The title also contains another erasure (B). With these two erasures the text now reads: “The notice that Muhammad (is) of God is rejected.”

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A

Figure 5. Bibliothèque Nationale Syriac 62, f. 272a (with permission of the Bibliothèque nationale). This letter from Athanasius of Balad was originally directed against pagans. A late-seventh- or eighth-century scribe shifted Athansius’s polemic to be toward Muslims when he added the title: “A letter of the blessed patriarch Athanasius concerning that a Christian should not eat of the sacrifices of these Hagarenes who now hold power” (A) .

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A

Figure 6. Sachau 315, f. 61b (with permission of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin). In this part of The Qenneshre Fragment a demon-possessed monk is asked whom demons love the most. The original response spoke of the demon’s love for pagans but a later reader added a gloss redirecting the demons love to be toward Muslims. The gloss reads that the object of the demons’ affection “do not believe that Christ is God but say that He is a created man” (A).

Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies, Vol. 12.2, 259-286 © 2009 by Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute and Gorgias Press

LUKE 17:21: “THE KINGDOM OF GOD IS INSIDE YOU” THE ANCIENT SYRIAC VERSIONS IN SUPPORT OF THE CORRECT TRANSLATION* ILARIA RAMELLI CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY OF THE SACRED HEART, MILAN

ABSTRACT In this study I contend that in Luke 17:21 the right translation of Jesus’ words is not, “God’s Kingdom is among you,” or “in the midst of you,” as modern versions into English and other languages generally render, but “God’s Kingdom is inside you.” Strong support for the latter comes from ancient Syriac versions of this and other Gospel passages, from a systematic investigation of the meaning of e)nto/j in all of Greek literature anterior to, and contemporary with, Luke, and from a careful analysis of the expression e)nto/j + genitive in the New Testament and the Septuagint. I argue that, if the evangelist had meant “The Kingdom of God is among you,” he would have used, not e)nto\j u(mw=n, but e)n me/sw| u(mw=n, which is widely attested in this meaning in the New Testament and especially in Luke. Moreover, the translation that I advocate and that the Syriac versions support fits better in the immediate context of an address to the * I am very grateful to the anonymous readers of my article and to George Kiraz, whose work on the ancient Syriac versions of the Gospels is more helpful than I can say, and offers a constant source of inspiration.

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Ilaria Ramelli Pharisees and in Luke’s theology and conception of God’s Kingdom, and is also corroborated by a Kingdom logion in the Gospel of Thomas and by Greek and Syriac Patristic exegesis.

In Luke 17:21 Jesus is asked when the Kingdom of God will come, and he replies: Ou)k e1rxetai h( basilei/a tou= Qeou= meta\ parathrh/sewj, ou)de\ e)rou=sin: i)dou\ w{de, h1: e)kei=: i)dou\ ga\r h( basilei/a tou= Qeou= e)nto\j u(mw=n e)stin, “The Kingdom of God does not come when people are spying on it, nor will they say, ‘Behold, it is here,’ or ‘there;’ for the Kingdom of God is entos humôn.” No variant readings are attested for e)nto\j u(mw=n, an expression which modern translations generally render “among you,” meaning either that the Kingdom is not in the political and military structures of the world, but only in the
community of believers, or that the Kingdom is there and is represented by Jesus. But I shall argue that the right translation is “inside you,” and that the ancient Syriac versions, together with many other elements, strongly support this interpretation. This saying of Jesus may have been preserved originally in Aramaic, in which case e)nto/j might be a translation of ‫ גַּ ו‬/ ‫גּוא‬, meaning “interior,” and, in the prepositional construct ‫ ְבּגוֹא‬, “inside.” It is related to the Hebrew noun ‫גֵּ ו‬, ‫גַּ ו‬, meaning “interior, inside,” and to Syriac ‫ܓ‬, ‫ ܓ ܐ‬meaning “the inside, the inner parts,” which, as I shall show, also appears in the Peshitta and the Harklean version of this logion of Jesus. Let us see, first of all, the current translations. The Revised Standard Version and the Darby Bible both render: “For behold, the Kingdom of God is in the midst of you”; the New Revised Standard Version, which is highly influential, likewise translates: “For, in fact, the Kingdom of God is among you.” The Bible in Basic English is almost identical: “For the Kingdom of God is among you.” The French Bible de Jérusalem (1973) similarly runs: “Car voici que le Royaume de Dieu est au milieu de vous”; the Louis Segond version renders: “Car voici, le royaume de Dieu est au milieu de vous”; the Spanish Bíblia en lenguaje sencillo (2000) offers an analogous translation: “Porque el reino de Dios ya está entre ustedes,” which is very similar to that already provided by the old Reina-Valera version: “porque he aquí el reino de Dios está entre vosotros.” The Italian CEI translation (that of the Italian Episcopal Conference, which is the standard Italian version) also has: “il Regno di Dio è in mezzo a voi.” All these modern translations fully agree in understanding the Greek as meaning: “the Kingdom of God is among you.” Modern commentators generally

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follow this trend,1 often without even offering an explanation for their preference.2 E.g., A. Stöger, Vangelo secondo Luca (2nd edition; Rome: Città Nuova, 1969), 2.107–8 renders: “Ecco che il Regno di Dio è in mezzo a voi” (“Behold, God’s Kingdom is in the midst of you”) and in note 19 he remarks that most recent exegetes adopt this interpretation because only this is consistent with Jesus’ other statements concerning the Kingdom. I shall rather argue that the rendering “The Kingdom of God is inside you” is more consistent with Jesus’ presentation of God’s Kingdom in Luke. E. Schweizer, Das Evangelium nach Lukas, 2nd edition (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1986); Il Vangelo secondo Luca, translated by P. Floridi (Brescia: Paideia, 2000), 256, translates: “Il Regno di Dio è in mezzo a voi” (“The Kingdom of God is amidst you”), and rules out the translation, “Il Regno di Dio è in voi, cioè nel cuore degli uomini” (“The Kingdom of God is within you, that is, in people’s heart”), stating that the former interpretation is more probable (258–259). The evidence he adduces for the meaning of e)nto/j as “amidst,” however, is only Deut 5:14 and Xenophon, Cyropaedia, 5.5.13, whereas I shall show that very many passages in the Septuagint and the only other occurrence of e)nto/j in the New Testament (indeed, all Biblical linguistic evidence), together with the analysis of all uses of e)nto/j in Greek literature before Luke, prove that e)nto/j means “inside.” This is not recognized by J. Schlosser, “Le Règne de Dieu est au milieu de vous (Lc 17.20–21),” in Le Règne, I, 179–243. 2 J. Reiling and J. L. Swellengrebel, A Translator’s Handbook on the Gospel of Luke (Leiden: Brill, 1971), 586, translate: “The Kingdom of God is among you,” and list two other possible meanings (“within you, i.e., within your heart,” and “within your reach”), but they add that the first rendering “seems to be preferable,” without explaining the reason why it should be so. R. Maynet, Il Vangelo secondo Luca. Analisi retorica (Bologna: Dehoniane, 2003), 637, translates: “Il Regno di Dio è in mezzo a voi” (“God’s Kingdom is amidst you”) and comments: “è presente ora, in mezzo a voi” (“it is present now, among you”), with no further support for such an understanding. The only recent articles devoted to this verse, but largely incomplete in argument and evidence, are, to my knowledge: H. Riesenfeld, “Le Règne de Dieu, parmi vous ou en vous?” (RB 98 [1991]): 190–98; J. Lebourlier, “Entos hymôn. Le sens ‘au milieu de vous’ est-il possible?” (Bib 73 [1992]): 259–62, and T. Holmén, “The Alternatives of the Kingdom. Encountering the Semantic Restrictions of Luke 17:20–21” (ZNW 87 [1996]): 204–29. Other articles on this passage are either very old and brief (B. C. Easton, “Luke 17,20–21: An Exegetical Study,” AJT 16 [1912]: 275–83; A. G. Smith, “The Kingdom of God is Within You,” ExpT 43 [1931/2]: 378–79; A. Sledd, “The Interpretation of Luke XVII.21,” ExpT 50 [1937/8]: 235–37; P. Allen, “Lk XVII.21,” ExpT 49 [1937/8]: 476–77; 50 [1938/9]: 233–35; C. H. Roberts, “The Kingdom of Heaven (Lk. XVII.21),” HTR 41 [1948]: 1–8; J. G. Griffiths, “Entos hymôn,” ExpT 63 [1951/2]: 30–31; A. Rüstow, “Entos hymôn estin. Zur Deu1

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I think that the King James Version (1611), followed by the old Webster translation (1833) and by Robert Young’s Literal Translation (1862), in this case was more correct (“For, behold, the Kingdom of God is within you”), just like Luther’s ancient German version (1545): “Das Reich Gottes ist inwendig in euch.” In fact, I contend that the correct translation is “The Kingdom of God is inside you.” The Greek e)nto\j u(mw=n here cannot mean “among you” or “in the midst of you,” because in Luke this would rather be expressed by means of the phrase, e)n me/sw| u(mw=n. But before arguing on grammatical and linguistic grounds, I shall demonstrate that the ancient Syriac translations, just as the Latin, definitely point to the understanding I am proposing. The Vulgate, the ancient Latin translation of the 4th–5th century ascribed to Jerome, renders the Greek as follows: ecce enim regnum Dei intra vos est, which means, “inside you.”3 Differently from e)nto/j in Greek, intra is unambiguous, because it doesn’t mean “among” or “in the midst,” but only “inside, within.” In the Vetus Latina, represented by the old Latin versions circulating before the Vulgate, no variant readings are attested for the words intra vos,4 and also the Bezae Codex Cantabrigiensis in its Latin column has the identical sentence, ecce enim regnum Dei intra vos est.5 Thus, the ancient Latin translations are all unanimous in understanding the Greek as “The Kingdom of God is inside you.” Now, the ancient Syriac translations, too, or at least most of them and precisely those which are closer to the Greek, support my tung von Lukas 17,20–21,” ZNW 51 [1960]: 197–224; R. Sneed, “The Kingdom of God is within You,” CBQ 24 [1962]: 363–82; F. Mussner, “Wann kommt das Reich Gottes?” BZ 6 [1962]: 107–11) or they do not address the e)nto\j u(mw=n issue, e.g., A. Strobel, “Die Passa-Erwartung als urchristliches Problem in Lc 17,20f.” (ZNW 49 [1958]): 157–96; Id., “Zu Lk 17,20f.” (BZ 7 [1963]): 111–13; W. Grimm, Jesus und das Danielbuch (Frankfurt a.M.: Lang, 1984), 1.70–90. 3 Edition: R. Weber, Biblia Sacra iuxta Vulgatam Versionem (4th edition; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1994). 4 Itala: Das neue Testament in altlateinischer Überlieferung, Hrsg. A. Jülicher, vol. 3: Lucasevangelium (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1954), 196, registers no variant reading. 5 A. Ammassari, Bezae Codex Cantabrigiensis. Copia esatta del manoscritto onciale greco-latino (Città del Vaticano: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1996), 525, with review article by I. Ramelli (RSCI 52 [1998]): 171–78, with further documentation on this manuscript. In fact, A. Ammassari, Il Vangelo di Luca nella colonna Latina del Bezae Codex Cantabrigiensis (Città del Vaticano: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1996), 125, interprets the Latin words as follows: “Il Regno di Dio è già dentro di voi,” i.e., “inside you.”

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interpretation of e)nto/j in the verse under examination. If we compare the four main and most ancient Syriac translations of Luke 17:21b, i.e., the Vetus Syra in its earlier phases,6 as represented by mss. Sinaiticus and Curetonianus,7 the Peshitta version, and the Harklean version,8 we realize at once that they differ from one another precisely and exclusively in the words that render e)nto/j (which may indicate that some difficulty was perceived in connection with this expression). Sinaiticus and Curetonianus dis‫ܗܐ ܓ‬ play a text that is identical in both: ‫ܬܗ ܕܐ ܐ‬ ‫ܢ‬ ‫ܒ‬, “For, behold, the Kingdom of God is within you.” The ‫ܒ‬, however, is ambiguous, and may mean “within, preposition inside,” or “between,” or “among.” It is often used with ‫ܐ‬ to This is the oldest Syriac version of the Gospels after Tatian’s fragmentary Diatessaron (which moreover was a harmony rather than a translation of the four Gospels). The Vetus Syra, i.e., the “Gospel of the Separated” (in reference to its distinction from the Diatessaron), dates to the late second century in its earliest phases, and in its late phases to the fourth. 7 Sinaiticus, or ms. Syr. Sin. 30, is a palimpsest from the Monastery of St. Catherine on Mt. Sinai: its original leaves date back to the fourth century, and it reflects a still earlier translation, of the second or third century: thus, it is a fundamental witness to a very early phase of the Vetus Syra. It is probable that relatively soon further parts of this translation will be available, which would be most valuable to scholars. Curetonianus (ms. Brit. Lib. Add. 14451), written in the fifth century, represents a later stage of the Vetus Syra, probably of the fourth century. It stems from the Monastery of the Deipara in the Natron Valley in Egypt. See S. Brock, The Bible in the Syriac Tradition (2nd edition; Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2006), 17; 19; 33–34; 111–14. 8 I use G. A. Kiraz, Comparative Edition of the Syriac Gospels, Aligning the Sinaiticus, Curetonianus, Peshît?tâ and H?arklean Versions (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 3.352 on Luke 17:21b. The Peshitta was born as a revision of the Vetus Syra aimed at a more literal adherence to the Greek; it was completed in the fifth century for the New Testament. The Harklean translation was finalized in 616 in a monastery outside Alexandria by Thomas of H?arqel, who, in turn, revised the Peshitta on the basis of a former revision promoted by Philoxenus of Mabbug and completed by his chorepiscopus Polycarp in 508. The Harklean version, which, for the first time in the history of Syriac translations, covers the whole of the New Testament, is extremely literal and is based on a refined translation technique. See Brock, The Bible, 17–18; 34–35 (on the Peshitta, on which I do not cite scholarship, which would be extremely rich); 19–20; 35–37 (on the Harklean version). The Kiraz edition, as for the Harklean version, is based primarily on one of the earliest witnesses to this text, ms. Vat. Syr. 268, considered by Angelo Mai to have been written by Thomas of H?arqel himself. In any case, the ms. dates to the eighth or early ninth century. 6

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indicate the interiority in expressions such as “within oneself, in one’s heart.” But this ambiguity is excluded in the subsequent versions, the Peshitta and the Harklean, each of which endeavored to be closer to the Greek than the preceding version, that is, the Vetus Syra and the Peshitta itself respectively. The Peshitta translates: ‫ܗܐ‬ ‫ܢ ܗܝ‬ ‫ܬܗ ܕܐ ܐ ܓ‬ ‫ܓ‬, “For, behold, the Kingdom of God is inside you.” And the Harklean version, which ‫ܗܐ ܓ‬ is even more literal than the Peshitta, runs as follows: ̇ ‫ܬܗ ܕܐ ܐ ܒܓ ܢ ܐ‬ , “For, behold, the Kingdom ‫ ܓ‬and ‫ ܒܓ‬unequivocally of God is inside you.” Both mean “inside,” “on the inside of,” and derive from ‫ܓ‬, ‫ܓ ܐ‬, meaning “the inside, the inner parts.” ‫ ܒܓ‬is most often, and indeed virtually always, used in this sense. Only two exceptions may be adduced, but they are more apparent than substantial. In 1Cor derives from ‫ܓ‬, but the Greek 5:12 in the Peshitta ‫ܓ‬ Vorlage is completely different: it is not e)nto\j u(mw=n, but tou\j e1sw, with an adverbial construct (not a prepositional one with a genitive) and in fact a different adverb: the Greek tou\j e1sw in this passage means “those inside” (sc. inside the community of believers; inside Christianity) as opposite to “those outside” (tou\j e1cw), so that the meaning “inside” for ‫ ܓ‬/ ‫ ܒܓ‬is confirmed even here. In the Vulgate, too, the rendering is hi qui intus sunt, “those who are inside” vs. hi qui foris sunt, “those who are outside.” The second apparent exception is
Heb 2:12, which in the Peshitta reads ‫ ;ܒܓ ̇ܗ ܕ ܬܐ‬the Greek is not e)nto/j + genitive here (in this case, e)nto\j e)kklhsi/aj), but e)n me/sw| e)kklhsi/aj, both here and in Ps 21:23 (LXX) of which our passage is a quotation. In the Hebrew Bible, in Ps 22:23 the preposition is ‫ ְבּתוֹךּ‬, “within,” from the noun ‫תּוֹךּ‬, meaning both “inside, interior” and “midst, middle.” In fact, the meaning “inside” for ‫ ܒܓ‬is present even here, and very clearly: “inside the assembly,” which in Heb 2:12 acquires a local meaning. The Syriac translator who used ‫ ܒܓ‬understood e)kklhsi/a as “church” and thus felt the syntagm as meaning “inside in Syriac Christianity always means “church,” the church” (‫ܬܐ‬ just as e)kklhsi/a from the meaning “assembly” acquired the meaning “church”). Thus, whereas the Vetus Syra is ambiguous in Luke 17:21, surely the Peshitta and the Harklean version support my interpretation, showing that their translators understood the Greek e)nto/j in the relevant passage as “within,” not as “among.” This, to be sure, does not automatically mean per se that the former must be the right understanding, but it certainly demonstrates that it was possible to understand that expression in this way and that indeed it was

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understood thusly in at least two Syriac versions, precisely those closest to the original Greek. Moreover, there are strong grammatical, linguistic, and theological reasons that fully support my interpretation of Luke 17:21 and its Syriac translations. I shall put them forward in the following paragraphs. And we shall see that the Syriac translations again offer a crucial witness. First of all, the only other occurrence of e)nto/j in the whole New Testament is in Matt 23:26, where it undoubtedly bears the meaning, “inside.” There is no possibility of rendering it with “among” or “in the midst:” Farisai=e tufle/, kaqa/rison prw=ton to\ e)nto\j tou= pothri/ou, i3na ge/nhtai kai\ to\ e)kto\j au)tou= kaqaro/n, “Blind Pharisee, first cleanse the internal part of the glass, that the external part, too, may be clean.” In fact, the Latin version of the Vulgate is again unambiguous: Pharisaee caece, munda prius q u o d i n t u s e s t calicis et parapsidis, ut fiat et id quod de foris est mundum. There is no question that the meaning of the Latin, too, as well as of the Greek, is: “the part that is inside.” The meaning “among” or “amidst” is completely ruled out. And here, again, the ancient Syriac versions—this time all of them, with no ambiguity—are extremely significant, all the more if we compare them with the Syriac translations of Luke 17:21. For Matt 23:26a only Sinaiticus is available as a witness to the Vetus Syra, since the text in Curetonianus breaks off immediately before this verse.9 Now, all three versions are unanimous in rendering to\ e)nto/j with ‫ܓ ܐ‬, the same word that two of them, the Peshitta and the Harklean version, used in a prepositional form to translate e)nto/j in Luke 17:21. All three, in fact, render to\ e)nto/j in Matt 23:26a with ‫ܓ ܗ ܕ ܐ‬. They are highly consistent, and surely in the Syriac translations there is no possibility of a meaning “among,” just as there is none, at least for the Peshitta and the Harklean version, in Luke 17:21. Furthermore, all occurrences of e)nto/j in the LXX clearly mean “inside” (within a person, within a building, etc.): Ps 38:4: e)qerma/nqh h( kardi/a mou e)nto/j mou, “My heart warmed up inside me”; Ps 102:1: eu)lo/gei h( yuxh/ mou to\n Ku/rion kai\ pa/nta ta\ e)nto/j mou to\ o1noma to\ a3gion au)tou=, “Bless the Lord, my soul; all that is inside me [sc. my interiority, my spirit], bless His holy Name”; Ps 108:22: h( kardi/a mou teta/raktai e)nto/j mou, “My heart was frightened inside me”; Cant 3:10: e)nto\j au)tou= liqo/strwton, “What is inside it is all a decoration”; Isa 16:11: h( 9

See Kiraz, Comparative Edition, 1.358–59.

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koili/a mou e)pi\ Mwab w(j kiqa/ra h)xh/sei kai\ ta\ e)nto/j mou, “My belly will sound as a lyre for Moab, what is inside me”; 1 Mac 4:48: ta\ e)nto\j tou= oi1kou, “The internal part of the building”; Sir 19:26: ta\ e)nto\j au)tou= plh/rh do/lou, “What is inside him is full of deception.” Therefore, there is not even one single occurrence of e)nto/j in the whole Greek Bible in the sense of “among, amidst, in the middle of.” This is because, in order to express “among, amidst,” or “in the middle of,” the New Testament always uses e)n me/sw| + genitive, already employed in the Old Testament 307 times, which would be useless to list here. In the New Testament there are 27 occurrences: Matt 10:16, 18:2, 18:20; Mark 6:47, 9:36; Luke 2:46 (kaqezo/menon e)n me/sw| tw=n didaska/lwn, “sitting among the teachers”); 8:7 (e3teron e1pesen e)n me/sw| tw=n a)kanqw=n, “another fell among thorns”); 10:3 (w(j a1rnaj e)n me/sw| lu/kwn, “like lambs among wolves”); 21:21 (oi( e)n me/sw| au)th=j, “those who are inside Jerusalem”); 22:27 (e)gw\ de\ e)n me/sw| u(mw=n ei)mi, “I am among you”); 22:55 (periaya/ntwn de\ pu=r e)n me/sw| th=j au)lh=j, “when they lit a fire in the midst of the court”); 24:36 (au)to\j e1sth e)n me/sw| au)tw=n, “he stood among them”); John 8:3; 8:9; Acts 1:15; 2:22; 17:22; 27:21; 1 Thess 2:7; Heb 2:12; Rev 1:13; 2:1; 4:6; 5:6; 6:6; 22:2. As is evident from this complete list, precisely Luke, whose occurrences I cited in extenso, often uses e)n me/sw|, even much more than the other evangelists (moreover, in Luke Acts there are four other occurrences). Now, this clearly implies that Luke would certainly have e)n me/sw| also in 17:21 if the meaning were “among you” also in that verse, which is not the case. Here, again, a close investigation into the Syriac versions will provide an excellent confirmation. For they translate all the Lucan occurrences of e)n me/sw| + genitive in a way that is entirely different from how they translate e)nto\j u(mw=n in Luke 17:21. In Luke 2:46 the Greek e)n me/sw| tw=n didaska/lwn is rendered ‫̈ ܐ‬ in the Vetus Syra (here represented only by Sinaiticus) and in the Peshitta, and, with just a slight alteration due to its well known hy‫ ܒ‬in the Harklean version. per-literal rendering, ‫ܐ ܕ ̈ ܐ‬ The meaning is unequivocal: “among the teachers,” “in the middle of the teachers.” In Luke 8:7, the Harklean version, again in line with its close literal style, renders e)n me/sw| tw=n a)kanqw=n again ‫ ;ܒ‬the other Syriac versions, i.e., the Peshitta with ‫ܐ ܕ ̈ܒܐ‬ and the Vetus Syra in both its witnesses, translate: ‫̈ܒܐ‬ ‫ܒ‬. The meanings are almost identical, respectively “in the middle of thorns” and “among thorns.” In Luke 10:3 the Greek e)n me/sw| ̈ ‫ ܒ‬in the Vetus Syra, as represented by lu/kwn is rendered ‫ܕܐܒܐ‬

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Sinaiticus and Curetonianus, and in the Peshitta: this expression properly would mean both “among” and “inside,” but here the context is clearly disambiguating, and moreover the Harklean trans̈ ‫ܐ‬ ‫ܒ‬, meaning “among lation is unmistakable: ‫ܕܕܐܒܐ‬ wolves.” The same is the case with Luke 21:21, where oi( e)n me/sw| au)th=j, in the sense of “those who are within Jerusalem,” is translated ‫ ܕܒܓ ܗ‬in the Vetus Syra (Sinaiticus and Curetonianus) and in the Peshitta, clearly because, in the case of a city, being “in the middle of it” or “within it” is the same thing, but in the Harklean ‫ܕܒ‬, version there is the usual disambiguating expression: ‫ܗ‬ “in the middle of it.” Exactly as in Luke 10:3, also in Luke 22:27 ‫ܒ‬, “among you,” the expression e)n me/sw| u(mw=n is rendered ‫ܢ‬ in the Vetus Syra (Sinaiticus and Curetonianus) and in the Peshitta, ‫ܒ‬, “in the but with the unequivocal and literal form ‫ܢ‬ middle of you,” in the Harklean version. Identical is the situation also in Luke 24:36, where e)n me/sw| au)tw=n is rendered ‫ܒ ܗܘܢ‬, “among them,” in the Vetus Syra (Sinaiticus and Curetonianus) and in the Peshitta, while the Harklean version employs again the disambiguating and literal form: ‫ܐ ܕ ܘܢ‬ ‫ܒ‬, “in the middle of them.” Finally, in Luke 22:55 all Syriac translations (the Vetus Syra is represented here by both Sinaiticus and Curetonianus) render e)n , “in the middle me/sw| th=j au)lh=j in the same way, ‫ܕܪܬܐ‬ of the court”; only, the Harklean version, in its hyper-literalism, ‫ܒ‬. To adds the preposition and the pronoun: ‫̇ܗ ܕܕܪܬܐ‬ summarize the result of this examination: there is not a single case in which all the ancient Syriac versions in Luke translate the expression e)n me/sw| + genitive in the same way as they render e)nto\j u(mw=n in Luke 17:21. This clearly means that the ancient translators understood e)nto\j u(mw=n in Luke 17:21 as bearing an utterly different meaning, and precisely, not “among,” but “inside.” The old Latin versions, too, i.e., the Vetus Latina and the Vulgate, including Bezae Codex Cantabrigiensis, fully confirm my contention: whereas in Luke 17:21 they all render e)nto\j u(mw=n with intra vos, as I have pointed out, in all the Lucan occurrences of e)n me/sw| + genitive they always use a completely different translation. In Luke 2:46 the Vulgate renders kaqezo/menon e)n me/sw| tw=n didaska/lwn as sedentem in medio doctorum, with no variant reading in Bezae Cantabrigiensis and no difference in the Vetus Latina. This is a clear ad verbum rendering of e)n me/sw| + genitive. In Luke 8:7 the Vulgate translates e3teron e1pesen e)n me/sw| tw=n a)kanqw=n as aliud cecidit inter spinas, where inter obviously means “among,” not “inside” like intra. Here there is one variant reading, in cod. Amiatinus (8th century), which reads secus spinas, where secus is a

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preposition meaning “along” or “against,” as synonyms of “among,” but certainly not “inside.” Similarly, in Luke 10:3 the Greek w(j a1rnaj e)n me/sw| lu/kwn is rendered in the Vulgate sicut agnos inter lupos, with no variant reading in Bezae Codex, nor different versions in the Vetus Latina. In Luke 21:21 oi( e)n me/sw| au)th=j is translated by the Vulgate qui in medio eius, again with a direct transposition of the Greek construct into Latin, which is present also in the translation of Luke 22:27, e)gw\ de\ e)n me/sw| u(mw=n ei)mi: ego autem in medio vestrum sum, once more with no variant reading and no difference in the Vetus Latina. Analogously, in Luke 22:55 the Vulgate renders periaya/ntwn de\ pu=r e)n me/sw| th=j au)lh=j with accenso autem igni in medio atrio.10 Finally, in Luke 24:36 the words e1sth e)n me/sw| au)tw=n are rendered in the Vulgate stetit in medio eorum, without variant readings or differences in the Vetus Latina. Thus, all occurrences of e)n me/sw| + genitive in Luke are always and consistently translated into Latin in a totally different way from that in which e)nto\j u(mw=n is translated in Luke 17:21. At this point, a systematic analysis of the use of e)nto/j in all of Greek literature anterior to Luke and contemporary with this Gospel is fundamental. I have conducted it not only on the LiddellScott, but also on the whole TLG, taking into account first of all the prepositional use with genitive. The first and main meaning of this preposition is not “among,” which is virtually never attested, but “within, inside,” as opposite to e)kto/j, “outside,” in a spatial meaning: Iliad 12.374=380=22.85: tei/xeoj e)nto/j; 1.432=10.125=16.324=352: lime/noj polubenqe/oj e0nto&j; 20.258: e0nto_j e0u+staqe/oj mega&rou; Hesiod Theogony 37=51=408: e)nto\j )Olu/mpou “inside Olympus”; 753: do&mou e0nto/j, “inside the house”; Aesop Fabulae 273.3: e0nto_j tou~ a)etou~; Hellanicus fr. 89: e0nto_j 1Idhj; Aeschylus, Agamemnon 77: ste/rnwn e)nto/j, “inside the chest”; Eumenides 607: e0nto&j ... zw&nhj; Scylax Periplus 13: e0nto_j tei/xouj; Herodotus 3.16: e0nto_j th~j e9wutou~ qh&khj; 3:117: e0nto_j tw~n o)re/wn; 6.133: e0nto_j tei/xeoj; Thucydides 1.13.5: tw~n te e0nto_j Peloponnh&sou kai\ tw~n e1cw; 2.90.4: e0nto_j tou~ ko&lpou; 2.96.1: e0nto_j tou~ 1Istrou potamou~; 3.94.2: e0nto_j tou~ i0sqmou~; 4.67.5: e0nto_j tw~n pulw~n; 4.130.3: e0nto_j tou~ tei/xouj (see 7.5.3: e0nto_j li/an tw~n teixw~n); 5.90.1: e0nto_j tou~ a)kribou~j; Xenophon, Hellenica 3.2.10=7.5.15: e0nto_j tou~ 10 The so-called Vulgata Sixto-Clementina (Biblia Sacra Vulgatae Editionis Sixti Quinti iussu recognita et auctoritate Clementis Octavi edita [Romae: in aedibus Vaticanis, 1592–1598]), differently from the codices, has in medio atrii. At any rate, this makes no difference in respect to my argument.

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tei/xouj; De republica Lacedaemoniorum 3.4: e0nto_j tou~ i9mati/ou tw_ xei=re e1xein; Isocrates, Panegyricus 116=Areopagiticus 52=Ctesias, fr. 1b.329 Jacoby: e0nto_j tei/xouj; Plato, Symposium 222A: e0nto_j au)tw~n gigno&menoj; Sophista 263E: o( me\n e0nto_j th~j yuxh~j pro_j au(th_n dia&logoj a1neu fwnh~j gigno&menoj tou~t' au)to_ h(mi=n e0pwnoma&sqh, dia&noia, where precisely the spiritual interiority is understood; Phaedrus 247A=Timaeus 40C: e0nto_j ou)ranou~; Timaeus 25AB: e0nto_j tou~ sto&matoj; 45B: e)nto\j h(mw=n; 74C: e0nto_j e9auth~j; Critias 117D: e0nto_j th~j a)kropo&lewj, and many other occurrences in contemporary authors and in the subsequent centuries, up to Philo and Josephus.11 It can also mean “within” in 11 Euripides, Medea 353: e0nto_j th~sde termo&nwn xqono&j; 1312: e0nto_j h2 'cwqen do&mwn; Hippolytus 131: e0nto_j e1xein oi1kwn; Andromacha 1112: krhpi=doj e0nto&j; Hecuba 1013: pe/plwn e0nto/j; Electra 94=615: teixe/wn e0nto/j; 394: do&mwn tw~nd' e0nto&j; Troiades 12: pu&rgwn e1pemyen e0nto&j; Iphigenia Taurica 1383: e0nto_j eu)se/lmou new/j; 1391: e0nto_j h}n lime/noj; Ion 1309: e0nto_j a)du&twn; Helena 332: e0nto_j oi1kwn; Bacchae 547: e0nto_j e1xei dw&matoj; Iphigenia Aulidensis 678: mela&qrwn e0nto&j; Aristotle, Historia animalium 495a18: 0Ento_j de\ tou~ au)xe/noj o3 t' oi0sofa&goj; Theophrastus, De sensu et sensibilibus 7: to_ me\n e0nto_j au)th~j ei]nai pu~r, to_ de\ peri\ au)to_ gh~n kai\ a)e/ra; Demosthenes, De corona 33; e0nto_j ei1h Pulw~n; De falsa legatione 86: e0nto_j tei/xouj; In Aristogitonem 1 97: e0nto_j tei/xouj; Aeneas tacticus, Poliorcetica 37: e0nto_j tou~ tei/xeoj; Zeno, SVF 1.95: e0nto_j me\n tou~ ko&smou mhde\n ei]nai keno&n, e1cw d'au)tou~ a1peiron; Chrysippus, SVF 3.120: e)nto\j ei]nai tw=n sumbaino/ntwn paqw=n; 3.604: e0nto_j ei]nai th~j fu&sewj th~j qei/aj; Apollonius, Conica 1.2: e0nto_j tou~ ku&klou; 1.10: e0nto_j pesei=tai tou~ kw&nou; 1.17: e0nto_j pesei=tai th~j grammh~j; Archimedes, De sphaera et cylindro 1.10.16: e0nto_j tou~ kw&nou; De lineis spiralibus 2.34.14: e0nto&j e0sti ta~j e3likoj; De planorum aequilibriis 2.81.1: e0nto_j ei]men dei= tou~ sxh&matoj; Euclides, Catoptrica 12: e0nto_j th~j sumptw&sewj kei=tai tw~n o1yewn; Polybius 1.40.4=8.28.9: e0nto_j tw~n pulw~n; 2.55.3: e0nto_j tw~n teixw~n; 8.3.5: e0nto_j th~j po&lewj; Hipparchus, In Arati et Eudoxi Phaenomena 1.4.9: e0nto_j tou~ ko&smou; Apollonius Paradoxographus, Historiae mirabiles 5.2: e0nto_j tou~ lime/noj; Posidonius fr. 8 Theiler: th~j e0nto_j qala&tthj kai\ th~j e0kto/j; fr. 194b: e0nto_j tw~n pulw~n; Philo, Legum allegoriae 1.60: ou1te ei0 e0nto_j ou1te ei0 e0kto&j e0sti tou~ paradei/sou; De somniis 1.184: h2 e0nto_j tou~ ko&smou h2 e0kto_j au)tou~ metako&smio&n tina; De vita Mosis 2.34: e0nto_j tei/xouj; De Decalogo 43: e0nto_j th~j fu&sewj; De specialibus legibus 2.116: ai9 me\n kata_ po&leij e0nto_j teixw~n ei0sin, ai9 d' e0n a)groi=j e1cw tei/xouj; 4.21: e0nto_j tou~ tei/xouj; De Providentia fr. 2: teixw~n e0nto/j; Josephus, Antiquitates 3.114: e0nto_j de\ tw~n pulw~n; 8.376: e0nto_j tw~n teixw~n; 14.470=Bellum 4.8: e0nto_j tou~ tei/xouj; Plutarch, Numa 10.4: e0nto_j th~j po&lewj; Publicola 23.5: e0nto_j a1steoj.

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the sense of “on this side, closer than,” as citra, citerior in Latin (as opposed to e)kto/j = ultra, ulterior), e.g., in Hecataeus fr. 119 Jacoby: ta_ e0nto_j 0Isqmou~ kai\ ta_ e0kto/j; Herodotus 1.6=1.28=5.102=Thucydides 1.16=Isocrates Panegyricus 144: e)nto\j 3Aluoj, and a number of other occurrences over the centuries.12 It can also correspond to interior, e.g., in Strabo 1.1.10: th~j qala&tthj th~j e0nto&j. The same meaning, “within, closer,” but transposed to time is “within, before,” e.g., in Herodotus 2.11: e0nto&j ge dismuri/wn e0te/wn; Thucydides 4.28.4 and 4.39.3: e)nto\j ei1kosin h(merw=n, “within twenty days”; Xenophon, Anabasis 7.5.9: e0nto_j o)li/gwn h(merw~n, and very many other occurrences up to the first century A.D.13 With numbers or measures, “within” assumes the meaning of “under, less than:” e.g., e0nto_j ei1kosin in Aristophanes, Ecclesiazusae 984; e0nto_j a)konti/smatoj in Xenophon, Hellenica 4.4.16; e0nto_j pollw~n stadi/wn in Cynegeticus 12.7;

12 See Herodotus 8.47; 4.46: e)nto\j tou= Po&ntou; 4:173: e0nto_j th~j Su&rtioj; Thucydides 2.9.2: e0nto_j 0Isqmou~; Plato, Timaeus 25C: e)nto\j o3rwn (Hraklei/wn; Aristotle, Meteorologica 354a11: e0nto_j 9Hraklei/wn sthlw~n; Polybius, Historiae 10.6.7: e0nto_j tou~ potamou~; 10.7.3=10.35.3: e0nto_j 1Ibhroj potamou~; 10.7.5: e0nto_j 9Hraklei/wn sthlw~n; Posidonius fr. 27 Theiler: th~j e9kate/rwqen qala&tthj, th~j te e0nto_j kai\ th~j e0kto&j; Philo, De Abrahamo 226: ta& te e0kto_j kai\ e0nto_j Eu)fra&tou; De specialibus legibus 1.158: ai9 me\n e0kto_j ai9 de\ e0nto_j 0Iorda&nou tou~ potamou~; Strabo 1.2.10: e0nto_j tou~ Tau&rou; 2.5.24=2.5.31=15.3.23=17.3.25: e0nto_j 3Aluoj; 3.3.2=3.5.3: e0nto_j sthlw~n; 3.4.10: e0nto_j tw~n te Purhnai/wn o)rw~n; 4.3.4: e0nto_j tou~ 9Rh&nou; 5.1.3: e0nto_j 1Alpewn; 5.1.11: e0nto_j tou~ Pa&dou; Josephus, Antiquitates 15.95=Bellum 1.362: e0nto_j 0Eleuqe/rou potamou~; Plutarch, Cato Maior 10: h( e)nto\j (Ispani/a = Hispania Citerior. 13 Xenophon, Cynegeticus 4.11: e)nto\j e(spe/raj “within the evening,” “before (the end of) the evening”; Antiphon, De caede Herodis 69 = Cratinus fr. 189.1: e0nto_j ou) pollou~ xro&nou; Plato, Timaeus 18D: th~j prepou&shj e0nto_j h(liki/aj; Hippocrates, De purgantibus 72=De diebus judicatoriis 9: e0nto_j tessareskai/deka h(merw~n; Isocrates, Aegineticus 22: e0nto_j tria&konq' h(merw~n; Evagoras 64: e0nto_j triw~n e0tw~n; Archidamus 46: e0nto_j triw~n mhnw~n; Xenophon, Hellenica 3.3.4: e0nto_j pe/nq' h(merw~n; Athenaion Politeia 48.4: e0nto_j g & h(merw~n; 49: e0nto_j triw~n mhnw~n; Plato, Timaeus 18D: th=j prepou/shj e)nto\j h(liki/aj, “within the fitting limits of age”; Leges 914E: e0nto_j triw~n h(merw~n; Philo, De specialibus legibus 2.121=Quaestiones in Genesim 2 fr. 5b=De numeris fr. 122: e)nto\j e)niautou=; 3.205: e0nto_j h(merw~n e9pta&; 4.4: e0nto_j e9ptaeti/aj; Josephus, Antiquitates 16.344: e0nto_j h(merw~n tria&konta; Plutarch, Camillus 31.3: e0nto_j e0niautou~.

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e)nto\j draxmw=n penth/konta in Plato, Leges 253B, etc.14 Likewise, with degrees of relationships “within” assumes the meaning of “closer than,” e.g., in Plato, Leges 871B e)nto\j a)neyio/thtoj, “closer than cousins,” literally “within the relationship of cousins.” And being e)nto\j e(autou= (e.g., Herodotus 1.119; 7.47; Demosthenes, Contra Phormionem 35 and 49; Philo, De gigantibus 38) means being “in one’s mind, in one’s senses or capacities,” as opposed to being “out of one’s mind, mad,” or “terribly scared.” With double genitive, e)nto/j means “within” in the sense, “between one thing and another,” e.g., in Herodotus 8.47: e0nto_j oi0khme/noi Qesprwtw~n kai\ 0Axe/rontoj potamou~. There seems to be a strong coherence in the meaning of e)nto/j as “within,” and substantially no development along the centuries: the sense “among” is practically unattested,15 whereas the main and most important meaning of e)nto/j is surely “within, inside.” I have already demonstrated in section [9] that this is also the only meaning that e)nto/j bears in the LXX and indeed in the whole Bible. Also, it is revealing that ta\ e)nto/j means “the inner parts,” those which are within a person (e.g., Thucydides 2.49), and that as an adverb e)nto/j always means “within, inside,” including those cases in which it assumes the function of an adjective or a noun: Iliad 10.10: trome/onto de/ oi9 fre/nej e0nto&j: 12.8: e0nto_j e1xon; 18.512: e0nto_j e1ergen; 24.544=22.121=2.845=2.617= Hesiodus, Opera et dies 269 and Theogonia 751: e0nto_j e0e/rgei; Iliad 2.845: e)nto\j e)e/rgein; Odyssey 2.341: e0nto_j e1xontej; 7.88: e0nto_j e1ergon; 12.225: e0nto_j de\ puka&zoien sfe/aj au)tou&j; 17:11: plh~sqen d' a1ra oi9 me/le' e0nto/j; Hesiod, Theogonia 159: e)nto\j stonaxi/zeto; fragment 343.18: ai0gi/da poih&sasa fobe/straton e1ntoj; Hymn to Hermes 251: e0nto_j e1xousin; Hymn to Apollo 30: e0nto_j e1xei, and so on, with a great many occurrences, until the first century A.D., where e)nto/j is often opposed to e)kto/j and e1cw.16 Likewise, it is signifiAristotle, Metaphysica 1084a34: e0nto_j th~j deka&doj; Demosthenes, De corona 38: e0nto_j stadi/wn e9kato_n ei1kosi; Agatharchides, De mari Erythraeo 26: oi9 e0nto_j tw~n tria&konta e0tw~n, “those who are less than thirty”; Philo, De opificio mundi 91=Legum allegoriae 1.15=De numeris fr. 40=43b: e0nto_j deka&doj; Strabo 16.2.36. 15 One apparent exception is Xenophon, Hipparchicus 5.13: e1sti de\ pezou_j ou) mo&non e0nto_j a)lla_ kai\ o1pisqen i9ppe/wn a)pokru&yasqai. However, here “among the knights” is understood as “inside the cavalry,” as is often the case in Greek (where “cavalry” is expressed by i(ppei=j more often than with singular abstract nouns, which are much rarer). 16 Aeschylus, Septem contra Thebas 968: e0nto_j de\ kardi/a ste/nei; Empedocles fr. 86: to_ e0nto_j fw~j u(po_ tou~ e0kto&j; Herodotus 3.116: 14

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xw/rhn e)nto\j a)pe/rgein; 6.79: ou)k w3rwn oi9 e0nto_j tou_j e0kto_j o3 ti e1prhsson; 6.134: o3 ti dh_ poih&sonta e0nto&j; 9.22: e0nto_j qw&rhka ei]xe xru&seon; Thucydides 1.93.5: e0nto_j de\ ou1te xa&lic ou1te phlo_j h}n; 2.78.1: ta&froj de\ e0nto&j te h}n kai\ e1cwqen; 5.2.4: e0nto_j boulo&menoj poih~sai; 6.75.1: e0nto_j poihsa&menoi; 6.100.2: e0nto_j poihsa&menoi; 7.25.5: e0nto_j o(rmoi=en; 7.78.2: e0nto_j ei]xon; Ctesias, fr. 1b.465 Jacoby: e3kaston de\ tou&twn ei]xen e0nto_j a1ndra; Democritus, fr. 135: o3tan de\ e0nto_j ge/nhtai ... e0kto_j poiei= th_n ai1sqhsin, ou3tw kai\ e0nto&j; Xenophon, Hellenica 5.4.41: ta_ e0nto_j e1temne kai\ e1kae me/xri tou~ a1stewj; Cyropaedia 7.5.24: o3tan d' e0nto_j genw&meqa; Corpus Hippocraticum, De natura ossium 18: katedu&sato e0j to_ e0nto/j; 19: e0j ta_ koi=la ta_ e0nto/j; Plato, Protagoras 334C; Symposium 216E: ta_ e0nto_j a)ga&lmata, meaning “the statues in their inside”; Sophista 230C: ta_ e0mpodi/zonta e0nto&j tij e0kba&lh|; 252C: e0nto_j u(pofqeggo&menon; Meno 85A: a)pote/tmhken e0nto&j; Timaeus 45E: ta_j e0nto_j kinh&seij; 85C: kaqeirgnume/nh d' e0nto/j; 85E: tro&mon e0nto_j pare/xei; 86E: e0nto_j de\ ei9llo&menoi; 91D: e0nto_j e0kqre/ywntai; Phaedrus 279B, where e)nto/j is opposed to e1cwqen, as in Critias 116A; Cratylus 432B: ta_ e0nto/j; 427C, where e)nto/j is equated with e1ndon, and Parmenides 138E, where it is opposed to e1cw as in Philebus 46E (toi=j e0nto_j pro_j ta_ tw~n e1cw), in Timaeus 46A, in Respublica 588D, and in Respublica 414B, where it is opposed to e1cwqen; Timaeus 88E, where it is opposed to e)kto/j, “outside”; Respublica 414D: u(po_ gh~j e0nto_j platto&menoi kai\ trefo&menoi; 401D, where to_ e0nto_j th~j yuxh~j is the innermost soul; Aristotle, Analytica 66a14 Bekker, where e)nto/j is opposed to e)kto/j; De caelo 272b15 Bekker: peri/eisin a3pasan th_n e0nto&j; 281a10: ta_ mo&ria ta_ e0nto&j; De generatione animalium 716b18– 23: e0nto_j d' e1xei tou&touj ... tau~ta pa&nta e0nto_j e1xei; 717b33, where e)nto/j is opposed to e1cw; 719a31, where it is opposed to e0kto&j, as in 741b25, 753a4, and 757a29; 728b9: ka&mptei ta_ o)pi/sqia ske/lh e0nto&j; Historia animalium 492a9: h2 e0kto_j sfo&dra h2 e0nto_j h2 me/swj; 497b1: Ta_ me\n ou}n mo&ria kai\ ta_ e0nto&j kai\ ta_ e0kto&j; 502a4: glw~ttan d' e1xei mikra&n te sfo&dra kai\ e0nto&j, w3ste e1rgon e0sti\n i0dei=n; 504b18: ou1t' e0nto_j ou1t' e0kto&j; 528a4: to_ d' o1strakon e0kto&j, e0nto_j d' ou)de\n sklhro&n; 559a18: e0kto_j me\n to_ leuko&n, e0nto_j de\ to_ w)xro&n; 621a7: e0ktre/petai ta_ e0nto_j e0kto&j ... ei]q' ou3twj ei0stre/petai pa&lin e0nto&j; Magna moralia 1.15.1: w{n d' e0nto_j kai\ e0n au)toi=j h( ai0ti/a, ou) bi/a, where e)nto/j means inside, in the interiority of one’s soul and will; Mechanica 856b24: h( me\n e0kto&j, h( de\ e0nto&j; Theophrastus, Historia Plantarum 1.1.4: h2 kata_ ta_ e1cw mo&ria kai\ th_n o3lhn morfh_n h2 kata_ ta_ e0nto&j; 4.7.5: to_ d' e0nto_j suneli/ttetai; 6.6.4.11: ta_ me\n e0kto_j ta_ d' e0nto&j; De sensu et sensibilibus 8: e0panisou~sqai ga_r au)toi=j to_ e0nto_j fw~j u(po_ tou~ e0kto&j; De causis plantarum 6.10.7: e0kkrino&menon a)po_ tou~ e0nto&j; Archimedes, De conoidibus et sphaeroidibus 1.190.2: ai9 me\n ... e0kto_j pi/ptonti, ai9 de\ e0pi\ qa&tera e0nto&j; Euclides, Elementa 1 demonstratio 18: e0pei\ trigw&nou tou~ BGD e0kto&j e0sti gwni/a h( u(po_ ADB, mei/zwn e0sti\ th~j e0nto/j: 1 demonstratio 28: eu)qei=a e0mpi/ptousa th_n e0kto_j gwni/an th|~

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cant that all other derivates from e)nto/j have meanings that are connected, not with “among,” but with “within:” e)nto/sarkej, according to Hesichius, s.v., are the fleshly parts inside the body and correspond to ta\ e)nto/j (which in Thucydides 2.49.2 and Aesop Fab. 89.1; 188.1–3 precisely indicates the inner parts of the body); e1ntosqe and e1ntosqen always mean “from within” or “from the inside,” not “from among” (e.g., Iliad 22.237; Odyssey 1.380; 2.424; Lucian Vera Historia 1.24). The nouns e)ntosqi/dia and e)nto/sqia (or e)ndo/sqia) and the adjectives e)ntosqi/dioj and e)nto/sqioj respectively mean “entrails” and “intestine” (e.g., Aristotle De Partibus Animalium 684b32; 685a3; Timaeus of Locris 100b; Galen 14.42; Hesychius, Etymologicum Magnum 345.21). Of these, e)ndo/sqia is also attested in the Septuagint (Ex 12:9), like e)nto/teroj, “inner,” in Es 4:11: th\n au)lh\n th\n e)ntote/ran. Therefore, in the light of the meaning of e)nto/j in all of Greek literature preceding the New Testament and contemporaneous with it, it is clear that it means “within, inside,” and not “among” (which, as I have shown, in the New Testament is always expressed with e)n me/sw| + genitive). Thus, it comes as no surprise that in Liddell-Scott, p. 577a, precisely for Luke 17:21 the translation of e)nto\j u(mw=n that is offered is: “in your hearts.” Thus, not “among you,” but “inside you.” Indeed, the reason for the modern translation “the Kingdom of God is among you,” against most ancient and early modern versions and interpretations, seems to be first of all the lack of consideration for the meaning of e)nto/j in the Bible and in Greek literature. Moreover, some contextual, conceptual, and theological arguments further support the interpretation of Luke 17:21 I advocate.17 First of all, the fact that in Luke 17 Jesus is addressing the e0nto/j; 3 demonstratio 13: e0an& te e0nto_j e0an& te e0kto_j e0fa&pthtai; Nicander, Alexipharmaca 287: pneu~ma e0nto_j u(pobrome/ei; Posidonius fr. 463 Theiler: h( me\n e0nto&j, h( de\ e0kto_j e1stai; Oracula Sibyllina 8.370: e0nto_j e0w_n sigw~; Philo, De opificio mundi 118: ta& t' e0kto_j kai\ e0nto_j me/rh … ta_ d' e0nto_j lego&mena spla&gxna; De plantatione 30: o3sa e0nto&j te kai\ e0kto&j; De aeternitate mundi 22: dittw~n ou)sw~n fqora~j ai0tiw~n, th~j me\n e0nto_j th~j de\ e0kto&j; Quaestiones in Exodum fr. 32: 0Ento_j fe/rei to_n o1leqron o( th|~ kaki/a| suzw~n; Strabo, 1.3.6: to_ e1cw pe/lagoj tw|~ e0nto/j; 1.3.17: th_n e0kto_j qa&lattan th|~ e0nto&j; see also 3.1.7; Josephus, Antiquitates 2.250: h( ga_r po&lij e0nto_j ou}sa; 2.304: tw~n e0nto_j diafqeirome/nwn; 2.343: o( tw~n Ai0gupti/wn strato_j a3paj e0nto_j h}n; 3.135: xrusw|~ de\ ta& t' e0nto_j kai\ ta_ e1cwqen perielh&lato pa~sa; 14.60: toi=j e0nto&j, “those who were inside.” 17 On Luke’s theology see most recently J. B. Green, The Theology of the Gospel of Luke (Cambridge: University Press, 1995); P. Pokorny, Theologie

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Pharisees fits perfectly well with Jesus’ declaration that the Kingdom is an interior reality (e)nto\j u(mw=n) rather than a visible and exterior one, and thence it is impossible to say that it is here or there and to spy on its coming, because it is a spiritual and interior reality, already present in the spiritual dimension and to be completely fulfilled in the eskhaton (as is strongly suggested by the immediately following Luke passage, which is eschatological). Indeed, this stress on interiority is perfectly appropriate to the addressees of this logion, since the Pharisees are notoriously accused by Jesus precisely of giving importance only to exteriority and ostensibility, formal practices and human glory. Jesus, instead, emphasizes that God’s Kingdom is interior, invisible, impossible to locate in one place or another, in that it is of a spiritual nature (compare also John 18:36: “My Kingdom is not of this world”). What is more, as I have pointed out, the only other occurrence of e)nto/j in the New Testament, in Matt 23:26, is precisely found in an exhortation addressed by Jesus to the Pharisees, and focused precisely on the contrast between interiority and exteriority, e)nto/j vs. e)kto/j (“Blind Pharisee, first cleanse the internal part [to\ e)nto/j] of the glass, that the external part [to\ e)kto/j], too, may be clean.”). This seems to me highly significant and further supports my contention. Luke repeatedly contrasts this world with the Kingdom;18 as a consequence, it is perfectly consistent with the Lucan opposition between this world and the Kingdom that the latter is said by Jesus to be “inside you, in your spirit.” In fact, especially in Luke 16—the chapter that immediately precedes the one in which Luke 17:21 is located—the Kingdom of God seems to be contrasted with this der lukanischen Schriften (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998); documentation in F. Bovon, Luc le théologien (Geneva: Labor et Fides, 2006), who offers an overview of the last fifty years of scholarship, including a great deal on soteriology in Luke. 18 On the Kingdom of God in Luke and in the Gospels I refer to Y. Cho, Spirit and Kingdom in the Writings of Luke and Paul: An Attempt to Reconcile these Concepts (Waynesboro, GA: Paternoster, 2005), to Y.-S. Ahn, The Reign of God and Rome in Luke’s Passion Narrative (Leiden: Brill, 2006), and to the documentation collected by L. D. Chrupkala, The Kingdom of God: A Bibliography of Twentieth-Century Research (Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 2007). The Kingdom of God is characterized by peace, on which Luke’s theology is focused, according to J. Grassi, Peace on Earth: Roots and Practices from Luke’s Gospel (Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2004). On the peculiarities due to Luke’s own source (called L in the Q hypothesis) see K. Paffenroth, The Story of Jesus According to L (Sheffield: Academic Press, 1997); see also B. Shellard, New Light on Luke: Its Purpose, Sources and Literary Context (London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002).

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world, with its cleverness and its richness.19 This is clear in particular in the contrast between the “children of this world” and the “children of light,” in the saying about serving two masters, in the opposition between God and mammon (v. 13) and Dives and Lazarus (v. 19ff.), and in the remark on the Pharisees who love richness (v. 14). The polarity between this world and God’s Kingdom is insisted on in many other Luke passages, such as 18:16— notably, in the chapter that immediately follows that of Luke 17:21—where the Kingdom of God is said to belong to those who are like children, or 4:6, where the power, glory, and richness of this world are said to be in the hands of the devil. The opposition between this world and the Kingdom is patent in Luke 12:31, with the exhortation to pursue the Kingdom of God rather than the things of this world, and in the beatitudes, where, in Luke’s account (6:20ff.), Jesus systematically contrasts this world with the Kingdom, which belongs to the poor, to those who are starving, who cry, who are hated and insulted, in opposition to the rich, to those who are sated, who laugh, who enjoy glory from this world. A similar antithesis is clear in Luke 8:25 between acquiring the whole of this world (ko/smoj) and losing oneself, and in 8:29–30 between God’s Kingdom and all the rest: in order to enter the Kingdom one must leave everything else. Luke stresses Jesus’ work of announcing the good news of God’s Kingdom. So, for example, in Luke 4:43 Jesus declares, eu)aggeli/sasqai/ me dei= th\n basilei/an tou= Qeou=, “I must spread the Good News of the Kingdom of God” (cf. also Luke 16:16, which corresponds to Luke 4:43 but in the passive); in Luke 8:1 Jesus is khru/sswn kai\ eu)aggelizo/menoj th\n basilei/an tou= Qeou=, “announcing and proclaiming the Good News of the Kingdom of God,” and in 7:23: ptwxoi\ eu)aggeli/zontai, “the poor are announced the Good News” by Jesus.20 The proclamation of the Kingdom is also extended to the Twelve (Luke 9:2) and the Seventy-Two (Luke 10:9), and is a work of Jesus’ disciples (in Luke 9:60 Jesus says to a man whom he wants to be his disciple: dia/ggelle th\n basilei/an tou= Qeou=, “proclaim the Kingdom of God!”). There seems to be not only an opposition between this world and the Kingdom, but also a tension, Attention to the proclamation of the Kingdom by Jesus precisely in these chapters of Luke is paid by F. Bovon, L’évangile selon saint Luc 15,1– 19,27 (Genève: Labor et Fides, 2001). 20 On Jesus’ proclamation of the Kingdom see E. P. Meadors, Jesus the Messianic Herald of Salvation (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995). Also, M. Parsons, Luke: Storyteller, Interpreter, Evangelist (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2007). 19

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or better a complementarity, between present and future in respect to the realization of God’s Kingdom: whereas in Luke 17:21 it is said to be already present (but in spirit, as I argue21), in Luke 13:28 the accent seems more on eschatology: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, the prophets, and the gentiles will be in God’s Kingdom.22 Thus, if the Kingdom is presented by Luke as something that is to be fully realized in the other world, and if it is often contrasted with this world,23 it is all the more probable that in Luke 17:21 the Kingdom of God is said by Jesus to be “inside you,” i.e., in your spirit, not in this world. Even if the alternative interpretation “among you” does not automatically mean
“in this world,” the representation of the Kingdom as opposed to this world and oriented to eschatology fits better with the declaration that the Kingdom is inside the believers, in their spirit. Indeed, in the Lucan context the Kingdom of God is presented as a spiritual reality, as opposed to this world, and as eschatologically oriented. An important parallel to my interpretation also comes from the above-mentioned Gospel of Thomas, which is composed of a series of logia of Jesus, and is often related by scholars to the Q source of the synoptic gospels24 (at least in the Q hypothesis, which in source 21 The spiritual life depicted by Luke and analyzed by J. L. Resseguie, Spiritual Landscape: Images of the Spiritual Life in the Gospel of Luke (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2004) is precisely the dimension of the Kingdom. 22 On the eschatological and, at the same time, present nature of the Kingdom in Luke see L. D. Chrupkala, Il Regno opera della Trinità nel Vangelo di Luca (Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 1998), 192; 198. Cf. also B. Noack, Das Gottesreich bei Lukas (Lund-Uppsala: Gleerup, 1948); G. F. Hawthorne, “The Essential Nature of the Kingdom of God” (WestmTJ 25 [1963]): 35–47; H. Hartl, “Die Aktualität des Gottesreiches nach Lk 17,20f.” in H. Merklein & J. Lange (Hrsg.), Biblische Randbemerkungen. Schülerfestschrift für R. Schnackenburg zum 60. Geburtstag (Würzburg: Echter, 1974), 25–30; A. Feuillet, “La double venue du règne de Dieu et du Fils de l’homme en Luc XVII,20–XVIII,8” (RThom 81 [1981]): 5–33. On Lukan eschatology see, e.g., E. E. Ellis, “La fonction de l’eschatologie dans l’évangile de Luc,” in F. Neirynck (ed.), L’évangile de Luc (Leuven: University Press / Uitgeverij Peeters, 1989), 51–65; S. L. Bridge, ‘Where the Eagles are Gathered’: The Deliverance of the Elect in Lukan Eschatology (Sheffield: Academic Press, 2003). 23 On the theology of the Kingdom in Luke and its relation to eschatology see I. Ramelli, “Luke 16:16: The Good News of the Kingdom is Proclaimed and Everyone is Forced into it” (JBL 127,4 [2008]): 747–68. 24 See G. Quispel, “The Gospel of Thomas and the New Testament” (VC 11 [1957]): 189–207; R. McL. Wilson, review of W. Schrage, “Das Verhältnis des Thomas-Evangeliums zur synoptischen Tradition” (VC 20

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criticism flanks the Farrar-Goulder and the Griesbach hypotheses, and other minor ones).25 Moreover, it shows a particular closeness to the materials that are peculiar to Luke, among which there is also Jesus’ statement h( basilei/a tou= Qeou= e)nto\j u(mw=n e)sti.26 Its Syriac, and specifically Edessan origin, is debated.27 In Logion 3 [1966[): 118–23; J.-D. Kaestli, “L’évangile de Thomas: son importance pour l’étude des paroles de Jésus” (ETR 54 [1979]): 375–96; M. Lelyveld, Les Logia de la Vie dans l’Évangile selon Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 1987); H. Koester and S. J. Patterson, “The Gospel of Thomas: Does it Contain Authentic Sayings of Jesus?” (BRev 6 [1990]): 28–39; H. MG. Ross, Thirty Essays on the Gospel of Thomas (Longmead: Element Books, 1990); K. R. Snodgrass, “The Gospel of Thomas: A Secondary Gospel” (SecCent 7 [1990]): 19–38; C. M. Tuckett, “Q and Thomas: Evidence of a Primitive Wisdom Gospel?” (EThL 67 [1991]): 346–60; Id., “Das Thomasevangelium und die synoptischen Evangelien” (BThZ 12 [1995]): 186–200; R. Valantasis, The Gospel of Thomas (London-New York: Routledge, 1997); R. Uro, Neither Here Nor There. Lk 17.20–21 and Related Sayings in Thomas, Mark, and Q (Claremont: Institute for Antiquity and Christianity, 1990); Id., “Thomas and the Oral Gospel Tradition,” in Id. (ed.), Thomas at the Crossroads (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 33–64; H. M. Schenke, On the Compositional History of the Gospel of Thomas (Claremont: Institute for Antiquity and Christianity, 1998). N. Perrin, Thomas, The Other Gospel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2007) also offers a good overview of major scholarship on Thomas, like S. J. Patterson, “The Gospel of Thomas and Historical Jesus Research” in Coptica-Gnostica-Manichaica (eds. L. Painchaud-P.H. Poirier; Québec: Université de Laval / Louvain: Peeters, 2006): 663–684. 25 For a useful summary of these source-critical hypotheses see L. M. White, From Jesus to Christianity (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 2004), 112– 15. 26 See especially H. Schürmann, “Das Thomasevangelium und das lukanische Sondergut” (BZ 7 [1963]): 236–60; B. Dehandschutter, “L’évangile selon Thomas: témoin d’une tradition prélucanienne?” in F. Neirynck (ed.), L’évangile de Luc (Leuven: University Press / Uitgeverij Peeters, 1989), 197–207. 27 See B. Ehlers, “Kann das Thomasevangelium aus Edessa stammen?” (NovT 12 [1970]): 284–317; A. F. J. Klijn, “Christianity in Edessa and the Gospel of Thomas” (NovT 14 [1972]): 70–77; B. Dehandschutter, “Le lieu d’origine de l’Évangile selon Thomas” (OLP 6 [1975]): 125–31. Elaine Pagels thinks that the Gospel of John was written as a response to that of Thomas, which dates back to the 1st century; Perrin argues for the late 2nd century, and for a Syriac original version, depending not on the Synoptic Gospels, but on Tatian’s Diatessaron: see his Thomas, The Other Gospel and already his Thomas and Tatian (Atlanta: SBL, 2002), and: J. Helderman and S. J. Noorda (eds.), Early Transmission of the Words of Jesus. Thomas, Tatian, and the Text of the New Testament (Amsterdam: VU Uit-

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Jesus is speaking precisely of the Kingdom of God, and he says: “It is inside you.” The whole logion reads: “Jesus said: If those who lead you should say to you, ‘Behold, the Kingdom is in heaven,’ then the birds of heaven will precede you.’ If they say to you, ‘It is in the sea,’ then the fish will precede you. But the Kingdom is inside you, and it is outside you. If you know [sc. recognize] yourselves, you will be recognized, and you will understand that you are the children of the Living Father. If, instead, you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty and it is you who are that poverty.” Another Kingdom logion in the same writing points to the same understanding of the Kingdom of God, which Jesus here calls “the Kingdom of the Father,” as an interior reality. For Jesus, when asked when the Kingdom will come, makes it clear that the Kingdom is not in time or space (“It will not come by waiting, nor will it be a matter of saying, ‘Here it is,’ or ‘There it is’”), and that, although it is already present, it is invisible: “People do not see it” (Logion 113).28 Now, lack of dimensionality and invisibility are typical of a spiritual reality. And when Jesus says, “The Kingdom of God is inside you,” he is certainly indicating a spiritual reality. Strong additional support to the interpretation of Luke 17:21 I advocate also comes from Syriac and Greek Patristic exegesis. The ancient Fathers of the Church who comment on this passage are unanimous in understanding it as meaning, “The Kingdom of God is inside you.” Again, this per se does not necessarily demonstrate that this must be the right translation, but it certainly demonstrates that it was possible to understand the expression under investigation in the way I propose to understand it, and that it was indeed understood in this way by virtually all Syriac and Greek ancient exegetes who commented on this passage. Among them, especially the Greek exegetes knew Greek very well, were Greek-speaking, steeped in ancient rhetorical culture, and much closer than we are to koine. The so-called Ephraem Graecus (a Greek translation of works by Ephrem, stemming from the fourth century, although not

geverij, 1983); M. Desjardins, “Where Was the Gospel of Thomas Written?” (Toronto Journal of Theology 8 [1992]): 121–33. A high dating of the Gospel of Thomas is supported by P. J. Williams, “Alleged Syriac Catchwords in the Gospel of Thomas,” VigChr 63 (2009) 71–82, who denies that it depends on Tatian’s Diatessaron and thinks it may be much earlier. 28 On the Kingdom parables in the Gospel of Thomas see L. Cerfaux, “Les parables du Royaume dans l’Évangile de Thomas" (Mus 70 [1957]): 311–27.

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always reliable from the point of view of Ephrem’s paternity)29 in Consilium de vita spiritali ad monachum novitium, 55,30 states that divine activity, as opposed to spiritual laziness, does not consist in bodily movement, “because the Kingdom of God is inside us,” that is, an interior and spiritual reality. And in his Institutio ad monachos, 343.12,31 he comments that “the very fact that God’s Kingdom is inside us” means “the heavenly joy of the Spirit being active in the soul that is worthy of it.” Among the Greek Fathers, Origen interprets the indwelling Kingdom of God as the Logos that the Christian has in him/herself everywhere: ti/ ga_r a)ll' h2 to_n lo&gon to_n pantaxou~ o( a3gioj du&natai e1xein e0n e9autw|~; h( ga_r basilei/a tw~n ou)ranw~n e0nto_j u(mw~n e0sti (Homilies on Jeremiah, 18.2). The same exegesis is maintained in his Commentary on John, 19.12.78: the Kingdom of God is inside us when “we keep in ourselves the seeds and principles of truth that have been sowed in our soul” ((H basilei/a tou~ qeou~ e0nto_j u(mw~n e0sti/n: kai\ o3son ge sw&zomen ta_ e0nspare/nta h(mw~n th|~ yuxh|~ th~j a)lhqei/aj spe/rmata kai\ ta_j a)rxa_j au)th~j, ou)de/pw a)pelh&luqen a)f' h(mw~n o( lo&goj). Thus, e)nto\j u(mw=n is understood as “in the interiority of your soul.” In his Homilies on Luke, 36, preserved in Latin, Origen specifically deals with Luke 17:21 and interprets e)nto\j u(mw=n as “inside you,” and precisely “in your heart:” Non omnibus Salvator dicit: Regnum Dei intra vos est, siquidem in peccatoribus regnum peccati est et absque ulla ambiguitate aut regnum Dei i n c o r d e n o s t r o imperat aut peccati ... videbimus utrum Dei imperium regnet i n n o b i s aut imperium delictorum. Didymus the Blind, who was deeply influenced by Origen, in Fragments on Psalms, 977.17, equates the indwelling Kingdom of God with the rational faculty of the human being, or, as an alternative, with the tranquil condition of the inner faculties,32 with virtue and knowledge of God and the image of God in us, the true Good: o( swth_r toi=j du&namin a)reth~j kai\ gnw&sewj qei/aj metalabou~sin e1fh: 9H basilei/a tou~ qeou~ e0nto_j u(mw~n e0sti, On the so-called Ephraem Graecus see D. Hemmerdinger-Iliadou, “Ephrem Grec,” Dictionnaire de Spiritualité 6, 800–19. 30 Edition in K. G. Phrantzoles, 9Osi/ou 0Efrai/m tou~ Su&rou e1rga, vol. 2 (Thessalonica: To Perivoli tis Panagias, 1989): 209–51. 31 Edition in K. G. Phrantzoles, 9Osi/ou 0Efrai/m tou~ Su&rou e1rga, vol. 5 (Thessalonica: To Perivoli tis Panagias, 1994): 300–70. 32 0Ento_j de\ au)tou~ kalei= pa~san th_n logikh_n tou~ a)nqrw&pou du&namin. ou3tw ga_r a)kouste/on kai\ tou~ swth~roj le/gonto&j tisin 9H basilei/a tw~n ou)ranw~n e0nto_j u(mw~n e0sti. kai\ ou3tw qew&rhson ta_ e0nto_j kata_ dia&noian a1llhn: o3tan ta_j duna&meij e1xwmen h(suxazou&saj. 29

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mononouxi\ le/gwn: [Hj zhtw~ par' u(mw~n pi/stewj kai\ a)reth~j ta_j a)forma_j e0n e9autoi=j e1xete, logikoi\ kai\ kat' ei0ko&na qeou~ gegenhme/noi: o3qen mh_ e1cw e9autw~n zhtei=te to_ a)gaqo&n (977.23). Here e0nto_j u(mw~n is explicitly equated with e0n e9autoi=j and opposed to e1cw e9autw~n, thus denoting a completely interior and spiritual reality. And in his Commentary on Job (5.1–6.29), 141.23, Didymus identifies the indwelling Kingdom of God with each one’s attitude to virtue: h( basilei/a tw~n ou)ranw~n e0nto_j u(mw~n e0stin: e1xomen ga_r e0pithdeio&thta pro_j a)reth&n, h3ntina basilei/an ke/klhken. Hippolytus in his Refutatio 5.7.20 clearly interprets e)nto\j u(mw=n as meaning “in the interiority of the human being,” where he posits the Kingdom of Heaven: makari/an krubome/nhn o(mou~ kai\ faneroume/nhn fu&sin, h3nper fasi\n th_n e0nto_j a)nqrw&pou basilei/an tw~n ou)ranw~n zhtoume/nhn. Athanasius of Alexandria is clear that e)nto/j in Luke 17:21 is equivalent to e1ndon, “inside, on the inside,” and that the Kingdom of God in each person is the faith dwelling in that person’s soul (an idea that will be taken over by Cyril of Alexandria, Commentary on John, 1.696.20, and Maximus the Confessor, Quaestiones ad Thalassium, 33.13): 9H basilei/a tou~ Qeou~ e0nto_j u(mw~n e0stin: e1ndon ga_r e0n e9autoi=j e1xontej th_n pi/stin kai\ th_n basilei/an tou~ Qeou~, duna&meqa taxe/wj qewrh~sai kai\ noh~sai to_n tou~ panto_j basile/a (Athanasius, Contra gentes 30.10). Likewise, in his biography of St. Anthony, PG 26.873.7, he interprets the indwelling Kingdom of God as the virtue (a)reth/) that is in us (e)n h(mi=n). Basil of Caesarea, Ep. 8.12.13, interprets Jesus’ statement, “The Kingdom of God is inside you,” as referring to the interior man (o( e)nto\j a1nqrwpoj). He uses precisely e)nto/j, thus leaving no doubt that he understood e)nto\j u(mw=n as “inside you,” “in your spiritual interiority.” Moreover, this is the expression of Plato, Republic 9.589B (o( e0nto_j a1nqrwpoj e1stai e0gkrate/statoj) and 588C (ta\ e)nto/j vs. o( e1cw a1nqrwpoj), which Basil seems to have echoed, not that of Paul (e1sw vs. e1cw),33 which was influential upon Clement of Alexandria (Stromateis 3.4.34.2: to_n au)to_n qeo_n kai\ to_n e0kto_j h(mw~n kai\ to_n e1sw a1nqrwpon pepoihke/nai), Irenaeus (Adversus Haereses 1.7.2: Xa&rij plhrw&sai sou to_n e1sw Rom 7:22–23: sunh&domai ga_r tw|~ no&mw| tou~ qeou~ kata_ to_n e1sw a1nqrwpon, ble/pw de\ e3teron no&mon e0n toi=j me/lesi/n mou 33

a)ntistrateuo&menon tw|~ no&mw| tou~ noo&j mou kai\ ai0xmalwti/zonta& me e0n tw|~ no&mw| th~j a(marti/aj; 2Cor 4:16: ei0 kai\ o( e1cw h(mw~n a1nqrwpoj diafqei/retai, a)ll' o( e1sw h(mw~n a)nakainou~tai h(me/ra| kai\ h(me/ra|; Eph 3:16: krataiwqh~nai dia_ tou~ pneu&matoj au)tou~ ei0j to_n e1sw a1nqrwpon.

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a1nqrwpon, kai\ plhqu&nai e0n soi\ th_n gnw~sin au)th~j), and Pseudo-Justin (Expositio rectae fidei 376D, with a quotation of Eph 3:16). Basil is not the only Father to resume Plato’s terminology for the “inner human:” there are also other Fathers who were influenced by Platonism, such as Clement of Alexandria—who thus takes up both Plato’s and Paul’s expressions34—Eusebius,35 and above all Gregory Nazianzen,36 as well as Procopius of Gaza.37 Gregory of Nyssa takes the words, “God’s Kingdom is inside you,” as indicating that the soul’s original beauty, which is God’s image, is always present in each of us, blurred and covered as it may be by sin, but it is sufficient that one wishes to discover it and it will become evident (De Virginitate, 2.3).38 Therefore, it is evident that he took e)nto\j u(mw=n in the sense, “in your spiritual interiority, in your soul as an image of God.” Also in his De Beatitudinibus Gregory quotes Jesus’ words interpreting e)nto/j as “inside,” and comments on that, once one has cleansed one’s heart (i.e., spirit) from pasPaedagogus 2.5.45.4: pw~j a2n ei0ko&twj to_n e0nto_j a1nqrwpon e0pi\ to_ geloio&teron sxhmatizo&menon a)nasxoi/meqa; 35 Praeparatio Evangelica 12.46.6: o( e0nto_j a1nqrwpoj e1stai e0gkrate/statoj, with a quotation of the above-mentioned passage from Plato’s Republic. 36 Letter 32.9: o( e0kto_j kai\ o( e0nto_j a1nqrwpoj; Letter 34.4: tw|~ e0kto_j kaqai/reij to_n e0nto_j a1nqrwpon kai\ dia_ tw~n e0nanti/wn dieca&geij h(ma~j pro_j to_ maka&rion te/loj; Contra Julianum 1, PG 35.652.35: h( plei/wn de\ pragmatei/a peri\ to_n e0nto_j a1nqrwpon, kai\ meqe/lkein to_n qeath_n e0pi\ to_ noou&menon; In seipsum cum rure rediisset, PG 35.1244.6: metastre/fwn to_n qeath_n pro_j to_n e0nto_j a1nqrwpon; In sancta lumina, PG 36.341.38: dapanw&ntwn to_n e0nto_j a1nqrwpon. Likewise, the Platonic expression appears in two spurious works ascribed to Nyssen, De creatione hominis sermo alter, recensio C, 47a.12: telei/wsin th_n kata_ to_n e0nto_j a1nqrwpon, and De occursu Domini PG 46.1153.40: tou~ e0nto_j a)nqrw&pou th_n tw~n ai0sqh&sewn ka&qarsin. 37 Catena in Canticum 1608.2: tei/xisma, to_n e0nto_j a1nqrwpon: protei/xisma de\ to_n e0kto/j. 38 Th~j de\ a)nqrwpi/nhj spoudh~j tosou~ton a2n ei1h, o3son e0kkaqa~rai mo&non to_n e0pigino&menon a)po_ kaki/aj r(u&pon au)tw|~ kai\ to_ kekalumme/non e0n th|~ yuxh|~ ka&lloj diafwti/sai. To_ de\ toiou~ton do&gma kai\ e0n tw|~ eu)aggeli/w| dida&skein oi]mai to_n ku&rion le/gonta pro_j tou_j a)kou&ein duname/nouj th~j e0n musthri/w| laloume/nhj sofi/aj, o3ti 9H basilei/a tou~ qeou~ e0nto_j u(mw~n e0stin. 0Endei/knutai ga&r, oi]mai, o( lo&goj au)tw|~, o3ti to_ tou~ qeou~ a)gaqo_n ou) diw&ristai th~j fu&sewj h(mw~n ou)de\ po&rrwqe/n pou tw~n zhtei=n au)to_n proairoume/nwn a)pw|&kistai, a)ll' a)ei\ e0n e9ka&stw| e0sti/n, a)gnoou&menon me\n kai\ lanqa&non ... eu(risko&menon de\ pa&lin, o3tan ei0j e0kei=no th_n dia&noian h(mw~n e0pistre/ywmen. 34

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sions and sins, one will find God’s Kingdom inside, i.e., the image of God in which all human beings are created.39 Again in De Instituto Christiano, GNO 8/1.78.20, he meaningfully equates e)nto\j u(mw=n with ei)j th\n kardi/an mou, clearly denoting human interiority. Cyril of Alexandria, in his Commentary on Luke as preserved in the Catenae (PL 72.841), explains that the Kingdom of God is in us in that it is in our freewill and choices, and it depends on every human being to take possession of it: )Ento_j ga_r u(mw~n e0sti: toute/stin e0n tai=j u(mete/raij proaire/sesi kai\ e0n e0cousi/a| kei=tai to_ labei=n au)th&n: e1cesti ga_r a)nqrw&pw| panti/. Once again, e)nto\j u(mw=n is taken to indicate the interiority of our rational soul, which is the dwelling place of human freewill. Cosmas Indicopleustes, Topographia Christiana, 2.110, also paraphrases Jesus’ words, 9H basilei/a tou~ Qeou~ e0nto_j u(mw~n e0stin, with 0Ofei/lete kata_ yuxh_n a)ei\ e1xein e0nto_j u(mw~n th_n basilei/an tou~ Qeou~, “You must always have God’s Kingdom inside yourself, in your soul.” In sum, no Father at all takes e)nto\j u(mw=n as meaning “among you,” but all ancient exegetes are unanimous in interpreting it as “inside you.” As I have observed, ancient versions and interpretations do not necessarily demonstrate, one by one and per se, that their understanding is right, but they surely demonstrate that it was possible to understand the expression under investigation in the way I propose to translate it, and that it was indeed understood in this way by the Latin translators, by most or all Syriac translators (and, in the former case, precisely those who were more adherent to the Greek), and by virtually all Syriac and Greek ancient exegetes who commented on this passage. They had the same cultural, rhetorical, and linguistic background as the Greek New Testament. Their total agreement can hardly be accidental. And it becomes all the more significant in the light of the grammatical, linguistic, and contextual arguments that I have adduced. Indeed, as I have argued, everything points to the understanding of Luke 17:21 as “The Kingdom of God is inside you:” the ancient Syriac versions of this verse, of Matt 23:26a, and of all the occurrences of e)n me/sw| + genitive in Luke; also, the Latin translations, a systematic investigation of the meaning of e)nto/j in all of Greek literature anterior to, and contemporary with, Luke; Biblical linguistic usage, where e)nto/j always means “inside”; a similar logion in the Gospel of Thomas; and Greek 39 PG 44.1269: e0nto_j u(mw~n ei]nai th_n basilei/an tou~ Qeou~ ei0pw&n: i3na didaxqw~men, o3ti o( pa&shj th~j kti/sewj kai\ e0mpaqou~j diaqe/sewj th_n e9autou~ kardi/an a)pokaqh&raj, e0n tw|~ i0di/w| ka&llei th~j qei/aj fu&sewj kaqora|~ th_n ei0ko&na.

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and Syriac Patristic exegesis. Additionally, this rendering also seems to fit much better in the context of an address to the Pharisees with a contrast between interiority and exteriority, all the more in that it is the very same context of the only other occurrence of e)nto/j in the whole New Testament: another address to the Pharisees with the same opposition between interiority and exteriority, e)nto/j vs. e)kto/j.

BIBLIOGRAPHY: Ahn, Y.-S. The Reign of God and Rome in Luke’s Passion Narrative: An East Asian Global Perspective. Leiden: Brill, 2006. Allen, P. “Lk XVII.21.” ExpT 49 (1937/8): 476–77; 50 (1938/9): 233–35. Ammassari, A. Bezae Codex Cantabrigiensis. Copia esatta del manoscritto onciale greco-latino. Città del Vaticano: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1996. Ammassari, A. Il Vangelo di Luca nella colonna Latina del Bezae Codex Cantabrigiensis. Città del Vaticano: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1996. Biblia Sacra Vulgatae Editionis Sixti Quinti iussu recognita et auctoritate Clementis Octavi edita. Romae: in aedibus Vaticanis, 1592–1598. Bovon, F. L’évangile selon saint Luc 15,1–19,27. Geneva: Labor et Fides, 2001. Bovon, F. Luc le théologien. 3rd edition. Geneva: Labor et Fides, 2006. Bridge, S. L. ‘Where the Eagles are Gathered’: The Deliverance of the Elect in Lukan Eschatology. Sheffield: Academic Press, 2003. Brock, S. The Bible in the Syriac Tradition. 2nd edition. Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2006. Cerfaux, L. “Les parables du Royaume dans l’Évangile de Thomas.” Mus 70 (1957): 311–27. Cho, Y. Spirit and Kingdom in the Writings of Luke and Paul: An Attempt to Reconcile these Concepts. Waynesboro, GA: Paternoster, 2005. Chrupkala, L. D. Il Regno opera della Trinità nel Vangelo di Luca. Jerusalem. Franciscan Printing Press, 1998. Chrupkala, L. D. The Kingdom of God: A Bibliography of Twentieth-Century Research. Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 2007. Dehandschutter, B. “Le lieu d’origine de l’Évangile selon Thomas.” OLP 6 (1975): 125–31. Dehandschutter, B. “L’évangile selon Thomas: témoin d’une tradition prélucanienne?” In F. Neirynck (ed.), L’évangile de Luc. Leuven: University Press / Uitgeverij Peeters, 1989. 197–207. Desjardins, M. “Where Was the Gospek of Thomas Written?” Toronto Journal of Theology 8 (1992): 121–33. Easton, B. C. “Luke 17,20–21: An Exegetical Study.” AJT 16 (1912): 275– 83. Ehlers, B. “Kann das Thomasevangelium aus Edessa stammen?” NovT 12 (1970): 284–317.

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Ellis, E. E. “La fonction de l’eschatologie dans l’évangile de Luc.” In F. Neirynck (ed.), L’évangile de Luc. Leuven: University Press / Uitgeverij Peeters, 1989. 51–65. Feuillet, A. “La double venue du règne de Dieu et du Fils de l’homme en Luc XVII,20–XVIII,8.” RThom 81 (1981): 5–33. Grassi, J. Peace on Earth: Roots and Practices from Luke’s Gospel. Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press, 2004. Green, J. B. The Theology of the Gospel of Luke. Cambridge: University Press, 1995. Griffiths, J. G. “Entos hymôn.” ExpT 63 (1951/2): 30–31. Grimm, W. Jesus und das Danielbuch. Frankfurt a.M. – Bern – New York – Nancy: Lang, 1984. Hartl, H. “Die Aktualität des Gottesreiches nach Lk 17,20f.” In H. Merklein & J. Lange (Hrsg.), Biblische Randbemerkungen. Schülerfestschrift für R. Schnackenburg zum 60. Geburtstag. Würzburg: Echter, 1974. 25–30. Hawthorne G. F., “The Essential Nature of the Kingdom of God.” WestmTJ 25 (1963): 35–47. Helderman, J. and S. J. Noorda (eds.), Early Transmission of the Words of Jesus. Thomas, Tatian, and the Text of the New Testament. Amsterdam: VU Uitgeverij, 1983. Holmén, T. “The Alternatives of the Kingdom. Encountering the Semantic Restrictions of Luke 17: 20–21.” ZNW 87 (1996): 204–29. Jülicher, A. Hrsg. Itala: Das neue Testament in altlateinischer Überlieferung, vol. 3: Lucasevangelium. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1954. Kiraz, G. A. Comparative Edition of the Syriac Gospels, Aligning the Sinaiticus, Curetonianus, Peshîṭtâ and Ḥarklean Versions. Leiden: Brill, 1996. Klijn, A. F. J. “Christianity in Edessa and the Gospel of Thomas.” NovT 14 (1972): 70–77. Koester, H. and Patterson, S.J. “The Gospel of Thomas: Does it Contain Authentic Sayings of Jesus?” BRev 6 (1990): 28–39. Lebourlier, J. “Entos hymôn. Le sens ‘au milieu de vous’ est-il possible?” Bib 73 (1992): 259–62. Lelyveld, M. Les Logia de la Vie dans l’Évangile selon Thomas. Leiden: Brill, 1987. Maynet, R. Il Vangelo secondo Luca. Analisi retorica. Bologna: Dehoniane, 2003. Meadors, E. P. Jesus the Messianic Herald of Salvation. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995. Mussner, F. “Wann kommt das Reich Gottes?” BZ 6 (1962): 107–11. Noack, B. Das Gottesreich bei Lukas. Lund-Uppsala: Gleerup, 1948. Paffenroth, K. The Story of Jesus According to L. Sheffield: Academic Press, 1997. Parsons, M. Luke: Storyteller, Interpreter, Evangelist. Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2007. Patterson, S.J. “The Gospel of Thomas and Historical Jesus Research.” In L. Painchaud-P.H. Poirier (eds.), Coptica-Gnostica-Manichaica. Québec: Université de Laval / Louvain: Peeters, 2006.

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Perrin, N. Thomas and Tatian. Atlanta: SBL, 2002. Perrin, N. Thomas, The Other Gospel. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2007. Pokorny, P. Theologie der lukanischen Schriften. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998. Quispel, G. “The Gospel of Thomas and the New Testament.” VC 11 (1957): 189–207. Quispel, G. “The Gospel of Thomas Revisited.” In B. Barc (ed.), Colloque International sur les textes de Nag Hammadi (Québec, 22–25 août 1978). Québec: Presses de l’Université de Laval, 1981. Ramelli, I. Review article of A. Ammassari, Bezae Codex Cantabrigiensis. Copia esatta del manoscritto onciale greco-latino. Città del Vaticano: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1996. RSCI 52 (1998): 171–78. Ramelli, I. “Luke 16:16: The Good News of the Kingdom is Proclaimed and Everyone is Forced into it.” JBL 127,4 (2008): 747–68. Reiling, J. and Swellengrebel, J. L. A Translator’s Handbook on the Gospel of Luke. Leiden: Brill, 1971. Resseguie, J. L. Spiritual Landscape: Images of the Spiritual Life in the Gospel of Luke. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2004. Riesenfeld, H. “Le Règne de Dieu, parmi vous ou en vous? (Luc 17, 20– 21).” RB 98 (1991): 190–98. Roberts, C. H. “The Kingdom of Heaven (Lk. XVII.21).” HTR 41 (1948): 1–8. Ross, H. MG. Thirty Essays on the Gospel of Thomas. Longmead: Element Books, 1990. Rüstow, A. “Entos hymôn estin. Zur Deutung von Lukas 17,20–21.” ZNW 51 (1960): 197–224. Schenke, H. M. On the Compositional History of the Gospel of Thomas. Claremont: Institute for Antiquity and Christianity, 1998. Schlosser, J. “Le Règne de Dieu est au milieu de vous (Lc 17.20–21).” In Le Règne, I, 179–243. Schürmann, H. “Das Thomasevangelium und das lukanische Sondergut.” BZ 7 (1963): 236–60. Schweizer, E. Das Evangelium nach Lukas. 2nd edition. Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1986. Shellard, B. New Light on Luke: Its Purpose, Sources and Literary Context. London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002. Sledd, A. “The Interpretation of Luke XVII.21.” ExpT 50 (1937/8): 235– 37. Smith, A. G. “The Kingdom of God is Within You.” ExpT 43 (1931/2): 378–79. Sneed, R. “The Kingdom of God is within You.” CBQ 24 (1962): 363–82. Snodgrass, K. R. “The Gospel of Thomas: A Secondary Gospel.” SecCent 7 (1990): 19–38. Stöger, A. Vangelo secondo Luca. 2nd edition. Rome: Città Nuova, 1969. Strobel, A. “Die Passa-Erwartung als urchristliches Problem in Lc 17,20f.” ZNW 49 (1958): 157–96. Strobel, A. “Zu Lk 17,20f.” BZ 7 (1963): 111–13.

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Tuckett, C. M. “Q and Thomas: Evidence of a Primitive Wisdom Gospel?” EThL 67 (1991): 346–60. Tuckett, C. M. “Das Thomasevangelium und die synoptischen Evangelien.” BThZ 12 (1995): 186–200. Uro, R. Neither Here Nor There. Lk 17.20–21 and Related Sayings in Thomas, Mark, and Q. Claremont: Institute for Antiquity and Christianity, 1990. Uro, R. “Thomas and the Oral Gospel Tradition.” In Id. (ed.), Thomas at the Crossroads. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998. 33–64 Valantasis, R. The Gospel of Thomas. London-New York: Routledge, 1997. Weber, R. Biblia Sacra iuxta Vulgatam Versionem. 4th edition. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1994. White, L. M. From Jesus to Christianity. San Francisco: Harper Collins, 2004. Williams, P. J. “Alleged Syriac Catchwords in the Gospel of Thomas,” VigChr 63 (2009) 71–82. Wilson, R. McL. review of W. Schrage, Das Verhältnis des ThomasEvangeliums zur synoptischen Tradition. VC 20 (1966): 118–23.

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A BIBLIOGRAPHY OF SÜRYÂNÎ PERIODICALS IN OTTOMAN TURKISH BENJAMIN TRIGONA-HARANY SYRIAC CHRISTIAN JOURNALISM There have been, over the years, numerous studies that have addressed aspects of the journalistic production of the Assyrians living in western Persia as well as their emigrant communities in the United States and elsewhere.1 However, the parallel story of the Ottoman Süryânî2 has until recently been more difficult to trace. But, with new sources having come to light and with greater interest from Ottomanists, it has become possible to outline some precise information concerning these periodicals and to understand them in their proper historical context. See, for example, Eden Naby, “The Assyrians of Iran: Reunification of a ‘Millat,’ 1906–1914,” International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 8, no. 2 (April 1977): 237–249, Gabriele Yonan, Journalismus bei den Assyrern. Ein Überblick von seinen Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart (Berlin: Zentralverband der Assyrischen Vereinigungen in Deutschland und Mitteleuropa, 1985), Abdulmesih BarAbrahem, “The ‘Question of Assyrian Journalism’ Revisited,” Journal of the Assyrian Academic Society 9, no. 1 (April 1995): 3–7 or Yoab Benjamin, “Assyrian Journalism. A 140–Year Experience,” Journal of the Assyrian Academic Society 7, no. 2 (November 1993): 1–28. 2 I prefer to use the term Süryânî to refer to the members of the Syriac Orthodox Church along with its converts to the Catholicism and Protestantism since this replicates the usage of the people in question. Unfortunately, there is no unambiguous English translation of this word available, so we are forced to rely on this Ottoman Turkish borrowing from Arabic. 1

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Unlike the situation in Persia, the sudden establishment of numerous journals and newspapers can not be traced to missionary intervention; instead the impetus derived from political events in the Ottoman Empire, specifically the Young Turk revolution of 1908, which brought about the restoration of constitutional rule, parliamentary elections and a relaxation of the censorship that had characterised the reign of Sultan Abdülhamîd. Although these events had been greeted with much celebration in the streets of the major Ottoman cities, the new Young Turk government had its opponents. In 1909 a counter-revolution began in Istanbul; Christians—primarily Armenians, but also Süryânî—were massacred in Adana and its environs. But to renewed acclaim, the Young Turk party, the İttihâd ve Terakkî Cemiyeti (Committee for Union and Progress), put down this challenge with the support of loyal military units. Sultan Abdülhamîd was accused of collusion with the rebels and found himself deposed and exiled to Salonika. We should not underestimate the impact of these events on the Süryânî and other non-Muslims. Publicly at least, the Young Turks re-embraced the policy of Ottomanism (Osmanlılık) by which all citizens of the Ottoman Empire, irrespective of religious affiliation, were to be considered equally under Ottoman law. Numerous Armenians, Greeks, and Jews represented their constituencies in the Ottoman parliament.3 Non-Muslims were now also subject to conscription into the army, something which was endorsed by Greek, Armenian and Süryânî leaders as a necessary step towards greater equality.4 The new Ottoman constitution was the symbol of the hopes and aspirations that the events of 1908 and 1909 bred within the Süryânî community; contemporary sources recount Süryânî participation in celebrations honouring the constitution and the new Sultan, Mehmed Reşâd, in places such as Mardin, Harput, and even the emigrant communities of Massachusetts. For journalism in the Ottoman Empire, the 1908 revolution was a great boon, and within a few months the number of periodicals in the capital jumped to several times its pre-1908 figure. This trend was replicated in the provinces, where beforehand only a government newspaper (often appearing in Ottoman Turkish as A Chaldean, Davûd Yûsufânî, was also elected as a representative for Mosul and became a member of a leading opposition party’s inner circle. 4 We know little about Süryânî participation in the Ottoman military. Just after the outbreak of World War I, however, the newspaper İntibâh did report on a student from Diyarbakır who was one of the top students at the military school in Istanbul and was on track to be a ranking officer. 3

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well as a local language such as Arabic, Armenian, or Greek) had usually been available. There had been a pre-1908 initiative to establish a printing press to publish books at the monastery of Deyrü’z-Zaferân outside of Mardin, but the Süryânî had no previous journalistic experience. Nevertheless, between 1909 and 1914, no less than six periodicals were established: three in Harput, two in Diyarbakır and one in Mardin.5 In addition, Süryânî emigrants in the United States founded two further publications prior to 1914 and a handful more afterwards. In the early years, the Süryânî periodicals can probably be best described not so much as newspapers but as journals, although this latter term was not what they used to describe themselves.6 Only in the 1920s do we come across a weekly that contained stories about current events and advertising. Prior to this time, publications had little of what could be described as news, especially if it did not specifically address the Süryânî community. Instead, earlier examples were more of a space for their editors to express themselves didactically and to engage in public exchanges with their readership. Most of the early twentieth-century Süryânî periodicals were characterised by a reliance on Ottoman Turkish as a linguistic medium.7 Sometimes Ottoman Turkish would be employed exclusively and sometimes it was used in conjunction with Arabic, Syriac and, later, English, but in all of the pre-War instances, except elHikmet, the non-Turkish sections were considerably smaller in comparison.8 For the most part, all text was written in the Syriac alphabet although in some newspapers the Arabic or Ottoman Turkish portions could be in the Arabic script. Şîfûro and İntibâh used both alphabets for Ottoman Turkish, and the latter even printed a primer for “Süryânî desiring to read Turkish in Syriac letters.” The phenomenon of a community writing Ottoman Turkish in its own alphabet was not unique to the Süryânî, with Ottoman Turkish-language literature having long appeared in the Armenian, Greek, and Hebrew alphabets. Unlike in the other cases, however, the transition from Arabic to Syriac was an easy one. The wellThere was probably a seventh, again in Harput. In Ottoman Turkish, the terms most often employed was the Italian gazete and, occasionally, the Arabic cerîde (both meaning “newspaper”), rather than mecmûa (“journal, magazine, review”). 7 An exception not discussed here is The Aramean, a publication that targeted the Arabic-speaking Süryânî, Maronites and Chaldeans. 8 My initial analysis of eight issues of Kevkeb Mednho, for example, found over 60% of articles in Ottoman Turkish, roughly 30% in Arabic and fewer than 10% in Syriac. 5 6

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established practice of writing Arabic with Syriac letters, known as Garshuni or Karshuni, provided Ottoman Turkish with a system in which there was an almost one-to-one relationship between the letters in both alphabets. To accommodate Ottoman Turkish, only the creation of four extra letters through the modification of existing letters was necessary. The decision to use the Syriac alphabet appears to have been ideological rather than practical, a conclusion based both on the need for the guide printed in İntibâh and on the editorial appeals in Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn for the Süryânî who could not speak Syriac to at least employ the Syriac alphabet when writing in other languages.9 On the other hand, the use of the Ottoman Turkish language was an eminently practical choice. In the late Ottoman era, the Süryânî spoke different tongues—Arabic, Armenian, Kurdish or Turkish— depending on the region in which they resided. Only for those in Tur Abdin (Cebel-i Tûr) was a Syriac vernacular, Turoyo, spoken. Moreover, the written Syriac language was simply not known by enough people to make it practical for use in the media. Ottoman Turkish was by no means universally spoken, but at the same time, unlike Armenian and Arabic, it was not perceived negatively in the community as being a “foreign” tongue.10 Kurdish was much less frequently written, although there are suggestions that it may have made the occasional appearance in Süryânî publications.11 Another related feature of the Süryânî press was the use of mimeography rather than type-setting for the reproduction process. With the exception of el-Hikmet, all of the pre-1914 publications (as well as the later, but influential, Bethnahrin) were hand-written and then printed with a mimeograph machine. Partially this was due to the greater difficulty in casting the western Syriac alphabet but it should also be noted that the Ottoman publications were each the endeavour of a single person whose time was divided between journalism and another profession. Again el-Hikmet is peculiar in that it had the support of the Syriac Orthodox Church, being printed on its press at Deyrü’z-Zaferân. Two short-lived Harput publications, Hayât and Kevkbo d-Sûryoye, were also established by members of the clergy, although it is not clear that they received In the Süryânî cemetery in Elâzığ (near Harput) only a few gravestones from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries show Ottoman Turkish in the Syriac alphabet. 10 Âşûr Yûsuf, one of the journalists discussed below, related the existence of such a perception amongst the Süryânî. 11 At least one Bible was printed in Armenian using the Syriac alphabet, but I have not been able to find other such examples. 9

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official support or sanction from the Church. A number of other periodicals had affiliations with Süryânî organisations, however. Most notable were the monthly İntibâh, which had ties with the Terakkiyât-ı Mekteb-i Süryânî Cemiyeti [Association of Progress for Süryânî Schools],12 and Savto d-Oromoye, which was published by the local branch of the İntibâh Cemiyeti [Association for the Awakening].13 The Süryânî press appears to have been successful in garnering an involved and enthusiastic readership in a short time, and despite not being a large community, by 1914 it could boast five active publications. Thanks to the publication of subscriber lists, we are aware of a readership throughout the Ottoman Empire (including places such as Istanbul, Kosovo, Salonica, Samsun, Mosul, Jerusalem, Baghdad, Egypt, and Beirut besides the core areas of Süryânî settlement). There were also numerous subscribers in the United States and Canada, and the Harput-based Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn even had a community member in Worcester, Massachusetts handle subscriptions from North America. In addition, we have records of subscribers in Tbilisi, Buenos Aires, and even India.14 Similar records indicate that the periodicals located in the United States were also widely read throughout the Ottoman Empire. Unfortunately, despite the encouraging breadth of readership, the publishers often expressed their dire financial situation, something which was compounded by the chronic failure of subscribers to pay their fees. There was, however, some cause for optimism right up until the outbreak of the First World War. After five years of hardship and thoughts of closing his Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn, Âşûr Yûsuf announced in late 1913 that he had collected enough funds to finally purchase cast type for the coming year. Making this investment, Âşûr Yûsuf suggests that even at this late date, the future of the Süryânî was to be in the Ottoman Empire as Ottoman citizens. Such expectations had, in some cases, given way to disappointment of the growing autocratic rule of the İttihâd ve Terakkî Cemiyeti and the backlash against non-Muslims following the Italian invasion of Libya and the Ottoman losses in the Balkan Wars; Naûm Fâik, The association is now better known by the initials T. M. S. The notion of an “awakening” (intibâh) tied to the 1908 revolution may be found in the thought of all Süryânî institutions of the early twentieth century, so there should be no surprise that two of them took the name İntibâh. 14 Also interesting is the fact that Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn and İntibâh made use of the English-language press in India as a source of information on the activities of Patriarch Abdullah and former Patriarch Abdülmesîh. 12 13

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perhaps the most famous Süryânî journalist, chose to leave Diyarbakır for New Jersey in 1912. Two of the remaining Süryânî journalists, Âşûr Yûsuf and Beşâr Hilmî, would be caught up in the killing of Christians of the eastern parts of the Empire, the hopes that their community had placed in the Ottoman state ending with them. Wartime Süryânî journalism was characterised by a swing in the opinions of the emigrant communities towards an Assyrian nationalism which fully incorporated members of the Church of the East and the Chaldean Catholic Church. The first joint publication, Huyodo, was edited by Naûm Fâik and was the official organ of the Assyro-Chaldean National Unity of America. At the same time there was a slow shift away from using Ottoman Turkish for the names of organisations and publications, something which was likely a product both of this increasing unity and a rejection of things Ottoman and Turkish as the audience of Syriac journalism grew to encompass the greater Assyrian community, in which Turkish was a minority, not a majority, language. With the end of the Ottoman Empire and the near elimination of a Süryânî community in Turkey, the use of the language declined further. This was compounded by Turkey’s adoption of the Latin alphabet in 1928 and then the “reform” of Ottoman Turkish, producing the modern Turkish language. Süryânî survivors of World War I were concentrated in Arabic or English-speaking countries and were left with the option of retaining the dying Ottoman language or embracing the tongue of their adopted countries.

BIBLIOGRAPHY The bibliography of Ottoman Turkish-language periodicals will include some basic details including the editor, place of publication and rates for a year’s subscription. In the language section, the alphabet employed for Arabic and Ottoman Turkish will be indicated by (A) for Arabic and (S) for Syriac. Known issues to have survived, as originals or in copy, will be given under the headings of (NYPL) for the New York Public Library, (WL) for Harvard’s Widener Library, (MA) for the Metropolitanate of Aleppo and (KK) for the library at the Kırklar Kilisesi in Mardin. In addition, the private collections of George A Kiraz and Jan Bet-Şawoce will be indicated by (GAK) and (JBŞ) respectively. Other small collections are known to exist but as yet I have not been able to catalogue their contents.

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THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn [Guide of the Assyrians]15 Editor: Âşûr Yûsuf Place: Harput Years: 1909–1914 Language: Ottoman Turkish (S) Frequency: 1 issue / month Pages: 16 Rates: 12 gurûş (Harput); 15 gurûş (domestic); $1 (United States) Issues (GAK): vol. 6 (1914), 1–2 Issues (JBŞ): vol. 3 (1911), no. 1–12; vol. 4 (1912), 1–13; vol. 5 (1913), 1–13 Issues (KK): probably identical to those held by (JBŞ)

‫ܐܬܘܪ ܢ‬ ܼ

The first Süryânî publication, Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn is well-known in the present-day Assyrian scholarship. Its target audience has often been incorrectly assumed to be the greater Assyrian community, when it was in fact that of the Süryânî alone. Âşûr Yûsuf was a professor of classical Armenian at the Euphrates College, an American mission school. Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn made open its attempts to reach as many readers as possible by employing a simplified Ottoman Turkish more easily understood by a public without great access to education. Despite not having any affiliations himself, Âşûr Yûsuf closely followed the activities of Süryânî charitable organisations and educational institutions throughout the Ottoman Empire and in the United States. Âşûr Yûsuf was also involved in a protected dispute with mutrân of Harput, Abdünnûr (see Kevkbo d-Sûryoye below), which resulted in a series of unsuccessful court cases being brought against Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn. Âşûr Yûsuf, along with the Armenian professors from the Euphrates College, was imprisoned and then killed by the Ottoman authorities during the First World War.

‫ܐ‬ Kevkeb Mednho [Star of the East] Editor: Naûm Fâik Place: Diyarbakır Years: 1910–1912 Language: Arabic (S); Ottoman Turkish (S); Syriac Frequency: 1 issue / 2 weeks Pages: 8 There is evidence that early volumes were issued under the name Mürşidü'l-Âsûriyûn, the Arabic equivalent of the Farsi Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn. 15

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Rates (vol. 1): 18 gurûş (Diyarbakır); 20 gurûş (domestic); 25 gurûş (international) Rates (vol. 2): 20 gurûş (Diyarbakır); 25 gurûş (domestic); $1.50 (United States) Issues (GAK): vol. 1 (1910–1911), no. 7; vol. 2 (1911–1912), no. 7– 9, 12 Issues (JBŞ): vol. 1 (1910–1911), no, 2, 16, 18–20,16 22, 24; vol. 2 (1911–1912), no. 3 Issues (NYPL): vol. 1 (1910–1911), no. 1–26; vol. 2 (1911–1912), 1–14 At the time of his first journalistic endeavour, Naûm Fâik (properly Naûm İlyâs Palak) was a teacher at the Süryânî school in Diyarbakır and had recently founded the İntibâh Cemiyeti, an educational and charitable organisation which would come to have branches in all major areas of Süryânî settlement, including the United States. The publication of Kevkeb Mednho was supported by Beşâr Hilmî (see Şîfûro below). Despite its short period of existence, it achieved great renown within the community, with subscription records suggesting that Kevkeb Mednho was the most widely read of the Süryânî publications in the Ottoman Empire. Naûm Fâik emigrated to the United States in 1912, when he would continue his involvement in journalism.

‫ܨ ܐ ܕ ܗܪܐ‬

Safro d-Nûhro [Light of the Dawn] Place: Harput? The first issue of Hayât made reference to this publication in an open letter addressed to an individual who had contributed articles to Safro d-Nûhro and Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn. The text only reveals that he was the nephew of a meyhâneci [tavernkeeper] Donabed, the Donabeds being a family from Harput.[footnote remains here] The connections with Harput suggest that Safro d-Nûhro might have also been published there.17

‫ܒܐ ܕ ̈ܪ ܐ‬ Kevkbo d-Sûryoye [Star of the Süryânî] Editor: mutrân Abdünnûr Place: Harput Years: 1910 Issues 18 through 20 are missing the initial two pages. By this time there were also Donabeds in the United States, so it may have been published there. 16 17

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Language: Arabic (S); Ottoman Turkish (S); Syriac Pages: 9 Issues: (JBŞ): vol. 1 (1910), no. 4 İntibâh (June 1910) and Kevkeb Mednho (August 1910) made mention of Kevkbo d-Sûryoye but it is known from Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn that the publication did not survive past the end of the same year. Of the little information available, the most striking is the fact that it was published by the mutrân of Harput, Abdünnûr, making him the most senior member of the clergy to have engaged in journalism. In the only issue known to have survived, there are nine pages, all of which are written in Ottoman Turkish. Hayât [Life] Editor: keşîş Pavlus Place: Harput Years: 1910 Language: Ottoman Turkish (A, S) Frequency: 1 issue / 2 weeks Pages: 4 Issues (JBŞ): vol. 1 (1910), no. 4

‫ܐܬ‬

Little is known about Hayât other than references to its third and fourth issues in Kevkeb Mednho (November 1910) and to its closure in Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn at the end of the same year. While Hayât was entirely Ottoman Turkish, two pages were printed in the Syriac alphabet and the other two pages contained the same articles rendered in the Arabic alphabet.

‫ܪܐ‬

Şîfûro [Trumpet] Editor: Beşâr Hilmî Borucu Place: Diyarbakır Years: 1910–1914 Language: Ottoman Turkish (A, S) Frequency: 1 issue / 2 weeks Pages: 4 Rates: 15 gurûş (Diyarbakır); 17.5 gurûş (domestic); 25 gurûş (international) Issues (GAK): vol. 1 (1913), no. 3 Issues (JBŞ): vol. 1 (1911), no. 1; vol. 1 (1913), 11 After having provided it with financial support and numerous articles by his own hand, Beşâr Hilmî closely modelled his own

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publication on Kevkeb Mednho, with the same dimensions, layout, and frequency of publication. Besides only having four pages, the major difference was its exclusive reliance on Ottoman Turkish, sometimes written in the Arabic alphabet. There is some confusion with respect to the form in which Şîfûro appeared over the years since issues from both 1911 and 1913 were indicated as belonging to Volume 1. Beşâr Hilmî would be killed on the outskirts of Diyarbakır in late 1914.

‫ الحکمة‬el-Hikmet [Wisdom] Proprietor: Hannâ el-Kıs Editor: Mîhâîl Çakkî Place: Mardin Years: 1913–1914 Language: Arabic (A), Ottoman Turkish (A), Syriac Frequency: 2 / month Pages: 12–16 Issues (GAK): vol. 1 (1913–1914), no. 1–3, 5–24 Issues (KK): vol. 1 (1913–1914), no. 1–24 In several ways el-Hikmet differed from other Süryânî publications. Firstly, it was printed at the monastery of Deyrü’z-Zaferân outside of Mardin, the seat of the Syriac Orthodox Patriarch, and had close ties to the religious establishment. Secondly, el-Hikmet was typeset in its entirety (including the Syriac portions) rather than being mimeographed. Finally, it was almost entirely in Arabic, with only the occasional article in Syriac and even fewer in Ottoman Turkish, the latter usually being official documents or statements. After only a year, el-Hikmet closed; however, Mîhâîl Çakkî would reopen the journal in Jerusalem in the 1920s, publishing it for another five years.18

THE UNITED STATES

‫ ܐ ܒܐܗ‬İntibâh [Awakening] Editor: Cebbûr Boyacı [Gabriel Boyaji] Place: College Point, New York Years: 1909–1915 Language: Arabic (S), Ottoman Turkish (A, S), Syriac Frequency: 1 / month Gabriyel Akyüz, Tüm Yönleriyle Süryaniler (Mardin: Kırklar Kilisesi, 2005), 300–302. 18

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Pages: 8 Rates: $1 (United States); 25 gurûş or $1.10 (Ottoman Empire) Issues (GAK): vol. 1 (1909–1910), no. 4–9, 11; vol. 2 (1910–1911), no. 14–15, 23–24; vol. 3 (1911–1912), no. 26, 28, 30–36; vol. 4 (1912–1913), no. 37, 39, 44–45, 47–48; vol. 5 (1913–1915), no. 49– 50, 54, 56 Issues (JBŞ): vol. 1 (1909–1910), no. 5; vol. 2 (1910–1911), no. 13 Issues (NYPL): vol. 1 (1909–1910), 1–12; vol. 2 (1910–1911), no.13–24; vol. 3 (1911–1912), no. 25–36; vol. 4 (1912–1913), 37– 48; vol. 5 (1913–1915), 49–57 Issues (MA): vol. 1 (1909–1910), 1-2, 5–12; vol. 2 (1910–1911), no.13–24; vol. 3 (1911–1912), no. 25–36; vol. 4 (1912–1913), 37– 48; vol. 5 (1913-1915), 49–56 Diyarbakır native Cebbûr Boyacı established his influential İntibâh in association with the Terakkiyât-ı Mekteb-i Süryânî Cemiyeti.19 Naûm Fâik was a frequent contributor to İntibâh both while in Diyarbakır and after his arrival in the United States. Its articles were also frequently cited in the Süryânî periodicals in the Ottoman Empire. The first issue was written entirely in the Arabic alphabet but only in one later issue would İntibâh ever make use of anything but Syriac letters; non-Ottoman Turkish articles were exceedingly rare. Starting in its second year of existence, İntibâh bore the English subtitle “Assyrian’s [sic] Monthly Newspaper.” İntibâh was published on schedule except for December 1913 and the interval between August 1914 and January 1915, when issues did not appear. Following its closure in March 1915, İntibâh would be reopened by Naûm Fâik as Bethnahrin in 1916.

‫ܨܘܬܐ ܕܐ̈ܪ ܐ‬

Savto d-Oromoye [Voice of the Aramaeans] Editor: Senharîb Bâlî Place: Paterson, New Jersey Years: 1913–? Language: Ottoman Turkish (S) Savto d-Oromoye (erroneously referred to as Voice of the Assyrians in most sources) is significant as it is said to have been the publication of the İntibâh Cemiyeti established by Naûm Fâik in Diyarbakır.20 Ibid., 296. Senharîb Bâlî’s personal notes written some decades later did indeed refer to Savto d-Athoroye, but in the same notes he also recorded the titles of several Süryânî periodicals (for example, İntibâh and el-Hikmet) in 19 20

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The inauguration of Savto d-Oromoye and a few basic details were announced in Mürşid-i Âsûriyûn but no issues are known to have survived. Also in 1913, İntibâh accused Savto d-Oromoye of being an Armenian mouthpiece for having taken an Armenian from Diyarbakır as an editor. Other sources state that the editor was Senharîb Bâlî, also from Diyarbakır, who would go on to be a contributing editor at Huyodo.

‫ ܒ ܼ ̈ܪ‬Bethnahrin [Mesopotamia] Editor: Naûm Fâik [Naoum E. Palak] Place: Paterson, New Jersey; Central Falls, Rhode Island Years: 1916–1933 Language: Arabic (S), Ottoman Turkish (S), Syriac Frequency: 1 / 2 weeks Rates: $2.50 Issues (KK): vol. 1–10 Issues (NYPL): 1916:3:8–1917:9:8/22; 1927:1:1–2/3; 1932:721 Issues (WL): vol. 1, no. 13–18; vol. 2, no. 5–6, 9–10, 15–16; vol. 3, no. 1–9, 11; vol. 4, no. 3–6; vol. 5, no. 2–3, 6–7; vol. 6, no. 1; vol. 13, no. 8; vol. 14, no. 1–11; vol. 16, no. 1–9 Naûm Fâik established Bethnahrin in 1916 following the closure of İntibâh, to which he had been a contributor. Publication only stopped for the period during which he worked on Huyodo. After 1926, when Naûm Fâik stopped working on Bethnahrin, the publication began appearing out of Central Falls. Bethnahrin’s English subhead, “the Assyrian paper,” was nearly identical to that of İntibâh, but it differed in that it rejected the support for the Ottoman state which had been typical of Süryânî journalism prior to World War I.

The New Assyria Editor: Joel E. Werda President and manager: Charles Dartley Place: Jersey City, New Jersey Years: 1916–1919 Language: English, Ottoman Turkish (S) Syriac despite the fact that they were not so named. We should understand such conscious changes as being part of the shift towards an entrenched Assyrian identity which characterized the Süryânî in the United States following World War I. 21 The records for Bethnahrin at NYPL are given as listed in the library catalogue since I have not been able to examine them myself.

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Frequency: 1 / month Pages: 12–14 Rates: $1.00 (United States); $1.50 (Canada); $2.00 (international) Issues (NYPL): vol. 1 (1916–1917), no. 1–12; vol. 2 (1917–1918), no. 13–24; vol. 3 (1918–1919), no. 25–34 Issues (WL): vol. 1 (1916–1917), no. 2, 7, 9–12; vol. 2 (1917–1918), no. 14, 18–21, 23–24; vol. 3 (1917–1918), no. 27–31, 33–34 Joel E. Werda also published the Assyrian American Courier, but The New Assyria specifically targeted the Süryânî emigrant community in the United States. The publication was almost entirely in English but occasionally included an Ottoman Turkish supplement. Բաբելոն Babelon [Babylon] Editor: (Naûm?) Beşârûf Place: Boston Years: 1919–1921 Language: Armenian, English?, Ottoman Turkish? Frequency: 1 / month Issues (WL): vol. 1 (1919–1920), no. 1–27; vol. 2 (1920–1921), no. 1–27 Little is known about Babelon although its use of Armenian and its publication in Massachusetts suggests that it had a Harput connection.

‫ܐ‬ Huyodo [The Union] Publicity manager: Charles S. Dartley Editor: Naom Elias Palak Place: New York City Years: 1921–1922 Language: Arabic (A), English, Ottoman Turkish (S), Syriac Frequency: 1 / week Pages: 4 Rates: $5.00 Issues (NYPL): vol. 1 (1921–1922), no. 1–36, 38–39 Unlike previous Süryânî publications, the self-described organ of the Assyro-Chaldean National Unity of America, Huyodo brought all the different peoples together under a single Assyrian banner. Naûm Fâik ceased publication of Bethnahrin so as to work as an editor for Huyodo although in this case he had several assistants. Huyodo is also

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remarkable for its professional typesetting of both the eastern and western Syriac scripts in addition to the Arabic and Latin alphabets.

LEBANON ‫ ــــــܐ ܕܐܘ ܐ‬Leşono d-Umto [Voice of the Nation] Editor: İbrâhîm Hakverdi Place: Beirut Years: 1927–? Language: Arabic (A), Ottoman Turkish (S) Frequency: 2 / month Pages: 4 Rates: SL£300 (Syria and Lebanon); $5 (international) Issues (GAK): vol. ? (1933), no. 37; vol. 8 (1939), no. 148 Issues (JBŞ): vol. 1 (1927–1928), no. 1; vol. 4 (1929–1931), no. 63, 65 Issues (WL): vol. 1 (1927–1928), no. 1–24; vol. 2 (1928–1929), 25– 48; vol. 3 (1929), 49–61; vol. 4 (1929–1931), 62–79; vol. 5 (1931– 1932), 81–83, 8522 Leşono d-Umto would be the last Süryânî publication to use Ottoman Turkish. Some issues were uniquely in Arabic and had an Arabic title (‫[ لسان االمة‬Lisânü’l-ümmet]) alongside the Syriac. Leşono d-Umto continued appearing until World War II or shortly thereafter.

REFERENCES Akyüz, Gabriyel. Tüm Yönleriyle Süryaniler. Mardin: Kırklar Kilisesi, 2005. BarAbrahem, Abdulmesih. “The ‘Question of Assyrian Journalism’ Revisited.” Journal of the Assyrian Academic Society 9, no. 1 (April 1995): 3–7. Benjamin, Yoab. “Assyrian Journalism. A 140–Year Experience.” Journal of the Assyrian Academic Society 7, no. 2 (November 1993): 1–28. Naby, Eden. “The Assyrians of Iran: Reunification of a ‘Millat,’ 1906– 1914.” International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 8, no. 2 (April 1977): 237–249. Naby, Eden and Michael E. Hopper. The Assyrian Experience: Sources for the Study of the 19th and 20th Centuries. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard College Library, 1999. Yonan, Gabriele. Journalismus bei den Assyrern. Ein Überblick von seinen Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart. Berlin: Zentralverband der Assyrischen Vereinigungen in Deutschland und Mitteleuropa, 1985. I have only observed the issues in the JBŞ collection, so I can not account for the discrepancies in the volume and issue numbers. 22

BOOK REVIEWS Holger Gzella and Margaretha L. Folmer, eds., Aramaic in its Historical and Linguistic Setting, Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur. Mainz. Veröffentlichungen der Orientalischen Kommission. Band 50 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2008) Pp. vii + 388. Hardback. AARON MICHAEL BUTTS UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, CHICAGO, IL 60615, USA

In the last several years, volumes dealing with the historical and linguistic contexts of both Akkadian and Hebrew have appeared.1 Thanks to the book under review, the Aramaicist can now boast of a similarly conceived collection of studies devoted to the historical and linguistic setting of Aramaic. This volume contains most of the papers that were presented at the conference Aramaic in its Historical and Linguistic Setting in Oegstgeest (near Leiden), August 24-27, 2006. It includes 20 contributions, the authors and titles of which are: Otto Jastrow, “Old Aramaic and Neo-Aramaic: Some Reflections on Language History” (1-10); Agustinus Gianto, “Lost and Found in the Grammar of First-Millennium Aramaic” (11-25); Edward Lipiński, “Aramaic Broken Plurals in the Wider Semitic Context” (27-40); Steven E. Fassberg, “The Forms of ‘Son’ and ‘Daughter’ in Aramaic” (41-53); Na’ama Pat-El, “Historical Syntax of Aramaic: A Note on Subordination” (55-76); André Lemaire, “Remarks on the Aramaic of Upper Mesopotamia in the Seventh Century B.C.” (77-92); Jan Joosten, “The Septuagint as a Source of Information on Egyptian Aramaic in the Hellenistic Period” (93105); Holger Gzella, “Aramaic in the Parthian Period: The Arsacid Inscriptions” (107-130); Margaretha L. Folmer, “The Use and Form of the nota objecti in Jewish Palestinian Aramaic Inscriptions” (131-158); Abraham Tal, “The Role of Targum Onqelos in Literary Activity During the Middle Ages” (159-171); W. Randall Garr, “The Determined Plural Ending -ē in Targum Onqelos” (173-206); 1

G. Deutscher and N. J. C. Kouwenberg, eds., The Akkadian Language in its Semitic Context. Studies in the Akkadian of the Third and Second Millennium BC (Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 2006); Steven E. Fassberg and Avi Hurvitz, eds., Biblical Hebrew in its Northwest Semitic Setting. Typological and Historical Perspectives (Jerusalem: The Hebrew University Magnes Press; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2006).

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Renaud J. Kuty, “Remarks on the Syntax of the Participle in Targum Jonathan on Samuel” (207-220); John F. Healey, “Variety in Early Syriac: The Context in Contemporary Aramaic” (221-229); Wido van Peursen, “Language Variation, Language Development, and the Textual History of the Peshitta” (231-256); Craig Morrison, “The Function of qṭal hwā in the Acts of Judas Thomas” (257-285); Geoffrey Khan, “The Expression of Definiteness in North-Eastern Neo-Aramaic Dialects” (287-304); Werner Arnold, “The Roots qrṭ and qrṣ in Western Neo-Aramaic” (305-311); Olga Kapeliuk, “The Perfect Tenses in Urmi Neo-Aramaic” (313-334); Heleen Murrevan den Berg, “Classical Syriac, Neo-Aramaic, and Arabic in the Church of the East and the Chaldean Church between 1500 and 1800” (335-351); Stephen A. Kaufman, “The Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon Project and Twenty-First Century Aramaic Lexicography: Status and Prospects” (353-371). The volume concludes with a brief epilogue by the editors, Gzella and Folmer, followed by useful indices of modern authors and subjects. As is clear from their titles, the papers span the full chronological attestation of Aramaic from its reconstructed protohistory to Old Aramaic to Syriac to Neo-Aramaic. To the volume’s credit, Neo-Aramaic features in a number of papers including several that are not dedicated specifically to it. The field of NeoAramaic, after all, has great potential for new discoveries, many of which may also be relevant for the earlier history of Aramaic. The papers are all philological or linguistic in nature and cover a wide range of topics within the field of Aramaic studies. Among the many thought-provoking papers, the contributions of Healey, van Peursen, Morrison, and Murre-van den Berg should be singled out as of particular interest to Syriac studies. In her contribution, Murre-van den Berg discusses the socio-linguistic history of Syriac from the 16th to 18th centuries with particular reference to the relationship between Syriac, Neo-Aramaic, and Arabic within the Church of the East and the Chaldean Church. This study is an important contribution to a time period of Syriac (and Aramaic more generally) that has been too long neglected in scholarship. Building upon an earlier study,2 Morrison discusses the function of qṭal hwā in the ‘Acts of Judas Thomas’ arguing that in independent clauses it is basically restricted to narrative discourse (where it often marks a 2

Craig Morrison, “The Function of qtal hwā in Classical Syriac Narrative,” in A. Gianto, ed., Biblical and Oriental Essays in Memory of William L. Moran, Biblica et Orientalia 48 (Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 2005), 101-131.

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caesura) while the basic qṭal is used to recount past events in direct speech. The contributions by both Healey and van Peursen discuss linguistic variety within early Syriac. Placing Syriac within its broader Aramaic context, Healey argues that the variation between y- and n- in the prefix of the 3ms prefix-conjugation in the Old Syriac inscriptions is probably not simply due to diachronic change, but rather it may be a reflection of different varieties of Syriac in the first several centuries of the Common Era. Van Peursen also argues for linguistic variation within early Syriac, but draws his evidence from the textual history of the Old Testament Peshitta. Van Peursen’s study is of particular importance since it provides a number of useful observations for investigating linguistic variation while concurrently negotiating issues of translation technique. Both of these papers build upon the growing body of literature – initiated by the influential study of Lucas Van Rompay3 – that argues that Syriac was never entirely homogeneous, but rather contained varying degrees of linguistic variation throughout its long history. While space prohibits a summary of the other contributions, I would like to take this opportunity to comment on a few points raised throughout the volume: - p. 2. Jastrow states that, “During the emergence of Aramaic or in the earliest stage of Old Aramaic, the velar fricatives *x and *ġ merged with the pharyngeal fricatives *ḥ and *ʿ, respectively.” Nevertheless, it is now clear on the basis of, inter alia, papyrus Amherst 63, which records Aramaic in Demotic script, that ProtoAramaic *ḫ (= Jastrow’s *x) and *ġ were preserved much later in Egyptian Aramaic.4 Thus, * ḫ and *ġ were similar to the interdentals *δ, *θ, and *θʾ and the laterals * ɬ (= traditional ś) and * ɬʾ (= traditional ḍ), all of which were preserved in Early Aramaic and only later in the history of Aramaic merged with other phonemes. - p. 30-31. Lipiński rejects interpreting ʾdqwr (Tell Fakhariya, l. 3) as a loanword from Akkadian adag/kurru ‘libation vessel’ because (1) the word does not occur in the parallel passage of the Akkadian inscription; (2) “it fails to explain the presence of the long vowel ū, 3

Lucas Van Rompay, “Some Preliminary Remarks on the Origins of Classical Syriac as a Standard Language,” in Gideon Goldenberg and Shlomo Raz, eds., Semitic and Cushitic Studies (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1994), 70-89. 4 See Joosten’s contribution in this volume (p. 97-99) and especially Richard C. Steiner, “On the Dating of Hebrew Sound Changes (*Ḫ > Ḥ and *Ġ > ʿ) and Greek Translations (2 Esdras and Judith),” JBL 124 (2005), 220-267, esp. 234-237 with literature cited therein.

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indicated by w...”. The second argument is not convincing since there are other examples in which a short vowel in Akkadian is represented with a mater lectionis in a loanword in the Aramaic of Tell Fakhariya, e.g. Akkadian gugallu > Aramaic gwgl ‘canal inspector’ (l. 2, 4). As for the first argument, it is unclear to me why the lack of adag/kurru in the Akkadian version of the inscription would preclude ʾdqwr from being an Akkadian loanword. If anything, it strengthens the interpretation of ʾdqwr as a true Lehnwort and not simply a Fremdwort. - p. 64. Pat-El states that “in all later dialects, we consistently find the indefinite relative followed by the relative particle d-”. In Nabataean Aramaic, however, there are not only cases with d(y) such as mn dy lʾ yʿbd kdy ʿlʾ ktyb … ‘whoever does not do as is written above …’, which Pat-El cites, but there are also examples without it, such as wmn yʿbd kʿyr dnh … ‘and whoever does other than this …’.5 Based on Pat-El’s study, it may be concluded that Nabataean examples without the relative particle d(y) are the result of language-contact with North Arabian, where the indefinite relative is used without a relative pronoun. - p. 152-154. To Folmer’s overview of the nota objecti in Old Aramaic, one can now add the occurrence of wt- plus the third person pronominal suffix in the recently discovered inscription from Zincirli (l. 2) in an archaic dialect of Aramaic.6 - p. 174, n. 8. Following a personal communication of A. Tal, Garr proposes that the ending on Samaritan Aramaic slwy ‘quail’ may be related to the determined plural ending -e (written -ē by Garr) in Targum Onqelos. Nevertheless, since this noun appears to be feminine in Aramaic (see Syriac salway in Exod 16:13), it is preferable to follow Nöldeke in analyzing the ending as a remnant of the old feminine ending *-ay.7 These comments are in no way meant to detract from the overall quality of papers in this volume, which is generally quite high, but rather are intended to contribute to the on-going discussion of the history and development of Aramaic. This reviewer for 5

J. F. Healey, The Nabataean Tomb Inscriptions of Mada'in Salih, JSS Supplement 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), H5.8. For additional example, see H4.4; H16.4, 5, 6; H31.2; H33.2; H34.10; H36.7; H37.3. 6

The editio princeps will be published by D. Pardee in BASOR. Theodor Nöldeke, Compendious Syriac Grammar. Translated from the second and improved German edition by James A. Crichton (London: William & Norgate, 1904), §83. 7

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one is grateful to the editors and contributors for this important collection of papers devoted to Aramaic.

CONFERENCE REPORTS EACL 2009 Workshop on Computational Approaches to Semitic Languages, Athens, Greece, 31 March 2009 WIDO VAN PEURSEN AND CONSTANTIJN SIKKEL PESHITTA INSTITUTE LEIDEN, TURGAMA PROJECT

In combination with the Twelfth Conference of the European Chapter of the Association for Computational Linguistics (ACL), Athens, 30 March – 3 April 2009, the ACL Special Interest Group for Computational Approaches to Semitic Languages organized a one-day workshop. The various contributions to this workshop gave a state-of-the art impression of work that is going on in the application of Computational Linguistics to various Semitic languages.1 Four papers dealt with morphology. Semitic languages, with their rich morphology, provide interesting material for computational morphological analysis. In the study of Semitic morphology, as in many other areas of computational linguistics, ample use is made of finite state automata. There are several advantages to the use of finite state automata (FSAs). They can handle a number of phenomena relatively easily, they are broadly available, and they have been studied intensively and tested and improved accordingly. However, some typical features of Semitic languages pose serious challenges to the application of FSAs. A FSA reads an input tape in a linear way, and goes through it character by character, from the beginning to the end. This approach assumes that morphemes are built up of concatenations of characters and that words are built up of concatenations of morphemes and that morphological analysis concerns the segmentation of words into morphemes. This approach works well for languages with complex concatenative morphological patterns, such as Turkish, but is not very suitable for languages that have typical non-concatenative features, including the Semitic languages. For example, the Syriac verb form qabbel, ‘he received’, is a combination of the pattern C1-a-C2-C2-e-C3 and the root QBL. In this example the verbal stem Pael is realized by the gemination of the second root letter and the a-e vowel pattern, 1 The workshop proceedings http://staff.um.edu.mt/mros1/casl09.

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rather than by a morpheme that can be isolated in a segmentation process. In the workshop various papers addressed the question of how to deal with these non-linear phenomena when using FSAs. They elaborated upon the work that has been done over the last years. One of the pioneers in this field is the general editor of Hugoye, George A. Kiraz.2 In a number of publications, including his monograph Computational Nonlinear Morphology,3 Kiraz has developed a model that deals with the root-template pattern by allotting multiple grammatical/lexical layers to separate tapes.4 Michael Gasser gave a presentation of his work on Finite State morphology for Ethiopic Semitic languages, especially Amharic and Tigrinya. These languages pose a number of additional challenges compared to other Semitic languages. Due to prefixes and suffixes that function as negation, relativizers, accusative markers, prepositions, conjunctions, and sometimes even auxiliaries, the verb forms can receive even more complex morphological structures than those known from other Semitic languages. Other distinctive features of these languages are that gemination is not only grammatical but also lexical and that some roots take a vowel, rather than only consonants. Gasser showed how FSAs can be applied to these languages in an effective way by augmenting the transitions between the states with feature-weights. The feature-weight constraints make it possible to handle the phenomenon that the occurrence of a certain element in a word depends on the occurrence of an element later on in the word, that is, to describe long-distance dependencies. Mans Hulden presented a method by which multi-tape automata, used to build analysers for root-and-pattern morphology, Other scholars who have worked on the application of FSAs to Semitic languages are Kenneth R. Beesley, Lauri Karttunen and Shuly Wintner (see also note 4). 3 George Anton Kiraz, Computational Nonlinear Morphology. With Emphasis on Semitic Languages (Studies in Natural Language Processing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2001). 4 See also his article ‘Multitiered Nonlinear Morphology Using Multitape Finite Automata: A Case Study in Syriac and Arabic’, Computational Linguistics 26/1 (2000) 77–105. For the application of Finite State Automata to Modern Hebrew see Yael Cohen-Sygal and Shuly Wintner, ‘Finite-State Registered Automata for Non-Concatenative Morphology’, Computational Linguistics 31/1 (2006) 49–82. The journal Computational Linguistics is now online available at http://www.mitpressjournals/org /loi/coli. 2

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can be simulated using standard finite-state methods and toolkits. This has the advantage that one can make use of the existing tools for single-tape automata or finite-state transducers. He tested his approach on a limited implementation of Arabic verb morphology. François Barthélemy presented Karamel, which is a system for the development of morphological descriptions compiled in finitestate machines. In this system embedded units are employed for obtaining tree structures expressing the relationships between tapes. The tree-structure is also useful to define the scope of the feature structures which are used as an abstract representation of the analysed forms. He gave a demonstration of how this system can be applied to the Akkadian verb. Although the approaches of Gasser, Hulden and Barthélemy differ in details, their common aim is to deal with the nonconcatenative structure of Semitic languages within a Finite State framework. Progress is made in the field, although some linguistic phenomena that abound in Semitic languages, such as reduplication and metathesis, still cannot be dealt with in this framework in a satisfying way. Our own presentation concerned some of the problems we have to face in the linguistic and philological analysis of the Peshitta.5 We addressed the question of how we can establish a verbal paradigm on the basis of ancient Syriac manuscripts. Taking the so-called orthographic variants in the Leiden Peshitta edition as our point of departure, we discussed the question of how we should deal with forms that do not agree with the paradigm that is found in the traditional grammars (e.g., the perfect 3rd person masculine singular with a Waw, i.e. QBLW ‘he (!) received’), and how we can infer the paradigm from the sources, rather than imposing the paradigm found in the grammars upon the sources (which happens if we take the exceptions as ‘orthographic’ variants that are even not worthy of being mentioned in the critical apparatus of the edition). Our inductive approach—trying to deduce the grammar from the extant textual witnesses—and the rule-based approaches used in a Finite State framework presented in the other papers—which usually aimed at the development of efficient parsers or generators—show an interesting complementarity. In the study of Syriac we have on the one hand the classical philological questions that require an inductive approach—in which grammatical forms and For more details about our research see the Turgama project website at http://www.hum.leiden.edu/religion/research/researchprogrammes/turgama.jsp. 5

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functions cannot be taken for granted, but have to be established on the basis of corpus analysis—and on the other hand such a large number of texts that automatic or semi-automatic parsing processes will be rewarding in the long term.6 Another paper dealing with morphology was presented by Khaled Shaalan, Hitham M. Abo Bakr and Ibrahim Ziedan. Their contribution concerned the automatic vocalization of texts in Modern Standard Arabic. Since the distribution of vowels is partly lexically determined (e.g., the stem-vowels of a certain word) and partly context-determined (e.g., the case ending of a word depending on its syntactic function), they proposed a hybrid approach in which lexical and contextual information are combined. For specialists in the linguistic and philological study of ancient Semitic texts, such as the authors of this report, the morphological analysis is the most familiar application of computer science in Semitic studies. However, the workshop contained other fascinating contributions dealing with concept discovery, information retrieval, speech technology and machine translation. Elad Dinur, Dmitry Davidov and Ari Rappoport presented a paper on concept discovery. A concept is defined as a group of words that share a significant aspect of their meaning. Thus the words ‘dog’, ‘puppy’ and ‘cat’ belong to the concept of ‘pets’. There are various indications that words possibly belong to the same concept, such as the ‘X and Y’ collocation (‘cats and dogs’). However, the discovery of such collocations in Semitic languages is complicated by the Semitic word structure in which the conjunction and other elements such as prepositions are written together with the next word. Thus to discover the pair ‘cats and dogs’ in a Modern Hebrew phrase ‘the-cat and-the-dog’ or ‘for-cats and-for-dogs’, one first has to segment the words into their various parts and to identify the conjunction, the articles, and the one-letter prepositions before one can isolate the two nouns ‘cat’ and ‘dog’. Lamia Tounsi, Mohammed Attia and Josef van Genabith presented a paper on the automatic acquisition of grammatical resources based on Lexical Functional Grammar (LFG). They showed how the methodology of automatic treebank-based acquisition of LFG dependency structures can be adapted and employed in a way that accounts for the morphological complexity and syntactic structures of Arabic. Initiatives to develop instruments for automatic POS tagging are being developed at the Center for the Preservation of Ancient Religious Texts at the Brigham Young University, see http://cpart.byu.edu. 6

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Fadi Biadsy, Julia Hirschberg and Nizar Habash held a paper on the use of phonotactic modelling for the dialect identification of spoken Arabic. They presented a model that was able to identify speakers of Egyptian, Levantine, Gulf and Iraqi Arabic dialects. Lahsen Abouenour, Karim Bouzoubaa and Paolo Rosso discussed the challenges of Arabic Information Retrieval systems, focusing on Question/Answer systems, going from question analysis, through passage retrieval, to answer extraction. For example, to receive an answer to the question ‘Where is the city of Marrakech?’, the recognition of the keywords ‘city’ and ‘Marrakech’ is not sufficient, because a passage that tells that Marrakech is a city does not answer the question. Hence additional morphological and semantic information is needed to identify the correct answer. Jakob Elming and Nizar Habash addressed the question of how Phrase-based Statistical Machine Translation (PSMT) can be applied to translations from English to Arabic. Since PSMT uses local experience, it is locally strong. But the reordering that is needed to translate English sentences into Arabic (e.g., the verb has to be moved to the first position in the clause) and the non-local conditions that determine these reorganizations (e.g., in a relative clause the verb does not take the initial position) requires considerable syntactic reordering. We can conclude that fascinating and exciting developments are taking place in the computational analysis of Semitic texts and languages. The wide range of Semitic studies, from secondmillennium BCE Akkadian cuneiform tablets to the variations of modern languages and dialects spoken by millions of people is reflected in the wide range of computational approaches to Semitic languages, from detailed philological analysis to speech recognition and machine translation. The workshop gave a valuable overview of these developments.