Including Papers Presented at the Sixth British Patristics Conference, Birmingham, 5-7 September 2016 [1 ed.] 9042940417, 9789042940413, 9789042940420

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STUDIA PATRISTICA VOL. C

Including Papers Presented at the Sixth British Patristics Conference, Birmingham, 5–7 September 2016 Edited by H.A.G. HOUGHTON, M.L. DAVIES and M. VINZENT

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT

2020

STUDIA PATRISTICA VOL. C

STUDIA PATRISTICA Editor: Markus Vinzent, King’s College London and Max Weber Centre, University of Erfurt

STUDIA PATRISTICA VOL. C

Including Papers Presented at the Sixth British Patristics Conference, Birmingham, 5–7 September 2016 Edited by H.A.G. HOUGHTON, M.L. DAVIES and M. VINZENT

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT

2020

© Peeters Publishers — Louvain — Belgium 2020 All rights reserved, including the right to translate or to reproduce this book or parts thereof in any form. D/2020/0602/69 ISBN: 978-90-429-4041-3 eISBN: 978-90-429-4042-0 A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. Printed in Belgium by Peeters, Leuven

Table of Contents H.A.G. HOUGHTON, Birmingham, UK Introduction .........................................................................................

1

Frances YOUNG, Birmingham, UK Teasing Out Meaning: Some Techniques and Procedures in Early Christian Exegesis ...............................................................................

3

Jennifer STRAWBRIDGE, Oxford, UK Taking Up Armour: The Challenges of Early Christian Exegesis of Ephesians.............................................................................................

19

Michael DORMANDY, Cambridge, UK ‘In Every Letter’? Some Possible Evidence for the Authorship of Ephesians.............................................................................................

39

Matthew J. THOMAS, Oxford, UK Leading Captivity Captive: Paul in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho and the ‘Pauline Captivity’ Narrative ....................................

51

Pui Him IP, Cambridge, UK Athenagoras of Athens and the Genesis of Divine Simplicity in Christian Theology ..............................................................................

61

Simeon BURKE, Edinburgh, UK Tertullian’s Martyrological Maxim: A Case Study for the Multiple Rhetorical Functions of the Command to ‘Render to Caesar the Things of Caesar and to God the Things of God’ in the Writings of Tertullian

71

Paul HARTOG, Des Moines, USA Clement of Alexandria’s Conflicted Reception of ‘Children’ and ‘Fear’....................................................................................................

83

Lavinia CERIONI, Nottingham, UK ‘For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face’ (1Cor. 13:12). Pauline Reception in Origen’s Commentary on the Song of Songs ......................................................................................

93

Giovanni HERMANIN DE REICHENFELD, Exeter, UK ‘The Material of the Gifts from God’. Is the Spirit a Creature in Origen’s Commentary on the Gospel of John? .................................. 103

VI

Table of Contents

Claire HALL, Oxford, UK Origen and Astrology .......................................................................... 113 Edwina MURPHY, Sydney, Australia Cyprian, Parenthood, and the Hebrew Bible: Modelling Munificence and Martyrdom .................................................................................... 123 Victor A. GODOY, São Paolo, Brazil Orthodoxy, Heresy and Episcopal Authority in the Third-Century Church: The Debates between Cyprian of Carthage, the Laxist and the Rigorist Clergy ............................................................................. 133 Kirsten H. MACKERRAS, Oxford, UK Foolish Faith: Defending Christian Wisdom in Paul and Lactantius ................................................................................................... 143 Wojciech RYBKA, Edinburgh, UK Jerome’s and Ambrosiaster’s Interpretations of the Jerusalem Council’s Prohibitions (Acts 15:20, 29) ....................................................... 155 Luise Marion FRENKEL, São Paolo, Brazil Historiographic Narratives on the Authority of Imperial Writings in Christian Polemics............................................................................... 165 Oliver B. LANGWORTHY, St Andrews, UK Gregory Nazianzen’s Portrayal of Paul............................................... 173 Gabrielle THOMAS, Nottingham, UK Gregory Nazianzen: Interpreting the Human Eikon of God Literally as a Physical Bearer of God’s Presence .............................................. 181 Jonathan R.R. TALLON, Manchester, UK Chrysostom, Preaching and Jigsaws: Did John Chrysostom Preach on Scripture in Series? ........................................................................ 191 Joshua BRUCE, Edinburgh, UK Appealing to Antichrist: A Critical Examination of Donatist Juridical Appeals ................................................................................................ 201 Lars Fredrik JANBY, Oslo, Norway The Cognitive Value of the Disciplines in Augustine’s Mature Works ....................................................................................................... 209

Table of Contents

VII

Gregory R.P. STACEY, Oxford, UK Augustine on Faith and Evidence ....................................................... 217 Aäron J. VANSPAUWEN, Leuven, Belgium Contra Domini uel Apostoli auctoritatem. The Authority of Paul in the Polemical Treatise De Fide Contra Manichaeos of Evodius of Uzalis ................................................................................................... 227 Paul PARVIS, Edinburgh, UK Whistling in the Exegetical Dark: The Latin Pseudo-Origen Commentary on Job .................................................................................... 237 Elena Ene D-VASILESCU, Oxford, UK ‘If you wish to contemplate God’: Pseudo-Dionysius on Will and Love .................................................................................................... 247 James F. WELLINGTON, Nottingham, UK The Language of Love: Pseudo-Dionysius’ Detoxification of Eros in De Divinis Nominibus IV, 11–12......................................................... 257 Michael MUTHREICH, Göttingen, Germany Different Accounts of the Martyrdom of St Paul and their Significance for the Epistola ad s. Timotheum de Passione Apostolorum Petri et Pauli Ascribed to Dionysius the Areopagite ...................................... 263 Emma BROWN DEWHURST, Munich, Germany Three Practical Ways of Thinking about Virtue in Maximus the Confessor’s Cosmic and Ascetic Theology ........................................ 273 Arnold SMEETS, Utrecht, The Netherlands Taming the Rhinoceros. Pauline Backings of Gregory’s Mission ..... 281 Susan CREMIN, Cork, Ireland Christ the Physician. Affliction and Spiritual Healing in Bede’s Homilies for Lent and Holy Week ...................................................... 291 Susan B. GRIFFITH, Birmingham, UK ‘It doesn’t say’: Metatextual Observations in Greek Patristic Commentaries on Galatians ....................................................................... 303 Theodora PANELLA, Birmingham, UK A Unique Commentary Manuscript: GA 457 and the Pauline Catena Tradition............................................................................................... 315

VIII

Table of Contents

Alisa KUNITZ-DICK, Cambridge, UK The Fate of Jerome’s Commentary on Haggai in the Early Middle Ages ..................................................................................................... 323 Andrés QUERO-SÁNCHEZ, Erfurt, Germany ‘The First Cause gives everything to all things, even to that which is nothing’: Origen of Alexandria and Meister Eckhart on Rom. 4:17 335 Jeannette KREIJKES, Groningen, The Netherlands, and Leuven, Belgium Chrysostom’s Exegesis of Galatians: A Dubious Translation Tool for John Calvin .......................................................................................... 345 Thomas E. HUNT, Birmingham, UK Alois Riegl, Henri Marrou, and Walter Benjamin: The Interplay of Modernity and Late Antiquity in Patristic Studies ............................ 357 Mark HUGGINS, Edinburgh, UK Chrysostom and Chomsky: The Message of Social Justice and Economic Equality in the Twenty-First Century ...................................... 365 Catherine SMITH, Birmingham, UK Introducing the ITSEE Patristic Citations Database .......................... 375

Abbreviations AA.SS AAWG.PH AB AC ACL ACO ACW AHDLMA AJAH AJP AKK AKPAW ALMA ALW AnalBoll ANCL ANF ANRW AnSt AnThA APOT AR ARW ASS AThANT Aug AugSt AW AZ BA BAC BASOR BDAG BEHE BETL BGL BHG BHL

see ASS. Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen Philologisch-historische Klasse, Göttingen. Analecta Bollandiana, Brussels. Antike und Christentum, ed. F.J. Dölger, Münster. Antiquité classique, Louvain. Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum, ed. E. Schwartz, Berlin. Ancient Christian Writers, ed. J. Quasten and J.C. Plumpe, Westminster (Md.)/London. Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge, Paris. American Journal of Ancient History, Cambridge, Mass. American Journal of Philology, Baltimore. Archiv für katholisches Kirchenrecht, Mainz. Abhandlungen der königlichen Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Berlin. Archivum Latinitatis Medii Aevi (Bulletin du Cange), Paris/Brussels. Archiv für Liturgiewissenschaft, Regensburg. Analecta Bollandiana, Brussels. Ante-Nicene Christian Library, Edinburgh. Ante-Nicene Fathers, Buffalo/New York. Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt, ed H. Temporini et al., Berlin. Anatolian Studies, London. Année théologique augustinienne, Paris. Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament in English, ed. R.E. Charles, Oxford. Archivum Romanicum, Florence. Archiv für Religionswissenschaft, Berlin/Leipzig. Acta Sanctorum, ed. the Bollandists, Brussels. Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments, Zürich. Augustinianum, Rome. Augustinian Studies, Villanova (USA). Athanasius Werke, ed. H.-G. Opitz et al., Berlin. Archäologische Zeitung, Berlin. Bibliothèque augustinienne, Paris. Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, Madrid. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research, New Haven, Conn. A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature, 3rd edn F.W. Danker, Chicago. Bibliothèque de l’École des Hautes Études, Paris. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium, Louvain. Benedictinisches Geistesleben, St. Ottilien. Bibliotheca Hagiographica Graeca, Brussels. Bibliotheca Hagiographica Latina Antiquae et Mediae Aetatis, Brussels.

X BHO BHTh BJ BJRULM BKV BKV2 BKV3 BLE BoJ BS BSL BWAT Byz BZ BZNW CAr CBQ CChr.CM CChr.SA CChr.SG CChr.SL CH CIL CP(h) CPG CPL CQ CR CSCO

CSEL CSHB CTh CUF CW DAC

Abbreviations

Bibliotheca Hagiographica Orientalis, Brussels. Beiträge zur historischen Theologie, Tübingen. Bursians Jahresbericht über die Fortschritte der klassischen Altertumswissenschaft, Leipzig. Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, Manchester. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter, ed. F.X. Reithmayr and V. Thalhofer, Kempten. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter, ed. O. Bardenhewer, Th. Schermann, and C. Weyman, Kempten/Munich. Bibliothek der Kirchenväter. Zweite Reihe, ed. O. Bardenhewer, J. Zellinger, and J. Martin, Munich. Bulletin de littérature ecclésiastique, Toulouse. Bonner Jahrbücher, Bonn. Bibliotheca sacra, London. Bolletino di studi latini, Naples. Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten Testament, Leipzig/Stuttgart. Byzantion, Leuven. Byzantinische Zeitschrift, Leipzig. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, Berlin. Cahiers Archéologique, Paris. Catholic Biblical Quarterly, Washington. Corpus Christianorum, Continuatio Mediaevalis, Turnhout/Paris. Corpus Christianorum, Series Apocryphorum, Turnhout/Paris. Corpus Christianorum, Series Graeca, Turnhout/Paris. Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina, Turnhout/Paris. Church History, Chicago. Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, Berlin. Classical Philology, Chicago. Clavis Patrum Graecorum, ed. M. Geerard, vols. I-VI, Turnhout. Clavis Patrum Latinorum (SE 3), ed. E. Dekkers and A. Gaar, Turnhout. Classical Quarterly, London/Oxford. The Classical Review, London/Oxford. Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium, Louvain. Aeth = Scriptores Aethiopici Ar = Scriptores Arabici Arm = Scriptores Armeniaci Copt = Scriptores Coptici Iber = Scriptores Iberici Syr = Scriptores Syri Subs = Subsidia Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, Vienna. Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae, Bonn. Collectanea Theologica, Lvov. Collection des Universités de France publiée sous le patronage de l’Association Guillaume Budé, Paris. Catholic World, New York. Dictionary of the Apostolic Church, ed. J. Hastings, Edinburgh.

Abbreviations

DACL DAL DB DBS DCB DHGE Did DOP DOS DR DS DSp DTC EA ECatt ECQ EE EECh EKK EH EO EtByz ETL EWNT ExpT FC FGH FKDG FRL FS FThSt FTS FZThPh GCS GDV GLNT GNO GRBS

XI

see DAL Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie, ed. F. Cabrol, H. Leclercq, Paris. Dictionnaire de la Bible, Paris. Dictionnaire de la Bible, Supplément, Paris. Dictionary of Christian Biography, Literature, Sects, and Doctrines, ed. W. Smith and H. Wace, 4 vols, London. Dictionnaire d’histoire et de géographie ecclésiastique, ed. A. Baudrillart, Paris. Didaskalia, Lisbon. Dumbarton Oaks Papers, Cambridge, Mass., subsequently Washington, D.C. Dumbarton Oaks Studies, Cambridge, Mass., subsequently Washington, D.C. Downside Review, Stratton on the Fosse, Bath. H.J. Denzinger and A. Schönmetzer, ed., Enchiridion Symbolorum, Barcelona/Freiburg i.B./Rome. Dictionnaire de Spiritualité, ed. M. Viller, S.J., and others, Paris. Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, ed. A. Vacant, E. Mangenot, and E. Amann, Paris. Études augustiniennes, Paris. Enciclopedia Cattolica, Rome. Eastern Churches Quarterly, Ramsgate. Estudios eclesiasticos, Madrid. Encyclopedia of the Early Church, ed. A. Di Berardino, Cambridge. Evangelisch-Katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament, Neukirchen. Enchiridion Fontium Historiae Ecclesiasticae Antiquae, ed. UedingKirch, 6th ed., Barcelona. Échos d’Orient, Paris. Études Byzantines, Paris. Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses, Louvain. Exegetisches Wörterbuch zum NT, ed. H.R. Balz et al., Stuttgart. The Expository Times, Edinburgh. The Fathers of the Church, New York. Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Berlin. Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte, Göttingen. Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments, Göttingen. Festschrift. Freiburger theologische Studien, Freiburg i.B. Frankfurter theologische Studien, Frankfurt a.M. Freiburger Zeitschrift für Theologie und Philosophie, Freiburg/Switzerland. Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller, Leipzig/Berlin. Geschichtsschreiber der deutschen Vorzeit, Stuttgart. Grande Lessico del Nuovo Testamento, Genoa. Gregorii Nysseni Opera, Leiden. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, Cambridge, Mass.

XII GWV HbNT HDR HJG HKG HNT HO HSCP HTR HTS HZ ICC ILCV ILS J(b)AC JBL JdI JECS JEH JJS JLH JPTh JQR JRS JSJ JSOR JTS KAV KeTh KJ(b) LCL LNPF L(O)F LSJ LThK LXX MA MAMA Mansi MBTh

Abbreviations

Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht, Offenburg. Handbuch zum Neuen Testament. Tübingen. Harvard Dissertations in Religion, Missoula. Historisches Jahrbuch der Görresgesellschaft, successively Munich, Cologne and Munich/Freiburg i.B. Handbuch der Kirchengeschichte, Tübingen. Handbuch zum Neuen Testament, Tübingen. Handbuch der Orientalistik, Leiden. Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, Cambridge, Mass. Harvard Theological Review, Cambridge, Mass. Harvard Theological Studies, Cambridge, Mass. Historische Zeitschrift, Munich/Berlin. The International Critical Commentary of the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments, Edinburgh. Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veteres, ed. E. Diehl, Berlin. Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, ed. H. Dessau, Berlin. Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, Münster. Journal of Biblical Literature, Philadelphia, Pa., then various places. Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Berlin. Journal of Early Christian Studies, Baltimore. The Journal of Ecclesiastical History, London. Journal of Jewish Studies, London. Jahrbuch für Liturgik und Hymnologie, Kassel. Jahrbücher für protestantische Theologie, Leipzig/Freiburg i.B. Jewish Quarterly Review, Philadelphia. Journal of Roman Studies, London. Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period, Leiden. Journal of the Society of Oriental Research, Chicago. Journal of Theological Studies, Oxford. Kommentar zu den apostolischen Vätern, Göttingen. Kerk en Theologie, ’s Gravenhage. Kirchliches Jahrbuch für die evangelische Kirche in Deutschland, Gütersloh. The Loeb Classical Library, London/Cambridge, Mass. A Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace, Buffalo/New York. Library of Fathers of the Holy Catholic Church, Oxford. H.G. Liddell and R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon, new (9th) edn H.S. Jones, Oxford. Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche, Freiburg i.B. Septuagint. Moyen-Âge, Brussels. Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua, London. J.D. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, Florence, 1759-1798. Reprint and continuation: Paris/Leipzig, 1901-1927. Münsterische Beiträge zur Theologie, Münster.

Abbreviations

MCom MGH ML MPG MSR MThZ Mus NA28 NGWG NH(M)S NIV NKJV NovTest NPNF NRSV NRTh NTA NT.S NTS NTTSD OBO OCA OCP OECS OLA OLP Or OrChr OrSyr PG PGL PL PLRE PLS PO PRE PS PTA PThR PTS PW QLP QuLi RAC RACh

XIII

Miscelanea Comillas, Comillas/Santander. Monumenta germaniae historica. Hanover/Berlin. Mediaevalia Lovaniensia, Louvain. See PG. Mélanges de science religieuse, Lille. Münchener theologische Zeitschrift, Munich. Le Muséon, Louvain. Nestle-Aland, Novum Testamentum Graece, 28th edition, Stuttgart. Nachrichten der Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen. Nag Hammadi (and Manichaean) Studies, Leiden. New International Version. New King James Version. Novum Testamentum, Leiden. See LNPF. New Revised Standard Version. Nouvelle Revue Théologique, Tournai/Louvain/Paris. Neutestamentliche Abhandlungen, Münster. Novum Testamentum Supplements, Leiden. New Testament Studies, Cambridge/Washington. New Testament Tools, Studies and Documents, Leiden/Boston. Orbis biblicus et orientalis, Freiburg, Switz., then Louvain. Orientalia Christiana Analecta, Rome. Orientalia Christiana Periodica, Rome. Oxford Early Christian Studies, Oxford. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, Louvain. Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica, Louvain. Orientalia. Commentarii editi a Pontificio Instituto Biblico, Rome. Oriens Christianus, Leipzig, then Wiesbaden. L’Orient Syrien, Paris. Migne, Patrologia, series graeca. A Patristic Greek Lexicon, ed. G.L. Lampe, Oxford. Migne, Patrologia, series latina. The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, ed. A.H.M. Jones et al., Cambridge. Migne, Patrologia, series latina. Supplementum ed. A. Hamman. Patrologia Orientalis, Paris. Paulys Realenzyklopädie der classischen Alterthumswissenschaft, Stuttgart. Patrologia Syriaca, Paris. Papyrologische Texte und Abhandlungen, Bonn. Princeton Theological Review, Princeton. Patristische Texte und Studien, Berlin. Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, ed. G. Wissowa, Stuttgart. Questions liturgiques et paroissiales, Louvain. Questions liturgiques, Louvain. Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana, Rome. Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, Stuttgart.

XIV RAM RAug RBen RB(ibl) RE

Abbreviations

Revue d’ascétique et de mystique, Paris. Recherches Augustiniennes, Paris. Revue Bénédictine, Maredsous. Revue biblique, Paris. Realencyklopädie für protestantische Theologie und Kirche, founded by J.J. Herzog, 3e ed. A. Hauck, Leipzig. REA(ug) Revue des études Augustiniennes, Paris. REB Revue des études byzantines, Paris. RED Rerum ecclesiasticarum documenta, Rome. RÉL Revue des études latines, Paris. REG Revue des études grecques, Paris. RevSR Revue des sciences religieuses, Strasbourg. RevThom Revue thomiste, Toulouse. RFIC Rivista di filologia e d’istruzione classica, Turin. RGG Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart, ed. Gunkel-Zscharnack, Tübingen RHE Revue d’histoire ecclésiastique, Louvain. RhMus Rheinisches Museum für Philologie, Bonn. RHR Revue de l’histoire des religions, Paris. RHT Revue d’Histoire des Textes, Paris. RMAL Revue du Moyen-Âge Latin, Paris. ROC Revue de l’Orient chrétien, Paris. RPh Revue de philologie, Paris. RQ Römische Quartalschrift, Freiburg i.B. RQH Revue des questions historiques, Paris. RSLR Rivista di storia e letteratura religiosa, Florence. RSPT, RSPh Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques, Paris. RSR Recherches de science religieuse, Paris. RTAM Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale, Louvain. RthL Revue théologique de Louvain, Louvain. RTM Rivista di teologia morale, Bologna. Sal Salesianum, Roma. SBA Schweizerische Beiträge zur Altertumswissenschaft, Basel. SBS Stuttgarter Bibelstudien, Stuttgart. ScEc Sciences ecclésiastiques, Bruges. SCh, SC Sources chrétiennes, Paris. SD Studies and Documents, ed. K. Lake and S. Lake. London/Philadelphia. SE Sacris Erudiri, Bruges. SDHI Studia et documenta historiae et iuris, Roma. SH Subsidia Hagiographica, Brussels. SHA Scriptores Historiae Augustae. SJMS Speculum. Journal of Mediaeval Studies, Cambridge, Mass. SM Studien und Mitteilungen zur Geschichte des Benediktinerordens und seiner Zweige, Munich. SO Symbolae Osloenses, Oslo. SP Studia Patristica, successively Berlin, Kalamazoo, Leuven. SPM Stromata Patristica et Mediaevalia, ed. C. Mohrmann and J. Quasten, Utrecht.

Abbreviations

SQ SQAW SSL StudMed SVigChr SVF TDNT TE ThGl ThJ ThLZ ThPh ThQ ThR ThWAT ThWNT ThZ TLG TP TRE TS TThZ TU USQR VC VetChr VT WBC WUNT WZKM YUP ZAC ZAM ZAW ZDPV ZKG ZKTh ZNW ZRG ZThK

XV

Sammlung ausgewählter Quellenschriften zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte, Tübingen. Schriften und Quellen der Alten Welt, Berlin. Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense, Louvain. Studi Medievali, Turin. Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, Leiden. Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta, ed. J. von Arnim, Leipzig. Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, Grand Rapids, Mich. Teologia espiritual, Valencia. Theologie und Glaube, Paderborn. Theologische Jahrbücher, Leipzig. Theologische Literaturzeitung, Leipzig. Theologie und Philosophie, Freiburg i.B. Theologische Quartalschrift, Tübingen. Theologische Rundschau, Tübingen. Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament, Stuttgart. Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Neuen Testament, Stuttgart. Theologische Zeitschrift, Basel. Thesaurus Linguae Graecae. Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association, Lancaster, Pa. Theologische Realenzyklopädie, Berlin. Theological Studies, New York and various places; now Washington, DC. Trierer theologische Zeitschrift, Trier. Texte und Untersuchungen, Leipzig/Berlin. Union Seminary Quarterly Review, New York. Vigiliae Christianae, Amsterdam. Vetera Christianorum, Bari (Italy). Vetus Testamentum, Leiden. Word Biblical Commentary, Waco. Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, Tübingen. Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, Vienna. Yale University Press, New Haven. Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum, Berlin. Zeitschrift für Aszese und Mystik, Innsbruck, then Würzburg. Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, Giessen, then Berlin. Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins, Leipzig. Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte, Gotha, then Stuttgart. Zeitschrift für katholische Theologie, Vienna. Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche, Giessen, then Berlin. Zeitschrift für Rechtsgeschichte, Weimar. Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche, Tübingen.

Introduction H.A.G. HOUGHTON, University of Birmingham, UK

The Sixth British Patristics Conference was held at the University of Birmingham from Monday 5th to Wednesday 7th September 2016. It bore witness to the ever-increasing popularity of this conference and the international nature of the gathering.1 As with the Fifth British Patristics Conference held in London in 2014, over one hundred delegates attended from across the world. Many of them were doctoral students, presenting their research in an academic context for the first time, alongside established scholars from the UK and further afield. The programme combined almost eighty academic contributions, in three parallel sessions, along with a series of additional events. The plenary lecturers were Professor David Parker and Professor Frances Young from the University of Birmingham (the present and former holder of the University’s Edward Cadbury Chair of Theology) and the Revd Dr Jennifer Strawbridge of the University of Oxford. Two ‘Meet the Publishers’ sessions were convened, with representatives from Oxford University Press, Liverpool University Press and Bloomsbury T. & T. Clark in attendance at the conference. There were visits to Birmingham’s Barber Institute and the Cadbury Research Library, home of the world-renowned Mingana Collection of Middle-Eastern Manuscripts. In addition, participants at the conference in the Nicolson Building enjoyed free entry to the neighbouring Winterbourne Botanical Garden. A number of attendees later wrote of their positive experience of the event, with one commenting that ‘The atmosphere was one of the most friendly, collegial, and generous of any conference I have attended.’ Pictures and information from the conference are available online with the Twitter hashtag of #patristics2016. The conference was held in conjunction with the COMPAUL Project, funded by a European Research Council Starting Grant awarded to Dr H.A.G. Houghton between 2011 and 2016 (“The Earliest Commentaries on Paul as Sources for the Biblical Text”, funded under the European Union Seventh Framework Programme [FP7/2007–2013] under grant agreement 283302). This project involved the examination of early Christian commentaries on the New Testament and their biblical text, in order to determine the extent to which each represented the text originally used by the commentator. The numerous outputs from the project, 1

The internationalisation of the British Patristics Conference was also noted (and exemplified!) by a report on the Birmingham conference by Lavinia Cerioni, published in Bollettino di studi latini 47.1 (2017) 278–9.

Studia Patristica C, 1-2. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

H.A.G. HOUGHTON

2

many of which have been made available in Open Access, are listed on its website.2 Further information about the project is also given in the preface to the volume Commentaries, Catenae and Biblical Tradition (Piscataway NJ, 2016). Six of the papers at the Sixth British Patristics Conference presented findings of the COMPAUL project, and several of the other contributions took up the invitation to focus on the significance of the Pauline Epistles or biblical manuscripts more generally within the study of Patristics. The present volume provides the text of thirty-seven of the papers delivered at Birmingham, selected from those submitted for consideration by a process of peer-review. The contents are presented in a broadly chronological order of topic, with two of the plenary lectures appearing first. Even though they only represent a subset of the academic papers given in Birmingham, these contributions demonstrate the breadth of the topics treated at the conference while their authors reflect the international affiliations of the participants. As a discipline, Patristics appears to be in good health both in the United Kingdom and further afield. It is worth noting that, following the inauguration of the British Patristics Conference in Edinburgh in 2005, it has been hosted by a different British university on each occasion. The Seventh Conference in Cardiff in 2018 continues this trend. The organising committee of the conference, chaired by Hugh Houghton, consisted of Ann Conway-Jones, Catherine Smith, Susan Blackburn Griffith and Rosalind MacLachlan. Several others provided practical assistance during the conference, including Dora Panella, Ben Haupt and Carolin Müller. The Anglican Chaplain at the University, the Revd Dr Sharon Jones, led daily prayers at the conference. We should also mention the contribution of Ryan Adams at venuebirmingham and Tamsin Cross in the School of Philosophy, Theology and Religion. The publication of this volume has taken longer than it should have done, for which I offer my apologies. I would like to express my thanks to Dr Megan L. Davies and Professor Markus Vinzent for enabling it to see the light of day, to the contributors for their patience, and to my colleagues on the organising committee and all the participants in the conference for the happy memories of a highly successful and enjoyable event. Birmingham, May 2019

2

https://birmingham.ac.uk/compaul

Teasing Out Meaning: Some Techniques and Procedures in Early Christian Exegesis Frances YOUNG, Birmingham, UK

ABSTRACT This article is an attempt to observe the exegetical techniques and procedures used by John Chrysostom to tease out the meaning of texts on which he comments, taking as examples Homily 3 on 2Corinthians and Homily 6 on Hebrews. Discussion of authorial intent, explanatory enlargement, sequence, excess of meaning, typology and crossreference is followed by exploration of the relevance of the Quaestiones tradition.

More than ten years of retirement, I hope, permit indulgence in a little retrospective, and a small claim to have made some progress in understanding. My research career began back in the sixties as a student of Maurice Wiles. He had already published The Spiritual Gospel (1960), a study of patristic exegesis of the Johannine Gospel, and was at work on The Divine Apostle (1967), a parallel study of how the fathers read the Pauline Epistles. So it was perhaps hardly surprising that the topic suggested for his first ever research student was patristic exegesis of Hebrews. My first publication was entitled, ‘Christological Ideas in the Greek Commentaries on the Epistle to the Hebrews’.1 The very title indicates that my principal interest was in doctrine – in fact, I am not sure now that I understood then what exegesis might be. Neither, perhaps, did my supervisor: the chapters of The Spiritual Gospel betray an approach shaped, first, by the questions of modern historical-critical method and, second, by a focus on the fathers’ doctrinal concerns. Wiles was a pioneer in taking the New Testament exegesis of the fathers as an area of study, but the issues explored and the criteria of judgement came from a mid twentiethcentury perspective. The exegetical process of teasing out the meaning of the text was barely considered. And as for my own doctoral thesis, it was in the end hardly about Hebrews or exegesis at all: it got side-tracked into a study of sacrificial ideas in Greek Christian writers from the New Testament to John Chrysostom. 1 JTS NS 20 (1969), 150-62. Republished in Jon C. Laansma and Daniel J. Treier (eds), Christology, Hermeneutics, and Hebrews. Profiles from the History of Interpretation (London, 2012).

Studia Patristica C, 3-18. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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Indeed, it would be the nineties before I would challenge the assumptions and dominant terms within which patristic exegesis was then invariably discussed. My initial essay2 in this area suggested that the contrasting approaches of rhetoric and philosophy provided the right context for understanding the differences between these two supposed schools of Alexandria and Antioch, and that it was anachronistic to project back the interests of the modern historical critic onto the Antiochenes. From there I began to acknowledge the common philological traditions that lay at the basis of ancient and modern commentary, such as: • careful attention to wording as textual, grammatical, syntactical, semantic, even etymological, issues were addressed; • identification of figures of speech; • explanation of allusions to characters, events, stories; • distinguishing between underlying meaning and the language in which it is expressed. All this will be familiar to readers of Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture, not to mention other minor publications. Along with important contributions from other scholars this work set patristic exegesis more securely in its appropriate historical-cultural context, and clarified methodological issues. But now, I wonder, has it really sensitised us to the actual exegetical process, its techniques and procedures? To demonstrate what I mean by that question let me revisit another trajectory in my past research. For in hindsight I now see that in practice I was initiated into what exegesis properly is back in the eighties, when working on Meaning and Truth in 2 Corinthians, co-authored with David Ford.3 With differing theological specialisms we came to the task with a common intellectual formation, both of us having read Classics as a first degree. We spent hours reading 2Corinthians together in Greek, debating its meaning at the level of the nittygritty of translation, and in terms of the epistle’s overall coherence and argument. This was ἑρμηνεία, and the double meaning was inescapable: translation was impossible without exegesis, the teasing out of meaning whether obvious or obscure. Theodore of Mopsuestia suggested that it was the commentator’s task to explain words that most people find difficult and the preacher’s task to reflect also on words that are perfectly clear and speak about them.4 The process of 2

Frances Young, ‘The Rhetorical Schools and their Influence on Patristic Exegesis’, in Rowan Williams (ed.), The Making of Orthodoxy. Essays in Honour of Henry Chadwick (Cambridge, 1989), 182-99; republished in Young, Exegesis and Theology in Early Christianity (Farnham, 2012). 3 Frances Young and David F. Ford, Meaning and Truth in 2 Corinthians (London, 1987). 4 Quoted by M. Wiles, ‘Theodore of Mopsuestia as representative of the Antiochene School’, in P.R. Ackroyd and C.F. Evans (eds), Cambridge History of the Bible (Cambridge, 1970), vol. 1, 491.

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both explaining and enlarging upon the meaning of the text is surely what exegesis properly is, and it has to operate not simply at the level of words and sentences, but also at the level of the whole. This was brought home to us at one particularly critical point where we became convinced that John Chrysostom, not modern commentators, had read the text correctly. A twelve-page note in JTS5 on 2Cor. 1:17b – a mere half verse – was required to substantiate this by explaining the current consensus, showing up its weaknesses, engaging with the range of textual and syntactical possibilities, explaining Pauline idiom, indicating the sequence of thought, and providing an account of its sense which could prove consistent with Paul’s intent. This was exegesis of meaning which involved intense argumentation, both because the text’s meaning had ceased to be obvious, and also because to our mind it became a particularly critical point for reading the meaning of the epistle is a whole. To find that Chrysostom took the text in the same way as we did was particularly gratifying. Back in the eighties, then, I began to appreciate what exegesis is by practising it. Now, however, I want to attempt an analysis of the process whereby Chrysostom reached an understanding of that particular passage, one which we ourselves found both difficult and crucial. Chrysostom too had to tease out the meaning of a rather elliptical passage, although he did not have to go to all the argumentative lengths we did. What he did have to do was to supply elusive but implied connections, along with the implied connotations of the language used. So first he compares 2Cor. 1:15 with 1Cor. 16:5, anxious to show that they are not contradictory – here, he notes, Paul says ‘he was minded’, not ‘he wrote’, indicating that he would gladly have come even before the proposed visit. Chrysostom then turns to 2Cor. 1:17, commenting, ‘Here in what follows, he directly does away with the charge arising out of his delay and absence.’ Chrysostom puts words in Paul’s mouth: ‘I was minded to come to you. Why then did I not come? … Did I show fickleness? By no means. Why then did I not come? Because the things I purpose I do not purpose according to the flesh?’ Chrysostom then quotes the ‘yes’ and ‘no’ clause of 2Cor. 1:17b, and indicates that he regards all this as obscure. To elucidate it he focusses on distilling the sense of κατὰ σάρκα: where most modern commentators gloss this phrase by referring back to ἐλαφρία in the earlier half of the verse, thus suggesting that to make plans κατὰ σάρκα is to behave with fickleness, saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’ at the same time (though ‘at the same time’ is a point for which there is no justification in the text), Chrysostom has apparently noticed that for Paul κατὰ σάρκα is usually the opposite of κατὰ πνεῦμα, even though this contrast is not overtly in play in the text here. So he opens his remarks by defining the ‘fleshly man’ as ‘the person outside the Spirit’s operation’, ‘one who can go off everywhere and wander where he will’, whereas ‘the Spirit’s 5

F.M. Young, ‘Note on 2 Cor. 1.17b’, JTS NS 37 (1986), 404-15.

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attendant, led on and around by him, cannot be everywhere the master of his own mind…’ He likens such a person to a slave, who may make promises to fellow-slaves but then cannot fulfil them because the master’s intentions are different. So, according to Chrysostom, what Paul means by ‘I do not make plans at a fleshly level’ is ‘I am not independent of the Spirit’s direction’, ‘I am under the Paraclete’s rule and subject to his commands’. He cross-references Acts, suggesting that there it happened often: although he made up his mind to come, the Spirit bade him go elsewhere. So, he says, it was not because of my frivolousness or fickleness that I did not come, but rather being subject to the Spirit, I obeyed him.

As Chrysostom then points out, this line of argument means that Paul has to go on neatly to squash an emerging objection: if his promise to come can be reversed, why shouldn’t his preaching be as unreliable? That is why Paul has to go on to affirm God’s faithfulness in verse 18: He produces an unanswerable point, referring everything to God. What he says is this: the promise to come was mine, and I made that promise off my own bat. The gospel is not mine, it isn’t even human, it’s God’s; and it is impossible for anything from God to be false.

Various moves and assumptions are made to enable a reading which delivers this sense: • Chrysostom provides no discussion of the textual and syntactical problems of verse 17b because, awkward though it is, he – a Greek-speaker – simply assumes it should be read in a certain way without questioning it, unlike modern commentators. That he read the doubled ναί and οὔ, and took the doubling as predicative, is clear from his comments on verse 18, where, introducing the implied objection, he says: ‘if you have promised and then put off coming and yes is not yes with you and no is not no…’ This also suggests that he must have taken παρ’ ἐμοί as emphatic: making plans κατὰ σάρκα is being self-reliant, that is, ‘it is with me [up to me] that yes be yes and no be no’. Chrysostom has also discerned that in verse 17 Paul offers alternative hypotheses concerning his reversal of plan – fickleness is one, to be rejected, the other is following the Spirit’s plans rather than his own; in other words one is not epexegetical of the other, as modern commentators have generally assumed. A particular way of taking the syntax is thus implicit in Chrysostom’s comments. • The word λόγος is not used until verse 18, but its presence is implied in the verses about Paul’s intention to visit, the underlying issue being the reliability of his word. Chrysostom notes the shift in reference in verse 18: here, he says, it refers to the preaching. Modern commentators worry about a supposed digression, but Chrysostom has discerned the implied objection to Paul’s apology, and so establishes a proper sequence of thought.

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• Chrysostom’s comments are shaped by a concern to uncover the intent of the text’s author – the wording is examined for the sake of what lies behind it, for what really matters is its purport, and its intended effect on the reader. Chrysostom approaches 2Corinthians as a rhetorical text – indeed, as Paul’s apology. • The key to Chrysostom’s reading lies in drawing out things that are not explicit in the text through cross-reference or awareness of Pauline idiom. The whole point of the passage for Chrysostom lies in the fact that everything is referred to God. His observations both elucidate an obscurity, and also draw out what the argument is about. • What Chrysostom’s discerns as the fundamental point is further drawn out by elaborating the analogy between master, slave and fellow-slaves, with its implicit focus on Paul’s obedience to the Spirit. Thus Chrysostom reflects further on the meaning he has drawn out, reinforcing it by speaking on that theme at greater length – enlarging it. So, having essayed that initial analysis, for the rest of this lecture, I shall attempt to return after some fifty years to Chrysostom’s Homilies on Hebrews6 with a rather different agenda – not to trace Chrysostom’s own thought so much as to discern (1) how he engages exegetically with the text, and (2) the extent to which he employs standard techniques and procedures evidenced in the exegetical works of predecessors and contemporaries. Inevitably we shall only see the tip of the iceberg in this short study, and the selections we examine will be arbitrary. I shall not begin at the beginning because that would immediately risk distraction back into Christology. I propose to start by providing a conspectus of Homily 6. The initial lemma is Hebrews 3:7-11, but the homily takes us through to 4:11. Chrysostom begins by reminding his audience/readers that Paul has just spoken of hope (3:6); he then notes that Paul ‘next shows we should look forward with firmness’, observing that he proves the point from the Scriptures. Chrysostom goes on to exhort his hearers to be attentive because this is expressed in a somewhat difficult way not readily comprehended. Therefore, says Chrysostom, we must first speak in our own words and briefly explain the whole argument (ὑπόθεσις), thus to clarify the words of the epistle. It is the apostle’s σκοπός they need to grasp and then they will not need Chrysostom’s words any more. For Chrysostom the whole point is hope for the future, and reward for those who have struggled through life. This, says Chrysostom, he (i.e. the epistle’s author) demonstrates from the prophet, and the lemma is read again. There are three rests, Chrysostom explains: (1) the sabbath on which God rested from his 6

Text: Sancti Patri Nostri Joannis Chrysostomi Interpretatio omnium epistolarum Paulinarum, Tom. VII: Homiliae in Epistolam ad Hebraeos (Oxford and London, 1862), F. Field (ed.); ET in NPNF, Series 1, vol. 14.

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works; (2) that of Palestine, where the Jews were to receive rest from hardship after the Exodus; and (3) the true rest – the kingdom of heaven. Chrysostom now enquires why the author mentioned all three when he was really focused on this last. The answer is that he needed to show that the prophet was not speaking about the first or the second but the third. But, says Chrysostom, to make the argument clearer, the whole history needs to be rehearsed. So next we get a potted history of the Exodus and the explanation that later David’s warning (i.e. the words of the Psalm quoted in the lemma from Hebrews) was given in light of the fact that they all perished in the wilderness, and therefore the remaining rest must be the kingdom of heaven of which the sabbath was an image and type. The warning lemma is repeated again, followed by Heb. 3:12, and the danger of hardened and unbelieving hearts is enlarged with a medical analogy – calloused bodies which refuse to yield to a physician. Chrysostom suggests that arguments from past events are more persuasive than reference to the future, and so he (the author) reminds them (his readers, assumed by Chrysostom to be Hebrews) of the ἱστορία in which they had lacked faith: if your fathers lacked hope when they should have hoped, he says, how much more you! For the word is for them, too, says Chrysostom; for ‘today’ is always, as long as the world lasts. Quoting Heb. 3:13 he underlines the exhortation to edify one another daily, lest any be hardened by the deceitfulness of sin. A battery of quotations from Proverbs and the Psalms, with John 3:20 as its climax, shows that sin is what produces unbelief. Now Chrysostom moves on to Heb. 3:14 and enquires, ‘What is this, “we have been made partakers of Christ”?’ He answers with another set of allusions, now to Pauline texts concerning the body of Christ, Christ being the head and we the body, and we being fellow-heirs with Christ. Then the phrase ἀρχὴν τῆς ὑποστάσεως is defined in terms of the faith by which we stand. From Heb. 3:15 Chrysostom begins to range over the text to explain what is going on. The Psalm quotation, repeated again in this verse, he identifies as being said καθ’ ὑπέρβατον – by way of exaggeration, and interprets that by quoting 4:1-2, which shows it applies to ‘us’ as to them, for ‘today’ is always. But it gave them no benefit. Why not? Because in their case faith did not accompany hearing the word, as indicated by 3:16-9. He (the author) was ‘wishing to inspire fear in them’. Chrysostom identifies those who did not believe and enter the rest as the Jews, deducing that hearing what is proclaimed is not enough – they did not benefit because they did not believe. But, Chrysostom goes on, ‘we who have believed’, he (the author) says, ‘do enter into rest’ – Chrysostom has moved on to 4:3. The oath there is evidence, not that we shall enter in, but that they did not; the rest remains, however, and some must enter it, says Chrysostom, following through the text’s reference to Joshua and its re-quotation of David. ‘How do we know a rest remains?’ Chrysostom asks, and suggests that the very exhortations confirm it – they would never have been given if there were no rest. Finally Chrysostom approves the conclusion of the argument whereby sabbath-rest and kingdom are identified, since sabbath

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means abstaining from evil and serving God, and the person who has entered ceases from his own works as God did at creation. For Chrysostom this is how the author concluded his argument. It is not, however, the end of the homily. Invariably Chrysostom’s homilies end with a section of exhortation to his congregation, usually moral, and it can often be hard to see how the theme he develops relates to the biblical text which he has been expounding. On this occasion, however, Chrysostom develops points for his congregation from the passage he has worked through. He emphasises that they should never be without hope, as long as there is ‘today’, that no one should despair as long as they live. Anticipating what is still to come in the text he quotes Heb. 4:12 concerning the Word of God, and says that ‘here he is speaking of hell and punishment’. Returning to Heb. 3:13 and reinforcing it with 1Thess. 5:14, he offers the congregation encouragement, warning again of sin’s deceitfulness and bolstering them with Heb. 3:14: he suggests that ‘being made partakers of Christ’ means ‘he so loved us as to make us his body’. Chrysostom then rehearses Heb. 3:9 again, warning against holding God to account, or demanding proof of God’s providence; and then reflects on the rest to come at some length, exploiting biblical texts and various analogies to conjure up a vision of heaven for his flock. This homily is, for Chrysostom, remarkably consistent in its exegetical and homiletic direction. So, let us now look back at this sample and see if we can identify techniques and procedures whereby the exegetical outcome is achieved. I have noted seven points: (1) An important technique is specifying authorial intent, in the sense of identifying what the author is trying to say to his readers. This we noticed in the example from 2Corinthians, and here it is again. At the start of Homily 6 Chrysostom names the author as Paul (from our point of view probably erroneously), but thereafter the author is not named, nor is any other information about him treated as relevant. What is relevant is the author’s σκοπός or aim. In his opening preface detailing the argument of the epistle, Chrysostom had raised the question why the Apostle to the Gentiles wrote this Epistle to the Hebrews. His answer to that question is that believing Jews were particularly liable to persecution, so Paul wrote to encourage them, and one of the ways he does this is recalling what happened in the past to their fathers. This passage in the epistle exemplifies exactly that aim: the intent was to warn and encourage, and that is what Chrysostom brings out in his exegesis. Specifying the intent or subject matter was a basic element in rhetorical training. Ancient rhetorical theory distinguished between what was to be said and how it was to be expressed. The important thing was to determine the most appropriate style, once the nature of the subject-matter or argument had been discovered (a process known as εὕρεσις in Greek, inventio in Latin). So, prior to engaging for themselves in composition, school students

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would spend many years reading and engaging in rhetorical analysis of the classics, attending, among other things, to the appropriateness of the author’s wording for the sense to be conveyed. Rhetorical theory capitalised on the fact that language is relative, and exegesis involved spelling out what it was that the author wished his hearers/readers to be persuaded of. A paper of mine from the mid-eighties7 noted how Chrysostom, himself both pastor and preacher, recognised the pastor and preacher in Paul, and constantly read between the lines to bring out the tone of Paul’s voice and his use of tactics to win over his hearers. Tone of voice helps to convey what is being said and why, but in a written text it is lacking, so attribution of motive and tone constituted an essential element in discerning intent. Patristic exegetes had various interests in authorial intent, including the desire to obviate heretical misunderstandings.8 Theodore of Mopsuestia, in the passage to which reference has already been made, speaks of dealing with verses ‘which have been corrupted by the wiles of the heretics’: both exegete and preacher were to ensure that wrong readings were challenged and the right reading promulgated – briefly if possible, at greater length if necessary. Whether or not he knew of Theodore’s prescriptions, Chrysostom clearly followed them, both in dealing with perceived obscurity and by enlarging on the meaning discerned in the text; elsewhere he also endeavours to obviate heretical misreadings. In Homily 3, for example, he is dealing with the proof texts in Heb. 1:6-9: ‘Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever’ he describes as a symbol of royalty, but then comes ‘with respect to the flesh’, ‘Thou hast loved righteousness and hated iniquity, therefore God, even thy God, hath anointed thee’. Chrysostom asks, What is ‘thy God’? Since he has uttered that great saying, he then qualifies it. So he hits both Jews, and the followers of Paul of Samosata, and the Arians, and Marcellus, and Sabellius and Marcion. 7

‘John Chrysostom on first and second Corinthians’, SP 18 (1986), 349-52. To take an example more or less at random, an instance is provided by Cyril of Alexandria on John 1:13: Note how cautious the blessed Evangelist is in his choice of words. His caution was necessary, for he was intending to say that those who have believed have been born of God, and he did not want anyone to think that they were literally produced from the essence of God the Father, thereby making them indistinguishable from the Only-begotten one… Once the Evangelist had said that power was given to them to become children of God by him who is Son by nature, and had therefore implied that they became children of God ‘by adoption and grace’, he could then proceed without danger to add that they were born of God… (ET Russell). Our immediate reaction might be to say that attributing fifth century orthodoxy to the author of John’s Gospel is anachronistic, but it is worth recalling that it was assumed that the sense or intent behind the wording could be traced, and that the literary criticism of antiquity universally failed to distinguish between the sense traced by the interpreter from the meaning the author had in mind. If we look back at Cyril’s argument he actually draws out the sense by attending to the text, its context, and parallel biblical motifs. 8

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‘How?’ asks Chrysostom, and answers, ‘The Jews, by showing two prosopa, both God and Man’; and the others, ‘by thus discoursing on his eternal existence and uncreated essence’. He adds, ‘Observe how with the doctrine concerning his uncreated nature he always joins also that of the economy. What can be clearer than this?’ The point to notice here is not simply the way he reads Hebrews’ Christology in terms of the two natures, divine and human, at issue in his own time, but that he consistently attributes these meanings to the author. This is the intent, the subject-matter, the mind or sense behind the wording. Tracing that intent is fundamental to the patristic exegetical enterprise. (2) Given the recognition that it is possible to say the same thing in different ways, one might assume that paraphrase or the use of synonyms would be a frequent technique. We certainly find Chrysostom defining the meaning of particular words and expressions by providing alternatives: in our preliminary example, as well as spelling out his understanding of κατὰ σάρκα, he offered a synonym for ἐλαφρία (though nothing was made of that point earlier). In Homily 6 on Hebrews he asks what is ἀρχὴν τῆς ὑποστάσεως and his full response is: ‘The faith by which we stand, and have been brought into being and were made to exist, as one might say.’ He also offers explanatory substitutes for ‘being made partakers of Christ’: ‘We partake of him; we were made one, we and he, since he is head and we the body, fellow-heirs and of the same body; we are one body, of his flesh and of his bones.’ On the whole, however, paraphrase is used less than this kind of explanatory enlargement, and the technique of offering analogies or parables to illustrate a point is another noticeable way of providing that enlargement. We observed Chrysostom’s comparison with master, slave and fellow-slaves in our preliminary example, and in Homily 6 the use of that medical analogy for hardened hearts – namely, calloused bodies. Again, the Homily’s final exhortation tries out a number of ways to capture the astonishing difference between the rest in heaven and conditions on earth, with protestations that it is impossible because language is too weak, and eye has not seen nor ear heard the things God has prepared for those who love him. Chrysostom imagines a royal babe in the womb suddenly in full possession of everything, or a captive who has been through terrible sufferings all at once caught up to the royal throne. He conjures up the excitement of going to see a military encampment and perhaps even seeing the king himself, and trumps it with seeing the tents of the saints, along with the angels and archangels. Imaginative enlargement on the text is undoubtedly a rhetorical technique exploited in homiletic exegesis. (3) Reading Chrysostom is not at first sight very straightforward. Lemma and brief comment often leaves a distinctly staccato effect which initially fails to convey any sense of continuity. However, the concern with intent already

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considered does mean that proper attention to sequence, both Chrysostom’s attention to sequence in the text and one’s own attention to sequence in Chrysostom, reveals a deeper coherence. In the preliminary example from the homilies on 2Corinthians we observed how his comments revealed his perception of the sequence of Paul’s argument. In Homily 6 we noticed how first came his identification of the apostle’s σκοπός and specification of the three rests implied by the passage as a whole. The extent to which he repeatedly goes back to the text to reinforce the direction of argument is also a significant feature. Elsewhere in the Hebrews homilies it is noticeable how he keeps alerting his audience to what is going on by using imperatives, such as, ‘See’, ‘Note’, ‘Observe’, ‘Consider’. In Homily 1, for example, Chrysostom thus draws attention to how he (the apostle) begins, how considerately he has spoken, how he leads them step-by-step; just as, in our example, he indicates how well he concludes his argument. That the Antiochenes were particularly concerned to honour the ἀκολουθία of the text is clear from Eustathius, Adrianos, and passages on methodology from other sources which I have discussed in previous publications.9 Here we can see that characteristic concern for coherence at work in the exegetical process. (4) Another classic Antiochene term is found in this passage, namely, καθ’ ὑπέρβατον. Rejecting allegory, this figure of speech they would identify in scriptural texts so as to justify reading them as not merely relevant to their own context but as prophetic – this ‘exaggeration’ pointed to an excess of meaning. Chrysostom notes this figure in the Psalm quote in Heb. 3:15. The quote is, of course, attributed to David, who was universally counted among the prophets in this period. Chrysostom finds the apostle’s understanding of the prophetic meaning in Heb. 4:1-2, inferring that it applies to us as well as to them. That Chrysostom does not clearly distinguish between the ‘us’ of the epistle, namely its author and readers, and the ‘us’ of himself and his congregation is perhaps confirmed by the final section of this homily, where we saw him replaying selections of the text to address the congregation directly. Perhaps we might put it like this: no hermeneutical gap is perceived within the ‘new covenant’ – the hermeneutical issue lies between the two covenants. Hebrews itself, with its extended typological engagement with the ‘old scriptures’, provided patristic exegetes, including Chrysostom, with categories for dealing with that issue. For them, the parallels and contrasts between the former dispensation and what was to come was summed up in the description of the law (Heb. 10:1) as having a shadow of the good things to come not the very image of those things. On that Chrysostom says (Homily 17): 9 Especially, ‘Rhetorical Schools’ and ‘The fourth century reaction against allegory’, SP 30 (1997), 103-20; republished in Exegesis and Theology.

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That is, not the very reality. For as in a painting, so long as one draws just outlines, it is a sort of ‘shadow’, but when one has added bright paints and laid in the colours, then it becomes an ‘image’. Something of this kind also was the law.

Here it is impossible and perhaps unnecessary, to explore further the resulting exegetical procedure whereby patristic exegetes consistently read the scriptures of the old covenant as providing a pattern fulfilled in the new, though remaining a mere type or shadow beside the reality revealed in Christ. It is a large area, already well travelled. Whether or not the patristic exegetes really understood what Hebrews was about here is another question. (5) One fairly extensive feature of Homily 6, mentioned earlier but not spelt out in detail, is what I called Chrysostom’s potted history of the exodus. It is worth underlining this for several reasons: First, we observe here the way in which τὸ ἱστορικόν actually works – the allusion in the text to a story well-known to the original author and readers is filled out for Chrysostom’s less well-informed audience. Identified as a characteristic exegetical activity in the rhetorical schools, especially on the basis of Quintilian’s account, τὸ ἱστορικόν is found exemplified in all patristic exegetical material, sometimes indeed becoming a distracting lengthy discourse on a largely irrelevant matter, as in the case of Origen’s long digression on pearls when commenting on the pearl of great price in his Commentary on Matthew. Chrysostom’s outline of the exodus story is, of course, more pertinent to explaining the text on which he is commenting. As he himself says, ‘It is necessary to unfold the history to make the argument clearer.’ The reluctance of the ungrateful and senseless Jews to enter the promised land, not trusting God in spite of all God’s former blessings, including the rescue from the Egyptians and other perils, all amplified by Chrysostom here, meant that God swore that that generation should not enter the rest. That is the background to David’s later comment, and to the point vis-à-vis the Hebrews text. Thus, we observe the proper exegetical use of τὸ ἱστορικόν. Secondly, we can see how Chrysostom’s summary of the story makes it directly relevant to the aim of the text’s author, namely, his exhortation and warning: it is part of using what happened in the past to their fathers to reinforce the message – by implication for Chrysostom’s congregation as well as the readers addressed by the apostle. We might describe this technique as a form of typology as it draws audience/readers into the text. Thirdly, we note how this coheres with the concern of the Antiochenes in general and Chrysostom in particular, to take seriously the whole story of the Bible, from beginning to end, with God’s providential dealings with his people becoming a story into which all are drawn. The seven homilies on Hebrews 11 (Homilies 22-8) spell out the apostle’s examples of faith for exactly the purpose of encouraging Chrysostom’s congregation to fix their eyes on what is promised in the future and persevere in the struggle, as these

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great biblical examples did. In other words, they reinforce further the message Chrysostom has discerned in the Hebrews’ text covered in Homily 6. (6) That discussion naturally leads into Chrysostom’s use of cross-reference. Our sample, Homily 6, is, of course, discussing a Hebrews passage which itself involves cross-reference at a double level: the Psalm and what lies behind the Psalm. Chrysostom naturally enlarges on that. In addition, Homily 6 offers the following examples: • Exploring the history behind the Psalm text quoted by Hebrews Chrysostom alludes to Num. 14:3 – where they ought to have trusted God, they were scared, imagining God had brought them out so as ‘to slay us with our children and wives’. • The phrase the ‘deceitfulness of sin’ in verse 13 triggers a number of biblical cross-references: phrases from Prov. 18:3, proving that wickedness and unbelief are connected, demonstrate how one who comes to ‘the depth of evils becomes contemptuous’, and so, Chrysostom suggests, avoids fear and says, ‘The Lord will not see, nor the God of Jacob observe’ (now quoting Ps. 93:7 LXX), a sentiment reinforced with quotations from Ps. 11:5 (LXX), ‘Our lips are our own: who is Lord over us?’, Ps. 9:34 (LXX), ‘Wherefore has the wicked man provoked God to wrath’, Ps. 13:1 (LXX), ‘The fool has said in his heart, there is no God’, Ps. 35:2 (LXX), ‘There is no fear of God before his eyes’ and Jn. 3:20 ‘everyone that does evil hates the light and comes not to the light’. • Commenting on the phrase about being made ‘partakers of Christ’ (Heb. 3:4), Chrysostom compounds Eph. 4:15-6 (‘he the head and we the body’), Eph. 3:6 (‘fellow heirs and of the same body’) and Rom. 12:5 (‘we are one body’, adding ‘of his flesh and of his bones’, which is an intriguing addition to the Pauline conception, apparently drawn from the frequent LXX references to bones and flesh (e.g. Gen. 29:14, Judges 9:2, 2Kgs. 5:1, 19:12, 1Chron. 11:1, etc.). Returning in his final exhortation to this theme of being partakers of Christ, Chrysostom quotes 2Tim. 2:12, ‘If we suffer, we shall also reign with him’. In his final paragraph he quotes 1Cor. 2:9: ‘Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor has it arisen in any human heart what God has prepared for those who love him.’ Allusion to Paul is only made explicit when he mentions Paul writing to the Thessalonians (1Thess. 5:14), ‘Warn them that are unruly, comfort the feebleminded, support the weak, be patient with all!’ • The final exhortation not only picks over phrases from the Hebrews lemma, but imports other LXX allusions: Isa. 35:10 indicates that rest is indeed where pain, sorrow and sighing have fled away; it is the opposite of Gen. 3:16-9: no longer ‘in the sweat of your brow you will eat bread’, nor will there be ‘thorns and thistles’; no longer ‘in sorrow you will bring forth children…’ Later Lk. 16:9, ‘they shall receive you into

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their eternal tabernacles’ confirms the picture of the tents of the saints pitched in heaven. We could, of course, multiply examples by looking at other homilies but let that suffice. Surveying these cases alone we may observe that: (i) Chrysostom’s assumption of Pauline authorship has not made crossreference specifically to Paul’s epistles particularly dominant; our first example from 2Corinthians, however, did imply cross-reference to Pauline idiom, and a quick look across the rest of the Hebrews homilies reveals allusion to Pauline material at some point in every one.  (ii) Much of it reflects an almost unconscious use of biblical language, rather than explicit quotation – Chrysostom talks in LXX phrases rather as an evangelical preacher would pray and speak in phrases of the AV. This conforms to ancient conventions with respect to the use of quotation and allusion, as demonstrated in Chapter 5 of my book, Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture: the usual approach was to adopt and adapt reminiscences of classical texts so as implicitly to claim their authority. (iii) This compounding of biblical cross-references rests on the assumption that the biblical canon is coherent and consistent, thus reinforcing the proper reading and interpretation of the particular text under scrutiny. The ‘mind’ or ‘intent’ of the author was to point to a truth found elsewhere in the biblical canon, and the meaning would become clearer or stronger through this reinforcement. (iv) The allusion to Genesis makes implicit the whole overarching story of Fall and Redemption which was, for the fathers in general and the Antiochenes in particular, the key to the Bible. (7) I have left to the climax the thing that most forcibly struck me on turning once more to Chrysostom’s Homilies on Hebrews, namely, the constant posing of questions. Homily 6 is not the most fruitful example, but even here there is quite a lot: in the exegetical section we find some twelve questions: What does he say? τί φησιν; × 2 How…? πῶς…; × 4 Why…? τίνος ἕνεκεν…; × 2 Who… or what…? τίς…; τί…; τίνων…; × 5 Whence…? πόθεν…; × 1 And twice we find ὅρᾳς ὅτι…, ambiguously ‘See…’ or ‘Do you see…?’ If we take at random another homily, no. 3, we can catalogue more of the same, as well as other ways of asking questions.

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τί…; and διὰ τί…; pose ‘why’ questions 6 times τί…; τίνες…; etc., ask ‘who…?’ or ‘what…?’ some 9 times πῶς…; appears 9 times The ambiguous ὅρᾳς ὅτι… again occurs twice We also find other ways of introducing questions: ποίου δὴ τοῦτον; and ἆρα οὖν ἄγγελοι μονον; A total of some twenty-eight questions in all. Chrysostom is addressing a mass congregation and offers his own answers, but it is easy to imagine how such questions might derive from cross-questioning a class reading texts in school. This constant procedure, however, made me wonder about the relationship between Chrysostom’s use of this technique and the Quaestiones tradition, which has recently caught the interest of classicists, as well as scholars of Jewish, patristic and Byzantine literature. Clearly I can only offer a brief conspectus in the space remaining. It seems that a ‘Question and Answer’ genre can be traced continuously from Hellenistic times to the Byzantine period. Defining the genre clearly is not easy, as is demonstrated by the collection of studies edited by Annelie Volgers and Claudio Zamagni, entitled, Erotapokriseis. Early Christian Question and Answer Literature in Context.10 It was Byzantine grammarians of the twelfth century who invented the term, Erotapokrisis: older Greek terminology includes ζητήματα, ἀπορίαι καὶ λύσεις, or προβλήματα, while Latin equivalents were Quaestiones or Quaestiones et Responsiones. In the fourth and fifth centuries the form was adopted by Eusebius, followed by such others such as Theodoret, Ambrosiaster and Augustine. Behind works taking the specific question-and-answer form is a wide range of material. The oral roots of the literary form can be discerned in Plutarch’s Table Talk, where literary puzzles figure alongside philosophical topics in open-ended discussion of various solutions. Questions in classrooms, however, could be simply didactic in purpose, as is evidenced by a papyrus (PSI 19) cited by Marrou11 in which questions are used to reinforce rote learning, e.g.: Q: Who are the gods favourable to the Trojans? Q: Who was the king of the Trojans? Q: Their general?

R: Ares, Aphrodite, Apollo, Artemis, Leto and Skamandros. R: Priam. R: Hector.

And so it goes on… Clearly we have here questions with standard answers to be learned and regurgitated. 10 Annelie Volgers and Claudio Zamagni (eds), Erotapokriseis. Early Christian Question and Answer Literature in Context (Leuven, 2004). 11 PSI 19 (Schwartz), quoted by Christian Jacob, ‘Questions sur les Questions’, in A. Volgers and C. Zamagni (eds), Erotapokriseis (2004), 37, referencing H.-I. Marrou, Histoire de l’éducation dans l’Antiquité (Paris, 1981, 1st ed. 1956; ET New York, 1956), 252.

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From Aristotle’s Aporemata Homerica through to the Homeric Scholia, however, critical questions can be traced, especially in Alexandria, questions which arose from inconsistencies and improbabilities found in the Homeric epics. This problematised the text, proposing emendations or a variety of solutions, in what may be described as intellectual gymnastics. The impact of this on Jewish biblical scholarship in Alexandria is evident from the works of Philo, and has been explored in Maren Niehoff’s fascinating study, Jewish Exegesis and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria.12 Philo, she shows, offers generally hostile reports of anonymous colleagues and predecessors who offered critical and comparative analysis of myths in the holy books, pointed to differences between the primitive practices of the patriarchs and the later Mosaic legislation, and engaged in textual and stylistic criticism of the books of Moses – in other words, those who problematised the biblical literature in ways that can be paralleled in Homeric scholarship. Philo, himself, however, deployed awareness of the questions not to denigrate or laugh at the holy books, but to lead on to consistent and theologically acceptable meanings through allegory. This is clear in his Allegorical Commentary, which is addressed to an academic audience engaged with the issues. The work of his which takes the shape of the Quaestiones literature, the Questions and Answers on Genesis and Exodus, does not, however, belong to open-ended enquiry, but rather provides definitive answers from an authoritative teacher in a didactic context. Adoption of the tradition, if not the genre, can be traced in early Christianity. Judith Lieu has convincingly argued that Marcion’s critical engagement with the scriptures belonged to this ζητήματα tradition.13 Origen’s treatment of ἀπορίαι in scriptural texts clearly owes much to Philo’s approach. Eusebius initiated use of the specific genre, and his work has stimulated debate as to whether this be treated as didactic or apologetic – a way of providing answers to objections raised by Porphyry, say, or of harmonising the Gospels, or what? If Marcion problematised the text, clearly others used the technique to defend it. Theodoret sums this up in his Preface to the work known as The Questions on the Octateuch:14 Previous scholars have promised to resolve apparent problems (ζητήματα) in Holy Scripture by explicating the sense (νοῦς) of some, indicating the background (αἰτίας) of others, and, in a word, clarifying whatever remains unclear to ordinary people… [But] you should know that not all inquirers share the same purpose. Some inquire irreverently, believing they find Holy Scripture wanting; in some cases, not teaching right doctrine, in others, giving conflicting instructions. In contrast others, longing to find an answer for their question, search because they love learning.

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Maren Niehoff, Jewish Exegesis and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria (Cambridge, 2011). Judith M. Lieu, Marcion and the Making of a Heretic. God and Scripture in the Second Century (Cambridge, 2015). 14 Theodoret of Cyrus, The Questions on the Octateuch, ed. John F. Petruccione, ET Robert C. Hill (Washington DC, 2007). 13

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Theodoret affirms that what he seeks to do is to demonstrate the consistency of Scripture and the excellence of its teaching, providing solutions to the difficulties. What, then, of Chrysostom’s use? Almost all his questions, it seems to me, are ways of generating answers which elucidate the text, what the author is trying to say, how one thing connects with another, why this or that is said. Chrysostom is far from defensive: the questions are neither problematising nor apologetic, though they clearly belong to a culture shaped by an enquiring approach. So I go back to my initial suggestion: Chrysostom simply reflects the technique of the rhetorical reading of texts in the classroom. This is not just the rote learning procedure offered by the papyrus cited earlier, and still found in the typical catechism: quick authoritative answers to basic questions to be memorised and regurgitated. Rather it is asking pupils to think about what the author is really getting at and inviting them into that engagement, even if in the homiletic context it essentially becomes the offering of an authoritative reading to a passive crowd only half attending. Conclusion Seven techniques and procedures have been identified. But what has this perhaps rather pedestrian survey delivered? It has, I suggest, confirmed the now generally accepted view that early Christian exegesis of Scripture owed much to the practices of ancient schools both grammatical and rhetorical. It has also, I think, shown that the demands of teasing out meaning required and require the same basic techniques of engaging with vocabulary, syntax, idiom, figures of speech and reference – issues such as what lies behind this allusion, what was the author responding to here, etc. On the whole, in the Homily on which we chose to focus, Chrysostom’s recognition in the passage before him of what is going on and why, is not that different from any modern exegete’s reading of the passage, not because he and they espouse a literal reading, but because these philological techniques are perennial. The differences between ancient and modern exegesis lie, I suggest, in what are perceived to be valid cross-references, and what issues are paramount. The interest of the interpreter brings something quite fundamental to the exegetical process: what connections are made, what questions are asked of the text – these shape the meaning teased out. Over the Hebrews homily series, it is evident that Chrysostom cares about the theological and Christological implications of the text, and this generates questions and answers directly apposite to the controversies of his time. As we have seen, he makes assumptions about the coherence and consistency of Scripture which permit a far wider use of cross-reference to illuminate the text than a modern exegete would countenance. Modernity disowned both the unity of Scripture and the fathers’ doctrinal reading of it. Maybe, however, a recovery of some aspects of their perspective is exactly what is needed for specifically Christian theological reading of scripture.

Taking Up Armour: The Challenges of Early Christian Exegesis of Ephesians Jennifer STRAWBRIDGE, University of Oxford, UK1

ABSTRACT This article concentrates on a scriptural passage especially favoured by exegetes both ancient and modern: Eph. 6:10-17. With a focus on the early Christian writings of Irenaeus, Tertullian, Origen, and Eusebius, as well as modern interpreters such as Gustav Aulén, Walter Wink, and Thomas Neufeld, questions about divine and human agency and the identity of spiritual forces of wickedness (Eph. 6:12) are engaged. A number of doctrines and ideas emerge from the wide-ranging interpretation and use of this Pauline pericope, including the ideas of the Divine Warrior and Christus Victor. Ultimately, the driving question of this article is whether ante-Nicene use of Ephesians 6 challenges modern interpretation of this same passage and the conclusion is that, indeed, it does.

The Ephesian epistle divides biblical scholars. For some, it is a letter with ‘no setting and little obvious purpose’,2 a pseudepigraphal text composed after the death of the Apostle. For others, the Ephesian letter represents the quintessence of Pauline thought as ‘one of the most influential documents in the Christian church’.3 Within early Christian writings4 Ephesians is the first New Testament book to be called ‘Scripture (scripturis)’, given this designation by the secondcentury bishop Polycarp.5 At least five early commentaries on this letter were written – six if we include the later text of Jerome – and portions of three 1 Portions of this article are drawn from work published as a chapter in The Pauline Effect, SBR 5 (Berlin, 2015). I am grateful to colleagues at the Sixth British Patristics Conference for their comments and feedback after a form of this article was presented as one of the conference’s plenaries. 2 John Muddiman, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Ephesians, Black’s New Testament Commentaries (London, 2001), 12. To be clear, Muddiman does not follow this line of argument. 3 Harold W. Hoehner, Ephesians: An Exegetical Commentary (Grand Rapids, 2002), 1. See also Raymond E. Brown, An Introduction to the New Testament, Anchor Bible Reference Library (New York, 1997), 620. 4 In this article, ‘early Christian writings’ are pre-Nicene writings. Such a limitation is not to suggest that the Council of Nicaea brings the period of early Christianity to a close; rather, recognizing the surge of Christian texts after this period, 325 AD serves as a necessary, though artificial, end point in this time of momentous change for Christianity in the Roman Empire. 5 Polycarp, Epistula ad Philippenses, 12.1, in The Apostolic Fathers, Vol. I: I Clement, II Clement, Ignatius, Polycarp, Didache. ed. Bart D. Ehrman, LCL 24 (Cambridge, 2003).

Studia Patristica C, 19-38. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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remain extant today.6 For Origen, Ephesians is ‘the pinnacle of the Pauline epistles’7 containing ‘solid food’8 as opposed to the ‘milk’ of other letters like 1Corinthians.9 And, unlike the divisions in modern scholarship about this letter’s authorship and its purpose, early Christians from Polycarp and Irenaeus to Tertullian and Origen assume Paul penned this letter.10 Nevertheless, the focus of this article is not on the purpose or authorship of Ephesians. Rather, this article examines questions about why this letter is a favourite amongst scholars both ancient and modern and how one portion of this controversial letter is interpreted by both. More specifically, this article focuses primarily on a passage especially popular amongst early Christian writers – the latter portion of Ephesians 6 – and the central doctrines and ideas that emerge from its interpretation. Eph. 6:10-17 is laden with images and actions, containing the great commands to ‘put on the armour of God’, to stand firm against the ‘fiery darts of the evil one’, and to wrestle not against ‘flesh and blood’ but against ‘powers, principalities, authorities, and the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenlies’. If we were to consult a more recent commentary on Ephesians, we would find that discussion of armour occupies a significant amount of space. If we look up ‘armour of God’ in a university library, we might find at least forty items with this phrase in the title. If we search for this phrase on Google, we find not only books, articles, blogs and sermons, but also classes on how to acquire this armour. Even Origen apologises for how much space his discussion of this portion of Ephesians 6 takes up in his commentary, begging forbearance of his readers, ‘in view of the difficulty of the passage itself and 6 Commentaries with portions still extant include those by Origen, Marius Victorinus, and Jerome. Those now missing are the commentaries of Apollinarius, Ambrosiaster, and Didymus. Elaine Pagels argues for the existence of a Valentinian commentary on Ephesians; however, evidence of such a work is, at best, limited (see Elaine Pagels, The Gnostic Paul: Gnostic Exegesis of the Pauline Letters [Philadelphia, 1992], 115). See also Ronald E. Heine, The Commentaries of Origen and Jerome on St. Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians, Oxford Early Christian Studies (New York, 2002), 3. 7 See Francesca Cocchini, Il Paolo di Origene: Contributo alla Storia della Recezione delle Epistole Paoline nel III Secolo, Verba Seniorum 11 (Rome, 1992), 88. 8 Origen, Contra Celsum, 3.20 in Contre Celse. Livres III et IV: Tome II, trans. Marcel Borret, SC 136 (Paris, 1968). 9 See also Origen, Homiliae in Ezechiel, 7.10 in Homélies sur Ézéchiel, trans. Marcel Borret, SC 352 (Paris, 1989); De Principiis, 3.2.4 in Origenes Werke, ed. Paul Koetschau, et al., GCS 22 (Leipzig, 1913); R.E. Heine, Commentaries (2002), 48; and Judith Kovacs, ‘Echoes of Valentinian Exegesis in Clement of Alexandria and Origen: The Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 3.1–3’, in Lorenzo Perrone (ed.), Origeniana Octava: Origen and the Alexandrian Tradition: Papers of the 8th International Origen Congress, Pisa, 27–31 August 2001 (Leuven, 2004), 317-29, 327. 10 See Irenaeus, Adversus haereses, 5.2.3; 1.3.1; 1.8.4-5; Tertullian, Adversus Marcionem, 5.17; Clement of Alexandria, Stromata, 4.65; Paedagogus, 1.18; Origen, Cels, 3.20. Because of this, I will refer to this text as Paul’s letter, which recognises that Ephesians is either written or strongly influenced by the Apostle.

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of the character of the Ephesians’.11 To place this statement more clearly in its patristic context, Eph. 6:10-17 is one of the top ten Pauline passages used by early Christian writers.12 How do we account for this fascination with Ephesians 6 and especially its language of armour? To answer this question, this article focuses on two central questions that the phrases of Eph. 6:10-17 are used to address, asked both by early Christian writers and by today’s exegetes. The first question is: what does Paul mean by evil forces, and more specifically, by the spiritual forces of wickedness that attack the Christian? The second question is: how are Christians to respond to such attack? In other words, what does one do with this armour of God and what place is given for human and divine agency? How Ephesians 6 is interpreted and adapted into one’s theology affects the answers to these questions immensely. Therefore, as we examine these two questions, one overarching question drives this article: does early Christian use of Ephesians 6 challenge modern scholars’ use of the same? 1. Spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places Forces of evil occupy a central place in many recent discussions of Ephesians 6. While some argue that the location of these powers in the ‘heavenlies’ (Eph. 6:12) precludes the interpretation that Paul is describing political, social, or religious structures,13 most modern interpretation of this passage emphasises some level of demythologisation. In Robert Moses’ excellent overview of different approaches to powers in recent scholarship, he identifies four distinct approaches to understanding the powers in the writings of Paul. Moses moves from Clinton Arnold, who he places at the ‘traditional’ extreme which ‘takes seriously the “real” existence of a spiritual realm’ to Rudolf Bultmann who reinterprets this view, accepting ‘the fact that the early Christian writers believed in the existence of spiritual entities; but … [dismiss] this belief as “mythical”.’14 Moses then examines the writings of Hendrik Berkhof who is clear that ‘Paul in particular, attempted to demythologise the prevailing view of the powers … that [they] are personal spiritual beings’ and he concludes with Walter Wink, who offers a ‘structural interpretation of the powers’ but with the caveat that 11

R.E. Heine, Commentaries (2002), 260. See J.R. Strawbridge, Pauline Effect (2015), 11 n. 38. 13 See Sook Young Kim, The Warrior Messiah in Scripture and Intertestamental Writings (Newcastle upon Tyne, 2010), 185; H.W. Hoehner, Ephesians (2002), 276-80; Peter Thomas O’Brien, ‘Principalities and Powers: Opponents of the Church’, in D.A. Carson (ed.), Biblical Interpretation and the Church: Text and Context (Exeter, 1984), 110-50, 130. 14 Robert Ewusie Moses, Practices of Power: Revisiting the Principalities and Powers in the Pauline Letters (Minneapolis, 2014), 36. 12

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‘ancient writers could not conceive of a spiritual realm … independent of the physical realm.’15 These four approaches outlined by Moses help us to grasp how widely varied the spectrum of interpretation of Pauline powers is in contemporary exegesis; however, when we turn our focus from powers in Paul more broadly to powers in Ephesians 6, we see a significant shift towards the demythologising end of Moses’ spectrum.16 Thus, for George Caird, these powers ‘stand … for the political, social, economic and religious structures of power … of the old world order which Paul believed to be obsolescent.’17 Gustav Aulén also concludes that ‘in speaking of powers and principalities [Paul] does not envisage superhuman hypostases trotting about in the world, but uses the language to express metaphorically moral realities that would otherwise defy expression.’18 Wink’s exegesis of Ephesians 6 especially depends on demythologising the powers so that even if spiritual, they still represent ‘actual physical, psychic, and social forces at work in us, in society, and in the universe’19 at the heart of corporate and religious institutions.20 While Yoder Neufeld recognises that these interpretations ‘[expand] the meaning of powers’ so that the heavenly take on an ‘earthly manifestation’,21 this does not preclude him from doing the same. Thus, for Neufeld, these forces include ‘human potencies and institutions’ while also recognising that Ephesians 6 ‘intends to evoke the full range of demonic forces with which the saints have to do battle.’22 These understandings of the powers in Ephesians 6 set up the exegetical consequence that such powers, physically manifest in the institutions and people 15

Ibid. 37. Moses, interestingly, focuses on Romans, 1 and 2Corinthians, Galatians, Colossians, and 2Thessalonians in his study. He does not, therefore, spend much time on the language of Ephesians 6 (more space is given to Ephesians 2 and the place of these powers ‘in the heavenlies’). Thus, even when looking at the practices Paul commends to believers to counter the powers, ‘armour of God’ is not mentioned in his book. In this light, this article expands the conclusions of Moses by looking not simply at the language of powers in Ephesians 6, but also at the practice of putting on armour and wrestling that Paul commends his followers to do take up and practice against the forces of evil. 17 George B. Caird, Language and Imagery of the Bible (Philadelphia, 1980), 242. 18 Gustaf Aulén, Christus Victor: An Historical Study of the Three Main Types of the Idea of the Atonement, trans. A.G. Hebert (London, 1931), 67. 19 Walter Wink, Naming the Powers: The Language of Power in the New Testament (Philadelphia, 1984), 62. 20 Walter Wink, Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination (Minneapolis, 1992), 6. Arnold pushes back against this reading of Ephesians 6 (as do Hoehner and Lindemann), arguing that Wink takes his agenda of demythologisation too far. See Clinton E. Arnold, Ephesians, Power and Magic: The Concept of Power in Ephesians in Light of Its Historical Setting, SNT Monograph Series 63 (Cambridge, 1989), 84; Andreas Lindemann, Der Epheserbrief, ZBK 8 (Zurich, 1985), 113. 21 Thomas R. Neufeld, ‘Put on the Armour of God’: The Divine Warrior from Isaiah to Ephesians (Sheffield, 1997), 121 n. 95. 22 Ibid. 122. 16

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around us, need to be fought. The language of Ephesians 6 to take up the armour of God and to withstand these forces, therefore, is not commanding a defensive stance but advocating an engagement with and aggression towards these physical forces. This leads rather neatly into the next question of how these powers are to be countered. Within recent scholarship, Christological concerns undergird the answer to how Christians respond to such an attack by these forces. More specifically, the history of interpretation of Ephesians 6 leads to the ideas of Christ as a Divine Warrior and of Christus Victor. 2. Christ as Divine Warrior The idea of a Divine Warrior derives from what John Collins calls the ‘conventional view’ of the messiah which assumes that Jewish people in antiquity were waiting for a great and militant king to defeat the powers of the world.23 This view looks to references in the writings of Josephus, the War Scroll of Qumran, and other (pseudepigraphal) writings.24 While a number of recent scholars have argued against this view,25 the understanding of the messiah as a warrior persists, supported by images of Christ challenging demons and by the armour-laden language of Ephesians 6. Neufeld, for example, claims a clear trajectory from Isaiah 59 – with its admonitions to take up armour – to Ephesians 6 where the goal is total obliteration of evil.26 Here, Ephesians 6 represents the climax not only of the epistle, but also of the Divine Warrior motif where putting on the armour of God calls for ‘the imitation of God as Divine Warrior’.27 While Neufeld recognises that the context of Ephesians 6 is different from that of another key passage, Col. 2:15, where triumph has already been achieved; nevertheless, he is clear that ‘Ephesians summons the church to take up the role of the Divine Warrior’28 where even the command to stand firm (Eph. 6:13) requires an aggressive tone as ‘the stance of victory at the end of the evil day’.29 Noting that this aggressive view is not as popular amongst early Christian commentators on this Ephesian passage,30 Neufeld counters that standing firm must be ‘more than a defensive stance of faithfulness’31 for 23 See John J. Collins, The Scepter and the Star: The Messiahs of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Ancient Literature (New York, 1995), 13 and 68. 24 See Josephus, Bellum Judaicum, 2.71-75; 1QM 1.10-15; 4Ezra 13.4, 9-10; 1Enoch 62.2. 25 See James H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Messiah: Developments in Earliest Judaism and Christianity (Minneapolis, 1992), xii-xvi; R.A. Horsley, ‘Popular Messianic Movements around the Time of Jesus’, CBQ 46 (1984), 471-95, 471. 26 T.R. Neufeld, Divine Warrior (1997), 118. See also S.Y. Kim, Warrior Messiah (2010), 187. 27 T.R. Neufeld, Divine Warrior (1997), 105. 28 Ibid. 126. 29 Ibid. 131. 30 Ibid. 140. 31 Ibid. 120-1.

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‘defense is precisely not the point’ and even faith ‘is part of the arsenal of attack’.32 Thus, those who find the image of a Divine Warrior supported by the words of Ephesians 6 are clear that the Christian is called actively to put on the armour of God in order to take an aggressive stance against the forces of wickedness, imitating the ultimate example of the Divine Warrior: Christ. 3. Christ as Victor If the imitation of Christ as Divine Warrior feels like an extreme interpretation of Ephesians 6, Aulén offers a different perspective where it is not the Christian taking up arms to fight the powers but Christ who does the vanquishing. The language of Christus Victor and Aulén are almost synonymous in many theological circles. Aulén is clear that his classic idea33 is a reaction against what he calls the Latin legalism of Tertullian and Cyprian and a recovery of the soteriology of his preferred early Christian writers: Irenaeus and Origen.34 This view is based not only on Aulén’s understanding of patristic theology but also on the writings attributed to Paul where, in passages from Ephesians 6 and Colossians 2, ‘[Paul] speaks of a great complex of demonic forces … which Christ has to overcome in the great conflict.’35 Christus Victor is therefore an idea based on a divine conflict and victory where Christ fights against the forces of evil ‘under which [hu]mankind is in bondage and suffering, and in [Christ] God reconciles the world to himself’.36 God in Christ is the primary, and perhaps only, actor in this understanding of how forces of evil are countered. With a particular focus on the writings of Irenaeus and Col. 2:15, Aulén argues that his classic view of Christus Victor was the dominant soteriological understanding held by early Christian writers.37 This is an essential point to note because Colossians 2, on which Aulén focuses, and Ephesians 6, which early Christians use to a significant degree, offer very different eschatological emphases.38 In Colossians 2, Christ has already triumphed over the powers and principalities; in Ephesians 6, this victory is not yet and the battle continues with the admonition to put on armour and prepare for attack.39 32

Ibid. 139. Aulén is clear that Christus Victor is an idea and not a theory. 34 G. Aulén, Christus Victor (1931), 81. 35 Ibid. 67. 36 Ibid. 4. 37 Ibid. 70. 38 See Jeff M. Brannon, ‘“The Heavenlies” in Ephesians: A Lexical, Exegetical, and Conceptual Analysis’ (University of Edinburgh, 2010), 207; Andrew T. Lincoln, ‘A Re-Examination of “the Heavenlies” in Ephesians’, NTS 19 (1973), 468-83, 475-82. We will expand upon the significance of the different eschatological emphases of these two Pauline texts below. 39 See Geurt Hendrik van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context: The Image of God, Assimilation to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy and Early Christianity, WUNT 2.232 (Tübingen, 2008), 192. 33

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What is perhaps most significant for the conclusions of scholars who use Pauline phrases to develop the ideas of Christ as Divine Warrior and Christ as Victor is that many of these scholars claim that their exegesis of Ephesians 6 can be traced directly to early Christian writers. However, when we look at how early Christians used this Ephesian text, do they reach the same conclusions? What do early Christian writers, including Irenaeus and the Latins who Aulén dismisses, make of questions about the forces of evil and how one is to withstand them? Do early Christians prioritise the already victorious eschatology of Colossians 2 as understood by the classic Christus Victor idea, or do they prefer the ongoing-battle eschatology of Ephesians 6? 4. Early Christians and Ephesians 6 The good news, as suggested in this article’s introduction, is that we have a lot of evidence in early Christian writings to explore these questions since this Ephesian pericope is one of the most frequently used Pauline texts in early Christian writings. Excerpts from Eph. 6:10-17 are used more than 450 times by at least forty different authors in works that are primarily exhortatory such as homilies, treatises, and the few extant commentaries.40 This use makes sense in a cultural context saturated with military language and images, and, at times, overshadowed by the threat of persecution. In this context, the images and exhortations of Ephesians 6 provide an obvious reference point to encourage those enduring hardship on both a personal and cosmic level. Nevertheless, early Christian writers were not fools and realised that interpreting and adapting the language of Ephesians 6 into their own arguments was not an easy task, even though it was a necessary one. According to Jerome, who is possibly copying Origen’s words into his commentary’s preface, one must focus on Ephesians and especially Ephesians 6 in order ‘to show why the Apostle has heaped up more obscure ideas and mysteries unknown to the ages in this epistle than in all the others and has taught about the dominion of sacred and hostile powers, what demons are, what they are capable of, what they were previously and how they have been overthrown and destroyed after the advent of Christ.’41 So, what are these ‘hostile powers’ according to early Christian writings? 4.1. Spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places While recent scholarship on forces of evil in Ephesians 6 is divided between whether these forces should be demythologised or not, early Christian writers do not make such a clear distinction. Thus, the images of spiritual forces (Eph. 6:12) combined with fiery darts of the evil one (Eph. 6:16) are used to 40 41

See J.R. Strawbridge, Pauline Effect (2015), 58. See R.E. Heine, Commentaries (2002), 33-4.

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describe the many kinds of assault – both superhuman and inner-human (but not institutional, interestingly) – that a Christian might face. More specifically, early Christian writers connect spiritual forces of wickedness with temptation, passions, persecution, misuse of Scripture, and martyrdom and the location of the battlefield on which such forces are found – both within and without – depends greatly on context. Clement of Alexandria, for example, uses excerpts from Ephesians 6 to equate spiritual forces of wickedness with passions and the spiritual threats that act within a person and lead to disobedience and sin. This battle is both inner-human and superhuman as the forces remain outside humankind while also threatening to harm the soul.42 That these forces are spiritual forces is clear when Clement engages the command to ‘put on the armour of God’ since, as he writes, ‘the weapons of our warfare are not physical, but have divine power to destroy strongholds, cast down arguments and every lofty thing which exalts itself against the knowledge of God.’43 The language of Ephesians 6, with a little bit of 2Corinthians, offers Clement a category – spiritual forces of wickedness – with which he can emphasise the serious spiritual threat passions pose to the soul. For Tertullian, spiritual forces of wickedness are present in those he deems to be heretical and who tamper with the words of Scripture. He sees the forces of evil described in Ephesians 6 in his opponents who pose as potent a threat to faith as the passions described by Clement. Thus, for Tertullian, Marcion who ‘cut the scriptures to suit his argument’ and Valentinus who invented ‘argument to suit the scriptures’ by ‘taking away the proper meaning of each particular word’ both embody with their actions the ‘natures of the spiritual wickednesses with which we wrestle’.44 For Origen, the Christian is one who constantly resists spiritual forces of evil which, similar to Clement, assume both an inner-human and superhuman form so that ‘the battle of the Christian is twofold’. As he continues, for those who are perfect such as Paul and the Ephesians … it was not a battle against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers, against the rulers of darkness here in this world, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenlies (Eph. 6:12). But for those who are weak and those not yet mature, the battle is still waged against flesh and blood, for they are still assaulted by carnal faults and weaknesses.45 42

See Ishay Rosen-Zvi, Demonic Desires: “Yetzer Hara” and the Problem of Evil in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia, 2011), 38. See also Clement of Alexandria, Stromata, 2.20.109 and 7.3. 43 Note here that Clement has combined Eph. 6:11 with 2Cor. 10:3-5. See Clement, Strom, 2.20.109. 44 Tertullian, De praescriptione haereticorum, 38-9, in Traité de la prescription contre les hérétiques, ed. François Refoulé, SC 46 (Paris, 1957). 45 Origen, Homiliae in Josue, 11.4 in Homélies sur Josué, trans. Annie Jaubert, SC 71 (Paris, 1960).

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While Origen with the help of 1Corinthians describes two different kinds of opponents – spiritual forces of wickedness and flesh and blood – all of these forces, both visible and invisible, are tangible for each has the power to exploit the soul.46 Within this scheme, ‘struggles against the temptation of the flesh are more elementary than struggles against demonic temptation’.47 But these external forces do not result in an external battle with superhuman powers but an internal battle within the body and the soul. For Origen, the ultimate struggle is one in which ‘spirit contends against spirit, according to the saying of Paul that our overarching struggle is against principalities and powers and the rulers of darkness of this world (Eph. 6:12)’.48 Yet Origen also characterises spiritual forces by their ability to wound a person, and he often attaches the language of suffering to the forces of wickedness, describing how they take control like an illness. Connecting the inflammation of leprosy to the fiery darts of evil, Origen concludes that a soul which is not inflamed with faith is infected by sin and other forces of evil.49 Ephesians 6 and its images add a dramatic element to Origen’s declaration that those who succumb to the attack of evil forces are spiritually unhealthy. Because the spiritual forces of wickedness – which, for him, range from fornication and greed to boasting and vainglory – are the primary cause of sin and human suffering, they must be resisted. And the only way to resist these evil powers and the wounds caused by them is to be free from passions, protected by the shield of faith, and ‘healthy in temperance and the other virtues’.50 From this brief sample, we see that the images of Ephesians 6 offer a category of interpretation by which early Christians could discuss the struggles encountered both within and without. And yet, the struggles without are not with institutions and hierarchies but the tangible forces of temptation and sin as well as cosmic spiritual forces that threaten the soul. The forces of evil described in Ephesians 6 are rarely demythologised in early Christian writings, although Tertullian could be seen to tread a fine line with his equation of spiritual forces of evil with heretics. Nevertheless, the common thread linking early Christian writers is that forces of evil are real and can cause serious harm to

46 Origen, De principiis, 3.2.1-2, in Traité des principes, tome III. Livres III et IV: Introduction, texte critique de la Philocalie et de la version de Rufin, traduction, ed. Henri Crouzel and Manlio Simonetti, SC 268 (Paris, 1980). 47 Judith Kovacs, ‘Servant of Christ and Steward of the Mysteries of God’, in Paul M. Blowers, Angela Russell Christman, David E. Hunter and Robin Darling Young (eds), In Dominico Eloquio, in Lordly Eloquence: Essays on Patristic Exegesis in Honour of Robert Louis Wilken (Grand Rapids, 2002), 147-71, 160. See also Origen, Princ. 4.3.12. 48 Origen, Princ. 3.2.6 (SC 268). 49 Origen, Homiliae in Leviticus, 8.8.1-2, in Homilies on Leviticus, 1-16, trans. Gary Wayne Barkley, FOC 83 (Washington DC, 1990). 50 Origen, Commentarii in Evangelium Matthaei, 13.4, in Commentaire sur l’Évangile selon Matthieu, tome I. Livres X et XI, ed. Robert Girod, SC 162 (Paris, 1970).

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the human soul. And, whether they are superhuman or inner-human, more than anything, they are spiritual. Challenging the conclusions of those like Wink and Neufeld described above, for the ancients ‘the real enemies are not human beings or human institutions but … spiritual forces (pneumatika)’.51 As Witherington describes the situation, ‘though humans can be tempted, deceived, and even used by the dark powers [it] is all too easy to mistake the human vessel of evil for evil itself.’52 What is clear from early Christian interpretation of the forces of evil in Ephesians 6 is that the physical realities of these forces do not call for the separation of the human from the divine, nor do they call for demythologisation which in itself introduces an anachronistic approach. At the same time, early Christian interpretation does not suggest that the battle against the powers remains solely in the divine realm. Rather, the tangibility of these forces and their possible effect on the soul calls for tools to withstand them. And for these tools, early Christians turned to the other significant images in this Ephesian passage. But even this move is not without a challenge: if within the earliest Christian writings the form of these forces varies so widely – from sin and passions to cosmic powers and principalities – are early Christians just as varied in what it means to combat such forces? More specifically, does standing firm mean an offensive stance of attack or a defensive stand of holding one’s ground? 4.2. Standing firm against spiritual forces of wickedness How the forces of evil are withstood entails two approaches for early Christians, just as it does for Paul. Rather than single out the armour of God as the only way to counter these forces, early Christians also adopt the language of wrestling by which Paul describes the struggle not against flesh and blood, but the spiritual forces of wickedness (Eph. 6:12). We thus note immediately the complication this adds to our question about countering these forces, since the images of wrestling and armour are both active and passive, aggressive and defensive, as Christians are commanded to wrestle with the forces and at the same time to withstand them clad in panoply made up, as we will discuss in a moment, almost entirely of defensive elements. So the question remains: how are these forces defeated and, bearing in mind the ideas of Christ as Divine Warrior and as victor, who does the defeating? Is the agency human or divine? 4.2.1. Wrestling At first glance, the image of wrestling appears to be straightforward. Wrestling is an individual endeavour, depending entirely on strength and training, and 51

Ben Witherington III, The Letters to Philemon, the Colossians, and the Ephesians: A SocioRhetorical Commentary on the Captivity Epistles (Grand Rapids, 2007), 350. 52 Ibid. 350.

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thus according to this image the fight against the forces of evil is the plight of the individual Christian. In a way, this image supports the view of Neufeld that Paul encourages an aggressive stance against evil by a human agent. And yet, from the whirlwind tour of early Christian understanding of forces, we know that exegesis across early Christian writers and writings is rarely straightforward but rather is multi-faceted in its approach. Tertullian, for example, focuses on the image of a wrestler53 to describe the struggle with forces of evil. For Tertullian, this struggle is embodied through the approach of both the Christian and the wrestler to food and he compares the discipline of fasting with the discipline of a wrestler. For the wrestler, he writes, ‘bodily ambition is sufficient where strength is necessary … but ours are other strengths and other powers, just as our contests are other; we whose wrestling is not against flesh and blood, but against the powers of the world, against spiritual malice (Eph. 6:12). Against these it is not by flesh and blood, but faith and spirit that enables us to make a firm stand.’54 The words of Ephesians 6 enable Tertullian to contrast the physical demands of a wrestler who prepares for a contest physically with the spiritual demands of a Christian who prepares for a contest in spirit. Tertullian’s exaggerated rhetoric about fasting in this particular treatise is not simply about food but concerns the preparation and discipline that the Christian, like a wrestler, needs in order to overcome the spiritual forces of evil. Thus even though the Christian wrestles in a ‘spiritual war against spiritual enemies in a spiritual campaign and spiritual armour to be fought completely on a spiritual level’,55 the spiritual forces are just as real a wrestling foe as a physical opponent. And, as this example also makes clear, this stance against evil is entirely that of the individual Christian who needs a discipline of faith and Spirit because victory is not assumed. Thus, while divine agency supports human action, human agency is essential to defeat the powers of evil. For Origen, the image of wrestling is essential, but such an image includes both the individual Christian and Christ since the wrestler ‘would never be able of himself to overcome an opposing power, except by divine assistance’.56 As one who is not afraid to expound Scripture with Scripture, Origen immediately connects the language of wrestling in Ephesians 6 with the wrestling scene in Genesis 32 between Jacob and the angel. But he notes one important contrast: Origen writes, ‘I understand the writer to mean that it was not the same thing for the angel to have wrestled with Jacob and to have wrestled 53

More specifically, a cestus player. Tertullian, De jeiunio adversus Psychicos, 17.7-8, in De spectaculis, De idololatria, Ad nationes, De testimonio animae, Scorpiace, De oratione, De baptismo, De ieiunio, De anima, De pudicitia, ed. A. Reifferscheid and G. Wissowa, CSEL 20 (Vienna, 1890). 55 Tertullian, Marc. 4.20, in Adversus Marcionem, ed. E. Evans, Oxford Early Christian Texts (Oxford, 1972). 56 Origen, Princ. 3.2.5 (SC 268). 54

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against him. In other words, he is with him in the struggle and assists him in the contest.’57 Origen then applies this logic to Ephesians 6 writing that ‘Paul has not said that we are wrestling with principalities or with powers, but against principalities and powers (Eph. 6:12).’58 In this way, Genesis 32 clarifies the language of wrestling in Ephesians 6 because in Ephesians the Christian is wrestling with Christ just as Jacob wrestled with the angel. Thus, while wrestling is an individual endeavour, for Origen the Christian does not stand firm against the forces of evil alone but can only do so with Christ against these forces. Human and divine agencies are blended in this example. And, illuminating once more the spiritual nature of these forces, Origen concludes that such an action is not ‘carried on by the exercise of bodily strength, and the arts of the wrestling school, but spirit contends against spirit … and the rulers of darkness of this world.’59 The image of wrestling, therefore, offers one example of how a Christian is to counter the forces of evil. This image focuses on individual preparation, action, and faith as well as the need, at times, for some level of divine assistance. While the image is not of a warrior or of Christ in battle, the active, aggressive, individual elements of wrestling are important to note for they expand more recent understandings of how forces of evil are to be countered. But wrestling is not the only image early Christians find in Ephesians 6 to describe a stance against spiritual forces of evil, for the location of the struggle is not only a sporting ring but also a battlefield. Thus, a second image holds a significant place in early Christian writings about forces of evil: the armour of God. 4.2.2. Armour of God While wrestling offers two different accounts of the struggle against forces of evil, early Christian use of the armour of God gives us at least four more. This armour is understood by some to be given by God in the heat of battle and by others to be Christ himself who fights for the Christian in a battle already won. Early Christian use of this image contains hints of the Divine Warrior and Christus Victor ideas, but these are set alongside other approaches to evil forces. Clement of Alexandria, for example, uses the image of armour to describe how the Christian is to combat spiritual forces of wickedness: peacefully. He writes, ‘Let us array ourselves in the armour of peace, putting on the breastplate of righteousness, and taking up the shield of faith, and binding the brows with the helmet of salvation; and let us sharpen the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God (Eph. 6:14-16). So the Apostle of peace commands.’60 57

Origen, Princ. 3.2.5 (SC 268). Origen, Princ. 3.2.5 (SC 268). 59 Origen, Princ. 3.2.6 (SC 268). 60 Clement, Protrepticus, 2.20.4, in The Exhortation to the Greeks, The Rich Man’s Salvation, To the Newly Baptized, trans. G.W. Butterworth, LCL 92 (Cambridge, Mass., 1919). 58

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Arguing that Christians have been ‘educated not for war but for peace’,61 Clement ironically combines language of peace with images of armour.62 Since the battle to eradicate all forces of wickedness continues because full peace is not yet accomplished, Christians are to array themselves with the armour of God and follow the Apostle of peace.63 Here the Christian, educated for peace but clad in armour, is actively engaged in the struggle against the evil that prevents such peace. It will not surprise those who know him that Tertullian takes a more aggressive approach to the armour of God, offering two different interpretations of this text. The first is to encourage Christians facing persecution not to run away because Paul ‘commands us to stand steadfast, certainly not to act the opposite part by fleeing.’ As he continues, the Apostle ‘points out weapons too, which persons who intend to run away would not require. And among those he also notes the shield, that you may be able to quench the darts of the evil one, when doubtless you resist him (Eph. 6:16).’64 While the stance of resistance takes a defensive tone, Tertullian gives the Christian an active role in this resistance for why, he asks, would Paul mention armour if it were not to be used? The forces of evil have clearly not yet been defeated with the shield singled out as a necessary item to withstand the ongoing attack. But the shield is not the only element of the panoply that interests Tertullian; he is also attracted to the sword. Just as Origen used Scripture to interpret Scripture, here Tertullian draws on the image of the sword in both Ephesians and Revelation to describe how evil forces may be defeated. He describes the double-edged sword in Revelation 1, ‘sharp with wisdom, directed against the devil, arming us against the spiritual hosts of wickedness’. And he continues that if one does not like this image from Revelation, ‘you have Paul, a teacher you share with us, who girds our loins with truth, and with the corselet of righteousness, and shoes our feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace, not [the gospel] of war, and bids us to take the shield of faith … and to take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit (Eph. 6:14-17).’65 While the image of the sword connects these excerpts, the striking element of this connection is not the aggressive implications of the sword, but the passive way 61 Clement, Paed. 1.12, in Le Pédagogue. Livre I, ed. Marguerite Harl, et al., SC 70 (Paris, 1960). 62 The connections between these images would not have been foreign to Clement’s audience, however, for Christians in the Roman Empire would have been surrounded by the ideals of pax Romana: a peace achieved only by actively subduing – and at times instructing and converting – all enemies. 63 See Klaus Wengst, Pax Romana and the Peace of Jesus Christ, trans. John Bowden (London, 1987). 64 Tertullian, De fuga persecutione, 9.2, in Disciplinary, Moral, and Ascetical Works, trans. Rudolph Arbesmann, O.S.A., FOC 40 (Washington, DC, 1959). 65 Tertullian, Marc. 3.14 (Evans).

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that the Christian acquires this sword and the entire panoply of God. It is Paul who does the girding, shoeing, and bidding to take up the rest of the armour. The passive way these items are acquired stands in contrast to the active image of wrestling, as well as Tertullian’s exhortation not to flee. Both of these require action from the Christian. But here, Tertullian describes a more passive stance by the Christian who is essentially dressed and prepared by Paul rather than by any action of his own. Nevertheless, the image is not entirely passive and human agency is still essential, for even if Christians do not actually dress themselves, the reality is that they are still wearing armour and expected to withstand the forces of evil. Origen also holds the line between active and passive engagement with the forces of evil. On the one hand, Origen connects the armour of God described in Ephesians 6 with prayer, describing the battle against evil forces as ‘a prayer battle’.66 Here, victory over the forces of evil is obtained ‘not by javelins of iron but by the weapons of prayers’67 which are just as real and effective as physical armour.68 Defending Christians who refuse to fight for the emperor, Origen writes to Celsus that Christians help even more by ‘putting on the armour of God’ because with this ‘Christians fight through their prayers to God on behalf of those doing battle in a just cause … raising a special army of piety through our petitions to God.’69 Thus, while the forces engaged are both physical and spiritual, Christians actively fight the greater spiritual battle against evil through prayer. And yet, this armour for Origen not only represents prayer, but is also equated with Christ.70 In his Commentary on Ephesians Origen writes, ‘it is possible to say that Christ is the whole armour of God so that putting on the whole armour of God is the same as putting on the Lord Jesus Christ.’ Thus, ‘when one has put on Christ in all his aspects, one will be sufficient to stand against the forces of evil’.71 Here, Christ is not an example to follow as with Clement, nor is he one who girds the Christian in armour as Paul does for Tertullian, for Origen, Christ is now the very armour one wears.72 Therefore, with Christ as the armour of God, even those Origen calls ‘babes and sucklings in Christ’ can ‘defend themselves against … the attacks of spiritual forces of evil.’73 66 Origen, Commentarii in epistula ad Romanos, 10.15.2, in Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, Books 6-10, trans. Thomas P. Scheck, FOC 104 (Washington, DC, 2002). 67 Origen, Homiliae in Judices, 9.1, in Homilies on Judges, trans. Elizabeth Ann Dively Lauro, FOC 119 (Washington, DC, 2009). 68 See also Origen, Hom.Jos. 11.11; 18.11 (SC 71). 69 Origen, Cels, 8.73, in Contra Celsum, ed. Henry Chadwick (Cambridge, 1953). 70 Cyprian also makes this move in his Epistles. See Cyprian, Epistulae, 55.8-9; 60. 71 Origen, Commentarii in epistula ad Ephesios, 3, in R.E. Heine, Commentaries (2002). This is language reminiscent of Rom. 13:14, too. 72 Origen, Hom.Jos. 15.1 (SC 71). 73 Origen, Commentarii in Canticum canticorum, 2.3, in Origen: Song of Songs: Commentaries and Homilies, trans. R.P. Lawson, ACW 26 (Westminster, Md., 1957); see also PG 13.

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Again divine agency enables human agency but, even so, human agency is essential. Eusebius takes this understanding of armour one step further. For Eusebius, the image of armour in Ephesians 6 enables him to concentrate not on the challenges Christians face but on Christ’s defeat of the spiritual forces of wickedness which has already taken place. Eusebius is clear that Christ has already ‘destroyed the thousands and tens thousands of enemies that had ruled for so long … rulers and powers, and those too who are called rulers of darkness of this world and spiritual forces of wickedness (Eph. 6:12) … and as none were able to resist him, he won salvation for humankind.’74 For Eusebius, the armour of God is not something acquired by the Christian nor is the armour Christ himself, rather, Christ as soldier and warrior takes the initiative against the spiritual forces and wins salvation by their defeat. Christ is the actor against and victor over evil and within early Christian writings, this is the most passive role the Christian assumes in connection with Ephesians 6. Eusebius’s focus is not on the actions the Christian must take but the end result: salvation for all by the death and resurrection of Christ. Even martyrs assume a passive role, since Christ both girds a martyr with armour and gives them victory over death.75 5. Ephesians 6: Ancient and Modern With this overview of early Christian texts, we can begin to grasp the diversity of ways that Ephesian images of wrestling and armour are applied to the struggle with forces of evil. For early Christians the role of Christ is essential, but this role ranges from Christ assisting in the struggle, to serving as the example to follow, to being the armour taken up, to defeating evil once and for all. More significantly for this article, the role of the Christian in each of these scenarios is also essential as Christians are exhorted to take up and to receive armour, to stand firm through their prayer, and also not to flee. While in later writings, the language of Christ as Victor with the Christian assuming a more passive role emerges, this is only one of the interpretations found within early Christian writings. This diversity is noteworthy because, as we look back at the models of Divine Warrior and Christus Victor, we can see how this variety presents a challenge to some more recent theological assumptions about Ephesians 6 and its use by early Christians. This challenge, I would like to argue, is fivefold. Firstly, early Christian use of Ephesians 6 challenges the assumption that early Christians understood this 74 Eusebius, Demonstratio evangelica, 9.7, in Dimonstrazione evangelica, ed. P. Carrara (Milan, 2000). 75 See Eusebius, De martyribus Palaestinae, 5, in History of the Martyrs in Palestine, ed. William Cureton (London, 1861).

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pericope as an exhortation only to active, aggressive engagement with evil forces. While Neufeld is clear that ‘defense is precisely not the point’,76 early Christians were aware that the particular armour described by Paul is comprised of defensive elements, to be used for close combat and standing firm in formation with others. Even the sword is a defensive weapon, as unlike a dart or spear it requires close hand-to-hand combat and is not used in long-range offensive fighting. In Ephesians, there are no drones of the Spirit but only defensive armour and weapons.77 The same is true of the other image early Christians use from Ephesians 6 to describe the struggle against evil, that of wrestling. Though more aggressive in tone, wrestling is also a mode of resistance that is a close, hand-to-hand defence rather than an aggressive attack at long range. It cannot be insignificant that the clearest offensive weapon in this Ephesian passage is not part of the armour of God but is used by the spiritual forces of wickedness: the fiery darts of the evil one (Eph. 6:16). In other words, the attackers are not the ones clad in armour but their opponents: the forces of evil. Early Christians pick up on these subtleties and thus, even though their writing is filled with military and athletic images, the language of Ephesians 6 is used to encourage Christians to take up armour not to fight, but to stand firm, to resist, and not to flee from attack. Those like Clement, Tertullian, and Origen recognise that the main verb is to withstand, not to advance and attack, and that such a defensive stance is supported by other verbs in this pericope: resist, pray, put on, watch.78 Early Christian interpretation, therefore, expands the conclusion of modern scholars about the nature of the encounter with evil forces by emphasising not aggressive attacking but a defensive stance with defensive armour against these forces.79 The second challenge to modern conclusions concerning Ephesians 6 is Christological, focusing on the role Christ plays in early Christian writings when compared with that of the Divine Warrior or Christus Victor. While Neufeld understands the Divine Warrior in Ephesians 6 to be ‘intentionally painted in aggressive and confrontative colours’80 early Christians do not pick up this level of hostility and aggression.81 Of course, early Christian writers do not deny that Christ will be or is victorious over forces of evil. However, in Ephesians 6 76

T.R. Neufeld, Divine Warrior (1997), 139. With gratitude to my colleague Nathan Eubank for this image. 78 See B. Witherington III, Letters (2007), 349. 79 As Hoehner concludes, ‘it would be unusual and certainly unnecessary to give details about armor subsequent to a victory. It is natural to describe such equipment for a defensive stand’ (H.W. Hoehner, Ephesians [2002], 836). 80 Thomas R. Neufeld, ‘Put on the Armour of God’: The Divine Warrior from Isaiah to Ephesians (Sheffield, 1997), 155. 81 This is not to say that the original meaning intended by Paul cannot be aggressive and confrontative, but simply that the way this text is used by the earliest Christian writers and exegetes is not. 77

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the battle continues and the role of Christ within that battle varies. As we have seen, for some early Christian writers Christ is an example to follow as a soldier, while for others Christ is the very armour put on by the Christian. For some Christ assists in the struggle against evil, while for others Christ has already won the victory by his death and resurrection. When early Christian writers refer to Ephesians 6, they do not confine themselves to one way of understanding Christ’s actions, especially when standing against the powers of evil. So, while some early Christian interpretations support the understanding of the Christian or Christ as Divine Warrior, or Christ as the ultimate victor, other interpretations expand the views of those like Aulén and Neufeld, challenging the singular focus of their conclusions. The third challenge presented by early Christian use of Ephesians 6 is the level of human engagement in the struggle against evil. This is the question of the balance between divine and human agency. In the idea of Christus Victor, it is difficult to identify an active role for the individual Christian. In the understanding of Christ as a Divine Warrior, the same is true; however, in the understanding of the Christian as Divine Warrior, the Christian does assume an active role, imitating the example of Christ. Nevertheless, the focus of these modern interpretations is one in which Christ does the fighting, Christ claims the victory, and Christ wages the war against the forces of evil. When the Christian is involved in the battle, the stance is primarily one of attack, imitating the Divine Warrior himself. In these modern interpretations, divine agency is absolutely essential. Within early Christian writings, however, while Christ and divine agency are not overlooked by any means, the focus is predominantly on the individual Christian engaged in the struggle. Thus, we learn about the preparation needed for wrestling, we are told about the faith and righteousness accompanying God’s armour, and we find described in great detail a battle where the primary weapon is prayer. Moreover, the images of Ephesians 6 give early Christians two approaches in terms of the nature of the encounter with evil. A wrestling contest is a physical encounter requiring physical preparation, and even though early Christians are clear that they mean spiritual wrestling with a spiritual opponent, the image is nevertheless a physical one. Wrestling is an individual encounter with another and thus the image focuses on the endeavour of the Christian in his or her plight against the forces of evil. By contrast, putting on the armour of God and especially the panoply of Ephesians 6 suggests taking a defensive stance with defensive armour in a combative setting. The images of armour, connected with faith, righteousness, truth, and peace, point to a realm beyond the physical. But in both of these images, human agency and action are essential. Pushing the boundaries even further, the endeavour of a soldier at this time would have been a communal one, especially when making a defensive stand. This means that armour-clad Christians would have to work together in formation

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for the armour – and especially the shield – to be fully effective. Thus, both of these images of encounter – that of wrestling and that of armour – involve a human element. It is no surprise, therefore, that Ephesians 6 is most frequently found in exhortative writings since the nature of these texts allows early Christian writers to engage with the ethical and practical implications of spiritual attack by forces of evil in the lives of Christians. This element of human engagement poses a significant challenge to exegesis of this same passage by later scholars which places all action and victory in the hands of Christ and relegates the individual Christian to the side-lines of the battlefield. The fourth challenge is less clear at the outset for this challenge is sacramental. While not necessarily evident in the examples engaged in this brief overview, one detail that stands out in early Christian use of Ephesians 6 is that two liminal moments are particularly targeted by the exhortation to stand firm: those surrounding baptism and times of persecution.82 Baptism is the focus of many of these texts because early Christians understand baptism as the threshold of faith when a person is especially susceptible to attacks by spiritual forces of evil. This sacramental connection with baptism in particular is significant not only for understanding early Christian use of this passage and baptism as the place where divine and human agencies meet but this also informs the context for later interpretation. For Aulén, the reason that images of demons and forces of evil fell out of favour after the sixth century is because Christians lost their sense of conflict with the world.83 While this makes sense in terms of the ending of persecution and the political comfort of the church, Aulén’s reasoning does not entirely work on two fronts. For early Christians, baptism is both the primary sacrament for entry into the body of Christ and the crucial moment when spiritual forces mount their attack. My suggestion is not that baptism falls out of favour as the way into the body of Christ, but rather draws on the observation by a number of scholars that as the Eucharist assumes greater significance as the way one enters sacramentally into the body, so the focus on spiritual forces also changes.84 The attack by spiritual forces of evil is not connected as quickly with the Eucharist in early Christian theology as with baptism. Thus, while Aulén’s theory makes sense concerning forces of evil losing their significance with the ending of persecution, early Christian use of Ephesians 6 and its crucial connection between the spiritual forces and baptism adds another element to this shift in Christian theology. However, Aulén’s theory of a trajectory in which forces of evil lose their significance, leading to the end of the classic idea of Christus Victor, faces another challenge. That the most active role for the divine agent and the most 82 83 84

See J.R. Strawbridge, The Pauline Effect (2015), 60-3. See J. Denny Weaver, The Nonviolent Atonement (Grand Rapids, 2001), 86. Ibid. 86 n. 11.

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passive involvement of the individual are found in the later writings of the ante-Nicene period presents almost the opposite trajectory to that described by Aulén. For it appears that, as Christians are increasingly involved in literal, military battles, the active role of the Christian in the fight against the spiritual forces of evil decreases and the role of God in the victory over evil increases. Does this move from active to passive, from human to divine agency, accompany increasing active military service by Christians? In other words, did physical armour squeeze out the armour of God? And, does this mean that Aulén is incorrect when he posits that a more politically comfortable church would downplay Christ’s action, when the opposite seems to be true?85 The final challenge to modern interpretations of Ephesians 6 arises from early Christian use of Scripture itself. This challenge is specifically addressed to the conclusions of Aulén. Certainly understanding Christ as the one who is victorious over death and the forces of evil is fundamental for early Christians. Even when the Christian assumes a more active role in the stance against evil, Christ is never depicted as less powerful than the forces of evil. But when early Christians think of these evil forces, the Pauline passage that they turn to time and again is Eph. 6:12 and not, as favoured by Aulén, Col. 2:15. This is a critical point for, as stated earlier in this article, Colossians 2 and Ephesians 6 have very different eschatological emphases.86 Thus passages like Col. 2:15 understand Christ as the victor on the cross, while within Ephesians 6, the spiritual forces of wickedness ‘are still operative’.87 Even though the conclusions of Eusebius assume that Christ has already won the victory, the dominant use of Ephesians 6 in early Christian writings presumes that the attack by forces of evil is ongoing and very real. This ongoing nature of battle and victory is missing from Aulén’s interpretation. In the words of Colin Gunton, ‘there is a victory won, being won, and to be won’ which the idea of Christus Victor cannot fully embrace.88 The idea of Christ as Christus Victor focuses almost entirely on early Christian use of Col. 2:15. But what this study and a wider survey of early Christian use of Pauline texts reveals is that, compared with Eph. 6:12, Col. 2:15 is scarcely used by early Christians.89 Outside the works of Origen, it is only referred to five times: twice in anonymous texts, and once each in the writings of Hippolytus, Melito, and Novatian. It does not occur clearly in the writings of Irenaeus, which is especially challenging to the Christus Victor idea which focuses not 85

With gratitude to Nathan Eubank for pushing the boundaries and prompting these essential questions. 86 See J.M. Brannon, ‘The Heavenlies’ (2010), 207; A.T. Lincoln, ‘Re-Examination’ (1973), 475-82. 87 George B. Caird, Principalities and Powers: A Study in Pauline Theology (Oxford, 1956), ix. 88 Colin E. Gunton, The Actuality of Atonement: A Study of Metaphor, Rationality and the Christian Tradition (London, 1988), 82. 89 See J.R. Strawbridge, Pauline Effect (2015), 92.

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only on Col. 2:15 as evidence, but also dedicates a section to the writings of Irenaeus. With excerpts from this portion of Ephesians 6 occurring more than 450 times in early Christian writings, does Christian favouritism of this passage and thus a more not-yet than already eschatology pose a challenge to Christus Victor? 6. Conclusion Because Paul does not clearly identify the spiritual forces of wickedness, exegetes both ancient and modern apply this Ephesian passage to their own contexts and situations. For a number of recent scholars, Paul clearly meant social, economic, political, and religious institutions; for early Christian writers, Paul was referring to spiritual temptations, passions, and heretics. Moreover, Paul does not clarify how the armour of God is to be used to counter these forces of evil and, as we have seen on this brief tour of Ephesian exegesis, the range of interpretation extends from passive to aggressive behaviour, from individual to divine action, and from ongoing battle to assured and already accomplished victory. Thus, while much remains unclear about Paul’s meaning and whether there is one accurate interpretation of this Ephesian text, the breadth of interpretation encountered in early Christian writings enables some clarity regarding the question driving this article. Yes, early Christian use of Ephesians 6 does challenge modern scholarship’s use of the same. Early Christian use of Eph. 6:10-17 expands some of the more narrow conclusions found in later exegesis. It challenges assumptions about aggression and the role of armour. It questions the place of human agency in withstanding the forces of evil. It places Christ in a number of different roles in the battle against evil. It emphasises the context and the significant place of baptism for understanding these forces. Early Christian use of Ephesians 6 suggests that ante-Nicene eschatology might be less certain of an already won victory. It makes clear that one model of warrior or one idea of victory cannot be singled out to embrace all early Christian thought. And, ultimately, early Christian use of Ephesians 6 affirms Origen’s conclusion to his commentary on this letter: that his discussion of its final chapter has ‘perhaps been longer than the reader might wish, but I beg him to be forbearing in view of the difficulty of the passage itself and of the character of the Ephesians.’90

90

R.E. Heine, Commentaries (2002), 260.

‘In Every Letter’? Some Possible Evidence for the Authorship of Ephesians Michael DORMANDY, University of Cambridge, UK

ABSTRACT A neglected passage in Ignatius of Antioch may be significant evidence for Pauline authorship of Ephesians. Ignatius of Antioch writes to the Ephesians that Paul remembers them ἐν πάσῃ ἐπιστολῇ. This has generally been translated ‘in every letter’. I submit however that it should actually be rendered ‘in a whole letter’ and that this whole letter is the canonical Letter to the Ephesians. The general rule for this πᾶςconstruction suggests that my proposed reading is wrong, but there are a number of relevant exceptions. It is also implausible that Ignatius intended the meaning ‘in every letter’, since Paul rarely mentions the Ephesians in his writings. Foster identifies references to Ephesus or the Ephesians in four letters in the Pauline corpus and argues that Ignatius is referring to these four letters. I argue that Ignatius cannot be alluding to the references identified by Foster, since these references are mostly negative. Other scholars suggest that Ignatius is exaggerating. I argue that my proposed reading is a more plausible exaggeration, since, on my reading, Ignatius genuinely thought that Paul had written an entire letter to the Ephesians, even though Paul does not ‘remember’ specific details of their life. I argue that Ignatius is likely to have known the canonical Letter to the Ephesians, because he seems to allude to it. I also argue that he is likely to have known it as a letter to the Ephesians, since he must have been able to distinguish it by name from the other letters of Paul with which he was clearly familiar. I thus suggest that this passage in Ignatius’ letter to the Ephesians is an early ascription of the New Testament Ephesian letter to Paul.

In the debate over the authorship of Ephesians, one particular patristic reference has been neglected. In this article, I will argue that a phrase in Ignatius of Antioch’s letter to the Ephesians (henceforth ‘IE’) can arguably be understood as evidence that Paul is in fact the author of the Ephesian letter traditionally ascribed to him (henceforth ‘Ephesians’). I claim only that my interpretation of the IE passage is reasonable, not certain, and that this has implications for the debate over the authorship of Ephesians. Ignatius scholarship generally rejects my proposed reading and few introductions to commentaries on Ephesians even discuss the passage, so even my modest claims make a significant contribution to the discussion.

Studia Patristica C, 39-49. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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The relevant passage, IE xii.2, is printed below, with the phrase under consideration in italics. Οἶδα τίς εἰμι καὶ τίσιν γράφω. ἐγὼ κατάκριτος, ὑμεῖς ἠλεημένοι˙ ἐγὼ ὑπὸ κίνδυνον, ὑμεῖς ἐστηριγμένοι. πάροδός ἐστε τῶν εἰς θεὸν ἀναιρουμένων, Παύλου συμμύσται, τοῦ ἡγιασμένου, τοῦ μεμαρτυρημένου, ἀξιομακαρίστου, οὗ γένοιτό μοι ὑπὸ τὰ ἴχνη εὑρεθῆναι, ὅταν θεοῦ ἐπιτύχω, ὃς ἐν πάσῃ ἐπιστολῇ μνημονεύει ὑμῶν ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ.1

The most natural translation of ἐν πάσῃ ἐπιστολῇ is ‘in every letter’, such that Ignatius is saying that Paul remembered the Ephesians in every letter he wrote. I suggest an alternative translation: ‘in a complete letter, in a whole letter, in all of his letter’. This would mean that Ignatius is telling the Ephesians that Paul wrote them a whole letter. That would make this perhaps the earliest ascription of Ephesians to Paul. Neither Holmes nor Lightfoot lists any significant textual variants.2 According to Cureton, the phrase is changed completely in the longer recension of Ignatius and the whole section is omitted in the Syriac version.3 The Armenian has the verb in the first person. However, this is unlikely to be original, since firstly it appears in no Greek evidence and secondly by the principle of lectio difficilior: the difficulties of the third person reading will occupy us for the remainder of this article, so we can well imagine the Armenian translator altering it. We can thus focus on the Greek text in the form given above. I will briefly survey the Ignatius scholarship and then put forward the arguments for my proposed reading: Pearson, in the seventeenth century, took the phrase in the way I suggest, as did Stahl and Krüger, but they have not been followed by many.4 Lightfoot, Schoedel and Bauer all read the phrase as meaning ‘in every letter’.5 Amongst translators, the significant majority (five

1 The Apostolic Fathers: Greek Texts and English Translation, ed. Michael W. Holmes, 3rd ed. (Grand Rapids, 2007), 192. Emphasis mine. 2 For Holmes, ibid., 192. For Lightfoot, The Apostolic Fathers, Part II: S. Ignatius. S. Polycarp. Revised Texts with Introductions, Notes, Dissertations and Translations, ed. J.B. Lightfoot (London, 1889), 65. 3 Corpus Ignatianum: A complete collection of the Ignatian Epistles, Genuine, Interpolated and Spurious; Together with numerous extracts from them as quoted by ecclesiastical writers down to the tenth century; in Syriac, Greek and Latin: An English Translation of the Syriac Text, copious notes and Introduction, ed. William Cureton (London, 1849), 29-30, 228-9. 4 Pearson quoted T.K. Abbott, The Epistles to the Ephesians and to the Colossians, ICC (Edinburgh, 1897), x. Stahl and Krüger quoted Heinrich Rathke, Ignatius von Antiochen und die Paulusbriefe (Berlin, 1967), 22 n. 1 and 2. 5 Apostolic Fathers, ed. J.B. Lightfoot (1889), 65. William R. Schoedel, A Commentary on the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch, Hermeneia (Philadelphia, 1985), 73. Walter Bauer, ‘Die Briefe des Ignatius von Antiochia und der Polykarpbrief’, in Walter Bauer, Rudolf Knopf, Martin Dibelius and Hans Windisch (eds), Die Apostolischen Väter (Tübingen, 1923), 211. Bauer suggests ‘in jedem Brief’.

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out of seven consulted) write ‘in every letter’, or similar.6 Only two opt for some variation on ‘in all his letter’.7 What therefore justifies my interpretation? There are two types of argument to be considered: linguistic and contextual. We must establish first whether my proposed reading is within the possible semantic range of the relevant πᾶςconstruction and then whether or not it is the correct meaning, based on the context in IE. In assessing the linguistic arguments, it is important to focus on the particular πᾶς-construction used in the passage. πᾶς is followed by a singular, anarthous, countable, common noun. Kühner, Blass and Gerth treat this construction specifically: ‘πᾶς ἄνθρωπος (rarely ἄνθρ. πᾶς) [means] each individual person, that is each to whom the predicate “person” applies; πάντες ἄνθρωποι, all that is called “person”, all the world’.8 This is also the view taken by Johnston in his monograph specifically on πᾶς, though he considers only πᾶς in the New Testament.9 This restriction makes his work less valuable since, besides the fact that we are concerned with πᾶς in a non-canonical author, there is no reason why texts which would later be considered canonical should have a special value as sources of grammatical evidence. Two other grammarians, Wallace and Moule, agree that that the rule of Kühner et al. generally holds, but they cite a number of exceptions, some of which we will now consider.10 Most of the examples below are from the Greek New Testament or the Septuagint. This is not because I value canonical examples more highly, but rather because these two corpora are a readily available source of Hellenistic and Koine Greek, with which Ignatius would have been familiar and which would have influenced his language.

6 Apostolic Fathers, ed. M.W. Holmes (2007), 193; The Apostolic Fathers, ed. and trans. Kirsopp Lake, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass., 1977), 187. The Apostolic Fathers, ed. and trans. Bart D. Ehrman, Loeb Classical Library 24 (Cambridge, Mass., 2003), 2:233. The Letters of Saint Ignatius, Bishop of Antioch, trans. J.H. Srawley, Translations of Christian Literature Series 1: Greek Texts (London, 1919), 47. Early Christian Writings: The Apostolic Fathers, trans. Maxwell Staniforth (Harmondsworth, 1968), 79. 7 The Apostolic Fathers: A New Translation and Commentary, Vol. 4 Ignatius of Antioch, trans. Robert Grant (London, 1966), 43; The Writings of the Fathers Down to AD 325. Ante-Nicene Fathers. Volume 1: The Apostolic Fathers, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, ed. and trans. Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson, revised and chronologically updated with brief prefaces and occasional notes by A. Cleveland Coxe (Peabody, 1994), 55. 8 ‘πᾶς ἄνθρωπος (selten ἄνθρ. πᾶς) ein jeder Mensch, d.i. jeder dem das Praedikat Mensch zukommt, πάντες ἄνθρωποι, alles was Mensch heist, alle Welt’, Raphael Kühner, Friedrich Blass and Bernhard Gerth, Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache (Leipzig, 1890-1904), 2:1:631-2. My translation. 9 J. William Johnston, The Use of Πᾶς in the New Testament (New York, 2004), 183. 10 Daniel B. Wallace, Greek Grammar Beyond the Basics: An Exegetical Syntax of the New Testament (Grand Rapids, 1996), 253 n. 99. C.F.D. Moule, An Idiom Book of New Testament Greek, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, 1963), 94-5.

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The first example is from Herodotus (V.46): οἳ ἐπείτε ἀπίκοντο παντὶ στόλῳ ἐς τὴν Σικελίην11

The meaning is clearly ‘when [they] came to Sicily with an entire army’. Herodotus is of course much too early to be significant evidence for Ignatius, but it is important to include non-Jewish examples, since Jewish writers arguably wrote ‘semitised’ Greek. This means that they are not, on their own, a reliable guide to the non-Jewish Greek of Ignatius. The second example is 1Chron. 28:8 in the Septuagint: καὶ νῦν κατὰ πρόσωπον πάσης ἐκκλησίας κυρίου καὶ ἐν ὠσὶν θεοῦ ἡμῶν φυλάξασθε καὶ ζητήσατε πάσας τὰς ἐντολὰς κυρίου τοῦ θεοῦ ἡμῶν.

κατὰ πρόσωπον πάσης ἐκκλησίας κυρίου clearly means ‘before the face of the whole assembly of the Lord’. It is possible that here we are dealing with an implicitly proper noun, since there is only ever possibly one assembly of the Lord, but this is nevertheless an example of πᾶς being used with an anarthous, countable, singular, grammatically common noun and meaning ‘whole’ rather than ‘every’. Third comes Eph. 2:21: ἐν ᾧ πᾶσα οἰκοδομὴ συναρμολογουμένη αὔξει εἰς ναὸν ἅγιον.

Although some manuscripts include the definite article after πᾶσα, I follow the editors of NA28 in omitting it. I translate the text: ‘in whom a whole building, joined together, grows into a holy temple’. It refers to one whole building, not every building, because in the previous verse there is one foundation and in the next verse, one dwelling place. Lightfoot argues, when commenting on the passage under discussion in IE, that πᾶσα οἰκοδομή in Eph. 2:21 should be translated ‘every building’. He reasons that the verb in the next verse is plural and that in the writer’s mind it therefore takes many individual buildings to make a dwelling.12 However, given that there is one foundation in the previous verse, it is surely more natural to take the words to mean a single building. Johnston suggests that οἰκοδομή in this context is an implicitly proper noun, like the previous example.13 However, this is much less clear in the Ephesians example, since there is no obvious single building in mind. Although the Jerusalem temple is clearly in the background, the writer is not saying that the readers will grow into the Jerusalem temple. Thus this is a valid counter-example to the general rule, close in time and place to Ignatius. I have not considered examples involving proper names (e.g. πᾶς Ἰσραὴλ σωθήσεται, Rom. 11:26) or abstract qualities (e.g. πληρῶσαι πᾶσαν δικαιοσύνην, Matt. 3:15), because these are irrelevant, since these concepts do not 11

Herodotus’ Histories, ed. A.D. Godley, Loeb Classical Library 119 (Cambridge, Mass., 1922),

3:48. 12 13

Apostolic Fathers, ed. J.B. Lightfoot (1889), 65. J.W. Johnston, Πᾶς (2004), 173.

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really exist in the plural. Nevertheless, if anything, these examples strengthen the case for my reading, since they show πᾶς regularly being used with singular, anarthous nouns in a sense much closer to my proposed one than to any other. Ultimately, of course, general rules about the Greek language are less important than how Ignatius uses πᾶς. Unfortunately for me, he bears out the rule identified by Kühner et al. Ignatius uses πᾶς with an anarthous, singular, countable, common noun fourteen times, excluding the text under discussion in this article, and all have the meaning ‘every’.14 ‘Every’ is arguably a more common idea than ‘one complete’, so we should expect the significant majority of Ignatius’ uses of the construction to mean ‘every’. The more important issue is what construction he uses when he is undoubtedly saying ‘one complete’. The standard Greek adjective for ‘complete’ is ὅλος and Ignatius uses this word four times to express that meaning, so he was clearly familiar with it.15 However, none of these occurrences are followed by an anarthous singular noun, so they do not prove that ὅλος, followed by an anarthous singular noun, was, for Ignatius, the standard way to express one complete, but indefinite, entity. We must also bear in mind that so little of Ignatius’ writing is preserved, that it would be foolish to be dogmatic in any claims about his habitual use of language. It should also be noted that in his letter to Polycarp (viii.1), Ignatius uses ἐπιστολάς, in the plural, proving that he knew the plural form of the word and so could without difficulty have written πάσαις ἐπιστολαῖς in IE xii.2, if he had wanted to refer to every one of Paul’s letters. The absence of any occurrence of the plural form of ἐπιστολή in the extant Ignatian corpus would hardly be evidence that he did not know that plural form, but its occurrence is nevertheless proof that he did. To summarise the linguistic evidence, the general rule for the use of πᾶς tells against my reading. There are very occasional exceptions, but none in Ignatius, although Ignatius’ extant corpus is so small that this may not mean much. The linguistic evidence thus renders my proposed reading rather unlikely, but not impossible. Let us now consider the contextual evidence. It is difficult to read the phrase as ‘he remembers you in every letter’, because Paul simply does not mention the Ephesians in every letter, so there is little sense in which he can be said to remember them. This is true whether one restricts the corpus to the undisputedly 14

Eph. ii.2; xix.3 (twice); Mag. x.3; Tral. ii.3; Rom. Prologue (twice); Phil. viii.1; Smyrn. Prologue (twice); x.1; Pol. ii.1, 2; iii.2. πᾶς πόλεμος in Eph. xiii.2 is not counted, because the noun is clearly being used in an abstract sense, to mean warfare, rather than a particular war. The various occurrences of χάρισμα are counted, because the word is used as a countable noun, meaning ‘gift’. The edition used was Apostolic Fathers, ed. M.W. Holmes (2007). 15 Eph. viii. 1; Rom. v.3; Smyrn. vi.1; Pol. viii.2. For the edition, see ibid.

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Pauline letters or include all the letters attributed to Paul in the New Testament. Various scholars who favour ‘in every letter’ have made different attempts to deal with this problem. Foster begins by identifying the times when Ephesus or the Ephesians are mentioned in the Pauline corpus. This happens in four letters. He identifies a number of literary parallels between those letters and Ignatius’ work and concludes that these four were the only Pauline writings known to Ignatius. The references that Foster finds are 1Cor. 15:32; 16:8; Eph. superscription and 1:1; 1Tim. 1:3; 2Tim. 1:18 and 4:12 and in some manuscripts 2Tim. subscription. He excludes mentions of Asia.16 For reasons of space, I do not quote the texts in full. Can these references be said to constitute ‘remembering in every letter’? I will now argue that they cannot. I do not here dispute Foster’s positive claim that there is a literary connection between these four letters and the Ignatian corpus. I challenge him on two points: firstly his implied negative claim that Ignatius knew no more of Paul and secondly his view that the mentions in these four Pauline letters can, on their own, account for the phrase we are discussing in IE. It is both impossible to prove and intrinsically unlikely that Ignatius knew only these four Pauline letters. In Foster’s own words, ‘establishing literary dependence is difficult’.17 This is even more so when attempting to establish the absence of literary dependence. The fact that Ignatius never quotes, say, 2Corinthians, does not prove he had never read it. In particular, it is implausible to think of Ignatius, a key leader in Asia Minor, who faced issues of Judaising among his churches, not to have heard of Galatians, since it is written to Christians in Asia Minor about Judaising.18 Space prevents detailed discussion of two notoriously difficult problems in New Testament studies, the location of the Galatians and the nature of their heresy, but this point is not essential to my argument. I assume that Foster follows the majority critical opinion in rejecting Pauline authorship of the Pastorals. His argument only requires that Ignatius thought them to be by Paul. The question is largely irrelevant to my present argument, but if, following the consensus, they are pseudonymous, that strengthens my case, because Foster must explain how someone so near to both Paul and to the true author of the Pastorals could have been deceived regarding their authorship. I also question Foster’s positive suggestion that the mentions of Ephesus or the Ephesians in the four relevant letters can be what Ignatius is referring to in IE xii.2. Ignatius clearly means to imply that Paul remembered the Ephesian 16 Paul Foster, ‘The Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch and the Writings that later formed the New Testament’, in Andrew Gregory and Christopher Tuckett (eds), The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers, The New Testament and The Apostolic Fathers 2 (Oxford, 2005), 163-4. 17 Ibid. 185. 18 Personal Communication, Matthew Thomas, 4 March 2016.

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Christians positively. He is trying to flatter the Ephesians throughout his letter and the reason for this phrase seems to be to tell them how valued they are by the great apostle Paul. They are so important to Paul that he either mentions them in every letter or devotes a whole letter to them. However, the references identified by Foster are almost always to the city, not the Ephesian people, let alone the Ephesian Christians, and they are often negative, relating to opposition faced by Paul in Ephesus. Ignatius is trying to make the Ephesians think that Paul valued them, so he is hardly going to remind them that Paul wrote about fighting wild beasts in their city. An alternative explanation to Foster’s is offered in varying details by two German scholars, Rathke and Bauer. Bauer faces the difficulty of the phrase in IE xii.2 and, pressed between the manifest absence of mention of the Ephesians in all Paul’s letters (though he does note the passages cited by Foster) and the standard translation of the construction, concludes this is an exaggeration and points out that this would hardly be unusual in Ignatius, whose style is marked by exaggeration.19 Rathke similarly rejects some contemporary scholars who apparently favoured my interpretation and suggests that Ignatius is exaggerating.20 Exaggeration is certainly a plausible explanation for the phrase, if the translation ‘every letter’ is preferred. Ignatius often exaggerates and uses grand language, particularly in his letter to the Ephesians. The rhetorical motive for the exaggeration is also clear. As already discussed, Ignatius wants to flatter the Ephesians by telling them they were dear to Paul’s heart. However, I argue that my proposed reading is even more consistent with Ignatius’ rhetorical strategy. My reading of course also involves significant exaggeration. The author of Ephesians can hardly be said to remember his readers in a complete letter, since the readers and their particular concerns are rarely explicitly mentioned. However, on my reading the exaggeration is significantly more credible. It functions as rhetorical flattery to tell the Ephesians that Paul remembers them in an entire letter, when in fact he has written them an entire letter, even if that letter does not refer to them frequently. This is especially plausible given a point made by Pearson: of all the letters in the Pauline corpus, Ephesians contains among the fewest negative references to the recipients. There is little or no rebuke. In this sense, it makes sense that Ignatius singles out the Ephesian church as remembered by Paul in an entire letter. They are the only church, to which Paul writes an entire letter that is predominantly positive.21 However it is false beyond the point of reasonable exaggeration, 19

W. Bauer, ‘Die Briefe’ (1923), 212. H. Rathke, Ignatius (1969), 21-2. 21 Tota enim epistola ad Ephesios scripta, ipsos Ephesios, eorumque honorem et curam, maxime spectat... In aliis epistolis apostolus eos ad quos scribit saepe acriter objurat aut parce laudat. Pearson, quoted T.K. Abbott, Ephesians (1897), x. 20

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even for as seasoned an exaggerator as Ignatius, to say that a handful of references to the city, most of them negative, constitute a positive reference to the Ephesian Christians in every letter. My proposed reading is thus a more plausible exaggeration than the alternative. Further, Ignatius’ use of ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ in IE xii.2 is significant. He does not merely claim that Paul remembers the Ephesians, but that he remembers them in Christ Jesus. Being ‘in Christ’ is a significant theme throughout Ephesians, including in the opening greeting of the letter. This proves nothing, but at least hints that Ignatius has Ephesians in mind in the passage in question. We therefore have a situation where the linguistic evidence is against my reading, but does not entirely rule it out, and the contextual evidence favours it. I therefore submit that it deserves a ‘place at the table’, although it is certainly not proven. How likely is it that, even if my reading of the Ignatius passage is right, the single complete letter is the letter we today call Ephesians? There is significant likelihood that this letter was known to Ignatius, since his letter to Polycarp contains what is likely to be an allusion to it. In that letter (v. 1), we read that husbands are to be encouraged to love their wives ὡς ὁ κύριος τὴν ἐκκλησίαν. The verbal parallels with Eph. 5:25 are less than overwhelming, since in the latter, the adverb used is καθώς and the verb of loving is inside the καθώςclause. However, it remains likely that Ephesians is a source for the image in Ignatius. The fact that Ignatius knew Ephesians at the time of writing to Polycarp does not of course mean that he knew it when writing to the Ephesians, but it raises the probability significantly. Is it possible that Ignatius knew Ephesians by a different name? Certainly, a number of significant manuscripts of Ephesians, notably 01, 03 and P46, omit the name of the city in 1:1. However, the issue is not whether the earliest text of Ephesians contained the reference to the town, but rather whether or not Ignatius could plausibly have thought the letter was written to someone other than the Ephesians. All the manuscripts contain the superscription, indicating that the letter is to the Ephesians, and there is evidence that Fathers as early as Irenaeus connected the letter with the Ephesian church.22 Best notes that Ignatius is aware of more Pauline epistles than Ephesians only and that therefore he probably knew each by an individual name, so that they could be distinguished.23 It is most natural to assume this was a name based on the recipients, since the manuscripts typically give such names to the Pauline letters. The only significant possible alternative recipients are the Laodiceans, whom Marcion links to our Ephesian letter. Space forbids me from detailed discussion of this problem, but I follow Best in rejecting the hypothesis that our Ephesians was 22

Ernest Best, ‘Ephesians 1:1’, in Ernest Best (ed.), Essays on Ephesians (Edinburgh, 1997),

3-4. 23

Ernest Best, ‘Ephesians 1:1 Again’, in E. Best (ed.), Essays on Ephesians (1997), 18.

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originally a letter to the Laodiceans.24 It is therefore surely unlikely that Ignatius knew Ephesians by a different geographical name, since there is little or no evidence for an alternative name being in use in Ignatius’ time. At this point, it is worth considering the contribution of Abbott. Abbott argued, as I do, that the verbal allusions indicate that Ignatius knew Ephesians and that Ignatius wanted to flatter the Ephesians, by reminding them how much Paul had written them. He also argues that the grammatical evidence strongly favours ‘in every letter’. He concludes that Ignatius cannot therefore have known Ephesians as a letter to the Ephesians, since, if he had, it would have been much more effective flattery to refer to this single, entire letter than to exaggerate far beyond the limits of plausibility and claim that Paul mentions the Ephesians in every letter he wrote.25 Abbott, unlike Bauer and Rathke, recognises that claiming that Paul mentions the Ephesians in every letter is an unreasonable degree of exaggeration. He has further, and in my view correctly, realised that this commits him either to ‘swallowing the pill’ of a grammatically unlikely understanding of πᾶς or to positing that Ignatius knew Ephesians by another name. He concludes that the latter is more likely. I submit, by contrast, that it is so unlikely that Ignatius knew Ephesians by another name that the linguistic data, which is strong, but not utterly conclusive, should be rejected. Conclusion In summary, although the linguistic arguments for ‘every letter’ are powerful, I submit that they are not so decisive as to overrule the extremely strong evidence that ‘one entire letter’ is the more natural interpretation in the context in IE. The strong linguistic arguments will mean the matter is always open to debate, but the strong contextual arguments mean it is surprising how little attention ‘one entire letter’ has received from scholars. Specifically, it is noteworthy how this passage has been ignored in the debates on the authorship of Ephesians. I append to this article a table of commentaries on Ephesians. Of fifteen commentary introductions examined, in English and German and ranging as far back as the nineteenth century, only three discuss the passage and all three read the crucial words as ‘in every letter’. Even if my proposed reading were clearly and demonstrably right, it would certainly not prove that Paul wrote Ephesians. My reading is not even required to prove that Ignatius thought Paul wrote Ephesians, since Foster includes Ephesians in his reconstruction of Ignatius’ Pauline corpus. However, my reading is potentially strong evidence that a writer very close in time to Paul thought that Ephesians was written by Paul to the Ephesians. 24 25

E. Best, ‘Ephesians 1:1’ (1997), 11-2. T.K. Abbott, Ephesians (1897), x-xi.

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TABLE OF COMMENTARIES Commentator

Discuss Patristic evidence?

Discuss IE xii.2?

See a reference Pauline authorship? to Ephesians only?

Abbott

Yes

Yes

No

Yes26

Barth, Markus

Yes

Yes

No

Yes27

Best

Yes

Yes

No

No28

Bruce

No

Yes29

Conzelmann

No

No30

Hoehner

Yes

Hübner

No

No32

Kreitzer

No

No33

Lincoln

No

No34

Muddiman

Yes

O’Brien

No

26

No

No

Yes (at least by implication)31

Partly35 Yes36

Ibid. ix-xiii. Markus Barth, Ephesians: Introduction, Translation and Commentary on Chapters 1-3, Anchor Bible Commentary 34 (New York, 1974), 36-7, 49. 28 Ernest Best, Ephesians, ICC (Edinburgh, 1998), 15-7, 36. 29 F.F. Bruce, The Epistle to Colossians, to Philemon and to the Ephesians, NICNT (Grand Rapids, 1984), 240-3 (this is the page reference given for the authorship of Ephesians in Bruce’s index, though it only addresses the issue implicitly; Bruce seems to write assuming Pauline authorship). 30 Jürgen Becker, Hans Conzelmann and Gerhard Friedrich, Die Briefe an die Galater, Epheser, Kolosser, Thessalonicher und Philemon, Das Neue Testament Deutsch 8 (Göttingen, 1981), 88. 31 Harold W. Hoehner, Ephesians: An Exegetical Commentary (Grand Rapids, 2002), 4-6, 60-1. 32 Hans Hübner, An Philemon, An die Kolosser, An die Epheser, Handbuch zum Neuen Testament 12 (Tübingen, 1997), 11. 33 Larry Kreitzer, The Epistle to the Ephesians, Epworth Commentaries (Peterborough, 1997), 29. 34 Andrew T. Lincoln, Ephesians, WBC 42 (Waco, 1990), lx. 35 John Muddiman, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Ephesians, BNTC (London, 2001), 21, 34. Muddiman discusses the word συμμύσται in IE xii.2, but, perhaps surprisingly, not the phrase discussed in this paper. 36 Peter O’Brien, The Letter to the Ephesians, PNTC (Grand Rapids, MI, and Leicester, UK, 1999), 46-7. 27

‘In Every Letter’? Some Possible Evidence for the Authorship of Ephesians

Porkoný

In relation to date and place, not author

No37

Schlier

No

Yes38

Schnackenburg

No

No39

Talbert

No

No40

49

Acknowledgements My thanks to Nathan Eubank, under whose encouraging and insightful teaching the idea in this article first developed. My thanks also to those who funded my studies at the time: the Church of England Diocese of Rochester and scholarships awarded by the University of Oxford and Keble College, Oxford. I am grateful for fruitful discussion of this research at the Oxford University New Testament Seminar and the British Patristics Conference 2016. Funding to attend the 2016 conference was generously provided by the University of Oxford.

37 Petr Porkoný, Der Brief des Paulus an die Epheser, Theologischer Handkommentar zum Neuen Testament 10/II (Leipzig, 1992), 40, 42. 38 Heinrich Schlier, Der Brief an die Epheser (Düsseldorf, 1957), 27. 39 Rudolf Schnackenburg, Der Brief an die Epheser, EKK 10 (Zürich, 1982), 25. 40 Charles H. Talbert, Ephesians and Colossians, Paideia Commentaries on the New Testament (Grand Rapids, 2007), 10-1.

Leading Captivity Captive: Paul in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho and the ‘Pauline Captivity’ Narrative Matthew J. THOMAS, Oxford, UK

ABSTRACT The question of whether Justin Martyr uses the Apostle Paul has puzzled scholars for centuries, with answers often proving to be pivotal in reconstructions of the development of second-century Christianity. The failure of Justin to mention Paul or cite his epistles has sometimes been taken as evidence of a ‘Pauline captivity’, whereby the Apostle was shunned by mainstream Christian writers in the second century due to his many unorthodox connections. However, a number of more recent studies have argued that Justin makes extensive use of Paul’s epistles, leading to a radically different narrative of the church’s development vis-à-vis Paul in this period. This article focuses on Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho in examining the question of whether Justin engages with Paul, and if so, how best to understand the nature of this engagement. It finds that while Justin’s engagement with Paul never takes the form of direct citation, analysis of the context and purpose of the Dialogue show that such a move would be among the very last that one would expect the apologist to make. Rather, Justin’s numerous Pauline parallels are best explained by the proposal that Justin restates Paul’s arguments with his own words in the Dialogue, rather than contradicting his own ground rules by appealing to Trypho with citations of a non-authority. Such a conclusion, if correct, suggests that studies which have displaced the ‘Pauline captivity’ narrative in recent decades have done so rightly, and that counter-narratives would do well to take into account what appears to be a strategic, and indeed quite extensive, usage of Paul by the century’s most influential apologist.

The question of whether Justin Martyr uses the Apostle Paul has puzzled scholars for centuries, with answers often proving to be pivotal in subsequent reconstructions of the development of second-century Christianity.1 On the one hand, Justin never mentions Paul or directly cites any of his epistles, and some have taken this silence to indicate a deliberate neglect of the Apostle. This notion formed the basis for F.C. Baur’s narrative of a ‘Pauline captivity’, in which Paul’s influence in mainstream Christian circles in the mid-second 1 On this, see the very useful survey in David Rensberger, As the Apostle Teaches: The Development of the Use of Paul’s Letters in Second-Century (New Haven, 1981), 3-22.

Studia Patristica C, 51-60. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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century was thought to have diminished, usually due to supposed connections with Marcion and the gnostics.2 Such a narrative held considerable influence in early Christian studies until at least the early 1980’s, and can still be found today. On the other hand, a number of more recent studies have argued that Justin’s wide variety of parallels with Paul’s epistles is evidence that the apologist uses them extensively, with commentators such as Lindemann identifying Justin as almost a ‘champion’ of Pauline theology, and Rokéah viewing Paul as even more formative for Justin than Jesus himself. If these assessments are correct, then rather than lost in captivity, Paul would be seen as alive and well in the mid-second century church, producing a radically different narrative of the church’s development vis-à-vis Paul than the one proposed by Baur. This article will focus on Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho in examining the question of whether Justin engages with Paul, and if so, how best to understand the nature of this engagement. It will begin by examining a range of views over the past decades on Justin’s usage of Paul, which, while not exhaustive, will provide a broad sampling of the conclusions of recent commentators and common arguments that are employed on each side of the discussion. It will follow this with an analysis of these arguments, in hopes of establishing the most likely explanation for if and how Paul is used in Justin’s Dialogue, and will conclude with a brief reflection for what Justin’s witness means for competing narratives of the development of second-century Christianity. The issue of Justin’s usage of Paul has been much debated over the past two centuries, and though studies that maintain Justin to be using Paul’s texts now constitute a majority in the field, there still exists a remarkably wide range of views on the topic. We will begin this overview with studies that do not hold Justin to have drawn upon Paul, or maintain that such usage cannot be demonstrated with confidence. Among these, Rensberger’s balanced analysis is paradigmatic and takes into account a number of common arguments. After carefully examining the most significant passages that are taken as influenced by the Apostle, Rensberger concludes that ‘the preserved works of Justin simply do not tell us enough to judge how he regarded Paul’, and that ‘while Justin may have made some direct use of the letters of Paul, there are no grounds for a really confident assertion either that he did or that he did not’.3 This echoes the earlier judgment of Smit Sibinga in his study on Justin’s OT quotations; while conceding that since ‘Justin is the only one among the early Christian writers adversus Judaeos who, like Paul [in Gal. 3:10-13], combines 2 See F.C. Baur, The Church History of the First Three Centuries, trans. Allan Menzies (London, 1878), 147 n. 1. Baur’s suggestion is influentially developed in Walter Bauer’s Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity, ed. Robert A. Kraft and Gerhard Krodel (Philadelphia, 1971 [1934]), 215-28. An excellent overview of the development of this narrative from the time of Baur to its downfall in the early 1980s is found in Benjamin White, Remembering Paul: Ancient and Modern Contests over the Image of the Apostle (Oxford, 2014), 20-48. 3 D. Rensberger, As the Apostle Teaches (1981), 191.

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Deut 27:26 and 21:23, there must be some relation to them’, he ultimately finds the evidence to be inconclusive and suggests that Justin may be dependent on a source that knows Paul.4 Von Campenhausen foregrounds the use of Paul by the gnostics, suggesting that his writings were of little use to ‘ward off the gnostic attacks’ due to Paul’s ‘peculiar doctrine of the multiplication of sin by the Law’, so that it is ‘understandable that Justin logically ignores Paul altogether’.5 Barrett’s brief assessment identifies ‘a measure of mistrust’ towards Paul by Justin’s failure to mention him: ‘Paul was the heretics’ apostle, and it was wise to be cautious in using him’.6 Frend, himself no great admirer of Justin, offers the terse statement that ‘there is no evidence that [Justin] was influenced by any of the writers of the New Testament’, though he adduces no arguments for or against.7 Koester briefly restates the view common to the ‘Pauline captivity’ thesis, that due to Marcion’s use of the Pauline epistles, ‘[i]t seems that Justin deliberately avoided these letters’.8 Finally, Foster’s recent survey reaches the vivid conclusion that in contrast to other apostolic figures and writings, ‘when it comes to Paul, and to the use of his writings, there is a strange, almost deathly, silence’.9 Attributing the passages that appear to indicate Pauline dependency to Justin’s use of testimonia collections that were probably influenced by Paul, Foster speculates that Justin’s silence may be due to his not knowing Paul, a reluctance to use Paul because of his association with Marcion, or his not viewing Paul’s writings ‘as a secure basis for advancing his own arguments’, though he concludes that ‘[t]he answer is simply unknown’.10 Among commentators who view Justin as drawing upon Paul, one might begin with the surprising example of Barnett. While still holding to the secondcentury captivity thesis (for which Justin’s non-engagement with Paul was usually the key evidence), Barnett nevertheless views Justin’s usage of Paul as frequent and clear, with Romans and Galatians in particular cited numerous times, ten of which he classes as ‘certain’.11 Massaux’s survey of the question concludes that Justin was ‘particularly familiar’ with Paul’s writings and ‘drew inspiration’ from them, though ‘very rare are the cases in which a literary dependence is certain’; among such instances, Massaux identifies Justin as drawing upon 4

Joost Smit Sibinga, The Old Testament Text of Justin Martyr (Leiden, 1963), 97-9. Hans von Campenhausen, The Formation of the Christian Bible (Philadelphia, 1972), 98. 6 C.K. Barrett, ‘Pauline Controversies in the Post-Pauline Period’, New Testament Studies 20 (1974), 229-45, 237. 7 W.H.C. Frend, The Rise of Christianity (Philadelphia, 1984), 237. 8 Helmut Koester, History and Literature of Early Christianity, Introduction to the New Testament, 2 vols. (New York, 2000), II 9. 9 Paul Foster, ‘Justin and Paul’, in Michael Bird and Joseph Dodson (eds), Paul and the Second Century (London, 2011), 108-25, 123. 10 Ibid. 124-5. 11 Albert Barnett, Paul Becomes a Literary Influence (Chicago, 1941), 241, 247. 5

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Gal. 3:6-7 at Dial. 119 and Rom. 4:9-10, 17 at Dial. 119.5-6, 23.4, and 92.3.12 Shotwell’s thesis on this subject finds that ‘in matters of exegesis, Justin was a direct descendant of his illustrious predecessor’, Paul, whom he chose ‘as his mentor’, seen in cases such as Dial. 94.5-95.2, where ‘he states the same argument that Paul uses in Gal. 3.10-14.’13 Barnard sees Justin as drawing upon most of Paul’s epistles, though Justin’s apologetic purpose ‘prevented his appealing to purely Christian teachers and writings as authorities’, reserved by Justin only for the words of the incarnate Logos.14 Donahue’s thesis on Justin’s Dialogue finds Justin to ‘clearly reflect Paul’s argument in Romans 4’ at Dial. 23.4, and identifies Justin as a ‘Paulinist’ more broadly by his kerygmatic emphasis.15 Stylianopoulos’ thesis notes that ‘Justin could not but have known the Pauline Letters, at least indirectly, through writing against Marcion whom he must have read, or must have known about, before refuting’ in his now-lost Syntagma.16 Stylianopoulos finds Justin’s arguments on Abraham’s justification to rely on Paul’s reasoning in Romans 4 and Galatians 3, which ‘no other Christian writer prior to Justin reproduces ... as fully as Justin does’, though unlike figures such as Ptolemy, Justin ‘does not quote [Paul] nor does he mention him because the Dialogue is written for Jews and the authority of the discussion with Trypho is the Old Testament’.17 Lindemann’s study reaches similar conclusions, and counters the idea that Justin would have avoided Paul on account of Marcion by noting that Marcion’s placement of Luke’s gospel at the front of his canon does not prevent Justin from using it either (cf. Dial. 103.8, Luke 22:42-4).18 Skarsaune’s wide-ranging analysis of Justin’s OT citations argues that the apologist is drawing directly upon Paul rather than intermediate sources, with Justin ‘[n]o doubt’ having ‘Galatians 3 before his eyes when writing Dial. 95f.’19 According to Skarsaune, ‘[n]ot only are Pauline quotations frequently borrowed by Justin’, but in ‘crucial passages of the Dialogue [such as Dial. 91-95, 119-121] Justin states Pauline points of view with considerable insight and emphasis’.20 These findings are reaffirmed in Skarsaune’s later study on ‘Justin and His Bible’, where he concludes that ‘[t]here is no reason 12

Edouard Massaux, The Influence of the Gospel of Saint Matthew on Christian Literature before Saint Irenaeus, 3 vols. (Macon, 1993 [1950]), III 97-100. 13 Willis Shotwell, The Biblical Exegesis of Justin Martyr (London, 1965), 55, 12, 44. 14 L.W. Barnard, Justin Martyr: His Life and Thought (London, 1967), 62-3. 15 Paul Donahue, Jewish-Christian Controversy in the Second Century: A Study in the Dialogue of Justin Martyr (New Haven, 1973), 121-2, 213. 16 Theodore Stylianopoulos, Justin Martyr and the Mosaic Law (Missoula, 1975), 70. 17 Ibid. 116-8, 168. 18 Ibid. 367. See E. Massaux, The Influence of the Gospel of Saint Matthew (1993), 101, who ranks Luke as second in influence behind Matthew among NT books. 19 Oskar Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy: A Study in Justin Martyr’s Proof-Text Tradition (Leiden, 1987), 97-100. 20 Ibid. 430.

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to doubt that Justin made extensive use of Paul’s letters, especially Romans and Galatians’, which stands in contrast to his engagement with nearly all other NT writings: Justin appears ‘strikingly independent of the scriptural proof in Acts’, James ‘may be echoed once in Justin’, 1Peter ‘possibly on three occasions, none of them certain’, with 1John carrying ‘only one possible allusion in Justin, far from certain’.21 Cosgrove, while still holding to the ‘Pauline captivity’ narrative, nevertheless comments that dependence on the Apostle is evident in ‘Justin’s salvationhistory approach to the law, which so parallels Paul’s’, particularly in the passages of Dial. 95-6 (Gal. 3) and Dial. 11 and 23 (Rom. 4).22 Siker’s study follows Stylianopoulos in concluding that ‘Justin did know Paul’s letters firsthand’, which he uses but does not directly cite due to the Marcionite crisis and his desire to appeal to authorities Trypho recognises: Justin draws upon even Jesus’ sayings only with hesitation and ‘only as corroborating evidence’, and for Trypho, ‘Paul’s letters would have been even less convincing’.23 Marcovich’s critical edition of the Dialogue identifies a wide array of Pauline parallels, including thirty-seven references to Romans and eleven to the third chapter of Galatians alone.24 Werline finds that Justin ‘certainly knows Paul’s writings in detail and uses them’, concurring with Skarsaune that Justin ‘probably has Galatians 3 before him as he composes Dialogue 95-96’.25 Rokéah’s study goes so far as to identify Justin as more influenced by Paul than Jesus (who is seen as less anti-Jewish than Paul), asserting that ‘Justin understood and correctly interpreted Paul’s stance’ and ‘fulfilled Paul’s vision’, with the Apostle serving throughout ‘as a point of departure for Justin on the issues of the Torah, Abraham and the status of the Gentiles’.26 Lincicum concurs with the judgments of Skarsaune and Werline, seeing Justin as using Paul as a guide towards reading the Old Testament – including the ‘particularly striking’ example of Dial. 95-6, where Justin is ‘almost certainly indicating his dependence’ on Gal. 3:10-3 – and while Justin transforms Pauline arguments in a supersessionist direction, ‘this change in interpretation cannot be used as an argument against Pauline derivation’.27 Finally, Arnold’s recent thesis reaches a 21

Ead., ‘Justin and His Bible’, in Sara Parvis and Paul Foster (eds), Justin Martyr and His Worlds (Minneapolis, 2007), 53-76, 74-5. 22 Charles Cosgrove, ‘Justin Martyr and the Emerging Christian Canon: Observations on the Purpose and Destination of the Dialogue with Trypho’, Vigiliae Christianae 36 (1982), 209-32, 225. 23 Jeffrey Siker, Disinheriting the Jews: Abraham in Early Christian Controversy (Louisville, 1991), 250-1. 24 Miroslav Marcovich, Iustini Martyris Dialogus cum Tryphone (Berlin, 1997), 329-30. 25 Rodney Werline, ‘The Transformation of Pauline Arguments in Justin Martyr’s “Dialogue with Trypho”’, Harvard Theological Review 92 (1999), 79-93, 80-1. 26 David Rokéah, Justin Martyr and the Jews (Leiden, 2002), vii, 4. 27 David Lincicum, ‘Learning Scripture in the School of Paul: From Ephesians to Justin’, in Kenneth Liljeström (ed.), The Early Reception of Paul (Helsinki, 2011), 148-70, 164.

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clear affirmative conclusion: Justin ‘goes straight to the heart of Paul’s theology, attacking Judaism along the same lines that the Apostle did’, so that ‘[i]n all the treatment of the Law in the Dialogue, one cannot help but hear loud echoes of Paul reverberating through Justin’s arguments’.28 With opinions on Justin’s usage of Paul ranging from a ‘deathly silence’ on one end to engagement that ‘goes straight to the heart of Paul’s theology’ on the other, how might one attempt to adjudicate between these views? To begin, in assessing the arguments against Justin’s usage of Paul, it can be seen that many on this side are influenced by unmet expectations that Paul would be explicitly named and cited if he is used, along with prior assumption of the second-century ‘captivity’ narrative, and it is noteworthy that one need look no farther than Rensberger’s analysis for these ideas to be contested. With regard to Justin not explicitly naming Paul, Rensberger notes the importance of accounting for the genre and audience of Justin’s extant writings; taking the example of a student of Justin’s, Tatian, Rensberger notes that although his apology ‘neither mentions Paul nor has any really certain echoes of his letters ... he is known from other sources to have been intensively engaged with the epistles when writing for fellow Christians.’29 This trend, observed in other writers like Theophilus, suggests that when apologists have outsiders as a primary audience, ‘no occasion is found to speak of Paul, and little to make use of his letters; it is only when Christians are being addressed that he, and they, become significant as objects of discussion, debate, and exegesis, and as authorities on which teachings are to be based.’30 Indeed, as Rensberger observes, ‘[t]hat an apologist’s failure to say anything about Paul is a nonissue should already be evident from the fact that whole apologies can be written (Tatian; Theophilus) without once mentioning Christ!’31 Rather than an anomaly, then, Rensberger concludes that ‘since [Justin’s] extant works are both apologetic’, an absence of explicit appeal to Paul ‘represents more or less what one would expect’.32 In addition to this, Rensberger’s thesis questions the presupposition of a captivity of Paul’s epistles, since it is Justin’s non-usage of Paul that constitutes the key evidence for this theory, and here Justin’s usage of these epistles is precisely the point in question. Instead, Rensberger reaches the conclusion that ‘there is no reason to ascribe [Justin’s] failure to use them (if such 28

Brian John Arnold, ‘Justification One Hundred Years After Paul’ (Louisville, 2013), 202, 210. D. Rensberger, As the Apostle Teaches (1981), 336. 30 Ibid. 336-7. These same points are made by Lightfoot, who speculates that in contrast to Justin’s extant apologetic works (written for outsiders), Justin’s treatise against Marcion would naturally contain much more explicit appeal to Christian authorities; see J.B. Lightfoot, Essays on the work entitled Supernatural Religion (London, 1889), 33; see also Charles Hill, ‘Justin and the New Testament Writings’, SP 30 (1997), 42-8, 43. 31 D. Rensberger, As the Apostle Teaches (1981), 336 n. 5; note also Minucius Felix’s Octavius. 32 Ibid. 337. 29

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is the case) to anxieties about Marcion or gnosticism. Any such interpretation remains purely hypothetical, and quite arbitrary as well, since it has neither a basis in the works of Justin nor parallel in the procedure of other anti-Marcionite and antignostic writers.’33 Rather, in light of the tendencies of other anti-heretical writers, ‘if we must speculate about Justin’s reaction to the use of Paul by Marcion and other adversaries, the most plausible hypothesis would be that he studied the letters and explained them, not that he thrust them into a corner.’34 This leaves the issue of whether the correspondences between Paul and Justin are strong enough to conclude that the apologist is drawing directly on Pauline texts. Here Rensberger’s agnostic position, while not untenable, does represent a minority among current studies, and it is one that he himself holds with reservations. Though he follows Smit Sibinga’s tentative conclusion that an intermediate source lies between Paul and Justin at Dial. 95-6 (Gal. 3:10-3), Rensberger concedes that ‘the evidence is hardly compelling’ for this hypothesis,35 and his objection that Justin’s line of reasoning differs from Paul’s in this passage seems less problematic in light of other patristic citations – such as Diognetus’ use of 1Cor. 8:1 – where not even the topic of discussion appears to correspond with the passage cited.36 As with Deuteronomy in Dial. 95-6, Rensberger recognises that Justin’s use of Abraham at Dial. 23 ‘certainly represents a move beyond the Genesis text to the Christian world of Paul,’ as do Dial. 92, 11 and 119.37 Indeed, Rensberger acknowledges that in certain passages ‘the combination and form of the cited [OT] texts are so like Paul, and so unlike the Septuagint, that at first glance one can only think that Justin has borrowed them from him.’38 Rensberger continues: ‘Yet why should Justin, in all the length of the Dialogue with Trypho, never copy out a passage from Paul, except for quotations from the Old Testament?’39 But further on he appears to find two answers for this question as well. First, in relation to the Dialogue’s audience, Rensberger notes that ‘Otto and C. Semisch already suggested the Jewish addressees of the Dialogue as a sufficient reason for not bringing up Paul,’40 and continues: ‘One wonders what Justin would have said about Paul if he had spoken of him: that he was a Pharisee and persecutor of the church, who however became a Christian and taught us not to observe the Law? Trypho no doubt knew of one or two such persons himself (cf. Dial. 39.2), and is unlikely to have been impressed by the 33

Ibid. 361. Ibid. 363. 35 Ibid. 182. 36 See Diog. 12.5, where ‘the Apostle’ is cited at 1Cor. 8:1 not as a caution against knowledge without love, but supporting a seemingly unrelated assertion that life is through knowledge. 37 D. Rensberger, As the Apostle Teaches (1981), 184-5. 38 Ibid. 168. 39 Ibid. 40 Ibid. 188. 34

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example.’41 Rensberger’s suggestion that a Jewish audience would make explicit reference to Paul less likely indeed finds attestation as far back as the second century: as Clement of Alexandria writes regarding Paul’s authorship of Hebrews, ‘in writing to Hebrews who had conceived a prejudice against him and were suspicious of him, [Paul] very wisely did not repel them at the beginning by putting his name.’42 Second, as Rensberger recognises (with reference to Stylianopoulos), Justin is consistent in his promise to Trypho to engage only agreed-upon authorities, so that ‘even [Jesus] is not appealed to in the Dialogue’ as an authority.43 This accounts for the lack of explicit Pauline appeal, and while it is possible that Justin could ‘copy out a passage from Paul’ (as he appears to do with his OT citations) and introduce it into the discussion without attribution, such a move would seem likely to undermine the apologist’s credibility with his readers in a text where he pledges to refrain from ‘basing my arguments about Christ upon writings which you [Trypho] do not recognise’, and rather ‘only upon those writings recognised by you until now as authentic’ (Dial. 120.5; see also 28.2, 71.2). This proves to be the final piece of the puzzle: Justin’s frequent echoes of Paul – which even most agnostics admit to hearing, even if they believe them to come via secondary sources – must be allusive, and not verbatim citation of texts, if Justin is to remain within the agreed-upon grounds of his debate. Justin’s concern to remain within these grounds can be witnessed throughout the Dialogue, beginning with his reticence to mention the words of Jesus, which he does only briefly and apologetically at Dial. 18.1, stating that to do so seems οὐκ ἄτοπον on the grounds that Trypho had previously introduced them into the discussion and attested to reading them (Dial. 10.2).44 Similarly, Justin refuses to engage on non-shared grounds in his discussion of disputed OT texts: while stating his confidence in the LXX texts and translation, he continues: ‘But, since I know that all you Jews deny the authenticity of these passages, I will not start a discussion about them, but I will limit the controversy to those passages which you admit as genuine’ (Dial. 71.2).45 Trypho elsewhere attests the importance of Justin’s consistency in basing his arguments 41

Ibid. 189. Preserved in Hist. Eccl. 6.14.3. 43 D. Rensberger, As the Apostle Teaches (1981), 189. Here Rensberger references Stylianopoulos: ‘The authority of the Old Testament is the exclusive court of appeals. Neither the authority of Jesus, nor that of an apostle, for example Paul... is cited’. See T. Stylianopoulos, Justin Martyr (1975), 165. 44 See T. Stylianopoulos, Justin Martyr (1975), 71-2; see also J. Siker, Disinheriting the Jews (1991), 251; O. Skarsaune, ‘Justin and His Bible’ (2007), 73 n. 88 (186). 45 See Craig Allert, Revelation, Truth, Canon, and Interpretation: Studies in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho (Leiden, 2002), 44: ‘Justin is aware that he will get nowhere in trying to admit passages into the discussion which Trypho will not admit as genuine. This being the case, he states that he will only use scriptures which the Jews admit as genuine (Dial. 71). In other words, he will only use scripture with which Trypho will have no objection.’ 42

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‘only upon those writings’ that his interlocutors ‘recognise as authentic’ (Dial. 120.5), admitting that he has only continued listening to Justin because of his strict focus in referring everything back to the Hebrew Scriptures (σοῦ λέγοντος οὐκ ἠνειχόμεθα, εἰ μὴ πάντα ἐπὶ τὰς γραφὰς ἀνῆγες, Dial. 56.16). While one who considers this debate to be fictional might counter that these ground rules are themselves an invention of Justin, such an objection fails to recognise that the written text of the Dialogue seeks to persuade not Trypho, but rather Jews like Trypho who will encounter the text, and for whom strict adherence to the authority of the Hebrew Scriptures – as Trypho makes clear in Dial. 56.16 – provides the only possible grounds for engagement.46 If Justin is already carefully limiting the grounds of the debate to common authorities, to the point of even avoiding disputed OT texts, then direct citations of Paul’s epistles would be among the very last sources one would expect Justin to introduce. Such a recognition validates the observation of Rensberger and others that while so many passages appear tantalisingly close to Paul, the overlap between the texts curiously never appears to represent direct citation. Indeed, even if one follows the assertion of Skarsaune and others that Justin must have Gal. 3 before him in composing Dial. 95f. (which in my view is likely), it remains true that even here Justin avoids straightforward citation. What commentators have largely overlooked is that this avoidance is deliberate on Justin’s part, and is indeed necessary for the integrity of Justin’s argumentation – which he has agreed to base solely on common authorities – to be maintained.47 Such an explanation affirms both the contention of the majority of commentators that Justin does draw upon Pauline arguments, as well as the dissenting view that Justin’s usage does not constitute direct citation.48 Rather, what one finds in the Dialogue is that Justin has absorbed the content of these Pauline arguments and restated them with his own words and arrangement, with much of the language and logical sequence naturally holding correspondence with Paul’s own. In summary, given the wide array of instances of apparent overlap with Pauline texts in the Dialogue, no a priori reasons – without prior assumption of the captivity narrative – to doubt Justin’s usage of Paul, and clear positive reasons why Justin would not explicitly introduce or cite Paul within such a debate, such an explanation – whereby Justin draws upon Pauline material without using direct citation, and instead restates the content of his arguments 46

See D. Rokéah, Justin Martyr (2002), 9: ‘The sole and absolute authority of the Hebrew Bible is the common ground of the two parties (cf. 120: 5, 28: 2); the controversy between them is only over its correct interpretation.’ 47 As Stylianopoulos notes, such a principle of exclusively citing the Old Testament is similarly adopted in Tertullian’s Adversus Iudaeos; see T. Stylianopoulos, Justin Martyr (1975), 72. 48 See e.g. P. Foster, ‘Justin and Paul’ (2011), 108: ‘Nowhere in Justin’s extant writings ... is there any direct citation of Paul’s epistles unambiguously referenced by acknowledging the title or recipients of the letters.’

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with his own words and arrangement – offers the fullest account for all the available evidence. If this assessment is correct, it must then be concluded that Justin’s usage of Paul in the Dialogue with Trypho does not provide evidence for ‘a falling-off in esteem for Paul’ in the mid-second century, and that the studies that have displaced Baur’s thesis in recent decades have done so rightly. While only modest conclusions for the development of second-century Christianity should be derived from a single source, it can be said that whatever narrative one does construct should take into account what appears to be a strategic, and indeed quite extensive, usage of Paul by the century’s most influential apologist. As for Baur’s thesis, it appears that rather than serving as the key witness to a Paul lost in captivity, it is indeed Justin who, in the end, leads the narrative of Pauline captivity captive.

Athenagoras of Athens and the Genesis of Divine Simplicity in Christian Theology Pui Him IP, University of Cambridge, UK

ABSTRACT It is well-known that fourth-century ‘pro-Nicene’ theologians all shared a commitment to divine simplicity. But how did the language enter patristic theology in the first place? One interesting case to shed light on this question is the second-century writer Athenagoras. In Leg. 8.3, he states that God does not consist of parts (οὐκ ἄρα συνεστὼς ἐκ μερῶν). This article examines the function of divine simplicity in the Legatio. Methodologically, I argue that Athenagoras’ use of simplicity language in the argument for the oneness of God (Leg. 8) must be understood in light of the immediate context (Leg. 4-12) and the wider context (Leg. 4-30) of the argument. In light of the immediate context, I argue that divine simplicity belongs to the part of Athenagoras’ thought that is best understood as setting out ‘plausible theological arguments’ for Christianity. This fits the way Athenagoras describes the nature of the arguments in Leg. 4-12 primarily as ‘manmade’ (Leg. 9.1). Drawing on the wider context, I argue that the introduction of divine simplicity is part of Athenagoras’ attempt to draw a clear divine/non-divine distinction which provides the basis for his refutation of the charge of atheism. This case study suggests that the emergence of divine simplicity in patristic theology might be best understood within the context of the development of Christian theological arguments.

Introduction Divine simplicity is the idea that God is without parts or composition. To say that God is simple is to affirm that he is without the possibility of being divided into parts that are more ontologically basic. Divine simplicity is a difficult idea for modern theologians and philosophers1 and yet, as recent scholarship has 1 The idea of divine simplicity is controversial in contemporary Christian theology and is hotly debated amongst systematic and philosophical theologians since at least the nineteenth century. There is a general puzzlement amongst contemporary theologians as to: (a) how the doctrine should be understood, (b) how it can be coherent if it is understood in the classical way, found for example in Augustine (cf. De Trin. VI.6-8, VII.2, VII.10), (c) how the doctrine could be compatible with other Christian doctrines (Trinity, divine freedom, etc.) if it is understood in the classical way. For an introduction to these issues in contemporary theology, see James E. Dolezal, God without Parts: Divine Simplicity and the Metaphysics of God’s Absoluteness (Eugene, 2011), 1-30; Steven J. Duby, Divine Simplicity: A Dogmatic Account (London, 2015), 25-54.

Studia Patristica C, 61-70. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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reminded us, is central to the classical Christian doctrine of God.2 Most notably, fourth-century ‘pro-Nicene’ theologians all shared a commitment to divine simplicity. In this formative period of patristic theology, God’s simplicity is regarded as a crucial factor for regulating theological speech and accounts of theological epistemology.3 For the ‘pro-Nicene’ theologians, the only appropriate theological framework to speak of God and our knowledge of God is one that takes into account the simple nature of God. Given the centrality of divine simplicity in the fourth century, a crucial question remains: How did the language of divine simplicity enter patristic theological discourse in the first place? This question is significant because divine simplicity did not emerge abruptly in Christian theology in the fourth century. Rather, ‘pro-Nicene’ theologians were careful in shaping their arguments in light of this idea because God’s simplicity was already recognised as central to the Christian understanding of God by ante-Nicene theologians.4 For such a central idea in Christian theology, there is surprisingly little in scholarship that attempts to account for the genesis of divine simplicity in anteNicene theology. Currently, we do not possess a detailed historical account of the development of divine simplicity in patristic theology.5 To construct such an account would be a complex undertaking, not helped by the fact that the ante-Nicene theologians offer little conceptual analysis or elaboration of the concept of divine simplicity.6 As a result, it is by no means straightforward to make out what these theologians meant by divine simplicity. The task is further hindered by the fact that we do not possess a systematic understanding of how 2 Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford, 2006), 278-301; Andrew Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa, and the Transformation of Divine Simplicity (Oxford, 2009). 3 For theological speech, see L. Ayres, Nicaea (2006), 286-8; for theological epistemology, see A. Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea (2009). 4 See Justin Martyr, Dial. 114.3, 128.4; Irenaeus, Haer. II.13.3, II.13.5, II.17.2, II.17.7, II.28.4-5, Athenagoras, Leg. VIII.2; Novatian, De trin. V-VI, Clement of Alexandria, Str. V.12, Origen, Comm. in. Jo. I.119, Princ. I.1.6, IV.4.1, Cels. I.23, IV.14, VII.38. 5 Some general contours are sketched out in various places. See G.L. Prestige, God in Patristic Thought (London, 1952), 9-15; S.J. Duby, Divine Simplicity (2015), 7-10. Radde-Gallwitz came closest to offer a developmental account of divine simplicity up to the Cappadocians. But his account is focused narrowly on the function of divine simplicity in relation to the question of how to conceive the nature of human knowledge of God. See A. Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea (2009). A very useful and balanced account of the emergence of Christian philosophical theology in general is found in Robert M. Grant, The Early Christian Doctrine of God (Charlottesville, 1966), 1-36. 6 We do not find the idea of divine simplicity being elaborated in a detailed philosophical manner in the ante-Nicene writers. In most of the references provided above (see note 4), we find no consistently applied philosophical framework to elaborate on the meaning of ‘simple’, ‘parts’ and ‘composition’. This is in stark contrast with the later medieval tradition, most notably Thomas Aquinas who in his Summa Theologiae, prima pars, q.3 provides a detailed Aristotelian exposition of divine simplicity.

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the idea of simplicity was generally used in ancient philosophy, and how it came to be specifically applied to divine entities.7 It is thus understandable that G.C. Stead, who to my knowledge made the most detailed historical study of the idea of divine simplicity in patristic thought, was puzzled by the scarcity of analytical reflections in the sources.8 In light of this, Stead laments that divine simplicity was a vague idea that was adopted from Greek philosophy and became conventionalised by the church Fathers.9 But despite the scarcity of analytic reflections in patristic theology, it is not necessary to concur with Stead that the idea was vague and merely conventionalised. It could be the modern scholar who is not sufficiently attuned to the specific contexts or purposes associated with the use of divine simplicity. If the theological function of the idea is not to articulate a systematic Christian theology, then there is obviously no need for the systematic-analytical precision that Stead was expecting. I suggest that, Stead’s judgment notwithstanding, we need to examine closely the argumentative contexts in which we find the idea first championed by early Christian writers in order to understand why divine simplicity was taken up in Christian theology.10 In this article, I will make a small contribution towards this project by looking at one interesting case, namely, the second-century 7 To my knowledge, no such account exists. Recent works by philosophers in the analytic tradition have advanced our understanding of what the terms ‘composition’ and ‘parts’ mean in Plato and Aristotle respectively. See Verity Harte, Plato on Parts and Wholes: The Metaphysics of Structure (Oxford, 2005) on an interesting attempt to synthesise Plato’s thinking on parts and wholes; Kathrin Koslicki, The Structure of Objects (Oxford, 2008), 122-64 on Aristotle. These works on ancient mereology shows that the technical philosophical meaning of these key terms is very complex in ancient philosophy, which raises the question: to what extent ancient mereology is relevant for understanding divine simplicity in Christian theology? Is there a specific mereology that is particularly relevant when it comes to divine simplicity? What are the similarities and differences between the mereology found in the context of the soul’s simplicity and God’s simplicity? Any future accounts on the genesis of divine simplicity in Christian theology will need to address these questions adequately. 8 G.C. Stead, Divine Substance (Oxford, 1977), 90-7, 103-9, 163-6, 180-9; id., Philosophy in Christian Antiquity (Cambridge, 1998), 120-35; id., ‘Divine Simplicity as a Problem for Orthodoxy’, in Rowan D. Williams (ed.), The Making of Orthodoxy: Essays in Honour of Henry Chadwick (Cambridge, 2002), 255-69. 9 ‘… the doctrine of divine simplicity became conventionalised; attempts were still made to define and defend it, but in the main it was protected from attack by the elusive character of the term “simple”, which could mean either “excluding all differentiation” or “comprehending all differentiation” or merely “not composite”, “not constructed out of parts”.’ G.C. Stead, Divine Substance (1977), 93-4. See also 181 for Stead’s view that simplicity was adopted by early Christian writers ‘intuitively’. 10 My approach is thus similar to Radde-Gallwitz’s approach (See A. Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea [2009], 19-37). In his study, Radde-Gallwitz proposes to study the function of divine simplicity (A. Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea [2009], 21), which is also my preferred approach (see below). It will become clear that while I do not arrive at his specific conclusions – this is largely due to the difference in the case study we have chosen – nonetheless my general conclusions are in agreement with how Radde-Gallwitz’s study.

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apologist Athenagoras of Athens. In the Legatio pro Christianis 8.3,11 Athenagoras states that God does not consist of parts (οὐκ ἄρα συνεστὼς ἐκ μερῶν).12 This passage is one of the earliest examples of the use of divine simplicity by a Christian writer. This paper will focus on sketching out what I call the theological function of divine simplicity in order to determine the significance of this language for Athenagoras. More specifically, we need to examine (a) the way divine simplicity functions in the argument for the oneness of God in Leg. 8, and (b) how the argument fits into its immediate context (Leg. 4-12) and its wider context (Leg. 4-31) in order to determine its significance for Athenagoras. The function of divine simplicity in the argument for monotheism (Leg. 8) Divine simplicity is found in Leg. 8 where we find Athenagoras’ famous argument for the oneness of God.13 The argument is divided into two parts, where each part considers and rejects a possibility that follows from polytheism: if there were two or more gods, then either (a) these gods would be in one and the same category or genus (ἐν ἑνὶ καὶ ταὐτῷ)14 or (b) each god would be in its own distinct category or genus from the other gods (ἰδίᾳ ἕκαστος αὐτῶν) (Leg. 8.1). Divine simplicity appears in the first part of this argument and so my analysis will concentrate on this part of the argument. In the first part, Athenagoras considers two different ways for two or more gods to be in one and the same genus – either the gods are similar to each other through participating in the same model (τοῖς παραδείγμασιν) (Leg. 8.2) or as complementary parts (συμπληρωτικὰ μέρη) in a composite organism (Leg. 8.3). 11 Hereafter Leg. All Greek citations and English translations are taken from William R. Schoedel (ed. and trans.), Athenagoras: Legatio and De Resurrectione (Oxford, 1972). 12 This affirmation of God without parts is typical amongst Middle-Platonists. See Alcinous, Didaskalikos 10.4, 10.7-8; Numenius, Fr. 11 (des Places); Philo of Alexandria, Legum Alleg. 2.2. 13 This argument is notoriously complex and the interpretation is controversial amongst Athenagoras scholars. In this paper, my task is to examine only the function of divine simplicity in the first half of the argument and not the whole argument itself. See David Rankin, Athenagoras: Philosopher and Theologian (Farnham, 2009), 94-5 for a summary of the debate. 14 The interpretation of this phrase is difficult. There are two general positions available: (a) it refers to the nature of the gods as being in one and the same genus (or being one and the same), (b) it refers to the place or location of the gods being one and the same. Rankin, Pouderon and Schoedel favour the former position, treating the phrase as dealing with the possibility of one nature or essence amongst the gods, D. Rankin, Athenagoras (2009), 95; W.R. Schoedel (ed. and trans.), Athenagoras (1972), 17, note 1; Bernard Pouderon, Athénagore d’Athènes : Philosophe Chrétien, Théologie historique 82 (Paris, 1989), 126-7. Abraham Malherbe, on the other hand, has argued that ‘ἐν ἑνὶ καὶ ταὐτῷ’ should be interpreted as referring ‘to the place of the gods, and not to their genus’, Abraham J. Malherbe, ‘Structure of Athenagoras, Supplicatio pro Christianis’, Vigiliae Christianae 23 (1969), 1-20, note 77 (15). In my view, the first position provides a more coherent reading of Leg. 8 and I have taken this position here. Pouderon’s division of the argument into essence, place and action is particularly illuminating.

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Divine simplicity appears as part of the consideration of the latter possibility. Athenagoras writes: If it is suggested that God is one, as in the case of one body a hand and eye and foot are complementary parts forming one being (ὡς χεὶρ καὶ ὀφθαλμὸς καὶ ποὺς περὶ ἓν σῶμά εἰσιν συμπληρωτικὰ μέρη), we reply: Socrates, since he is created and perishable, is indeed composite (συγκείμενος) and divisible into parts (διαιρούμενος); but God is uncreated, impassible, and indivisible; he does not consists of parts (Leg. 8.3).

We can imagine the kind of models Athenagoras had in mind. Consider two or more beings. These beings can be regarded as gods in the sense that each of them participates in a single composite divine organism as parts. On the basis of this model, multiple gods can then be treated as different parts of a divine organism that possesses some form of unity. Athenagoras did not specify the targets of his argument but there are some hints as to which contemporaries he might have in mind. In Leg. 6.3, Athenagoras states that ‘Aristotle and his school bring before us one God whom they liken to a composite living being (ζῷον σύνθετον) and say that he consists of soul and body (ἐκ ψυχῆς καὶ σώματος συνεστηκότα λέγουσι τὸν θεόν).’ As L.W. Barnard has pointed out, Athenagoras is probably holding a misconception of the Aristotelian doctrine that is derived from a secondary source.15 As Athenagoras has noted clearly in Leg. 6.2, his summary is not intended as an exact account but is based upon doxographical accounts. Nevertheless, on the basis of his sources, he might have regarded the Aristotelians as proposing a single divine being that is constituted of parts and in this manner akin to composite living beings. Further, Athenagoras might have the Stoics in mind as well, who held that the cosmos is a living being ordered with reason16 and is thus ensouled, rational and intelligent (ζῷον … λογικὸν καὶ ἔμψυχον καὶ νοερόν).17 God is the active, life-giving and rational principle which permeates the cosmos and is immanent within it.18 While God remains for the Stoics the active principle, Stoic physics in an important sense identifies God with the cosmos – the living organism itself19 – with the result that God in this account could be pictured as an ‘intellectual body’, which makes him into a composite of form and matter.20 15

Leslie W. Barnard, Athenagoras: A Study in Second Century Christian Apologetic, Théologie historique 18 (Paris, 1972), 89. 16 Diogenes Laertius, Vitae Philosophorum, 7.138-9. 17 Diogenes Laertius, Vitae Philosophorum, 7.142-3. 18 This is a complex matter and there is no need for us to get into the details here. See A.A. Long and D.N. Sedley (eds), The Hellenistic Philosophers, Volume 1: Translations of the Principal Sources with Philosophical Commentary (Cambridge, 1987), 268-79 for the details; See also JeanBaptiste Gourinat, ‘The Stoics on Matter and Prime Matter: “Corporealism” and the Imprint of Plato’s Timaeus’, in Ricardo Salles (ed.), God and Cosmos in Stoicism (Oxford, 2009), 46-70, 50-1. 19 Diogenes Laertius, Vitae Philosophorum, 7.147-8. 20 This is indeed how some Platonists criticised the Stoic doctrine. See Michael J. White, ‘Stoic Natural Philosophy (Physics and Cosmology)’, in Brad Inwood (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics (Cambridge, 1999), 124-52, 129-30.

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Regardless of the exact identity of Athenagoras’ target, according to him the picture of a divine organism constituting multiple parts is problematic because it proposes a false account of unity which treats the unity of God as in the case of wholes that are composed of parts.21 Since God is not created and perishable, divine unity is not like the unity in Socrates or other created beings because God is simple. We can put the argument in the following form: (P1): Only generated things can be composite and are constituted of parts. (P2): God is ungenerated and ontologically unlike generated things (such as Socrates). Therefore, (C): God is simple without compositions. Athenagoras’ understanding is grounded on the common philosophical assumption in his time that there is an intrinsic connection between being generated (or coming into existence) and composition. What is generated is also composite (συγκείμενος) and divisible into parts (διαιρούμενος εἰς μέρη). As a result, it is also transient (i.e. perishable).22 When this point is taken for granted, then divine simplicity (the non-composite nature of God) can be used to articulate a distinction between divine and non-divine realities. Since God is not generated, he does not possess the kind of composition exemplified in the case of Socrates. It follows that one cannot consider the divine as an organic unity of different gods on the basis of divine simplicity. Consequently, it cannot be the case that two or more gods exist as complementary parts of a single divine composite organism. The immediate argumentative context of divine simplicity (Leg. 4-12) We can see that divine simplicity serves as a key premise for Athenagoras’ reasoning against a polytheism constructed out of the notion of a composite divine organism. Having examined the way divine simplicity functions in Athenagoras’ argument for monotheism, the next question concerns the status 21 In the Legatio, Athenagoras does not provide us with sufficient details to work out what kinds of parts God lacks. But from the example we are given, namely, the case of Socrates, it seems that the sense of parts sufficient for Athenagoras’ argument is simply parts which result from the process of division. Since God is ungenerated, Athenagoras concludes that God must be one without division because being divisible into parts is a characteristic only for generated beings (see premise 1 of the argument). If we express Athenagoras’ understanding of ‘parts’ with reference to Koslicki’s schema of different senses of ‘parts’ based on Aristotle, K. Koslicki, The Structure of Objects (2008), 139, we can hypothesise that at least option one, two and four in Koslicki’s schema are excluded from God by Athenagoras. 22 G.L. Prestige, God in Patristic Thought (1952), 9-10.

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of the argument itself. Since the language of simplicity is used within the context of an argument and not in a systematic presentation of the Christian faith, this difference in context will have implications for determining the significance of divine simplicity for Athenagoras. At the beginning of Leg. 8, we learn that the argument is intended to help the audience to understand ‘the reasoning of our faith’ (τὸν λογισμὸν ἡμῶν τῆς πίστεως). There are two things we need to note about the notion of reasoning in Athenagoras. First, according to him, if reasoning was the sole basis for the Christian doctrine of God, then the Christian belief can be legitimately called man-made (ἀνθρωπικόν) (Leg. 9.1). Hence for Athenagoras, it is important to differentiate man-made doctrines from those that came from God. For instance, in Leg. 7 he argues that the doctrines of God found in the philosophers and poets are not entirely wrong since they also acknowledge the oneness of God. However, they tried to understand the truth by relying upon their own resources rather than to ‘learn about God from God᾿ (Leg. 7.2). Such an understanding which is not grounded on what God has taught about himself is merely a partial or marginal understanding. But the Christian understanding of God stands on a different basis since it is grounded on the prophets who spoke by the divinely inspired Spirit. As a result, it is not merely human opinions but comes from God. It is therefore clear that for Athenagoras, divine self-communication constitutes a more perfect source of truth about God than human understanding alone. Second, Athenagoras offers Leg. 8 as an argument because the divinelyinspired prophets also affirm the conclusion of the argument grounded on human reasoning. We find this point in Leg. 9. Here, Athenagoras is referring to the affirmation of the oneness of God found in the Jewish Scriptures. He cites four passages that affirm the oneness of God: Bar. 3:36, Isa. 43:10-11, Isa. 44:6 and Isa. 66:1. The first three passages point to God’s oneness as uniqueness, namely, that there is no other god besides him. The final passage points to the supreme authority and self-sufficiency of God. For Athenagoras, all these passages point to the same truth as the human reasoning offered in Leg. 8, namely, that there is one God. So in Athenagoras’ mind, the human reasoning offered in Leg. 8 is useful because it points towards the truth about God – monotheism – that rests on the ground of divine self-communication through the prophets. In light of these two observations, we can say that Athenagoras considers Leg. 8 as setting out a plausible reasoning for the oneness of God. This reasoning offers true understanding, albeit an inadequate one if it is considered as self-sufficient. This kind of reasoning is offered because for Athenagoras, the argument points to the same truth as the self-communication of God through the divinely inspired prophets. It follows from the status of Leg. 8 that divine simplicity functions as part of Athenagoras’ human reasoning about the nature of God. Negatively, the idea is a key theological premise for rejecting particular forms of polytheism. Positively, simplicity is part of the ‘plausible reasoning’

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that lends support to Christian monotheism. Taken together, the primary theological function of divine simplicity for Athenagoras is to add weight to the revealed truth that God is one.

The wider argumentative context of divine simplicity: Leg. 4-31 We can now go further and highlight the significance of divine simplicity for Athenagoras in light of the overall argument in Leg. 4-31. At one level, this section is primarily a defence of Christians against the accusation of atheism.23 But at another level, Athenagoras’ argument in this section identifies a deeper issue, namely, that the accusation of atheism was essentially a critique based on certain theological presuppositions about the identity of gods. For the accusers, Christians deliberately refused to recognise the gods that the cities had recognised and, in this sense, Christians were atheists (Leg. 14.1). But for Athenagoras, the truth is not that Christians recognise no God, but rather that they recognise a different God. This is because Christians are operating with a different standard from their accusers to identify what is divine.24 In Christian theology, it is necessary to postulate an absolute distinction between divine and non-divine realities. Athenagoras first set out this principle in Leg. 4.1: It is so obvious that we are not atheists that it seems ridiculous even to undertake the refutation of those who make the claim … surely it is not rational for them to apply the term atheism to us who distinguish God from matter and show that matter is one thing and God another and the difference between them immense; for the divine is uncreated and eternal and can be contemplated only by thought and reason, whereas matter is created and perishable.

Athenagoras argues that Christians identify God as absolutely distinct from material realities. This is why they refuse to offer sacrifice and to venerate material images because these practices are incompatible with the Christian understanding of divinity. This fundamental principle is what ultimately differentiates the Christian from his accusers. For Athenagoras, the religious practices of the accusers have betrayed a lack of recognition of the absolute distinction between God and non-divine realities and thus possess an inadequate theology. In light of the wider context of Leg. 4-31, divine simplicity has a specific purpose in Athenagoras’ argument. It forms part of his attempt to shape a grammar of divinity that is regulated by the absolute distinction between God and 23 See William R. Schoedel, ‘Christian “Atheism” and the Peace of the Roman Empire’, Church History 42 (1973), 309-19 for a detailed discussion on this issue. 24 This is the undertone throughout Athenagoras’ argument in Leg. 4-31. For a selection of passages that illustrate this point, see Leg. 4.1-2, 10.1, 13.1-4, 15.1-4, 16.1-5, 17.5, 22.8-12. 23.1-7.

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non-divine realities.25 The theological work that divine simplicity accomplishes is to preserve the distinction between God and material realities that are composite. This grammar of divinity enables Athenagoras to develop a response to the charge of atheism that is based on a robust theological foundation. Thus the divine/non-divine distinction and the language of simplicity should not be understood as tools to emphasise a metaphysical picture of God instead of a soteriological one (for example) as is commonly held, but as indispensable tools for developing theological arguments that seek to undermine the presuppositions behind the critique of the Christian faith. Conclusion Athenagoras was writing theology in a context where arguments were needed to respond to objections against Christianity. The language of divine simplicity functions as part of Athenagoras’ ‘plausible reasoning’ against polytheism and points to the Christian belief in the oneness of God. At the specific level, divine simplicity serves as a key premise for Athenagoras to refute a polytheism built on the model of divine organism. At a more general level, the idea offers him a way to regulate theological discourse by the absolute distinction between God and non-divine realities. This strategy in turn enables him to craft a robust overall theological response to the objection of atheism. Returning to the question I raised at the beginning, this brief study suggests that the emergence of divine simplicity in Christian theology may be best understood within the context of the development of Christian theological arguments. The language of simplicity offers early Christian writers tools to construct intelligible arguments to refute objections to Christianity. If this is right, then an adequate account of the emergence of divine simplicity needs to pay careful attention to the development of certain theological arguments in which the language of simplicity appears, and how the language functions in these arguments. As we have seen in Athenagoras, the use of divine simplicity enters early Christian discourse primarily as part of the formation of theological reasoning characterised by two sensibilities: first, the desire to seek rational arguments that point towards the truth taught by revelation and second, the demand for theological discourse about God to be regulated by a clear divine/ non-divine distinction (what I have termed ‘grammar of divinity’ following recent scholarship). On this score, divine simplicity in its simple articulation 25 I use the term ‘grammar’ in the sense that is articulated in L. Ayres, Nicaea (2006), 14-5: ‘a set of rules or principles intrinsic to theological discourse, whether or not they are formulated articulated.’ My claim is that Athenagoras is probing theological issues precisely at this ‘grammatical’ level, discerning that there are different rules for speaking about God operating amongst Christians and their accusers.

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accomplishes these purposes without the need for further analytic precision. So the lesson from our brief study is that the origin of divine simplicity in Christian theology is best understood as emerging not from the desire to construct a systematic Christian theology, but from the need to develop Christian theological argumentations. If the former was the primary context for understanding divine simplicity, then Stead is indeed right in his assessment that the lack of analytic precision on the philosophical content of divine simplicity suggests that the idea was simply adopted from Greek philosophy without much detailed reflections and subsequently conventionalised in Christian theology. However, if the latter was the primary context, then pace Stead, the lack of analytic elaborations should rather prompt us to pay closer attention to the way simplicity facilitates Christian theological argumentations against objections.

Tertullian’s Martyrological Maxim: A Case Study for the Multiple Rhetorical Functions of the Command to ‘Render to Caesar the Things of Caesar and to God the Things of God’ in the Writings of Tertullian1 Simeon BURKE, University of Edinburgh, UK

ABSTRACT This article contributes to the understanding of Tertullian of Carthage’s interpretation of the ‘render’ command by drawing attention to its status as a maxim or sententia. In both Greek and Latin education, the maxim constituted one of the pillars of the moral and pedagogical journey. Viewing the ‘render’ command as a memorable and widely applicable maxim explains the multiple rhetorical functions this saying plays in Tertullian’s works, since the gnomic saying provided a universal command or reflection that the moral agent could apply to a variety of specific situations. The article turns to discuss Tertullian’s most frequent application of the command, which has been neglected by scholars: the aim of inciting his readers to martyrdom.

1. Introduction Scattered throughout the works of the North African writer Tertullian (ca. 155220 CE) are six explicit references to the command to ‘render to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s’ (reddite quae sunt Caesaris Caesari et quae sunt Dei Deo).2 Rather than provide an encyclopaedic discussion of each of these six references, this article seeks to provide a rhetorically sensitive paradigm which highlights the status of the command as a maxim (Gk.: γνώμη; Lat.: sententia) for Tertullian. This paradigm, in turn, explains the multiplicity 1 I am grateful for the feedback, comments and encouragement of Paul Foster, Morwenna Ludlow, Timothy Barnes, Geoffrey Dunn and Benjamin Petroelje. Funding from the Wolfson Foundation made this research possible. 2 The command to ‘render to Caesar and to God’ (referred to hereafter as the ‘render’ command) appears in all three of the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew 22:21, Mark 12:17 and Luke 20:25). The command appears in Tertullian’s works at: De Idololatria 15.3, Scorpiace 14.2, De Resurrectione 22, De Corona 12.4, Adversus Marcionem 4.38.3 and De Fuga in Persecutione 12.10. All references are from Tertulliani Opera, Pars II: Opera Montanistica, Eligius Dekkers et al. (eds), CChr.SL 2 (Turnhout, 1954) (hereafter CChr.SL 2). All translations are my own unless otherwise stated.

Studia Patristica C, 71-81. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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of applications as well as highlights Tertullian’s persistent use of the command to encourage martyrdom. Because of this focus on Tertullian’s martyrological use of the command, the following discussion considers four of his references which, I argue, contain a martyrological thrust: De Idololatria 15.3, Scorpiace 14.2, De Corona 12.4 and De Fuga in Persecutione 12.10. The discussion proceeds in two parts. First, I briefly highlight the insufficiency of current understandings of Tertullian’s use of the ‘render’ command and make the case for a rhetorically-informed account which highlights Tertullian’s multiple applications. Second, I focus on the most frequently occurring rhetorical aim which scholars have also overlooked: Tertullian’s martyrological use of the ‘render’ command. 2. Tertullian and the Maxim The impetus for re-assessing the use of this saying in the writings of Tertullian is threefold. First, a brief look at the commentaries and discussions in the secondary literature reveals some key misunderstandings surrounding Tertullian’s employment of the ‘render’ command. To begin with, the dominant description of Tertullian’s gloss for ‘the things of God’ (quae sunt dei) as the human person (homo) belonging to God requires greater nuance.3 This reading is not so much incorrect as insufficient since it does not consider the rhetorical function of this ‘ontological’ observation. As will be explored below, Tertullian viewed the ‘the things of God’ as the human person chiefly to assert the exclusivity of divine honours. Moreover, this point was logically related to martyrdom, a literal rendering of one’s physical existence to God. These two functions – encouraging the human worship of God and the offering of the human person to God – appear to be linked for Tertullian. The possibility of martyrdom could arise from imperial opposition to the kind of distinction Tertullian raises between divine and human honours. As will be argued in the next section, this holds true from Tertullian’s earliest citation of the command in De Idololatria. Second and relatedly, scholars have failed to note the variety within Tertullian’s application of the command, despite the widely differing contexts in which it appears. Scholars most commonly recognise Tertullian’s use of the command to distinguish between civic and religious responsibilities.4 Yet this 3

See this assertion repeated in Tertullianus De Idololatria, ed. Jan Hendrik Waszink and Jacobus van Winden (Leiden; New York, 1987), 240; Scorpiace, ed. Giovanna Azzali Bernardelli, Biblioteca Patristica 14 (Firenze, 1990), 303-4; Q. Septimi Florentis Tertulliani De corona = Sur la couronne, ed. Jacques Fontaine, Erasme, Collection de textes latins commentés 18 (Paris, 1966), 151-2; De fuga in persecutione, ed. Jean J. Thierry (Hilversum, 1941), 221; Claude Guignebert, Tertullien : étude sur ses sentiments à l’égard de l’Empire et de la société civile (Paris, 1901), 50 n. 4. 4 Jean-Claude Fredouille, ‘Tertullien et l’empire’, Recherches augustiniennes 19 (1984), 126-7. J. Fontaine, Sur la couronne (1966), 152.

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socio-political application is not the only rhetorical role the command plays. Indeed, I suggest that there are at least three additional argumentative contexts in which the command features. First, there is a Christological application of the saying, when Tertullian uses the command to mock the Marcionite deity who possesses no ‘coin’ or humanity of his own.5 Second, in his De Resurrectione, Tertullian employs the first part of the command (‘render to Caesar’) to ridicule ‘heretics’ who consider the resurrection to have already happened.6 And third, and as will be explored in the next section, there is the martyrological use of the command which has been neglected by scholars.7 This leads us to the third, and perhaps most important motivation for this study: Tertullian’s variety in application demands an explanation. Following on from the recent rhetorical turn in studies on Tertullian and patristic biblical exegesis more broadly, it is proposed here that scholars might profitably view the ‘render’ command as a maxim for Tertullian.8 The maxim can be defined as a pithy and memorable ‘moralizing fragment taken from a well-known author’.9 Crucially, maxims were thought to offer highly generalised perspectives on the world or prescriptive advice which the moral agent could then apply more specifically according to the circumstance at hand.10 Perhaps the most relevant source for reconstructing Tertullian’s use of the maxim, apart from Tertullian himself, is the Latin rhetorician Quintilian (ca. 35–100 CE).11 In his highly influential treatise, De Institutione Oratoria, Quintilian demonstrates that the maxim was a mainstay of the student’s pedagogical 5 Tertullian, Contre Marcion. Tome IV, ed. Claude Moreschini and R. Braun (Paris, 2001), 466 n. 1. 6 In De Resurrectione 22 (CChr.SL 2, 949). 7 Two authors have noted the martyrological use of the command although only in passing: René Braun, ‘Christianisme et Pouvoir imperial d’apres Tertullien’, in id. (ed.), Approches de Tertullien: vingt-six études sur l’auteur et sur l’œuvre (1955-1990), Collection des Études augustiniennes, Série Antiquité (Paris, 1992), 65 with reference to De Corona 12.4 and Daniele Pevarello, The Sentences of Sextus and the Origins of Christian Asceticism, Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum 78 (Tübingen, 2013), 125 in De Fuga. My article demonstrates in a more detailed fashion that Tertullian’s martyrological interpretation was there from the earliest reference (De Idololatria), that it continued throughout his works, that it can be explained with reference to the maxim and that it was linked to the idea of the exclusivity of divine worship. 8 On the importance of rhetoric in the works of Tertullian, see Robert D. Sider, Ancient rhetoric and the art of Tertullian (London, 1971); Jean-Claude Fredouille, Tertullien et la conversion de la culture antique (Paris, 1972); Geoffrey D. Dunn, ‘Tertullian’s Scriptural Exegesis in de praescriptione haereticorum’, JECS 14 (2006), 141. 9 Teresa Morgan, Popular Morality in the Early Roman Empire (Cambridge, 2007), 6. I have chosen to describe Tertullian’s use of the command as a maxim rather than its close associate the chreia because whereas with the chreia the speaker was ordinarily referenced, with the maxim this was not generally the case. Moreover, authors frequently presented chreia as brief stories. 10 The relevant handbooks of Theon (1st century) and Hermogenes (3rd century) both stress the universal quality of the maxim which was to then be applied specifically. See T. Morgan, Literate Education (1998), 84-5, 180-2. 11 See earlier, Aristotle, Ars Rhetorica 2.21.

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progression.12 It was with maxims that students began to read and write, with the additional aid of the related chreiai (useful anecdotes), fables and sections of Virgil and Homer.13 The secondary education consisted of the progymnasmata or exercises in prose composition preliminary to the declamation.14 Quintilian’s description follows the basic outline of Theon’s progymnasmata though with adaptations.15 The grammarian was to lead the study of Aesop’s fables before proceeding to examination of the narrative, sententia (or maxim), chreia and the study of lists (aetiology).16 The maxim, as with each exercise of the progymnasmata was a weapon in the orator’s arsenal, ‘always to be kept ready, to be used as the occasion demands’.17 Given Tertullian’s demonstrable rhetorical training as reconstructed elsewhere, it is possible and indeed necessary to examine the command from the perspective of his education.18 Tertullian’s use and adaptation of the maxim ‘time reveals all things’ in his Apologeticum provides a case in point.19 In a discussion concerning the allegedly false rumours brought against Christians, Tertullian asserts that the truth about their innocence will emerge with time since, ‘as your proverbs and maxims testify, time reveals all things’ (omnia tempus revelat, testibus etiam vestris proverbiis atque sententiis). Libanius in his fourth-century Progymnasmata demonstrates that where the maxim does not contain an explicitly moralising message, the student can provide this persuasive function in the concluding epilogue. So, he glosses the maxim, ‘There is need of money, and without it none of our necessities can exist’ with the moralising epilogue, ‘so, if you too, have a passionate desire for success, you must take care of your finances’.20 In the same way, Tertullian annotates the maxim about time with the words, ‘time reveals all things by a provision of Nature, which has appointed things so that nothing is hidden … so that I confidently appeal to Nature herself, ever true, against those who without cause 12 See The Orator’s Education, Volume I: Books 1-2, ed. Donald A. Russell, LCL 124 (Cambridge, Mass., 2002). 13 See Quintilian, Institutio 1.1-2, 10.1. T. Morgan, Literate Education (1998), 3, 72, 191. Quintilian notes the abuses of the maxim as well in Inst. 8.5. 14 Quintilian believed that the rhetor rather than the grammarian should lead most of these exercises (Inst. 1.9). See Ian H. Henderson, ‘Quintilian and the Progymnasmata’, Antike und Abendland 37 (1991), 82-99; Thomas D. Frazel, The Rhetoric of Cicero’s ‘In Verrem’, Hypomnemata 179 (Göttingen, 2009), 52-5. 15 See I.H. Henderson, ‘Quintilian’ (1991) and T.D. Frazel, Rhetoric (2009), 52. 16 Quintilian, Inst. 1.9.2-3. 17 Quintilian, Inst. 2.1.12. 18 Although Tertullian forbade Christians from teaching the encyclical education, he did not prevent Christians from learning its methods. See Idol. 10.5: ‘Fideles magis discere quam docere litteras capit’ (CChr.SL 2, 1109). Tertullian received enough rhetorical training to have been an advocate. See David I. Rankin, ‘Was Tertullian a Jurist?’, SP 31 (1997), 335-42, 342. 19 Apologeticum 7.13 and Ad Nationes 7.6. 20 Craig Gibson, Libanius’s Progymnasmata (Atlanta, 2008), 101, 105.

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hold to such things.’21 Tertullian embellishes the maxim with the clause about Nature to demonstrate that the final appearance of truth is inevitable and divinely ordained. This maxim serves Tertullian’s rhetorical purpose since it persuades his reader to consider the apparently unreasonable nature of the rumours levelled against Christians. Both Sophocles and Aulus Gellius use the same maxim with modifications for different purposes; the former employs it to present Ajax’s realisation that time is both creator and destroyer, and the latter as the basis for exhorting the reader to ‘hide nothing’.22 These and other examples show the adaptability of the gnomic utterance. While scholars have noted Tertullian’s use of pagan maxims, they have only begun to consider whether his use of the words of Jesus might bear any similarity. In his commentary on Tertullian’s Adversus Iudaeos 2.1-6.1, Geoffrey Dunn writes that Tertullian uses the Hebrew Scriptures ‘instead of’ maxims and anecdotes.23 Yet surely if Tertullian’s education in any way resembles what I have outlined above, then he would have adopted the reading strategies which he had learned when reading pagan literature for his reading of scripture. That is, scripture, and Jesus’ sayings more particularly, could just as easily function for Tertullian as maxims.24 Like any good maxim, the ‘render’ command for Tertullian appears to have constituted a highly adaptable saying that could be employed in different contexts to make a variety of different points.25 Theon describes the gnomic saying as ‘universal’ in scope and portraying a general truth which in practice had to be adapted by the reader to the circumstance at hand.26 Naturally, then, the same maxim held multiple applications which differed according to the specific situation in which an author used it.27 Thus, one finds Plutarch in various works using the Delphic maxim ‘Know thyself’ to encourage a diversity of behaviours including not only the more obvious activity of reflection on one’s talents and virtues, but also moderation and terseness in speech.28 The same kind of variation can be found in the use of the ‘render’ command. What has not been adequately noticed in the scholarship 21

Apologeticum 7.14. Sophocles, Ajax 646-7; Aulus Gellius, Attic Nights 12.11-2. 23 Geoffrey D. Dunn, Tertullian’s Aduersus Iudaeos : A Rhetorical Analysis, North American Patristic Society Patristic Monograph Series 19 (Washington DC, 2008), 155. 24 See for Tertullian’s awareness of the terse nature of Jesus’ sayings, De Carne Christi 18.5 (on John 3:6): ‘the Lord himself judicially and categorically stated’ (‘ipse dominus sententialiter et definitive pronuntiavit’, CChr.SL 2, 906). 25 T. Morgan, Popular Morality (2007), 18-9. 26 See Theon in G.A. Kennedy, Progymnasmata (2003), 15: ‘the chreia sometimes states a universal, sometimes a particular, the maxim only a universal’. 27 T. Morgan, Popular Morality (2007), 18: ‘Even proverbs and gnomic sayings may be given different interpretations in different circumstances, and fables and exemplary stories are much more obviously multivalent.’ 28 The application varied from reflection on one’s talents and virtues (Dinner of the Seven Sages 164b), moderation (A Letter to Apollonius 116d) and terseness in speech (On Talkativeness 22

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is one of Tertullian’s most persistent applications of the ‘render’ command – the use of the command to incite his readers to martyrdom. To this task the analysis now turns. 3. A martyrological maxim The first reference to the ‘render’ command appears in Tertullian’s De Idololatria, written ca. 203-6 CE.29 The rhetorical context of the passage, and of the work more broadly, concerns the proper worship of God within the context of perceived idolatry in the world at large, and Roman Carthage more specifically. In De Idololatria 15, Tertullian counters his opponents’ attempts to use the ‘render’ command in defence of participation in pagan festivals and social occasions.30 As with his other references to the saying, Tertullian defines ‘the things of God’ as the ‘the human person’ (homo).31 Tertullian is presumably led to this conclusion by drawing a parallel between ‘the image of Caesar’ on the coin and the reference in Genesis 1:27 where God is said to make mankind in his ‘likeness and image’.32 In the same way that one pays to Caesar the coin that bears his image and so belongs to him, so one gives oneself and one’s worship to God as one who bears God’s image and so belongs to God. The inference to be drawn here is that, for Tertullian, to offer divine honours to the kings and emperors is to commit ‘idolatry’ from which Christians must remain ‘separate’ at all costs.33 Yet in addition to the context of ‘divine honours’, there is also a faint, martyrological quality to Tertullian’s application of the ‘render’ command.34 In fact, the two applications are very much two sides of the same coin. Tertullian clearly envisages points at which the insistence on the exclusive worship of the one God will bring Christians into conflict with Roman society at large. That Tertullian perceives such tension can be seen through the two examples of 511b). T. Morgan, Popular Morality (2007), 18-9 notes that: ‘Plutarch is not unique in using the same quotation more than once in slightly different senses.’ 29 See for support for this date, T.D. Barnes, Tertullian: A Historical and Literary Study (Oxford, 2005), 177 and Tert., De Idololatria (1987), 10-3, 270-3. 30 CChr.SL 2, 1115. 31 CChr.SL 2, 1115. De Resurrectione 22 neither contains ‘the things of God’ nor homo. 32 In three out of the six texts, there is a reference to either ‘the image’ or ‘the likeness’ (De Idol., De Fuga and Adv. Marcionem). 33 De Idololatria 15.9: ‘this requires us to be in obedience, according to the apostle’s precept, “subject to magistrates, and princes, and powers”; but within the limits of the discipline, so long as we keep ourselves separate from idolatry’ (‘sed intra limites diciplinae, quosque ab idololatria separamur’, CChr.SL 2, 1116). 34 As noted above, Waszink and van Winden, Tertullianus De Idololatria (1987), 240, draw attention to the context of honours but do not notice the implied punishment that would follow if the Christian refused to offer this religious act.

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separation from idolatry he then offers from the book of Daniel: Daniel in the lion’s den and the three brothers, Meshach, Shadrach and Abednego who were thrown into the fiery furnace for refusing to bow to the ‘image’ of King Nebuchadnezzar.35 Although these men are rescued before death in the biblical narrative, there is contemporary evidence to suggest that they operated for Tertullian as symbols for the martyr who was vindicated by God after death.36 On this view, Tertullian consciously employs Old Testament figures to suggest that one should be willing to confess Christ, even (or perhaps especially) if this resulted in the threat or reality of death. Thus, the ‘render’ command implicitly acts as a maxim which provides scriptural confirmation not only for Tertullian’s view that worship and divine honours belong to God alone, but also for his implicit awareness that martyrdom was a genuine reality for those who held to this position.37 One finds more explicit evidence of this kind of martyrological logic in Scorpiace 14.2.38 At face value, Tertullian uses the command to distinguish between the honours or respect one gives to Caesar and the divine honours one gives to God. When he comes to the ‘render’ command, Tertullian states rather starkly, ‘but the human person [homo] belongs to God’. Tertullian glosses this reference through citing 1Peter 2:17 (‘honour the emperor, fear God’) which he uses to assert God’s exclusive claim to divine honours: ‘the king should indeed be honoured as king such that he is honoured only if he pursues his own proper interests, when he is far from divine honours (divinis honoribus)’.39 Since the human person belongs to God, Tertullian’s logic runs, divine honours belong to God alone. What has not been noticed or discussed in the commentaries on Scorpiace, is that making this distinction could lead to one becoming a martyr. It is worth noting that martyrdom is front and centre of Tertullian’s rhetorical agenda in this work. Tertullian’s stated aim is to refute certain Gnostics who were teaching that martyrdom is not part of God’s will and so is neither necessary nor good for the Christian.40 These individuals appear to have argued that martyrdom 35 Daniel 6:10-23; Daniel 3:1-30. De Idol. 15.9: ‘honorem imaginis eius constantissime respuerunt’ (CChr.SL 2, 1117). 36 Further support for this reading is found in both the interpretation of the Carthaginian Bishop, Cyprian (ca. 200-58 CE, ‘the dignity of the youths’ martyrdom was in no way diminished simply because they emerged unscathed’, Cyprian, Ep. 61.2) as well as its pictorial representation at the Catacombs of Priscilla in Rome and elsewhere. See Robin M. Jensen, Understanding Early Christian Art (London, 2007), 79-82. 37 It is significant that Tertullian cites the ‘render’ command within his confirmatio, the section of a piece of forensic rhetoric towards the end of the works which provides textual support for one’s argument. 38 On the date, I follow T.D. Barnes, Tertullian (2005), 34-5, 172. 39 Scorpiace 14.3 (CChr.SL 2, 1096). 40 Scorpiace 2.1 (CChr.SL 2, 1071). Valentinus is mentioned at 10.1, along with Prodicus in 15.6 and Valentinians are referenced in 1.5.

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contravenes the obedience prescribed by scripture since one was ordered there to ‘be subject to the powers’ (Romans 13:1) and to ‘render to Caesar what is Caesar’s’.41 Tertullian’s response in chapter 14 is that one is to be subject to the powers ‘not as an opportunity for eluding martyrdoms but as a challenge to live well’.42 Tertullian comes close to explicitly endorsing martyrdom here, and maintains that the command to be ‘subject’ does not allow one to avoid suffering on account of Christ. Thus, if one considers that the purpose of Scorpiace was to defend the practice and necessity of martyrdom, then Tertullian’s martyrological use of the command finds clear explanatory power.43 Furthermore, one finds more than an echo of martyrdom in the prohibition Tertullian raises at the end of this chapter against loving ‘one’s own life’ more than God.44 Thus, Tertullian uses the command both to negate the king’s attempt to demand ‘divine honours’, and to encourage the Christian to avoid such idolatry with the expectation that this would result in the loss of one’s very life.45 Turning to De Corona, the third work in which the ‘render’ command features, Tertullian offers a response to a specific set of events.46 He recounts an episode in which a Christian soldier in Roman Carthage has rejected the military crown or laurea and the donation of money during an event that celebrated the accession of two co-emperors, probably Caracalla and Geta in 211 CE.47 Tertullian writes to praise and defend the soldier whose refusal appears to have resulted in eventual martyrdom and to rebuke fellow Christians who appear to have complained that the soldier’s action had resulted in their subsequent maltreatment as Christians.48 Tertullian presents these Christians as citing the ‘render’ command in support of continuing to wear the crown. Once again, there appears to have been an exegetical tussle over the proper interpretation of the ‘command’, as shown by Tertullian’s response. Will it be ‘You cannot serve God and mammon’, to devote your energies to mammon, and to depart from God? Will it be ‘Render to Caesar the things which are Caesar’s, 41

Scorpiace 14.2 (CChr.SL 2, 1096). Scorpiace 14.2 (CChr.SL 2, 1096): ‘ita non in occasione frustrandi martyrii ... sed in provocatione bene vivendi’. 43 On the purpose of the work, see G.D. Dunn, Tertullian (2004), 75. 44 ‘It will not be permitted to love another above God, not even life’ (Scorpiace 14.3: ‘Ceterum super deum diligere nec animam licebit…’, CChr.SL 2, 1096). 45 Tertullian in De Patientia 13.6, Scorp. 1.11 and Ad Uxorem 1.3.4 appears to have condoned flight in certain circumstances. See T.D. Barnes, Tertullian (2005), 176-7 who notes a development between Scorpiace and Ad Uxorem 3. 46 I follow J.H. Waszink and J. van Winden, Tertullianus, De idololatria (1987), 270-3 in dating De Corona later than De Idololatria. 47 ‘Proxime factum est: liberalitas praestantissimoram imperatorum expungebatur in castris, milites laureati adibant’ (De Corona 1.1) (CChr.SL 2, 1039). 48 The soldier appears to have been awaiting sentence in prison (‘donatiuum Christi in carcere expectat’, De Corona 1.3, CChr.SL 2, 1040). 42

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and to God the things which are God’s’, not only not to render the human being to God, but even to take the denarius from Caesar?49

Tertullian accuses his opponents of inverting the meaning of the ‘render’ command, as well as the mammon saying. To wear the crown and receive the donation is to fail to render oneself to God and is to ‘take’ (auferre) money from Caesar, rather than ‘rendering’ it to him. Once more, although more implicitly on this occasion, Tertullian draws out the connection between the exclusivity of divine honours and the potentially fatal consequences of maintaining this distinction. One witnesses the mortal results of denying the crown in Tertullian’s description of the soldier in the opening scene of the work. Having removed the laurel, the soldier now stands ‘purple-clad with the hope of his own blood (sanguinis)’ and ‘crowned more worthily with the white crown of martyrdom (martyrii candida melius coronatus)’.50 This soldier is, for Tertullian, the perfect example of what it means to fulfil the ‘render’ command precisely because he offers himself to God in martyrdom and refuses the idolatrous laurea. In exchange for his confession, he receives the heavenly crown of the martyr. The final case of Tertullian’s martyrological use of the ‘render’ command appears in what is probably the latest of his works to contain the ‘render’ maxim, De Fuga in Persecutione. In this work, Tertullian opposes those who defend flight from persecution and martyrdom by either physical or monetary means.51 He is equally insistent that since the human person is ‘God’s money’, stamped with God’s ‘likeness and inscription’, there are duties that the Christian must render to God. Yet Tertullian not only stresses the duty of exclusive Christian worship of God in this text, but also the necessary obligation to martyrdom, the shedding of blood. But what do I owe God … but the blood which his own Son shed for me? Now if I owe God, indeed a human being and my own blood (hominem et sanguinem) I am surely guilty of cheating God if I do my best to withhold my payment.52

For the first time, Tertullian’s application is explicitly and forcefully martyrological in nature, as he explicitly defines the ‘things of God’ as ‘blood’ (sanguinem).53 The possibility of rendering one’s very life as a result of distinguishing between divine and imperial honours no longer remains a potential 49

De Corona 12.4 (CChr.SL 2, 1059). De Corona 1.3: ‘ut de martyria candida laurea melius coronandus…’ (CChr.SL 2, 1040). 51 De Fuga 1.1 (CChr.SL 2, 1135). Cf. De Corona 1.5 where he promises to treat this question (CChr.SL 2, 1040-1). See for the date of ca. 211-2 CE, T.D. Barnes, Tertullian (2005), 177. 52 De Fuga 12.10 (CChr.SL 2, 1153): ‘Quid autem Deo debeo … nisi sanguinem, quem pro me filius fudit ipsius? Quodsi Deo quidem hominem et sanguinem meum debeo…’ 53 For the meaning of the curious phrase ‘sanguinem, quem pro me filius fudit ipsius’ see Wiebke Bähnk, Von der Notwendigkeit des Leidens: Die Theologie des Martyriums bei Tertullian, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte 78 (Göttingen, 2001), 152. 50

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outcome but becomes a necessary reality. It is inconceivable that the human person should fail to ‘repay’ God, who gave his own Son’s blood for humanity, by withholding his own self and by purchasing his own freedom. To do so would be to ‘bargain’ with and ‘undervalue’ Christ’s blood.54 Instead, the death of Christ is now a moral example to follow. This can be seen in a striking passage mid-way through the work, in which Tertullian forcefully exhorts the reader to ‘seek not to die on bridal beds, nor in miscarriages, nor in soft fevers, but to die the martyr’s death, that he may be glorified who has suffered for you’.55 The repayment to God of one’s very life constitutes a virtue that must be actively sought by the Christian in conscious imitation of Christ. In De Fuga 12, the ‘render’ maxim becomes an essential part of Tertullian’s exegetical arsenal and martyrological logic. In sum, the discussion of these four texts above demonstrates that, for Tertullian, the ‘render’ maxim (1) distinguishes between the divine honours one owes to God and the respect to be given to Caesar and (2) underscores that martyrdom is a potential outcome of upholding such a distinction. In his earlier works, the martyrological function of the command is implicit. By De Fuga, however, Tertullian takes these faint suggestions to their radical conclusion through defining ‘the things of God’ with explicit reference to ‘blood’ offered to God in martyrdom.56 Yet throughout the four works, the martyrological application of the command remains a constant element. As such, Tertullian’s martyrological application of the ‘render’ command should now be integrated into contemporary accounts of his use of this text, as well as his understanding of martyrdom. 4. Conclusions In summary, this article has sought to clarify the current understanding of Tertullian’s reading of the ‘render’ command and provide a more cohesive paradigm that is suggested by the author’s rhetorical awareness. The multiplicity of Tertullian’s applications of the command emerges: the ‘render’ command was a Christological sententia, a gnomic saying that distinguished between divine and human honours and, perhaps above all, a martyrological maxim. This need not lead us to think that Tertullian was purely opportunistic in his use of scripture or that the ‘render’ command signified so many things that it eventually meant nothing at all to him. More generally, while the maxim could 54

De Fuga 12.3 (CChr.SL 2, 1150). De Fuga 9.4 (CChr.SL 2, 1147). This is offered as a revelatory saying of the Paraclete. 56 The reason for Tertullian’s intensifying views on martyrdom ventures beyond the scope of this article. Suffice to say that Tertullian remained consistent on the necessity of martyrdom. It was instead on the issue of flight that he shifted, see n. 45 above and T.D. Barnes, Tertullian (2005), 176-7. 55

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make different points in different contexts, it was most often used to make ‘one point on any one occasion’, as Teresa Morgan has astutely noted.57 Morgan’s point might require slight nuancing since in our case Tertullian could embellish the ‘render’ maxim to make multiple, logically-related points in the same work. As I have sought to demonstrate, for Tertullian, rendering one’s blood in martyrdom was a real possibility for the one who distinguished between divine honours (‘the things of God’) and obedience to the imperial officials (‘the things of Caesar’). The two applications were bound up tightly together. Above all, this analysis reveals that Tertullian was a master of the maxim. The study of rhetoric has already offered great gains to the examination of Tertullian’s writings. It is hoped that this article will provide both the impetus and methodological framework for further exploration of Tertullian’s use of scripture, and particularly his employment of the sayings of Jesus as maxims.

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T. Morgan, Popular Morality (2007), 21.

Clement of Alexandria’s Conflicted Reception of ‘Children’ and ‘Fear’ Paul HARTOG, Des Moines, USA

ABSTRACT Throughout the first book of Clement of Alexandria’s Paedagogus, tensions surface in his discussions of ‘children’ (παῖδες) and ‘fear’ (φόβος). This study examines Clement’s creative interpretation of biblical imagery, investigates his modified retention of ‘children’ and ‘fear’ language, and describes the socio-cultural pressures he faced. Previous scholars have interpreted Clement’s materials by identifying specific opponents, especially ‘gnostic’ rivals who contrasted ‘child-like’ Christians with mature, enlightened individuals. To a lesser degree, scholars have also noted the sharp criticisms of the philosopher Celsus, who claimed that Christians could only persuade ‘slaves, women and children’. This study will add further interpretative layers, as tensions also arose between Clement’s biblical imagery of Christians as ‘children’ and the broader socio-cultural environment, including condescending social attitudes toward children. Furthermore, Clement was caught between the Judaeo-Christian emphasis upon ‘the fear of the Lord’ and GrecoRoman philosophical conventions which opposed fear as an ‘irrational passion’. Clement’s missional tactics were thus formed within a gauntlet of varying and competing forces arising from his relationship to the Hebrew Scriptures, the developing Christian heritage, specific religious opponents, conventional philosophical assessments, and broad socio-cultural pressures.

Clement of Alexandria’s Paedagogus rehearses the notion of παιδεία under the tutelage of the Logos (Jesus Christ). In such a context, παιδεία is ‘the imparting of the truth that will guide us correctly to the contemplation of God, and a description of holy deeds that endure forever’ (I.7.54).1 Throughout Clement’s discussion of παιδεία, certain tensions appear in his use of παῖδες (‘children’) and φόβος (‘fear’). The purpose of this study is to describe these tensions, to ascertain their possible causes, and to discuss the resultant creativity of Clement’s appropriation. Clement asserts that the aim of the Educator (παιδαγωγός) is ‘to improve the soul, not just to instruct it; to guide to a life of virtue, not merely to one of 1 English translations of the Paedagogus come from Simon P. Wood (ed.), Clement of Alexandria: Christ the Educator, FC 23 (New York, 1954). English translations of the Stromateis come from John Ferguson (ed.), Clement of Alexandria: Stromateis, Books One to Three, FC 85 (Washington, 1991).

Studia Patristica C, 83-92. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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knowledge’ (I.1.1).2 The opening sentences of chapter five of the first book of the Paedagogus provide a brief outline of the materials to come: ‘That education (παιδαγωγία) is the training given children (παῖδες) is evident from the name. It remains for us to consider who the children (παῖδες) are as explained by the Scriptures and, from the same Scriptural passages, to understand the Educator (παιδαγωγός)’ (I.5.12). Clement thus informs readers that he will identify and characterise the children (παῖδες), and then he will identify and characterise the Educator (παιδαγωγός). The Παῖδες Clement begins with the children.3 In brief, ‘We are the children’ (Paed. I.5.12). All new converts are called ‘babes’ and all believers are ‘children’.4 God has granted Christians a ‘new birth’ and adopted them as sons (I.5.11). First, the Gospels refer to believers as children: ‘Unless you turn and become like little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven’ (I.5.12; see Matt. 18:3).5 Second, Clement cites the Hebrew Scriptures: ‘Praise the Lord, O children, praise the name of the Lord’ (I.5.13; see Ps. 112:1).6 Third, Clement later examines the Apostle Paul’s remarks in 1Cor. 3:2 (I.6.34).7 Clement’s labelling of Christians as ‘children’ leads to a dilemma; Is such a name derogatory?8 Clement maintains that Jesus did not use ‘little child’ of 2 A παιδαγωγός took children to school and assisted with their education. For an overview, see Christian Laes, Children in the Roman Empire: Outsiders Within (Cambridge, 2011), 113-22. Clement’s specific use of παιδαγωγός highlights ‘moral training’ and ‘an education of character’, S.P. Wood, Clement of Alexandria (1954), xiv. See Werner Jaeger, Early Christianity and Greek Paideia (Cambridge, 1961), 46-62. 3 Discussions of Clement’s use of παῖδες appear in Gustave Bardy, Clément d’Alexandrie (Paris, 1926), 142-8; Friedrich Quatember, Die christliche Lebenshaltung des Klemens von Alexandreia nach seinem Pädagogus (Vienna, 1946), 95-108; Henri Irénée Marrou (ed.), Le Pédagogue I, trans. M. Harl, SC 70 (Paris, 1960), 23-9; Olivier Prunet, La morale de Clément d’Alexandrie et le Nouveau Testament (Paris, 1966), 136-8; J.P. Broudéhoux, Mariage et famille chez Clément d’Alexandrie (Paris, 1970), 157-66. 4 Clement addresses his readers as ‘children’ in Paed. I.1.1; I.2.4; see also I.7.59. 5 These words ‘recommend the simplicity of childhood for our imitation’ (Paed. I.5.12). 6 For a discussion of other biblical texts that Clement used in this section, see G. Bardy, Clément d’Alexandrie (1926), 143-8. 7 See Annewies van de Bunt, ‘Milk and Honey in the Theology of Clement of Alexandria’, in Hans Jörg Auf der Maur, Leo Bakker, Annewies van de Bunt, Joop Waldram (eds), Fides Sacramenti Sacramentum Fidei (Assen, 1981), 27-39; Dawn LaValle, ‘Divine Breastfeeding: Milk, Blood and Pneuma in Clement of Alexandria’s Paedagogus’, JLA 8 (2015), 322-36. For a careful analysis of Clement’s creative (if forced) use of this text, see Denise Kimber Buell, Making Christians: Clement of Alexandria and the Rhetoric of Legitimacy (Princeton, 1999), 136-45, 152-4. 8 Buell notes Clement’s ‘damage control’ as ‘he seeks to manage a potentially negative view of childhood’ (ibid. 136).

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‘one who has not yet reached the use of reason because of his immaturity, as some have thought’ (I.5.16). He insists that the term ‘children’ is not a reference to ‘lacking intelligence’ (I.5.19). As a counter-argument, he employs an interesting (though not very credible) etymology (I.5.19).9 The term infant (νήπιος), which is used of new Christians, does not come from νήπιον (which could mean ‘immature’, ‘infantile’, ‘simple’, ‘silly’, or ‘foolish’) but from ἤπιος (meaning ‘tender-hearted’).10 The ‘infant’ Christian, therefore, is gentle and meek, not ignorant. Believers are to be ἀφελής (‘simple’), ἄκακος (‘innocent’), and ἄχραντος (‘undefiled’). Clement also provides ‘another and even greater support’ (I.5.24). The Lord himself bears the epithet of ‘Child’ (see Isa. 9:6-7). Jesus was called ‘Son’ at his baptism, and since he did not lack knowledge or any other imperfection, filial terms are not necessarily derogatory (I.6.25). Moreover, baptism was commonly termed ‘illumination’, signifying an enlightenment that overcomes the darkness of ignorance (I.6.26). Clement maintains that even if ‘children’ implies simplicity, it is not a simplicity of understanding but a simplicity regarding habits of folly. Therefore, ‘The word ‘childish’ can signify these two different things, one good and one bad’ (I.6.33).11 Clement appeals to 1Cor. 14:20: ‘Brothers and sisters, do not be children in your thinking. Instead, be infants in evil, but in your thinking be mature’ (I.6.33).12 Finally, Clement contends that ‘children’ can be used in another way: ‘those who live by the Law are childish in the sense that they are subject to fear, like children afraid of ghosts’ (I.6.33). ‘Children’, then, are those under the Law. But ‘men’ are those under faith (I.6.33). Those ‘who are subject to faith’ are mature and are called ‘sons’, while those ‘who live by the Law’ are ‘little ones’ and are ‘subject to fear and to sin’ (I.6.34). Clement cites Gal. 4:7: ‘So you are no longer a slave but a son, and if you are a son, then you are also an heir through God.’13 Such an explanation causes Clement to undertake some rather creative exegesis. Within the context of using the χαρίσματα in love, Paul states, ‘When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. But when I became an adult, I set aside childish ways’ (1Cor. 13:11). Paul clearly 9 Clement used questionable and fallacious etymologies elsewhere (see Paed. I.6.41; I.6.46; I.6.48; II.2.26). See Annewies van den Hoek, ‘Etymologizing in a Christian Context: The Techniques of Clement of Alexandria and Origen’, Studia Philonica Annual 16 (2004), 122-68. 10 ‘Clement falsely derives the word for “little one” (nēpios) from nē- (‘new’) and ēpios (“gentle”)’, S.P. Wood, Clement of Alexandria (1991), 19 n. 33. 11 ‘Clement negotiates between a negative and positive view of childhood’, D.K. Buell, Making Christians (1999), 115. 12 Biblical quotations come from the New English Translation (NET). Clement also cites Rom. 16:19: ‘But I want you to be wise in what is good and innocent in what is evil’ (Paed. I.5.19). 13 See Paed. I.6.34.

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uses the natural development from childhood to adulthood as an analogy. But Clement interprets Paul’s passage in this manner: ‘When I was a child’, that is, when I was a Jew (he was a Hebrew from the first), ‘I thought as a child’, since I followed the Law; ‘Now that I have become a man’, no longer thinking the things of a child – that is, of the Law – but those of a man – that is, of Christ who is, as I remarked before, the only one Scripture considers a man – ‘I put away the things of a child’. (I.6.34).

Therefore, ‘childhood’ is related to the Law and ‘manhood’ to faith in Christ. This reasoning would seem to place Clement in his own self-imposed contradiction.14 Earlier, he spoke of ‘children’ as those converted to Christ. Now these are the ‘men’, while those under the Law are the ‘children’. How could Clement reconcile such argumentation with the Pauline passage he quotes elsewhere: ‘For in Christ Jesus you are all sons of God through faith’ (Gal. 3:26)?15 Clement recognises that the New Testament documents themselves use the term ‘children’ both positively and negatively.16 Although children’s innocence is extolled, their gullibility is not (1Cor. 14:20, cited in Paed. I.6.33). As Ephesians exhorts, ‘We should no longer be infants, tossed to and fro and blown around by every wind of teaching’ (Eph. 4:14, cited in Paed. I.5.18). But Clement seems pressured into forced argumentation by some form of opposition. Against whom is he reacting when he defends the labelling of Christians as ‘children’ in such an inventive manner?17 He began this section by arguing that ‘children’ does not imply a limited understanding ‘as some have thought’ (I.5.16). He castigates the ‘carping critics’ who ‘decry childlikeness’ and ‘call us simpleminded’ (I.5.20; I.6.25). Later, he refers to ‘some’ who claim to reveal secrets (προσφιλονεικεῖν), insisting that ‘solid food’ is ‘spiritual knowledge’ (πνευματικὴ ἐπίγνωσις) but are really ‘carried away by their boastful wisdom (σοφία), contrary to the simple truth’ (I.6.39). Who are these implied disputants? A clue appears when Clement states, ‘We are children and little ones, but certainly not because the learning we acquire is puerile or rudimentary, as those puffed up in their own knowledge (γνῶσις) falsely charge’ (I.6.25).18 Furthermore, ‘children’ are not to be differentiated on account of ‘secret teaching’ for 14 For a discussion of other argumentative tensions in this section, see D.K. Buell, Making Christians (1999), 143-4. 15 Paed. I.6.31. 16 See Judith M. Gundry-Volf, ‘The Least and the Greatest: Children in the New Testament’, in Marcia J. Bunge (ed.), The Child in Christian Thought (Grand Rapids, 2001), 29-60. 17 Clement’s discussion is ‘essentiellement polémiques’, J.P. Broudéhoux, Mariage et famille (1970), 159. On the polemics of this and related passages, see Pierre T. Camelot, Foi et Gnose: Introduction à l’étude de la connaissance mystique chez Clément d’Alexandrie (Paris, 1945), 43-8; Denis Buell Kimber, ‘Producing Descent/Dissent: Clement of Alexandria’s Use of Filial Metaphors as Intra-Christian Polemic’, HTR 90 (1997), 89-104. 18 See also Strom. III.18.109.2.

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the ‘more mature’ (I.6.33). The ‘illuminated’ are not distinguished as a separate class. ‘It is not, then, that some are enlightened Gnostics19 and others are only less perfect Spirituals (ψυχικοί) in the same Word, but all, putting aside their carnal desires, are equal and spiritual before the Lord’ (I.6.31; see also I.6.52).20 All the baptised are ‘enlightened’, and all who have believed by the Holy Spirit are πνευματικοί (I.6.36).21 ‘When we are baptised, we are enlightened; being enlightened, we become adopted sons; becoming adopted sons, we are made perfect; and becoming perfect, we are made divine’ (I.6.26).22 These references to γνῶσις, ‘secret teaching’, and the differentiation of the specially illuminated all point to so-called ‘gnostic’ emphases.23 John Ferguson argues that ‘The whole of this section is directed against Gnostic claims.’24 Elsewhere in his writings, Clement explicitly battled against the adherents of Basilides and Valentinus.25 And he composed Excerpta ex Theodoto as a response to the teachings of Theodotus, a Valentinian. Such so-called ‘gnostics’ apparently used the designation of ‘children’ to deride the perceived lesser quality of Clement’s followers. Various ‘gnostic’ sects seem to have used παῖδες of ordinary Christians who knew only the rudiments, in contrast with the enlightened few who had attained a perfect knowledge. For this reason, Clement emphasises the illumination and perfection all believers received at baptism.26 Commentators normally end their investigation here, but it is also possible that Celsus’ critiques helped provoke Clement’s defensive stance.27 Salvatore Lilla has persuasively argued that Clement was aware of Celsus’ work, at least The single word γνωστικοί stands behind the phrase ‘enlightened Gnostics’. ‘Il s’agit donc de confondre les gnostiques, qui prétendent posséder une conniassance supérieure des choses divines, et vouent au mépris les “psychiques” ou débutants dans la foi’, J.P. Broudéhoux, Mariage et famille (1970), 159. Clement countered with his own understanding of a ‘true Gnostic’, see J.L. Kovacs, ‘Divine Pedagogy’ (2011), 4. 21 See D.K. Buell, Making Christians (1999), 133, 139. 22 See Piotr Ashwin-Siejkowski, Clement of Alexandria: A Project of Christian Perfection, T&T Clark Theology (London, 2008). 23 For an overview of Clement and ‘gnosticism’, see Walther Völker, Der wahre Gnostiker nach Clemens Alexandrinus (Berlin, 1952); André Guillaumont, ‘Le Gnostique chez Clément d’Alexandrie et chez Évagre le Pontique’, in ΑΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΙΝΑ: Héllenisme, Judaisme et christianisme à Alexandrie (Paris, 1987). For inherent problems with the labels ‘gnostic’ and ‘gnosticism’, see Michael A. Williams, Rethinking ‘Gnosticism’: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (Princeton, 1996). 24 John Ferguson, Clement of Alexandria (New York, 1974), 75. ‘The Gnostics are never far from his mind’ (ibid. 78). 25 Strom. II.3.10.1-2; II.6.27.2; II.8.36.1-2; II.20.112.1; II.20.114.3; II.20.115.1; II.20.113.2-3; III.1.1.1; III.1.3.3; III.4.29.3; III.7.59.3; III.13.92.1; III.17.102.3. 26 ‘It seems, however, that the perfection in baptism of which Clement speaks, is not so much an actual as a prospective perfection – the commencement of a perfection to be hereafter accomplished’, John Kaye, Some Account of the Writings and Opinions of Clement of Alexandria (London, 1890), 30. See Paed. I.6.29. 27 Celsus was an eclectic Platonist philosopher who wrote On the True Doctrine, an antiChristian polemical work. 19

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when he wrote the Stromateis.28 Celsus characterised Christians as ignorant and childlike, and he accused them of being uneducated, undiscerning, and gullible. At one point he lambasted them: Just as the charlatans of the cults take advantage of a simpleton’s lack of education to lead him around by the nose, so too with the Christian teachers: they do not want to give or to receive reasons for what they believe. Their favourite expressions are ‘Do not ask questions, just believe!’ and: ‘Your faith will save you!’ ‘The wisdom of this world’, they say, ‘is evil; to be simple is to be good’.29

Celsus mocked the simplicity of Christianity and maintained that Christians were only able to recruit the foolish, the silly, slaves, women, and children (Origen, Against Celsus, III.59; see also III.44). Celsus’ accusations stung sharply in a Greco-Roman context that viewed children as physically weak, hampered by passions, and lacking in courage and rationality (logos).30 The Παιδαγωγός and Φόβος The first book of Clement’s Paedagogus subsequently turns from the παῖδες (‘children’) to the παιδαγωγός (‘instructor’ or ‘educator’). ‘If we would follow right order, we should now speak of the Educator (παιδαγωγός) of little ones and explain who He is’ (I.7.53). In short, ‘He is called Jesus’ (I.7.53).31 We have noted that Clement faced a tension in labelling Christians as παῖδες, which might imply that they were intellectually simplistic. Clement faces a dilemma regarding the term παιδαγωγός as well, since the ‘instructor’ uses the Law, which results in fear (φόβος): ‘The material He educates us in is fear of God, for this fear instructs us in the service of God, educates to the knowledge of truth, and guides by a path leading straight up to heaven’ (I.7.53). Clement cautions, ‘Thereupon certain persons have arisen denying that the Lord is good, because of the rod and threats and the fear that He resorts to’ (I.8.62). Clement responds in several ways.32 First, fear can be productive in the hands of the Educator who uses ‘all the means at the disposal of His wisdom’ 28 Salvatore R.C. Lilla, Clement of Alexandria: A Study in Christian Platonism and Gnosticism (London, 1971), 34-41. 29 English translation from R. Joseph Hoffmann (ed.), Celsus: On the True Doctrine (New York, 1987), 54. 30 See O.M. Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity (Minneapolis, 2005), 15-22. Children were associated with pueritia amentia, or stupidity (ibid. 17). 31 Clement also calls Jesus the διδάσκαλος. See Judith L. Kovacs, ‘Divine Pedagogy and the Gnostic Teacher according to Clement of Alexandria’, JECS 9 (2001), 3-25, 3-4. 32 According to Clement, Christ’s character ‘is not excessively fear-inspiring, yet neither is it overindulgent in kindness’ (Paed. I.12.98). This balance is necessary, since ‘men always neglect the good that is kind, but serve it with loving fear if it keeps recalling justice’ (I.9.86).

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(I.9.75).33 Clement uses Prov. 1:7 to support his case: The Educator ‘weaves the thread of fear into everything, because “fear of the Lord is the beginning of understanding”’ (I.9.77).34 Second, Clement argues, ‘There are two sorts of fear, one of which is accompanied by reverence (εὐλάβεια).’ Citizens feel this sort of fear ‘toward their rulers if they are good, and we toward God, as well-trained children do toward their father’ (I.9.87). Hatred accompanies the other species of fear, which slaves feel toward their masters, and which the Hebrews felt ‘when they looked on God as their Master and not their Father’ (I.9.87). Third, Clement replies that Christians are no longer under the Law and fear.35 ‘In other times, the older people had an old Covenant: as law, it guided them through fear; as word, it was a messenger. But the new and young people have received a new and young Covenant: the Word has become flesh, fear has been turned into love, and the mystic messenger of old has been born, Jesus’ (I.7.59). Clement argues that the Jews were commanded, ‘Thou shalt fear the Lord thy God’; but Christians are exhorted, ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God’ (I.7.59). Clement does not mention that the command to ‘love the Lord your God’ as found in the Gospels (see Matt. 23:37) is a quotation from the Shema (Deut. 6:5). He also overlooks the importance of fearing God in the New Testament documents, as found in the Gospels (Matt. 10:28), the Pauline collection (2Cor. 7:1; Eph. 5:21), the Petrine corpus (1Pet. 2:17), and the Apocalypse (Rev. 14:7). Once again, we must ask the question: what opponents may have pressed Clement to such argumentation?36 Clement began the section by averring that ‘some’ claim that the God who threatens and causes fear is not good (I.8.62). Clement clearly opposes the views of ‘fear’ espoused by followers of Valentinus and Basilides in Stromateis II.8.37 Nevertheless, Paedagogus may aim at another antagonist as well. Clement emphasises that the just God of the Law and fear is also good, and he argues that the Creator is also the good God (I.8.71-3).38 Therefore, ‘the same person is both just and good, He who is truly God, who is Himself all things, and all things are He, because He is Himself God, the only Good’ (I.9.88).39 ‘Therefore, God is good of Himself, but just for our sake and because He is good’ (I.9.88).40 This defence of the goodness of the just Creator (the God of the Law and the Old Testament) demonstrates that Clement may have also been opposing Marcionites in Paedagogus book 33

J.L. Kovacs, ‘Divine Pedagogy’ (2001), 16. See also Strom. II.7.32-34. 35 See also Origen, Commentary on the Epistle to Romans IX.28.4. 36 See J. Ferguson, Clement of Alexandria (1974), 122-3. 37 John Patrick, Clement of Alexandria (Edinburgh, 1914), 273 n. 5; J. Ferguson, Clement of Alexandria (1974), 122-3. 38 See Eric F. Osborn, Ethical Patterns in Early Christian Thought (Cambridge, 1976), 56. 39 He is ‘the God who is both a good God and a Judge who is not harsh’ (Paed. III.12.101). 40 See Strom. II.8.39.3-4. 34

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one, although he does not mention them by name in the context.41 He was certainly aware of Marcionite doctrines, as he explicitly discusses them elsewhere (Strom. II.8.39; III.3.12). Nevertheless, such religious opposition may not entirely explain Clement’s defence of φόβος.42 ‘Clement belongs to the world he is addressing,’43 and it should come as no surprise that he was aware of philosophical traditions concerning ‘fear’.44 Clement’s Paedagogus explains, ‘The philosophers, for example, maintained that the more generic passions are defined in some such way as this: lust is desire disobedient to reason; fear, aversion disobedient to reason; pleasure, elation of mind disobedient to reason; and grief, depression of mind disobedient to reason’ (I.13.101).45 Stromateis asks, ‘how can the Greeks be right to run down the Law when they themselves have been taught by fear to be slaves to pleasure?’ (II.20.120.4). This estimation of the irrationality of fear is common in the Greco-Roman philosophical tradition.46 In Phaedo 66b-c, Socrates claims that ‘the body fills us with loves and desires and fears and all sorts of fancies and a great deal of nonsense, with the result that we literally never get an opportunity to think at all about anything.’47 The Epicureans regarded desire and fear as the primary hindrances to εὐδαιμονία, and they contrasted fear with ἀταραξία or freedom from disturbance.48 The Stoic sage sought to replace the ‘irrational’ and ‘unruly’ passions of pleasure, fear, and desire with the εὐπάθειαι of joy, cautious courage, and well-wishing.49 Clement’s reference to the teaching of ‘the philosophers’ concerning lust, fear, pleasure, and grief in Paedagogus I.13.101 closely resembles such Stoic teaching. 41 Clement argues that the same God is the origin of both Law and Gospel and cannot be in conflict with himself (Strom. III.12.83; see also II.7.34.4). 42 For in-depth studies of Clement’s relationship to the various philosophical schools, see S.R.C. Lilla, Clement of Alexandria (1971), 9-59; Eugène De Faye, Clément d’Alexandrie: Étude sur les rapports du christianisme et de la philosophie grecque au IIe siècle, 2nd ed. (Paris, 1906); Eric F. Osborn, The Philosophy of Clement of Alexandria (Cambridge, 1957). 43 Henry Chadwick, Early Christian Thought and the Classical Tradition (Oxford, 1984), 36. 44 J. Ferguson, Clement of Alexandria (1974), 122-3. 45 Strom. II.8.40.1: ‘But if fear is a passion, as some insist that fear is a passion, not every fear is a passion.’ 46 In a lengthy discussion of ‘fear’, Lactantius explicitly refers to Plato, Aristotle, the Peripatetics, and the Stoics (Div. inst. VI.13-9). ‘They place dread or fear as the greatest vice, and they hold that it is the greatest weakness of mind. … No one doubts that it is the sign of a timid and weak soul to fear pain, or want, or exile, or prison, or death. Whoever does not shrink from all of these is judged very strong. He who fears God, however, has no fear of all those things’ (VI.17). On fear in Greek philosophy, see David Konstan, The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto, 2006), 129-55; Dana LaCourse Munteanu, Tragic Pathos: Pity and Fear in Greek Philosophy and Tragedy (Cambridge, 2012). 47 English translation from Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns (eds), Plato: The Collected Dialogues (Princeton, 1987), 49. 48 See Diogenes Oenoandensis, Fragmenta 28. 49 See Ludwig Edelstein, The Meaning of Stoicism (Cambridge, 1966), 4.

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But Clement cannot entirely concur with the broad brushstrokes that portrayed fear as irrational passion.50 He is caught between the Greek intellectual heritage and the Judaeo-Christian tradition. ‘To attack fear is to run down the Law, and, therefore, God who gave the Law.’51 The Logos produced the Law, and the Logos by nature is ‘rational’, so the Law cannot be tied to ‘an irrational affection’ (Strom. II.7.32.4-33.2). But what then of the philosophical tradition that labelled fear as ‘an irrational avoidance, a pathological condition’ (II.7.3)? Clement replies that the fear of God removes other fears and works by ‘implanting control of passion through education’ (II.8.39.4). Moreover, ‘the fear of the God who is free from passions is itself free from passions’ (II.8.40.2). These tensions surrounding ‘fear’ arose because Clement lived in a webbing of social-philosophical perspectives, but still had his feet firmly planted in the Judaeo-Christian heritage.52 Therefore, he could not abandon the Hebrew Scripture principle that ‘The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom.’53 Nevertheless, the cultural pressures caused Clement to stress a specific word: ‘The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom.’ Unlike many Jewish and Christian interpreters, Clement stressed that fear was only an introductory disposition that fell away and was replaced by love. Although Clement quotes 1Jn. 4:18 elsewhere (Strom. IV.16; Quis div. salv. 38), he surprisingly does not employ the relevant text in the context of Paedagogus book one, in order to reinforce his argumentation there.54 Clement would have been familiar with socio-cultural attitudes that associated the punishment of children with the instilling of fear.55 Christian Laes notes that discipline was commonly associated with fear: ‘Children were afraid of their stern pedagogue who would not refrain from imposing his authority with force.’56 For example, the Historia Augusta describes a child as one ‘who stands in dread of a guardian, who looks to a nurse, who is in subjection to the blows or the fear of a schoolmaster’s rod’ (Tac. 6.6).57 After surveying Greco-Roman viewpoints, O.M. Bakke declares that children were seen as ‘symbols of human fear’ who are ‘more easily frightened than adults’.58 They were perceived as both ‘weak’ and ‘timorous’.59 50

Strom. II.18.84.2. J. Patrick, Clement of Alexandria (1914), 273. 52 J. Ferguson, Clement of Alexandria (1974), 101. 53 Clement commonly cited Prov. 1:7 (see Paed. I.9.77; Strom. II.7.33.2; II.7.35.5; II.8.37.2). 54 ‘There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears punishment has not been perfected in love’ (1Jn. 4:18). See the relationship of fear and love in Strom. II.12.53.3-4; II.12.55.4. 55 See C. Laes, Children in the Roman Empire (2011), 137-47. 56 Ibid. 137. 57 English translation from David Magie (ed.), The Scriptores Historiae Augustae, LCL (London, 1968), 307. 58 O.M. Bakke, When Children Became People (2005), 18. 59 Ibid. 54. 51

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If Clement’s discussions of παῖδες and φόβος seem somewhat disjointed, one must remember that he felt pressure on several fronts. Clement faced a combination of Basilidean, Valentinian, and perhaps Marcionite opposition. While scholarship has concentrated upon such religious rivals (especially in an attempt to identify ‘gnostic’ opponents), it has tended to overlook the general socio-cultural pressures that Clement faced. The general tenor of Clement’s milieu often disdained children and commonly scorned fear. Of course, the opposition of religious opponents and the tenor of the socio-cultural environment were not mutually exclusive, as the latter would have sharpened the ‘bite’ of the former (i.e., social perspectives underpinned Celsus’ condescending description of the childlike simplicity of Christians).60 In such a socio-cultural context, Clement’s use of ‘children’ as a positive paradigm is ‘striking’, considering the ‘marginal position’ and general qualities associated with children as ‘outsiders within’.61 Clement emerges as an early Christian indebted to biblical metaphorical language yet facing pressures from a complex socio-cultural-philosophical environment inimical to that same imagery.62 Modern interpreters must seek a ‘thicker’ reading of Clement and his opponents by webbing them into these broader dynamics. Clement felt the tug of a milieu that belittled ‘children’ and criticised ‘fear’, but he remained devoted to Judaeo-Christian traditions. This heritage praised the ‘fear of the Lord’ and described believers as ‘sons’ and ‘children’. Clement’s commitments would not allow him to abandon the ‘child’ and ‘fear’ imageries embedded in his foundational materials, such as the Hebrew Scriptures, the Gospels, and the Pauline epistles.

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Eric Osborn asserts that Clement only makes sense when interpreted as an apologist defending along various fronts, E.F. Osborn, Ethical Patterns (1976), 78. 61 O.M. Bakke, When Children Became People (2005), 63, 105. 62 For early Christian contextualization, see W.A. Strange, Children in the Early Church (Carlisle, 1996); Cornelia B. Horn and John W. Martens, ‘Let the Little Children Come to Me’: Childhood and Children in Early Christianity (Washington, 2009); Margaret Y. MacDonald, The Power of Children: The Construction of Christian Families in the Greco-Roman World (Waco, 2014); Thomas Wiedemann, Adults and Children in the Roman Empire (London, 1989), 176-208.

‘For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face’ (1Cor. 13:12). Pauline Reception in Origen’s Commentary on the Song of Songs Lavinia CERIONI, University of Nottingham, UK

ABSTRACT 1Cor. 13:12 is one of the most frequently recurring Pauline verses in Origen’s works and assumes major importance in Origen’s Commentary on the Song of Songs. In this work, focused on the relationship between the human soul and God, Origen is particularly interested in understanding the vision face-to-face, i.e. being in company with God. By acknowledging that human knowledge of God is but a ‘mirror’, Origen explores the ways in which humans can achieve vision of God face-to-face. Since this passage shapes Origen’s thinking, the answer to the question ‘is vision face-to-face possible?’ is multifaceted. This article explores Origen’s understanding of the vision face-to-face from exegetical, anthropological and eschatological perspectives.

Among the many Pauline quotations scattered across Origen’s corpus, 1Cor. 13:12 is one of the most significant. According to the Biblia Patristica, 1Cor. 13:12 is quoted seventy times in Origen’s corpus; in particular, Origen mentions it ten times in his Commentary on the Song of Songs.1 Such abundance of quotations in Origen’s most complex mystical work should not surprise the reader,2 for Origen summarises in it many doctrines that are essential for his theology. For instance, Origen found in 1Cor. 13:12 the idea that despite the imperfection of present human understanding, there will be a time when human knowledge will be able to fully apprehend the divine. Such a notion is essential in Origen’s theology, for he interprets human life as a progressive pedagogical path that will reach its apex in the face-to-face apprehension of 1 Hereafter CCt. Unfortunately, the CCt has not been preserved in Greek but we do possess a Latin translation by Rufinus. Many doubts have been raised concerning Rufinus’ fidelity to the original Greek. It is likely that Rufinus expunged the considerable philological apparatus of the CCt. For the critical edition of the Latin text see Origen, Commentaire sur le Cantique des Cantiques, ed. Marcel Borret, Luc Brésard, and Henri Crouzel, SC 375, 376 (Paris, 1991). For the translation of Origen’s CCt see Robert P. Lawson, The Song of Songs: Commentary and Homilies, Ancient Christian Writers 26 (London, 1957). 2 On the contrary, it has been claimed that 1Cor. 13:12 encompasses most of Origen’s mystical theology. See Manlio Simonetti, ‘La mistica di Origene’, in id., Origene esegeta e la sua tradizione (Brescia, 2004), 29-50, 29.

Studia Patristica C, 93-101. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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God. Since Origen interpreted the love story of Song of Songs as an allegorical representation of the path that leads to the union between the soul – or the totality of souls, the Church – and Christ, it is clear why 1Cor. 13:12 assumes an exceptional value in his CCt. Indeed, Origen associates the union of the soul with Christ with the Pauline vision face-to-face.3 For brevity, I will not discuss here how Origen interprets Paul’s text.4 I will rather focus the attention on how Origen uses this Pauline passage to support his theological investigation in the CCt. More specifically, this article addresses one question: what does the Pauline ‘seeing face-to-face’ mean for Origen? There is no straightforward answer to this question, for the nature of the vision face-to-face is a complex and multifaceted issue that involves several Origenian doctrines. Consequently, only a multi-layered answer, which involves exegetical, anthropological and eschatological perspectives, will provide a satisfactory answer. It will first be necessary to investigate Origen’s use of 1Cor. 13:12 with regard to his hermeneutical and exegetical method. Secondly, his interpretation of this passage will be explored in connection with his anthropology, particularly the permanence of the body in eschatological times. Lastly, the influence of this passage on the eschatological doctrines of Origen will be discussed. 1. The ‘shadow of the Law’ and the ‘shadow of Christ’ The use of 1Cor. 13:12 in an exegetical context mainly involves Origen’s interpretation of the relationship between the Old and New Testaments.5 In an interesting passage commenting on the Bride’s desire to rest in the shadow of the apple tree,6 Origen delineates an opposition between the ‘shadow of the 3

See Origen, CCt I, 4, 9; III, 5, 9; III, 14, 22; IV, 1, 6. Scholarly debate concerning Paul’s influence on Origen’s thought is mostly aligned with affirming the importance of Pauline doctrines for the Alexandrian theologian; see Francesca Cocchini, Il Paolo di Origene: contributo alla storia della recezione delle epistole paoline nel III secolo, Verba seniorum 11 (Roma, 1992). However, a few scholars are more cautious regarding the affinity between Origen and Paul. For instance, Gaetano Lettieri, ‘La Mente Immagine: Paolo, Gli Gnostici, Origene, Agostino’, in Eugenio Canone (ed.), Per Una Storia del Concetto di Mente, Lessico Intellettuale Europeo 99 (Firenze, 2005), 63-122, believes that Origen’s noetic system decreased the charismatic power of Paul’s anthropology. 5 Origen, CCt II, 1, 25; II, 1, 31: III, 5, 15: III, 5, 18. For Origen’s exegesis of Sos, see Christopher J. King, Origen on the Song of Songs as the Spirit of Scripture: The Bridegroom’s Perfect Marriage-Song (Oxford; New York, 2005). 6 Song of Songs 2:3; see Origen, CCt III, 5, 13-15: CCt III, 5, 13-15: ‘Let us also look […] in what sense he (the apostle Paul) declares all the rites of the ancients were an example and ‘shadow of heavenly things’. If that is so, certainly it follows that all who were under the Law and had the shadow of the Law rather than the substance of the true Law, sat under the shadow of the Law. […] Yet, though we are not under that shadow which was cast by the letter of the Law, we are notwithstanding under a better shadow. For we live under the shadow of Christ among the 4

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Law’ and the ‘shadow of Christ’. In his interpretation, those who are resting under ‘the shadow of the Law’ will know only ‘the shadow of heavenly things’.7 Such people only understand the letter that kills, whereas those who are under the ‘shadow of Christ’ will be resting under the Spirit that gives life, thus acknowledging the higher spiritual meanings.8 As long as rational beings are progressing into the ‘shadow of Christ’, they may have the chance to see the truth face-to-face. On the contrary, those who were only under the Law did not have the ability to see the truth plainly, but merely to glimpse it through riddles. In other words, in this passage Origen establishes three oppositions: Shadow of the Law (Hebrew Bible) vs. Shadow of Christ (NT); Letter vs. Spirit; and apprehension through riddles vs. apprehension face-to-face.9 These exegetical oppositions show the soul’s path towards God, which is indeed the journey that will conduct it to vision face-to-face. Since the rational soul needs to earn its union with God, it must overcome the literal meanings of Scripture to unveil the spiritual meanings hidden beneath the Letter. Thus, entering the shadow of Christ means in primis abandoning the literal interpretation of the Scriptures to discover the spiritual sense of the texts, especially where the literal meaning does not make sense. Interpreting the Scriptures literally means understanding ‘through riddles’, whilst recognising the spiritual meaning of the text gets one closer to apprehending God ‘face-to-face’.10 However, from an exegetical perspective, understanding the spiritual meaning only corresponds to vision face-to-face to a certain extent. Acknowledging spiritual meanings gets one closer to God, yet one’s apprehension does not seem to be a permanent possession but rather a temporary glimpse of the profundity of the Logos.11 It is important to remind ourselves once more that, in Origen’s theology, the shift from literal to spiritual understanding is not only an exegetical mechanism, but also the actual path that the soul follows to be united with God. This connection between exegesis and the soul’s journey is stressed several times in Gentiles. And there is a certain progress in coming from the shadow of the Law to the shadow of Christ; […] if we persevere in this way that is Christ, we may be able to achieve the face-to-face apprehension of those things which formerly we had beheld in the shadow and in a riddle.’ 7 Heb. 10:1. 8 2Cor 3:6. For the importance of this passage in Origen, see Morwenna Ludlow, ‘Spirit and Letter in Origen and Augustine’, in Gunter Bader and Paul S. Fiddes (eds), The Spirit and the Letter. A Christian Tradition and a Late-Modern Reversal (London, 2013), 87-102. 9 It is important to note the rhetorical functions of these oppositions; for more details see Morwenna Ludlow, ‘Origen as Preacher and Teacher: A Comparison of Exegetical Methods in His Writings on Genesis and the Song of Songs’, in William J. Lyons and Isabella Sandwell (eds), Delivering the Word: Preaching and Exegesis in the Western Christian Tradition (Sheffield, 2012), 45-61. 10 In Origen’s CCt, most examples of this exegetical mechanism concern the discovery of spiritual meanings in the OT. See also Origen, De Principiis IV, 1, 1-7. 11 As I will explain more in details later, the idea that the vision face-to-face is not a permanent possession is deducible especially from Origen’s explanation of theophanies in CCt I, 1, 11.

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Origen’s CCt,12 as in the case of his exegesis of the darkness of the Bride.13 The journey of an incarnated soul to God begins by progressing through the different levels of understanding14 and ends in achieving the highest possible knowledge, that is, vision face-to-face. Hence, Origen’s interpretation of 1Cor. 13:12 in an exegetical context tells us something about what it means to have a face-to-face vision of God: it is the apex of a long process of apprehension of God that begins with the ability to understand the spiritual meanings of the Scriptures.15 2. When does vision face-to-face happen? Once it is established that vision face-to-face requires the spiritual understanding of Scripture, another question raises spontaneously: when does vision face-to-face happen? The answer to this question is twofold: firstly, one needs to enquire whether human existence in body and soul prevents one’s face-to-face vision of God. Then, one needs to question what the vision face-to-face means at an eschatological level. Despite the fact that it is only briefly mentioned in CCt, the problem of the eschatological destiny of the human body is strictly intertwined with the idea of vision face-to-face, for some Origenian passages suggest that humans cannot achieve vision face-to-face while they are still in a material body.16 Most scholars agree that Origen understood the original and protological creation as the one of rational beings (λογικοί) endowed with spiritual bodies rather than material ones,17 for matter was a consequence of sin.18 Nonetheless, the scholarly 12 In addition to the ones mentioned previously, see Origen, CCt I, 1, 9-11; I, 3, 1-3; II, 8, 21-30; III, 14, 10-5. 13 Song of Songs 1:5, in Origen, CCt II, 1, 1-57. 14 Origen, CCt I, 4, 4; I, 5, 8; II, 2, 12. 15 Origen, CCt III, 11, 14. 16 See Origen, CCt III, 14, 19; IV, 2, 7-8. 17 Origen, De Principiis I, 4, 3-5; V, 1-5; VII, 1-5. See Crouzel, ‘L’anthropologie d’Origène: de l’arché au telos’, in Ugo Bianchi and Henri Crouzel (eds), Arché e Telos: L’antropologia di Origene e di Gregorio di Nissa: Analisi storico-religiosa: Atti del colloquio, Milano, 17-19 Maggio 1979, Studia Patristica Mediolanensia 12 (Milano, 1981), 36-57. However, other scholars have taken opposite positions concerning the bodies: whereas Lettieri believes in the utter reduction of rational creature to a purely spiritual and incorporeal condition, see Gaetano Lettieri, ‘Il Corpo di Dio. La mistica erotica del Cantico dei Cantici dal Vangelo di Giovanni ai Padri’ in id., Materia Mistica. Spirito, Corpi, Segni nei Cristianesimi delle Origini (Roma, 2016), 97-163; Edwards believes that the creation has been of material bodies since the beginning, see Mark J. Edwards, Origen against Plato, Ashgate Studies in Philosophy & Theology in Late Antiquity (Aldershot, 2002). 18 Origen conceived sin as the estrangement of rational creatures from the Logos who created them. Estranging themselves from the participation into the Logos, the logikoi became progressively more material; it is as if their intelligence became more and more opaque while they were abandoning the fullness of the Logos. See Origen, De Principiis I, 4, 1; I, 6, 2; II, 9, 2 and 6.

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debate regarding the eschatological destiny of material bodies is still very much open. The existence of bodies in eschatological times is a complex issue, given that protology and eschatology are speculative in Origen’s theology and that the eschatological moment is the restoration of the protological creation.19 In addition, one should consider that, relying on the story of Genesis, Origen postulates a double creation: that is a two-stage creation of humankind. According to the narrative of Gen. 1:26-7, God created purely rational beings that pre-existed in the Logos and may or may not have had spiritual bodies;20 whereas the body occurred only at a second stage, as it is told in Gen. 2:7. However, the exact nature of the body created in Gen. 2:7 is still a subject of scholarly debate. One of the most compelling hypotheses has been advanced by Simonetti, namely, that Origen interpreted the latter passage as referring to the creation of spiritual bodies, whereas the garment of skin of Gen. 3:21 would be the material body. This conclusion is, however, simply a working hypothesis, for it has so far been impossible to propose conclusive evidence regarding Origen’s understanding of the body.21 Given the assumption that the material body was not contemplated in the protological participation in the Logos and that the vision face-to-face is interpreted as a sort of union with God, should one therefore conclude that the material body prevents vision face-to-face? Origen gives an answer to this problem in CCt III, 14, 19: But that He is said to look ‘through the nets’ of the windows doubtless points to the fact that so long as the soul is in the house of this body (in domo corporis), she cannot receive the naked and plain wisdom of God, but beholds the invisible and the incorporeal by means of certain analogies and tokens and images of visible things. And this is what is meant by the Bridegroom looking at her through the nets of the windows.22 19

Origen, De Principiis I, 6 1-4. Scholars mainly agree that Origen postulated the pre-existence of the soul, with only a few exceptions; see M. Edwards, Origen against Plato (2002), 87-122. 21 See Manlio Simonetti, ‘Alcune osservazioni sull’interpretazione origeniana di Genesi 2,7 e 3,21’, in id., Origene esegeta (2004), 111-22. Simonetti already noted that the theory of two bodies (a spiritual and a material one) is not exempt from theological and scriptural complications: a) If Gen. 2:7 is the creation of spiritual bodies and one has to follow the narrative of Genesis, this creation happened after the fall from Eden; nevertheless, from a theological perspective, the creation of spiritual bodies and the events narrated in Gen. 1:26 and Gen. 2:7 should be contemporary; b) There are only five occurrences of Gen. 3:21 in Origen’s corpus and none of them explicitly addresses the problem of interpreting both Gen. 2:7 and 3:21 as referred to the creation of material bodies. Some scholars have also interpreted Gen. 3:21 as referred exclusively to mortality of the soul: however, I do not believe the few quotations available are enough to corroborate this conclusion. So far in my research, I share Simonetti’s conclusion in this regard. In addition, see Anders Lund Jacobsen, ‘Genesis 1-3 as Source for the Anthropology of Origen’, VC 62 (2008), 213-32 and Alexandra Pârvan, ‘Genesis 1-3: Augustine and Origen on the coats of skins’, VC 66 (2012), 56-92. 22 Origen, CCt III, 14, 19: ‘Quod autem per retia prospicere dicitur fenestrarum, illud sine dubio indicat quod, donec in domo huius corporis posita est anima, non potest nudam et apertam capere Dei sapientiam, sed per exempla quaeda et indicia atque imagines rerum visibilium illa 20

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Here, Origen’s opinion seems incontrovertible: the soul ought to possess absolute immateriality or, at least, a different body from the one it has during its life, to achieve any knowledge of the Bridegroom. The knowledge of this world is always mediated by images, analogies and symbols, and it can never be a face-to-face apprehension of God. It would appear that whilst the soul can understand the spiritual meanings while it is incarnated, it cannot participate in God as long as it is burdened by ‘heavy matter’.23 Furthermore, although understanding that the spiritual meaning of Scripture defines this as a face-toface vision, it is only a temporary apprehension, whereas the eschatological participation into the Logos is a permanent possession.24 In particular, this conclusion is supported by Origen’s exegesis of the kisses of the Bridegroom as fleeting theophanies that depend on the ability of each soul to receive divine knowledge.25 Hence, the kisses of the Bridegroom are merely a visitatio of God26 rather than a real ‘companionship’ with God.27 In addition, the continued alternation of presence and absence in his relationship with the Bride is a clear indication that human beings cannot permanently enjoy the Bridegroom’s presence: ‘And again we perceive He is withdrawing from us and comes again, in every matter that is either opened or closed to our understanding. And this state of affairs we endure until we become such people as He may condescend not only often to revisit, but to remain with.’28 Interestingly, quae sunt invisibilia et incorporea contemplator, et hoc est prospicere ad eam sponsum per retia fenestrarum’. Interestingly, nets and windows are explicitly connected with the mirror of 1Cor. 13:12. Similar ideas can be found in CCt II, 4, 30 and IV, 1, 2. 23 See Origen, CCt III, 5, 16. 24 The notion of κόρος represents the only problem concerning the idea of this permanent possession. This is still an open problem for scholarship, since it partially contradicts Origen’s universal salvation, making it possible for souls to fall a second time; see CCt I, 4, 9. 25 Origen, CCt I, 1, 11: ‘For this reason, then, and for the sake of these kisses, let the soul say in her prayer to God: “Let Him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth”. For as long as she was incapable of receiving the solid and unadulterated doctrine of the Word of God himself, of necessity she received “kisses” that is, interpretations, from the mouth of teachers. But, when she has begun to discern for herself what was obscure, to unravel what was tangled, to unfold what was involved, to interpret parables and riddles and the sayings of the wise along the lines of her own expert thinking, then let her believe that she has now received the kisses of the Spouse Himself, that is, the Word of God.’ For a further discussion about the capacity of each soul to receive the Word, see also CCt I, 4, 4. 26 These visitationes are however an essential part of the pedagogical journey of the soul, which uses her lifetime to reobtain the proximity to God that she lost when she decided to pull away from God. For the history of salvation as a redemptive journey, see De Principiis III, 1, 1-24. 27 See Origen, CCt III, 2-4. This terminology will be explained in the following paragraphs. 28 Origen, CCt III, 11, 19: ‘Et iterum subduci nobis eum atque iterum adesse sentimus per singular quae aut aperiuntur aut clauduntur in sensibus nostris. Et hoc eo usque patimur donec tales efficiamur ut non solum frequenter reviser nos, sed et manere dignetur apud nos’. Equally, see CCt III, 11, 21: ‘The fact that emerges is, therefore, that He appears to his Bride all through the winter – that is to say, in the time of tribulations and trials. That visitation, however, whereby

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this passage could give the impression that this union with God is a one-way relationship and that it pertains exclusively to the soul, however, such conclusion would be incorrect, for Origen insists greatly on the reciprocity of vision face-to-face: But He also describes the place where He desires her to rest with Him. […] He wants her to come to this place and, when the veil has been removed, there to behold her unveiled face, that face-to-face she may be known to her Bridegroom, and that He may not only see her face unveiled and free, but may also hear her voice there; for He is certain both that her face is beautiful and that her voice is sweet and a delight to hear.29

Indeed, the very nature of Song of Songs presupposes mutual searching by the two lovers, rather than a unilateral relationship. In this sense, face-to-face vision is mutual: it is not only the soul who is yearning to see the face of the Bridegroom, but it is also the Bridegroom who is longing to be united with the soul. The soul alone can only go so far in preparing itself for the coming of the Bridegroom, but it still needs the Bridegroom to bring it to ‘the place where He desires her to rest with Him’. Yet what is this resting place? Origen explains it in CCt III, 2, 2, where he also seems to take a very different position concerning the body: ‘But the bed which she (the soul) shares with the Bridegroom seems to me to denote the soul’s body (corpus animae): in which she has been considered worthy to be admitted to the company of the Word of God (ad consortium Verbi Dei). And she says that it is shady – that is to say, not dry, but fruitful, and (as it were) bushy with a thicket of good words.’30 Given Origen’s platonic tendencies, the idea that the soul shares a material body with the Bridegroom is unthinkable; therefore, this corpus animae that the soul shares with the Bridegroom cannot be a material body. It seems that Origen is distinguishing here between the ‘house of the body’ and the ‘body of the soul’: one is a material body, whilst the other is a spiritual/immaterial one. In addition, Origen is establishing a distinction between receiving ‘the naked and plain wisdom of God’ as long as the soul is in the ‘house of the body’ and being ‘admitted to the company of the Word of God’ (ad consortium Verbi

she is visited for a little while and then left, in order that she may be tested, and then sought again, so that her head may be upheld and she be wholly embraced, lest she either waver in faith or be weighted down in body by the load of her trials, is different’. Interestingly, Origen claimed to have first-hand experience of this, see Origen, Homilies on the Song of Songs I, 7. 29 Origen, CCt III, 11, 8: ‘Sed et locum ei describit, in quo vult eam secum requiescere […] ad quem venire eam vult et ablato velamine ibi eius revelatam faciem contueri, ut facie ad faciem innotescat sponso suo et non solum faciem eius revelatam videat sponsus et liberam, sed et vocem eius ibi audiat, certus iam quod et facies eius pulchra sit et vox eius suavis ac delectabilis’. 30 Origen, CCt III, 2, 2 and 4: ‘Commune autem sibi cubile quod dicit esse cum sponso, corpus hoc mihi videtur indicari animae, in quo adhuc posita digna habita sit adscisci ad consortium Verbi Dei. Idque umbrosum, utpote non aridum, sed fructuosum memorat et tamquam densitate boni operis nemorosum’.

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Dei)31 while the soul is in the ‘body of the soul’. Although these passages highlight possible ambiguities in Origen’s interpretation of the human body, they give a very good insight into what he considers to be vision face-to-face. The vision is described here as a deep and complete apprehension of God’s wisdom, as well as a proper consortium with God. This consortium is possible into the commune cubile, the ‘shared body’, that is perfect unity between the soul and Christ. This common ‘body’ can only be the one that the rational beings shared protologically with the Logos in the proximity and belonging that they had had before the Fall. Such proximity will be therefore enjoyed once more by fallen souls, but only after a lifetime’s journey32 in which they have gained a spiritual understanding of the Word of God and have detached themselves from materiality. Hence, the true face-to-face vision will be achieved only at the eschatological time when the soul will rest in the shared body,33 contemplating the Bridegroom face-to-face: ‘Yet, the period of this shadow too is to be fulfilled at the end of the age; because, as we have said, after the consummation of the age we behold no longer through a glass and in a riddle, but face to face.’34 3. Conclusion This paper has attempted to show that 1Cor. 13:12 radically shaped Origen’s mystical theology, providing the scriptural ground on which he constructed not only his hermeneutics, but also his anthropology and his eschatology. I have highlighted three different explanations of Origen’s interpretation of 1Cor. 13:12. Firstly, from an exegetical perspective, vision face-to-face is the overcoming of the literal meanings of the Scriptures and the capacity to understand the spiritual meanings that lie beneath the literal interpretations; nonetheless, it is worth remembering that this process can only provide a temporary apprehension of God. Secondly, from an anthropological perspective, vision face-to-face requires the detachment of the soul from material substance to be ready and worthy of consortium with the Bridegroom. Lastly, from an eschatological perspective, vision face-to-face indicates the permanent participation in the body of Christ: a re-achievement of the unity that had been lost through original sin. In this regard, Origen’s understanding of the ‘house of the body’ and the ‘body 31

I would like to underline that the appellative of Verbi Dei here could also be intended as Scripture. 32 It is worth noting that Origen is open to the possibility that this process requires more than one lifetime, see Origen, De Principiis I, 1, 12. 33 For the idea of the nature of the future promises, see Origen, CCt IV, 1, 23. 34 Origen, CCt III, 5, 18: ‘Quamvis etiam eius umbrae tempus in fine seculi contemplator, quia, sicut diximus, post consummationem saeculi iam non ‘per speculum et in aenigmate’, sed ‘facie ad faciem videbimus’ veritatem’.

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of the soul’ is essential to understand the difference of the two modalities of face-to-face vision: a temporary one that can happen while humans are in the ‘house of the body’; and a permanent one that can be enjoyed exclusively in the ‘body of the soul’. In conclusion, as long as rational beings are not detached from material bodies, the only way to experience vision face-to-face is through the spiritual understanding of the Scriptures; whereas permanent face-to-face vision is possible only eschatologically, when the soul will be reunited with the Logos.

‘The Material of the Gifts from God’. Is the Spirit a Creature in Origen’s Commentary on the Gospel of John? Giovanni HERMANIN DE REICHENFELD, University of Exeter, UK

ABSTRACT Origen’s notion of the Holy Spirit fluctuates between a clear affirmation of equality in rank with the other two hypostases of the Trinity and a strong subordination. On the one hand, Origen depicts the Holy Spirit as a divine hypostasis that, just as the Son, ontologically possesses the fullness of divinity; on the other hand, the Spirit is defined as the first among creatures, an Image of the only real Image (the Son), in need of the Son to rule over itself. This fluctuation has led to many misunderstandings in interpreting the ontological role and function of the third hypostasis. So far, scholars have tended to underline one position or the other, while no general consensus on the Spirit’s ontological role has been reached. Through a close analysis of Origen’s Commentary on John, this paper seeks to cast some light on the role and function of the third hypostasis. In particular, it will answer this question: does the ontological difference (a difference in hypostasis) between the Son and the Spirit imply a subordinationism of superiority between the Son and the Spirit – that is, a subordinationism related to the attributes? Likewise, does the fact that the Spirit came into being (ἐγένετο) through the Logos imply the idea that the Spirit is part of the creation? I will show how Origen’s answers to these questions are as complicated as they are ingenious.

Every scholar who tries to understand Origen’s pneumatology in his Commentary on the Gospel of John1 has first to face a huge problem raised by the very nature of the object in question. Indeed, ‘not until the fourth century was the status and role of the Holy Spirit raised in any significant way’.2 This does not mean that the Spirit was not part of the common creed, but that systematic enquiry about the Holy Spirit is hardly traceable before the Cappadocian fathers. Nevertheless, in the third-century theological landscape, there is one 1 Hereafter ComJn. Translations are mainly based on Ronald E. Heine, Origen: Commentary on the Gospel According to John, Books 1-10, The Fathers of the Church 80 (Washington, 1989), and Ronald E. Heine, Origen: Commentary on the Gospel According to John, Books 13-32, The Fathers of the Church 89 (Washington, 1993). Nevertheless, I have adjusted Heine’s translation when I felt it necessary. 2 See Kilian McDonnell, ‘Does Origen Have a Trinitarian Doctrine of the Holy Spirit?’, Gregorianum 75 (1994), 5-35, 5.

Studia Patristica C, 103-111. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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significant exception: Origen. Origen’s notion of the Holy Spirit fluctuates between a clear affirmation of equality in rank with the other two hypostases of the Trinity and a strong subordination. On the one hand, Origen depicts the Holy Spirit as a divine hypostasis that, just as the Son, ontologically possesses the fullness of divinity; on the other hand, the Spirit is defined as the first among creatures, an inferior Image of the Son, in need of the Son to rule over itself. It is this fluctuation that led to many misunderstandings in interpreting the ontological role and function of the third hypostasis. So far, no general consensus on the Spirit’s ontological role has been reached among scholars. Some influential scholars think that Origen does not have a constructive doctrine of the Spirit and that he inserted the Spirit in the Trinitarian formula only in reverence to the rule of faith. In their opinion, the Spirit has no real significance in Origen’s speculation and it does not perform a different work from the Logos.3 This article will challenge these conclusions. Other scholars have underlined the importance of the Spirit’s work in Origen’s thought and smoothed out Origen’s subordinationism.4 They claim that his subordinating language should not be interpreted strictly from an ontological perspective. This means that they suggest interpreting Origen’s language either in terms of the economic function of the Spirit or in terms of the relation of origin between the Spirit and the other persons of the Trinity. Hence, when they admit a kind of subordinationism among the persons of the Trinity, they usually speak of a logical, rather than ontological subordinationism, stating that the Father is not ontologically superior to the Son or to the Spirit.5 This is the issue which lies at the heart of this paper. In particular, it will ask: does the ontological difference (a difference in hypostasis) between the Son and the Spirit imply a subordinationism of superiority between the Son and the Spirit – that is, a subordinationism related to the attributes (goodness, truth, etc.)? Likewise, does the fact that the Spirit came into being (ἐγένετο) through the Logos imply the idea that the Spirit is part of the creation?

3

See, for example, Adolf von Harnack, History of Dogma (New York, 1961), 4: 110; WolfDieter Hauschild, Lehrbuch der Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte: Alte Kirche und Mittelalter (Gütersloh, 1995); See also Wolf-Dieter Hauschild and Volker Henning Drecoll, Pneumatologie in der alten Kirche (Bern u.a., 2004) and Edmund J. Fortman, The Triune God. A Historical Study of the Doctrine of the Trinity (Grand Rapids, 1972). 4 See, among many, Charles Kannengiesser, ‘Divine Trinity and the Structure of Peri Archôn’, in Charles Kannengiesser and William L. Petersen (eds), Origen of Alexandria: His World and His Legacy (South Bend, 1988), 231-49. See also the more recent Christoph Markschies, ‘Der Heilige Geist im Iohanneskommentar des Origenes’, in Christoph Markschies, Origenes und sein Erbe. Gesammelte Studien (Berlin, 2007), 107-26; Ilaria Ramelli, ‘Origen Anti-Subordinationism and its Heritage in the Nicene and Cappadocian Line’, VC 65 (2011), 21-49. 5 See in particular Henri Crouzel, Origen (San Francisco, 1989), 103 and Mark Edwards, Origen against Plato (Aldershot, 2002).

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To answer the first question, it is first necessary to determine the difference between ontological and logical subordinationism. It is possible to speak of ontological subordinationism only if the Father, the Son and the Spirit are three different ontological entities, each with an individual reality (ὑπόστασις) and essence (οὐσία). On the contrary, if the Father and the Son are only different logical aspects of the same individual essence, then it is possible to speak of a logical subordinationism. Furthermore, both within ontological and logical subordinationism, there is an additional distinction: subordinationism of priority and subordinationism of superiority. Saying that an entity is superior to another one means that they both possesses the same attributes – e.g. goodness or rationality – but that one possesses the attributes in a more perfect way than the other. On the contrary, saying that an entity is prior to another one means that they both share the same attributes at the same level, but the attributes of the second are completely derived from the first. This paper aims to show that Origen’s understanding of the Trinity was multi-layered, for he conceived an ontological subordinationism of priority between the Trinitarian hypostases, and an ontological subordinationism of both priority and superiority between God and the creatures. To understand Origen’s Trinity, a brief overview of the attributes of each person is necessary. As Origen states many times in the Commentary, it is worth remembering that each person has its own substantive existence (ὑπόστασις).6 The Father is the only one who possesses divinity per se (according to himself), that is, who originates divinity for the other hypostases.7 He possesses fully all predicates of God, that is to say he is the only one who is really immortal (ComJn II.123-66) invisible, bodiless8 and good (ComJn I.251-3).9 In addition not only does the Father posses all predicates in a full sense, but he even surpasses all predicates for his power and nature is beyond predication (ComJn I.149-51; XIX.37).10 On the other hand, the Son is the Image of the Father. As such, he is eternally generated by the Father (ComJn I.204; XX.140) 6

See ComJn I.151; I.243; II.75; X.246; XX.174. Therefore, the Father is the only one who originates everything that exists, not only the two Trinitarian hypostases, but the rational world as well. 8 See ComJn I.119; II.75; II.123-5; XIII.219. These passages show that these attributes can be properly predicated only of the Father. The Son and the Spirit possess them only by participation. See also: On First Principles I.6.4; II.2.2; IV.3.15. 9 The Father is mainly identified with the Good always infusing his goodness also: On First Principles, I.2.13; I.4.3; I.8.3; IV.4.8. 10 J.M. Robertson, Christ as Mediator: A Study of the Theologies of Eusebius of Caesarea, Marcellus of Ancyra, and Athanasius of Alexandria (Oxford, 2007), 24-28, presents the ontological role of the Son as mediator between the Father and the world as a result of the ‘continuity of nature’ between the Father and the Son. Nevertheless, Robertson’s argument lacks an appropriate evaluation of the beyond-essence nature of the Father (ComJn XIX.37). Origen clearly states in ComJn II.149-51 the difference in οὐσία between the Father who is both ‘light’ and who ‘transcends the light’, and the Son who is just ‘light’. 7

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that he also reveals to the creation (ComJn I.34; I.201; I.277). Since, according to Origen, there was not a time when the Son was not,11 it is not possible to speak of any kind of chronological or temporal subordinationism to the Father.12 The Son needs the Father just as every other being needs him (ComJn XIII.151). This is explained by Origen in the first book of the Commentary, which is entirely focused on the relation between the Father and the Son and on the aspects (ἐπίνοιαι) of the Son, particularly in relation to the spiritual world (κόσμος νοητός).13 By contrast with the Father who is defined as the One Good, the Son is defined as ‘many good things’ (πολλὰ ἀγαθά, ComJn I.51-2), for he is life, light, light of the world, true light and light of men, truth, way, resurrection, door, wisdom and power. These aspects of the Son are called ἐπίνοιαι and they represent the different levels of understanding that every rational creature (λογικός) can gain of the Son.14 Nevertheless, Origen warns the reader not to consider these aspects as related to the essence of the Son. In fact, the Son has one essence that is the same in all his aspects.15 Therefore, the Son is one-in-himself and the ἐπίνοιαι do not have any substantial existence, since they are only multiple aspects through which the Son manifests himself and acts in the world. If this is the case of the Logos-Son, it is possible to detect a logical subordinationism among the epinoiai. For example, in the Son the aspect of ‘Light’ is logically subordinated to the one of the Logos. Therefore, the Son has in himself many aspects that are logically subordinate one to another. However, this is not the case of the relationship between the Son and the Father, for that is instead an ontological derivation. Indeed, any kind of subordinationism between two ontological entities, which possess a distinctive existence (being hypostases), necessarily implies an ontological subordinationism. If it were only logical the Son would not have a proper distinct existence, like the ἐπίνοιαι. Therefore, we can state that there is an ontological subordinationism of priority between the Son and the Father, because the Son possesses all the 11 See Origen, On First Principles I.2.9 and IV.4.1. See also Origen, Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans I.5. The eternal generation of the Son from the Father shows the difference between Origen and Arius’ later reading of Origen’s theology. 12 The nature of the Son is to be The Wisdom-Word, Only Begotten and Firstborn of all creation (ComJn I.245; I.291). 13 See, among others, ComJn I.52-6; I.161-8; I.191-200; I.209-19; I.222-8; I.243-58. The ἐπίνοιαι, insofar they stand for the various degree of participation in Christ, are necessary in the process of ascent of every rational creature to God. See Tom Greggs, Barth, Origen, and Universal Salvation: Restoring Particularity (Oxford, 2009), 81. 14 It is worth underlining that even the name ‘Logos’ is an ἐπίνοια of the Son (ComJn I.52-60). 15 ‘No one takes offence when we distinguish the aspects (ἐπινοίας) of the Saviour, thinking that we also do the same with his essence (τῇ οὐσίᾳ)’ (ComJn I.200). The only ἐπίνοια to which Origen allows a substantive existence is that of Wisdom (see ComJn I.243-244). The reason for this interpretation lies in the fact that Wisdom represents the proper essence of the Son-in-himself, when he is resting in the Father’s bossom. Therefore, Wisdom is to be understood as the metonymical name for the whole son.

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ontological attributes of the Father and yet, the Son is a distinct hypostasis derived from the Father. What about the Spirit? How does it fit into the Father-Son relationship shown so far? Some of the most important considerations regarding pneumatology in the Commentary on John come from Origen’s exegesis of Jn 1:3: ‘All things came into being through him [the Logos]’ (πάντα δι’ αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο). Origen declares that this expression clearly indicates that everything was made by the Father through the Son. Hence, Origen asks whether the Holy Spirit is to be considered as one of the ‘all things come into being’ through the Son. After having firmly rejected the idea that the Sprit is unbegotten (ComJn II.74) or that it is the same with the Father (ComJn II.74) or that it does not possesses a distinctive essence (ComJn II.74),16 Origen gives his solution: We, however, are persuaded that there are three hypostases, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, (Ἡμεῖς μέντοι γε τρεῖς ὑποστάσεις πειθόμενοι τυγχάνειν, τὸν πατέρα καὶ τὸν υἱὸν καὶ τὸ ἅγιον πνεῦμα) and we believe that only the Father is unbegotten (ἀγέννητον μηδὲν ἕτερον τοῦ πατρὸς εἶναι πιστεύοντες). We admit, as more pious and true, that the Holy Spirit is the most honoured of all things made through the Logos (τὸ πάντων διὰ τοῦ λόγου γενομένων τὸ ἅγιον πνεῦμα πάντων εἶναι τιμιώτερον) and that it is in rank of all the things which have been made by the Father through Christ ( πάντων τῶν ὑπὸ τοῦ πατρὸς διὰ Χριστοῦ γεγενημένων) (ComJn II.75).

The ontological status of the Spirit as part of God is thus confirmed. Nevertheless, from this passage the subordination of the Spirit to the Father and the Son is quite evident. The Spirit is immanent in the Godhead, but it is inferior to the Son because of its ontological origin. While the Son is directly derived from the will and power of the Father, the Spirit comes from the will and power of the Father through the operation of the Son. Nonetheless, the Spirit is certainly a hypostasis,17 as Origen states underlining its dependency on the Son from whom he receives all attributes: The only-begotten alone (μόνου τοῦ μονογενοῦς) is by nature (φύσει) Son from the Beginning (υἱοῦ ἀρχῆθεν). The Holy Spirit seems to have need of the Son ministering to its hypostasis (οὗ χρῄζειν ἔοικε τὸ ἅγιον πνεῦμα διακονοῦντος αὐτοῦ τῇ ὑποστάσει), not only for it to exist (εἶναι), but also for it to be wise (σοφὸν), and rational (λογικόν) and just (δίκαιον), and whatever other things we ought to understand it to be by participation in the epinoiai of Christ, which we mentioned previously (πᾶν ὁτιποτοῦν χρὴ αὐτὸ νοεῖν τυγχάνειν κατὰ μετοχὴν τῶν προειρημένων ἡμῖν Χριστοῦ ἐπινοιῶν) (ComJn II.76). 16 K. McDonnel, ‘Does Origen have a Trinitarian Doctrine’ (1994), 12, misread the passage, saying this proves that the Spirit is ranged equally with the Father and the Son! 17 For the use of the term ‘hypostasis’ and its connection to Middle and Neo-Platonic speculation and Gnosticism see Alistair Logan, ‘Origen and the Development of Trinitarian Theology’, in Lothar Lies (ed.), Origeniana Quarta, Innsbrucker theologische Studien 19 (Innsbruck-Wien, 1987), 424-9.

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According to this passage, the Spirit is more dependent on the Son than the Son is on the Father. On the one hand, the Father is the only one worthy of owning predicates in a proper sense;18 on the other hand, while the Son is eternally in the Father who eternally grants him all his knowledge, the Spirit came into being by the Father through the Son.19 Considering the textual evidence, I would say that the Son and the Spirit have an ontological subordinationism of priority,20 for the Son is ontologically – but not chronologically – anterior to the Spirit and it needs the Son to possess attributes (rationality, truth, etc.). Furthermore, the relationship between the source of the divinity (that is, the Father) and the Spirit can be defined as a relationship of double-priority, for the Spirit is in need of the Son who is in need of the Father. At this point, another question arises: being the Spirit of the ‘all things’ that came into being through the Logos should the Spirit be considered to be part of the creation? Origen writes: These things have been examined extensively […] to see how, if all things came into being through him [the Son], and the Spirit came into being through the Logos (τὸ πνεῦμα διὰ τοῦ λόγου ἐγένετο), the Spirit is one of the ‘all things’ considered to be inferior to him through whom it came into being (ἓν τῶν πάντων τυγχάνον ὑποδεέστερον τοῦ δι’ οὗ ἐγένετο νοούμενον). (ComJn II.86)

This passage seems to distance the Spirit from the Godhead and draw it nearer to the creation. But if so, how can Origen still say that God is ‘one and single’ (ComJn I.119)?21 Or how can he state that: ‘The Saviour and the Holy Spirit transcend all created beings not only by comparison, but by their exceeding preeminence’ (ComJn XIII.151)? Where does the difference between the Spirit and the rest of creation lie? I believe the answer to this question is to be found in the concept of ‘creation’. The most common word used by Origen to indicate creation is the Greek word κτίσις. Nevertheless, in Origen’s vocabulary this word does not always have the meaning – as it did after Nicaea – of creatio ex nihilo; sometimes it

18

See, for example, ComJn II.123; II.163-70. Anyway, Origen does not mean the term ‘creation’ as creation ex nihilo, but only that the Spirit is one of the all things that came into being through the Son. See ComJn II.131. 20 I think that McDonnel’s statement, ‘the subordinating texts are concerned with the hierarchy of origin, and are economic rather that ontological’, is sufficiently challenged by the texts I have shown so far. Origen’s commentary on Jn 1:1-2 is clearly an ontological text. Origen is not speaking of the economy, but of the ontological status of the Spirit. See K. McDonnel, ‘Does Origen have a Trinitarian Doctrine’ (1994), 19. 21 See also On First Principles, I.1.6. In truth, a close examination of ComJn I.119 shows that in depicting God as ‘one and single’ Origen refers only to the Father (Ὁ θεὸς μὲν οὖν πάντη ἕν ἐστι καὶ ἁπλοῦν). On the contrary the Son is many things (τὰ πολλά). 19

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only means that is something derived from something else.22 It is commonly agreed that Origen used to label with the name of ‘creation’ (κτίσις) everything that is derived (γενητός) from something else, with the exception of the Son who is the only one to be begotten directly from the unbegotten Father (ἀγέννητος).23 However, in the Commentary, the Spirit is never called κτίσις, rather the Spirit is said to be γενητός or γεννητός, that is, derived from the Father through the Son. Since double consonants were no longer pronounced in Greek in the third century, Origen uses γενητός/ἀγένητος and γεννητός/ἀγέννητος interchangeably, unlike the theologians of the fourth century.24 Therefore, Origen often uses the term γενητός or γεννητός to indicate everything that came into being. The Spirit is thus part of the creation only insofar as we understand the term creation as everything that came into being, for the Spirit is begotten and it is made by the Father through the Logos:25 the Holy Spirit and creation are alike in having been brought into being by the Father through the Son. Nevertheless, the Spirit is said to be God and part of the Godhead. Its distinctive nature, by contrast with the one of the Son, is, as we have seen, to be ‘the most honoured of all things made (brought-into-being) through the Logos’ (τὸ πάντων διὰ τοῦ λόγου γενομένων τὸ ἅγιον πνεῦμα πάντων εἶναι τιμιώτερον) and to be ‘ in rank of all the things which have been made (brought-into-being) by the Father through Christ’ ( πάντων τῶν ὑπὸ τοῦ πατρὸς διὰ Χριστοῦ γεγενημένων) (ComJn II.75). 22

Henri Crouzel and Manlio Simonetti, Origène. Traité des Principes (Paris, 1980), 40-1 maintain that Origen considered the word κτίσις as ‘taking origin from’. See ComJn I.111. This interpretation is now broadly accepted by scholarship. See also H. Crouzel, Origen (1989), 198-204 and T. Greggs, Barth, Origen (2009), 154. 23 Indeed, Origen refers to the Son as the only one who is in the beginning and was not made/ derived/begotten (ἐγένετο) in the beginning, for he eternally was with the Father: ‘As, therefore, ‘all things came into being (ἐγένετο) through him,’ not, all things were (ἦν) through him, and, ‘without him nothing came into being (ἐγένετο),’ not, without him nothing was (ἦν), so ‘what came into being (γέγονεν) in him,’ not what was (ἦν) in him, ‘was life’. And again, not what came into being (ἐγένετο) in him was the Word, but what was (ἦν) in the Beginning was the Word’. (ComJn II.131). 24 In other words, the distinction between the verb γίγνομαι (with a single ν) to indicate coming into existence and the verb γεννάω (with double ν) to indicate begetting was made long after Origen, during the Arian controversy. 25 Most problems raised in Origen’s conception of the Trinity – subordinationism, and, more generally, the idea of the Son as a creature – were highly debated in the Arian controversy in the fourth century. On the influence Origen had on both sides (anti-Arian and Arian) see Manlio Simonetti, La crisi ariana nel IV secolo (Roma, 1975) and Basil Studer, Trinity and Incarnation: The Faith of The Early Church (Edinburgh, 1993). It is worth remembering, with Ayres, that the partisan use of Origen deployed an already revised version of his theology. Moreover, the fluctuating vocabulary Origen used increased the misunderstanding of his theology. See Lewis Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology (Oxford, 2004), 20 n. 24.

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Consequently, one must admit that the Spirit is both God and creature, in the sense that its essence and nature is both of being God and generated. The ontological role of the Spirit is to stand between God and the creation, being both God and a generated being. Nevertheless, the Spirit is the only being made through the Logos that can be properly said to be God. If the status of the Spirit is ambiguous where does the difference between the Spirit and the rest of creation lie? What is the Spirit’s soteriological role? In this regard Origen writes: And maybe, we ought to say that the creation (κτίσις) – but also the human race – in order to be set free from the slavery of corruption, was in need of an incarnate, blessed, and divine power (μακαρίας καὶ θείας δυνάμεως ἐνανθρωπούσης) which would also restore the things on earth to order. This activity fell, as it were, in some way to the Holy Spirit (ἐπέβαλλέ πως τῷ ἁγίῳ πνεύματι ἡ πρᾶξις αὕτη). Since the Spirit cannot bear it (ὑπομένειν), it sends forth the Saviour, because he alone is able to bear such a great conflict. Although it is the Father, as leader, who sends the Son, the Holy Spirit joins in sending him in advance (συναποστέλλει καὶ συμπροπέμπει), promising to descend to the Son of God at the right time (ἐν καιρῷ) and to cooperate in the salvation of man (συνεργῆσαι τῇ τῶν ἀνθρώπων σωτηρίᾳ). (ComJn II.83)

The Holy Spirit, insofar as it is the first being of all creation, was supposed to set creation free from sins after the fall, but could not bear such a great activity because it is created. Hence, on the one hand, this passage shows the difference between the fallen creation (κτίσις), which is mutable and not divine in its essence and the Holy Spirit, which is generated but divine.26 On the other hand, this is the perfect indication of the ontological subordination of the Spirit towards the Son. In addition, Origen writes: I think, if I may put in this way, that the Holy Spirit supplies the material of the gifts from God (ὕλην τῶν ἀπὸ θεοῦ χαρισμάτων) to those who are called saints (ἅγιοι) thanks to it (δι’ αὐτό) and because of participation in it (τὴν μετοχὴν αὐτοῦ). This material gift that I mentioned (τῆς εἰρημένης ὕλης τῶν χαρισμάτων) is made effective from God (ἐνεργουμένης μὲν ἀπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ): it is administrated by Christ (διακονουμένης δὲ ὑπὸ τοῦ Χριστοῦ): it subsists in accordance with the Holy Spirit (ὑφεστώσης δὲ κατὰ τὸ ἅγιον πνεῦμα) (ComJn II.77)

The gift of God is the sanctification of the good creature, that is, the subsistence of the sanctified creatures in the Spirit. Thus, the Spirit provides the very substance of the gift. It is indeed the liminal nature of the Spirit, its being between God and the creation, to allow it to supply the material, that is, the ontological basis, for the gift of God. Therefore, I believe it is the ontological difference between the Son and the Spirit which makes the Spirit a key character in the redemption of fallen 26

In this case the term κτίσις is only used in reference to the fallen creation.

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creatures. In fact, affirming the perfect ontological equality of the Spirit with the Son is not only wrong, but even damaging for the role of the Spirit. If the Spirit had the same essence as the Son, it would be a useless duplicate of the Logos. In conclusion, I think the significance of the Spirit in soteriology comes from its ontological subordination. So far, scholarship tended to fluctuate between the affirmation of a strong ontological subordinationism which denies a primary role to the Spirit in soteriology and a denial of a strong subordinationism, which underlines the soteriological importance of the Spirit. I try to show here that affirming a strong ontological subordinationism (a subordinationism of priority) does not diminish the soteriological role of the Spirit. On the contrary, it saves it from its role of duplicate of the Logos that some scholarship gave it. As a consequence, it is necessary to postulate a difference between Origen’s discourse on the Spirit as part of the immanent Trinity – that is, the Spirit in God – and its economic function in salvation. The Trinity works together in the sanctification of the fallen creatures, but each hypostasis performs a proper work according to its ontological status. In God the Father we find the omnipotent will which effects the gift; in the Son we find the logical division in epinoiai which allows the Son to administrate the gift of the Father according to human rationality; in the Spirit the aforementioned gift actually exists. Hence, I believe there is an ontological subordination of double priority of the Spirit in Origen’s Trinity. The Son is prior to the Spirit but is not superior to the Spirit, for the superiority would imply the possession of the attributes in a more perfect way.27 Nonetheless, the Spirit can be called a ‘creature’ insofar as we intend ‘creature’ as ‘generated being’. However, unlike the other beings, the Spirit is not subordinated to the Father and the Son according to both priority and superiority.

27 In this way, one has to understand the passage in Origen, On First Principles, I.3.4, where Origen says that the Holy Spirit does not know the Father ‘as we do through the revelation of the Son’. In fact, the focus of the passage is not on the ‘revelation of the Son’ but on the ‘as we do’. Origen goes on saying: ‘Si enim revelante Filio cognoscit Patrem Spiritus sanctus ergo ex ignorantia ad scentiam venit: quod utique et impium et partier stultus est’ (‘For if the Holy Spirit knows the Father by this means, he passes from ignorance to knowledge; this is certainly as impious as foolish’). Therefore, the passage is only concerned about affirming the eternity of the Spirit and the eternity of its knowledge of the Father. See also ComJn XIII.147-53, where Origen rebuts Heracleon’s idea of consubstantiality between the spirituals and the Holy Spirit. Here Origen states that the Holy Spirit always had the perfect knowledge, while the other creatures committed sin and fell away from God. The Spirit is the only one who always possessed the fullness of the knowledge. Therefore, by contrast with the creatures, it cannot sin.

Origen and Astrology Claire HALL, All Souls College, Oxford, UK

ABSTRACT Origen’s discussion of astrology in Philocalia 23 – usually considered as an odd jumble of exegetical considerations – provides a key to understanding his position on many contemporary Alexandrian debates: the distinction between divination and prophecy, the question of human free will, and the reception of astrology in Ptolemy’s own city. This article will argue that Origen provides the first distinctly Christian treatment of the subject by embedding Greco-Roman philosophical discussion of the questions of free will and foreknowledge into the framework of scriptural exegesis. In doing so, he recasts scriptural instances of reading the stars not as pagan astrology, but as part of the conversation about prophecy and prophets. Through a lengthy discussion of free will and God’s foreknowledge, Origen concludes, in explanation of Gen. 1:14, that the stars are a form of ‘writing in the sky’, an outpouring of the mind of God for ‘astral powers’ to read and enact. In special cases, Origen suggests, extraordinary human beings can read the stars too – human beings including the Magi in Matt. 2:1-2 and Jacob in the apocryphal Prayer of Joseph. However, this process is distinct from Greco-Roman astrology as it requires divine inspiration, and is thus closer to Judaeo-Christian prophecy.

Astrology in patristic thought has not received a great deal of attention.1 The subject of astrology in Origen’s work has often been overlooked in favour of his more general discussion of astral ontology, particularly the question of the stars’ rationality or ensoulment.2 However, I would like to make the case that, far from being a footnote or a side issue, Origen’s discussion of astrology in Philocalia 23 is actually central to understanding his thought on a number of 1 Tim Hegedus, Ancient Astrology and Early Christianity (New York, 2007) is the only thorough comparative examination of patristic attitudes towards astrology. 2 Alan Scott treats this issue definitively, situating Origen’s beliefs within their Greco-Roman and patristic contexts, Alan Scott, Origen and the Life of the Stars (Oxford, 1992). Yet Scott has very little to say on the discussion of astrology in Philocalia 23, a discussion which surely must shape any consideration of the stars in Origen’s thought. Similarly, Henri Crouzel’s thorough doctrinal comparison of Origen and Plotinus on this issue is uncharacteristically brief, Henri Crouzel SJ, Origène et Plotin: Comparisons Doctrinales (Paris, 1991); he states that the only major difference in the two writers’ views on the stars is that Plotinus argues that human beings are capable of reading the heavens, whereas Origen maintains that this role is open only to ‘heavenly powers’ – and indeed, that we humans are sometimes led astray by demons who convince us that we can access that which is beyond our knowledge.

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other important philosophical questions: the notion of free will, cosmology, and the question of true and certain knowledge through prophecy.3 I will argue that Origen collapses the distinction between Greco-Roman notions of free will and foreknowledge and Old Testament concepts of the stars to create a new, distinctly Christian treatment of the subject of astrology – the first, and perhaps only, of its kind. This argument has two strands. First, Origen’s discussion of astrology embeds traditional concerns of the Greco-Roman philosophical tradition into a framework of scriptural exegesis. The entire discussion, even at its most classically Platonic or Stoic, follows from Gen. 1:14 (‘let [the lights in the dome of heaven] be for signs’ (NRSV)). The dichotomy sometimes drawn between Christian mysticism and (neo)-Platonic philosophy in Origen’s thought4 cannot be sustained in Philocalia 23, which interleaves the formal commentary-style presentation of Scriptural exegesis quite naturally with traditional Greco-Roman philosophical discussion. Indeed, unlike many patristic discussions of astrology, which tend to rehearse wellestablished Stoic or Cynic anti-astrological arguments,5 Origen reworks such 3 Philocalia 23 consists of a long passage from Book 3 of the lost Commentary on Genesis, and a shorter excerpt of a section, section 20, from Book 2 of the Against Celsus. The context of this chapter within the Against Celsus is Origen’s response to Celsus’ criticism that, had Jesus really known Judas would betray him, he would have prevented it happening. Thus the compiler of the Philocalia appropriately placed this section along with argumentation from the Commentary on Genesis which also revolves around Judas. 4 See Mark Edwards, Origen Against Plato (Farnham, 2002) and Ilaria Ramelli, ‘Origen, Patristic Philosophy, and Christian Platonism: Re-Thinking the Christianisation of Hellenism’, VC 63 (2009), 217-63 for the terms of this discussion. Origenic scholarship has long been divided between those who argue that Origen was, in essence, a Platonist with a veneer of Christianity, and those who argue that his is fundamentally in the Christian mystic tradition, with a cursory engagement with ‘un-Christian’ Greek philosophy. The former view prevailed for much of the early 20th century, especially among German-language scholarship – see Anna Miura-Stange, Celsus und Origenes: Das Gemeinsame ihrer Weltanschauung, nach den acht Bücher des Origenes gegen Celsus (Giessen, 1926); Hans von Campenhausen, Die griechischen Kirchenväter (Stuttgart, 1955); Endre von Ivanka, Plato christianus: Uebernahme und Umgestaltung des Platonismus durch die Väter (Einsiedeln, 1964); and still occasionally more recently, e.g. John Paul II, Encyclical Letter Fides et Ratio (Vatican City, 14 September 1998). The contrasting view, that Origen is primarily a Christian mystic, is taken by Festugière among others, and nuanced by the careful research of Crouzel, in particular. 5 Hegedus, Ancient Astrologie (2007) categorises the arguments made against astrology by the Church Fathers into five groups. Most of them deal with the five problems outlined above, but, interestingly, of the five groups of anti-astrological argument, all five are attested in pagan writers, predominantly Sextus Empiricus, Against the Astrologers. They are as follows: 1) The argument of modal impossibility: It is not possible to cast horoscopes accurately: it is not clear exactly what constitutes ‘the moment of birth’, and even if it were, it would not be possible for astrologers to take readings of the fast-moving heavens with enough accuracy for the horoscope to be meaningful. Found in Gregory the Great, Sermon 10, Hippolytus, Refutation of All Heresies 4.3.5-4.5.3, and Basil of Caesarea, Hexaemeron 6.5. 2) The argument of different destinies: People who have the same or very similar times of birth end up having very different fates. Conversely, people who have quite different times of birth end

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arguments, furnishing them with Scriptural examples; occasionally his arguments are innovative, and his knowledge of astrology is quite extensive.6 Over the course of the discussion, Origen generalises the traditional antiastrological arguments into a wider discussion of free will and foreknowledge – again, furnishing his arguments with Scriptural examples. As such, Origen is using the epistemological questions surrounding astrology not just as a cursory engagement with Greek traditions, but as a vehicle for comparative exegesis. Second, Origen considers divination by the stars as practised by human beings, in the rare cases that it occurs in scripture, to be an arcane form of prophecy. This is never explicitly stated, but can be argued quite clearly from his discussion. Origen rules out astrology qua Greco-Roman τέχνη, yet accounts for Scriptural references to ‘read[ing] in the tablet of heaven’,7 ‘observ[ing Christ’s] star’,8 the heavens ‘roll[ing] up like a scroll’9 and ‘Balaam’s oracle’10 by considering these as instances not of divination in the Greco-Roman sense, but of inspired prophecy. Thus, in Origen’s view, the ‘book’11 of the stars is recast; it is not a book legible to anybody with the correct skill, as in the traditional astrological view, but a piece of scripture, legible only to those who receive specific divine inspiration – that is to say, legible to the heavenly powers, and to a handful of select, exceptional human beings, just as with the gift of prophecy.

up having very similar fates. Found in Basil, Hexaemeron 6.7, Procopius of Gaza, Commentary on Gen. 1.14 and Gregory Nazianzen, Letter 101. 3) The argument of νόμιμα βαρβαρικά: People of different cultures and nations have different national characteristics, manners and customs which are not accounted for in individual natal horoscopes, so that two people born at the same time from different cultural backgrounds might be very different, Bardaisan, Book of the Laws of the Countries. 4) The argument from animals: If animals are also subject to the influence of the stars, why do animals born at the same time as human beings not have the same destinies as those human beings? (Augustine, City of God 5.7). 5) What Hegedus calls the ‘moral’ argument is in fact two arguments, one of them a metaphysical objection, and one of them a straightforward moral condemnation of the practice: the former, that astrology negates free will, and the latter that astrology is an art of fallen angels, or of demons. Of these two arguments, only the second is found exclusively in Christian texts, and is usually used as a piece of ethical teaching rather than any kind of philosophical argument. 6 Origen considers the precession of the equinoxes to be a widespread and well-proved theorem, which is by no means the case. See Pierre Duhem, Le système du monde, vol. 2 (Paris, 1914), 191-204. 7 Fragment B of the Prayer of Joseph, quoted in Eusebius, Commentary on Genesis 5. We know that Origen considered the Prayer of Joseph to be canonical, as he says so in Commentary in John 2.31. 8 Matt. 2:1-2 (NRSV). 9 Isa. 34:4 (NRSV). 10 Num. 23:7 and elsewhere (NRSV). 11 Philocalia 23.15.

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Origen begins from Gen. 1:14 to explore a familiar set of arguments against Greco-Roman astral determinism. He uses the question of what it means for the stars to be ‘signs’ (σημεῖα LXX) rather than causes as the natural jumpingoff point for this discussion.12 He explains that many who have embraced the faith are led astray by the idea that human affairs are governed by the stars; therefore he must provide an exegetical reading of Gen. 1:14 which corrects this view while still accounting for the Scriptural use of the term ‘signs’. There are, Origen argues, major theological problems with astral determinism, including the reductio ad absurdum that true astral determinism would mean that a person’s belief in God, or even in astrology itself, was determined by the stars:13 ἕπεται δὲ τοῖς ταῦτα δογματίζουσιν ἐξ ὅλων τὸ ἐφ᾽ ἡμῖν ἀναιρεῖν ... ἡ πίστις ἔσται μάταιος... οἷς ἀθέοις καὶ ἀσεβέσι τυγχάνουσι λόγοις ἀκολουθεῖ καὶ τὸ τοὺς πιστεύοντας ὑπὸ τῶν ἀστέρων ἀγομένους πιστεύειν εἰς θεὸν λέγεσθαι. (Philocalia 23.1) From these opinions follows utter destruction of our free will … even faith would be in vain… These godless and unholy arguments demand that believers are said to be compelled by the stars to believe in God.14

He lists several other additional problems: Christ too would be subject to the influence of stars, likewise the prophets and apostles; prayer would be useless and moral responsibility meaningless were astral determinism to hold. The pagan notion of fate in its fullest force is clearly, in Origen’s view, fundamentally at odds with Christian theology. Having established such an incompatibility inherent in Christian beliefs in astral determinism, Origen begins to discuss what a meaningful reading of the stars as ‘signs’ might look like. To do so, he structures his argument around three questions:15 1. What is the content of the stars qua ‘signs’? 2. Who made the signs? 3. To whom are the signs legible? In answer to the first question Origen makes an assumption: that the stars signify the future; that is to say, that the content of the heavens is the stuff of foreknowledge. In doing so, he can shift from a purely astrological focus to generalise more widely about foreknowledge; by establishing the signs/ causes distinction through use of some conventional Stoic arguments, Origen 12 Plotinus’ later discussion of the same problem in Enneads 2.3 turns on a different kind of exegesis (that of Plato), but takes the same basic signs/causes distinction as the central term of the argument. 13 This argument is apparently novel. 14 Greek text from J.A. Robinson, Philocalia Origenes (Cambridge, 1893). Translations my own. 15 These questions are not set out explicitly, but they lie beneath the structure of the rest of the text and thus I have felt it is important to elucidate them.

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maps the distinction onto foreknowledge (signs) and free will (i.e. the absence of external causes). Thus astrology, in the rest of Philocalia 23, acts as a case study for prophecy and foreknowledge as a whole. To begin his discussion of free will and foreknowledge, Origen reminds us again of Gen. 1:14, emphasising the continuity of the present concerns with the scriptural context of the astrological discussion that has preceded. He then begins with foreknowledge, starting with a generalised version of the signs/causes question: does an entity’s foreknowing an event necessarily imply that entity causes the event? Origen invites consideration of the following scenario: an event takes place with a witness. Let us, for the sake of ease, use a specific example (which Origen does not): let us say that Augustine and Jerome have a fist-fight, and present, watching, is Polycarp. Polycarp then writes a letter to Ignatius to explain what happened. In this scenario, neither Polycarp nor his letter can be reasonably held to be responsible for the fight – they simply have disseminated knowledge of the event. Similarly, Ignatius, who wasn’t even present, cannot have caused the fight. Apply this principle, Origen says, to the future. Take the same scenario, but in this case, Polycarp writes his letter before the fight, saying that it is going to happen. If it does in fact then happen, Ignatius cannot reasonably believe that Polycarp or his letter caused the fight – the fight was caused by none other than the participants, Augustine and Jerome. Thus, just because an entity has foreknowledge of an event, the entity does not necessarily cause that event, even if the entity puts its foreknowledge down in writing. So, explains Origen, with Scripture. He cites the specific case of Judas – if somebody were to read a prophecy in Scripture that Judas would betray Christ, it would not be reasonable to say that Scripture itself caused Judas to betray Christ. Thus it would also not be reasonable to say that the author of Scripture caused Judas to betray Christ. Well, says Origen, this same principle applies even when the author is God – there is no necessary reason to believe, just because God authored the prophecy through the Spirit, that he caused Judas to do anything (other than in the most general sense of being the first cause of all things). God’s foreknowledge, for Origen, is beyond question: ὁτι μὲν οὖν ἕκαστον τῶν ἐσομένων πρὸ πολλοῦ οἶδεν ὁ θεὸς γενησόμενον, καὶ χωρὶς μὲν γραφῆς αὐτόθεν ἐκ τῆς ἐννοίας τῆς περὶ θεοῦ δῆλον τῷ συνιέντι ἀξίωμα δυνάμεως νοῦ θεοῦ. (Philocalia 23.4) That God knows far in advance each thing about the future, is, besides Scripture, from the very concept of God, clear to the person who understands the power of the divine mind.

Nevertheless, Origen spends sections 4-5 of Philocalia 23 on scriptural examples of God’s foreknowledge, all of which are largely uncontroversial. It is worth noting at this point that Origen’s notion of foreknowledge has

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tightened from a vague/hypothetical event scenario to the prophecies of Scripture – that is, he is not talking about foreknowledge in general (as in pagan astrology), but a particular type of foreknowledge which is necessarily true and certain as it is the result of divine inspiration. Origen now considers the issue of free will. He structures his argument around the following problems (Philocalia 23.6): 1. πῶς, προγνώστου ὄντος ἔξ αἰῶνος τοῦ θεοῦ περὶ τῶν ὑφ᾽ἑκάστου πράττεσθαι νομιζομένων, τὸ ἐφ᾽ ἡμῖν σώζεται How, given that God foreknows from eternity everything about each person, can we have free will? 2. καὶ τίνα τρόπον οἱ ἀστέρες οὐκ εἰσὶ ποιητικοὶ τῶν ἐν ἀνθρώποις, σημαντικοὶ δὲ μόνον; In what way are the stars not the causes of events among humans, but only signify them? 3. καὶ ὅτι ἄνθρωποι τὴν περὶ τούτων γνῶσιν ἀκριβῶς ἔχειν οὐ δύνανται, ἀλλὰ δυνάμεσιν ἀνθρώπων κρείττοσι τὰ σημεῖα ἔκκειται. How human beings cannot understand these things accurately, but that the signs lie open to powers greater than us. 4. τίς γὰρ ἡ αἰτία τοῦ τὰ σημεῖα τὸν θεὸν πεποιηκέναι εἰς γνῶσιν τῶν δυνάμενων. For what reason these signs were made by God for the powers to know.

We may note that Origen’s discussion up to this point has carefully separated the issues of foreknowledge and free will. Sections 1-5 of Philocalia 23 only mention foreknowledge and causes of events, whereas at this point Origen’s focus shifts to the human element: free will. As an answer to the first problem, Origen posits an interesting solution. God, he argues, foresaw at once the entire universe and all things in it, the chains of cause and effect running from the beginning of time to the end of days. Thinking about God’s foreknowledge in this way makes it even clearer, says Origen, that things do not happen because God foreknows them – he foreknows them because they happen. To unpick that statement a little, Origen explains with the case of Judas (Philocalia 23.9): εἰ ἐνδέξεται Ἰούδαν προδότην γενέσθαι, ἐνδέξεται τὸν θεὸν φρονῆσαι περὶ αὐτοῦ ὅτι προδότης ἔσται. If it is possible for Judas to become a traitor, it is possible for God to comprehend that he will become a traitor.

but also εἰ ἐνδέξεται Ἰούδαν εἶναι ἀπόστολον ὁμοίως Πέτρῳ, ἐνδέξεται τὸν θεὸν νοῆσαι περὶ τοῦ Ἰούδα ὅτι μενεῖ ἀπόστολος ὁμοίως Πέτρῳ. If it is possible for Judas to be an apostle like Peter [i.e. not to be a traitor] it is possible for God to know that he will be an apostle like Peter.

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Therefore, God says to himself something along these lines: ἐνδέξεται μὲν τόνδε τόδε ποιῆσαι, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸ ἐναντίον· ἐνδεξομένων δὲ ἀμφοτέρων, οἶδα ὅτι τόδε ποιήσει. It is possible for him to do this [i.e. become a traitor] and also the opposite is possible; with both still being possible, I know that he will do this [i.e. become a traitor].16

This is a little clearer in cases where one option is trivially predictable (Philocalia 23.9): οὐκ ἐνδέξεται τόνδε τινὰ τὸν ἄνθρωπον πτῆναι. It is not possible for this man to fly. οὐκ ἐνδέξεται τόνδε σωφρονῆσαι. It is not possible for this man to behave with moderation.

In the first case, God knows that the only possible option is that the man cannot fly; men cannot fly, whoever they are, regardless of free will – it is an absolute sense of ἐνδέξομαι which denotes logical possibility. But in the second case, ἐνδέξεται does refer to something within the sphere of free will – a sort of possibility that does depend on us.17 God knows that it is possible for the man either to behave with moderation or not to do so; as God foreknows all things, He knows which of the two will be the case without compromising the man’s free will to do either.18 This kind of argument from character – that God can perfectly predict a person’s choices as he has perfect knowledge of their character – is found elsewhere in Origen’s work, such as in On First Principles 3.1.19 Origen turns then to scriptural examples of prophets urging repentance as evidence against the compromising of free will.20 Both rhetorically and philosophically, we are still quite clearly in the realm of prophecy and Scripture; astrology This section usually translates ἐνδεξομένων as a genitive (e.g. George Lewis’ translation of 1911) – i.e, ‘of the two, I know that he will do this’. I translate it as a present-tense genitive absolute to capture the sense of the continuing possibility of both courses of action despite God’s foreknowledge, which is Origen’s point. 17 Origen uses ἐνδέξομαι and ἐφ᾽ἡμῖν interchangeably throughout this piece, but, as shown by the explicit setting out of this example, he has at least one concept of what ‘can’ might mean, in line with Stoic tradition. See Susanne Bobzien, ‘The Inadvertant Conception and Late Birth of the Free-Will Problem’, Phronesis 43 (May 1998), 133-75. 18 This is essentially an argument that God can foreknow the actions of free agents by having perfect models of their characters. Thus, although a foolish man has the capacity to be wise in terms of free will, God knows his character intimately enough that he is able to see without any difficulty that he will not act wisely. In this model of God’s foreknowledge, God’s prediction of human actions is no different from human character-based predictions: God merely has a lot more information and a much better understanding of how to predict based off that information. 19 Controversially, Origen uses this argument of the Devil’s free will and potential for salvation. See On First Principles 3.1 on the Devil. See also Lisa Holliday, ‘Will Satan Be Saved? Reconsidering Origen’s Theory of Volition in “Peri Archon”’, VC 63 (2009), 1-23. 20 Jeremiah and Isaiah are the major examples. 16

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is still acting as a test case for broader questions around prophecy. Origen then moves back to the stars, in order to specify how the stars actually relate to God’s mind, and uses a syllogism to argue against astral determinism. If the stars are, as Origen argues, an outpouring of the mind of God, then they are essentially an externalisation of God’s foreknowledge. If God’s foreknowledge of events is not the cause of events (as previously established), and if the stars are an externalisation of God’s foreknowledge, then the stars are not the cause of events. Origen uses some examples from contemporary astrology to explain this further. For example, in horoscopic astrology it was common practice to provide information not just about the newborn, but about his/her parents, any brothers or sisters, and other members of the family.21 Even if, says Origen, we grant that the astrologers could have accurate charts of the constellations at the time of birth, they cannot possibly make the claim that the natal stars of the child are the cause of the father’s status, or the number of brothers and sisters. If they grant that this is true, then they end up having to maintain that some of the natal stars are not causes but simply signifiers (those pertaining to the family and events preceding the child’s birth), and some of them are causes (those pertaining to the child’s future). This begs the question: which, and how can you tell them apart? And, indeed, what of the combinations of stars?22 Origen therefore rejects individual horoscopic astrology for at least two different reasons. However, having set up the notion of the stars as an outpouring of the mind of God and made allusion to higher powers, he must answer the fourth of his questions, and explain to whom the stars are legible and why: in short, he must account for the fact that he is declaring ‘astrology’ (of a kind) theoretically possible. His primary answer to this question is that the stars are legible for the ‘astral powers’, as in the Scriptural references to ‘powers, dominions’ and so on. These powers are interpreted variously by patristic authors; in this text, Origen appears to see them as operating like some kind of celestial civil service, instructed in their managerial affairs by a system of memos written in the stars: στοχάζομαι [δὲ] ταῖς τὰ ἀνθρώπινα οἰκονομούσαις δυνάμεσιν ἐκκεῖσθαι τὰ σημεῖα, ἵνα τινὰ μὲν γινώσκωσι μόνον, τινὰ δὲ ἐνεργῶσι, καθάπερ ἐν ταῖς παρ᾽ἡμῖν βίβλοις ἃ μὲν γέγραπται ἵνα γινώσκωμεν [...], ἃ δὲ ἵνα γινώσκοντες ποιῶμεν. (Philocalia 23.20) I conjecture that the signs are shown to the powers which manage human affairs, so that they might know some things only, but do others, like how among human beings, in the Bible there are things written which we are to interpret only [...] and those things which we are, having understood them, to do. 21

For example, see Firmicus Maternus, Mathesis 2.14. This argument is actually unique in ancient anti-astrological literature. Although the first section, the objection to accurate star-charts, appears frequently (see n. 5), the combinatorial argument is not used. However, some of Cicero’s (and following him, Augustine’s) arguments concerning twins deal with the same problem. 22

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Origen makes it clear that the powers cannot carry out hermeneutics of the heavens without their special link with the divine, their inspiration by the Holy Spirit. Thus, he claims, it was similarly possible for Biblical figures of great antiquity such as the magi at the nativity and Jacob to have been sufficiently divinely inspired to have been able to carry out the same reading of the heavens. I believe Origen is reading this kind of ‘astrology’ in parallel with prophecy as a more arcane form of revelation, a revelation by which the prophet is not inspired verbally, but through the medium of the stars. Thus the scriptural references to astrology are rehabilitated, and astrology is theoretically possible, but the practices of contemporary pagan astrologers are wholeheartedly and thoroughly rejected. This refiguring of astrology as prophecy is explicitly stated: ἀλλὰ παραπλησίως βιβλίῳ περιέχοντι τὰ μέλλοντα προφητικῶς ὁ πᾶς οὐρανὸς δύναται, οἱονεὶ βίβλος ὤν θεοῦ, περιέχειν τὰ μέλλοντα. (Philocalia 23.15) But similar to a prophetic book which contains the future, the whole heavens can, like a book of God, contain the future.

This analogy links back to the step of the foreknowledge argument which focussed on whether Scripture itself could be a cause, or merely a sign. By comparing the stars to Scripture, Origen is implying that they, like Scripture, cannot be held to be the cause of events, even when their author is God. I believe that the logic of Origen’s argument flows this way: 1. Astral determinism can be rejected on many grounds, therefore; 2. The stars, as a book authored by God, cannot be held to be the cause of events, therefore; 3. Scripture cannot be held to be the cause of events, even when the foreknowledge contained in it is necessarily true, therefore; 4. Just because God’s foreknowledge is necessarily true, that does not imply he is the cause of events, therefore; 5. God is not necessarily the cause of events, and human free will is saved. In this article I have made the case that Origen’s discussion of astrology is the first distinctively Christian interpretation of the subject: rather than relying on canonical pagan anti-astrological arguments, Origen uses the distinction between signs and causes in order to pursue a complex argument that is fundamentally about the nature of foreknowledge through prophecy, and about human free will. Contrary to previous scholarly opinion that Origen denies the possibility of human beings reading the stars, I have shown that the very reason for his writing on the topic depends on this possibility; astrology, which throws up its own set of exegetical considerations, is a topic that cuts to the heart of several of the most important themes of Origen’s work: true and certain foreknowledge, prophecy, divine inspiration, and human free will.

Cyprian, Parenthood, and the Hebrew Bible: Modelling Munificence and Martyrdom Edwina MURPHY, Morling College (ACT and UD), Sydney, Australia

ABSTRACT Instructing his flock from the Scriptures is central to Cyprian’s role as bishop of Carthage. Amongst these pastoral directions are exhortations to almsgiving and martyrdom. But might not parenthood be an impediment to fulfilling these obligations? Cyprian responds by drawing on Hebrew Bible narratives in which parents provide for their children by putting God first. In De opere et eleemosynis, the widow of Zarephath, Job, and Tobit are presented as models of giving. In Ad Fortunatum, the mother of the Maccabean martyrs encourages her children to undergo martyrdom. The responsibilities of parenthood therefore do not prevent one from serving God; rather, honouring God is how parents may best care for their children. This study demonstrates Cyprian’s positive attitude towards family, his use of rewards – both temporal and eternal – as motivation for right living, and the importance of models in his biblical exegesis.

How does parenthood relate to the faithful Christian life, particularly in the areas of caring for the poor and martyrdom? Perhaps the responsibilities of raising offspring prevent parents from fully following Christ in these areas? Certainly Tertullian, on occasion, presents children as an impediment to serving God.1 Or perhaps parenthood exempts one from doing what would otherwise be required? At least some of the wealthy in Cyprian’s congregation would agree. Cyprian, however, does not adopt either of these perspectives.2 Instead, he accepts the societal (and biblical) norms of caring for one’s children,3 but transforms them in accordance with spiritual priorities.

1 Tertullian, Ux. 1.5.1-2 (CChr.SL 1, 378-9), Exh. Cast. 12.1-5 (CChr.SL 2, 1031-3). See the discussion of Tertullian in David G. Hunter, Marriage, Celibacy, and Heresy in Ancient Christianity: The Jovinianist Controversy (Oxford, 2009), 116-20. 2 Although virgins do benefit by being free from the pains of childbearing and the lordship of a husband. Hab. virg. 22 (CChr.SL 3F, 315-6). Cyprian also attempts to encourage virgins to be modest in their dress by appealing to 1Cor. 7:32. Hab. virg. 5 (CChr.SL 3F, 290-1). 3 See, for example, his use of Eph. 6:4 in Test. 3.71 (CChr.SL 3, 159). For a defence of Ad Quirinum as Cyprian’s work, see Edwina Murphy ‘“As Far as My Poor Memory Suggested”: Cyprian’s Compilation of Ad Quirinum’, VC 68 (2014), 533-50.

Studia Patristica C, 123-131. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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To do this, Cyprian draws on the Scriptures, which he regards as central to spiritual formation,4 by employing models. Through this method of exegesis, he aims to inculcate right attitudes and behaviour in his congregation.5 Cyprian’s most frequently used exemplar is Christ,6 followed by Paul, but a range of Old and New Testament figures are pressed into service.7 This reading strategy is prominent in both the treatises we will consider – De opere et eleemosynis and Ad Fortunatum. Munificence Giving to the poor, a constant theme in Cyprian’s work, receives particular attention in De opere et eleemosynis, a work occasioned by the reluctance of wealthy Christians to financially support those suffering during the plague.8 Here Cyprian uses the basic modes of persuasion in deliberative speech, appealing to honour and advantage.9 He dramatises the virtue and benefits of giving (and the evil and dangers of not doing so), by employing a cast of characters: King Nebuchadnezzar, Tabitha, Zacchaeus, the rich man with the abundant harvest, the widow in the temple, and the first believers in Acts.10 In addition, three models – the widow of Zarephath, Job, and Tobit – are used specifically to address the issue of giving alms in the context of the responsibilities of parenthood.11 Cyprian first cites a number of texts to show that having children does not excuse a Christian from good works, including Matt. 10:26: ‘The one who loves father and mother more than me is not worthy of me, and the one 4 Graeme W. Clarke, The Letters of St. Cyprian of Carthage, 4 vols. (New York, 1984-9), 1:356 n. 2. 5 ‘This interest in the moral aspect of the Old Testament, and especially in its hagiographical elements, is characteristic of Cyprian and of the general concern of the Latins with the moral sphere.’ Jean Daniélou, A History of Early Christian Doctrine Before the Council of Nicaea. Vol. 3: The Origins of Latin Christianity, David Smith and John Austin Baker (trans.) (London, 1977), 326. 6 On the importance of following Christ in Cyprian’s work, see Simone Deléani, Christum sequi: Étude d’un thème dans l’œuvre de saint Cyprien (Paris, 1979). 7 For a list of ‘Biblical Figures’ employed by Cyprian, see Michael Andrew Fahey, Cyprian and the Bible: A Study in Third-Century Exegesis (Tübingen, 1971), 555-611. 8 Although David Downs attributes it to the period 248-9, Geoffrey Dunn is correct in associating it with the plague. David J. Downs, Alms: Charity, Reward, and Atonement in Early Christianity (Waco, 2016), 233-4; Geoffrey D. Dunn, ‘Cyprian’s Care for the Poor: The Evidence of De Opere et Eleemosynis’, SP 42 (2006), 367-8. 9 Cicero, Inv. 2.52 (LCL 386, 324-7). For a discussion of the rhetorical structure of De opere et eleemosynis, see G. Dunn, ‘Cyprian’s Care for the Poor’ (2006), 364. 10 Eleem. 5, 6, 8, 13, 15, 25 (CChr.SL 3A, 58-60, 63-5, 71). 11 Job and Tobit are linked both in their giving of alms, as here (on Tobit, see also Dom. or. 33 [CChr.SL 3A, 110]), and as models of patience – despite the discouragement of their wives. (Mort. 10 [CChr.SL 3A, 21-2]; Pat. 18 [CChr.SL 3A, 128-9]; Tobit: Fort. 11 [CChr.SL 3, 204-5], Job: Laps. 19 [CChr.SL 3, 232]).

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who loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.’12 Having established this, however, he goes on to demonstrate that giving to Christ is actually the best way to care for one’s children. Cyprian’s first witness is the widow of Zarephath (1Kings 17), who was using her last dregs of flour and oil to make a meal before dying with her children.13 When Elijah asked her to give him something to eat first, and then feed herself and her children from what was left, she gave it to him promptly. She did not just give a little out of her wealth, says Cyprian, but gave everything she had, putting mercy before food, and the spiritual life before the physical. Elijah responded with a promise from the Lord: ‘The jar of flour will not fail, and the bottle of oil will not be diminished, until the day that the Lord gives rain on the earth.’14 This shows that Christ, in his mercy, rewards those who serve him, as the widow experienced: According to her faith in the divine promise, those things which she offered were multiplied and heaped up to the widow, and her righteous works and merciful deeds receiving increase and growth, the vessels of flour and oil were filled. Nor did the mother take away from her children what she gave to Elijah, but rather she bestowed on her children what she kindly and piously did.15

By putting Elijah – a type of Christ – first, the widow was rewarded not only spiritually, but physically; her children benefited from her generosity, receiving life rather than death. Furthermore, if the widow did this in her poverty, not yet knowing Christ or being redeemed by his passion, it is clear how sinful are wealthy Christians who do not assist the poor, but put themselves and their children before Christ.16 Another excuse for not giving freely to the poor is the burden of providing for many children. In Cyprian’s mind, this is not a reason to withhold alms, but rather a reason to give all the more, ‘as the father of many pledges’.17 The greater the number of children, the greater the exertion of their parents must be 12 ‘Qui diligit, inquit, patrem aut matrem super me non est me dignus, et qui diligit filium aut filiam super me non est me dignus.’ (Also used in Fort. 6 [CChr.SL 3, 193]). In addition, Cyprian cites Deut. 33:9 and 1John 3:17. Eleem. 16 (CChr.SL 3A, 65). Translations from the Latin are my own. 13 Cyprian’s text appears to rely on the LXX which, instead of the son mentioned in the Hebrew text (and the Vulgate), refers to children. E.g. τοῖς τέκνοις μου (1Kgs. 17:12). Thanks to Bart Koet for pointing this out. 14 ‘Fidelia farris non deficiet et capsaces olei non minuet usque in diem quo dabit dominus imbrem super terram.’ 1Kgs. 17:14; Eleem. 17 (CChr.SL 3A, 66). 15 ‘Secundum diuinae pollicitationis fidem multiplicata sunt uiduae et cumulata quae praestitit et operibus iustis ac misericordiae meritis augmenta et incrementa sumentibus farris et olei uasa conpleta sunt. Nec filiis abstulit mater quod heliae dedit, sed magis contulit filiis quod benigne et pie fecit.’ Eleem. 17 (CChr.SL 3A, 66). 16 Identified with the poor and captive. See Matt. 25:31-46, cited in Eleem. 23 (CChr.SL 3A, 69-70); Matt. 25:36 in Ep. 62.3.1 (CChr.SL 3C, 87). 17 ‘Quo multorum pignorum pater es.’ Eleem. 18 (CChr.SL 3A, 66).

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in this regard: ‘The sins of many have to be redeemed, the consciences of many to be cleansed, the souls of many to be liberated.’18 Just as in worldly things, more children mean more expense, so it is in spiritual matters. Job is a model of this way of thinking,19 the number of sacrifices made correlating to the number of his children.20 He did this daily, since sins are a daily occurrence: The Holy Scripture proves this, saying: ‘Job, a true and righteous man, had seven sons and three daughters, and cleansed them, offering for them victims to God according to the number of them, and for their sins one calf.’21 If, then, you truly love your children, if you show to them the full and paternal sweetness of love, you ought to be more charitable, that by your righteous works you may commend your children to God.22

So, following Job, parental devotion is not expressed by keeping money from the poor, but rather by being all the more generous. Notable here is the selfevident substitution of righteous works for animal sacrifice, already invoked by Paul.23 The series of human models is interrupted with a discussion of divine parenthood. God is the true father to one’s children – under his guardianship their inheritance is secure. Therefore, entrusting one’s wealth to God will ‘provide for one’s dear pledges for the coming time; this is with paternal affection to take care for one’s future heirs’.24 Not to preserve one’s children in ‘religion and true piety’25 is to be an unfair and traitorous father, commending them to the devil rather than Christ – both denying them the aid of God their father, and teaching them to love their property more than Christ.26 Parents are instead to be positive models for their children. 18 ‘Multorum delicta redimenda sunt, multorum purgandae conscientiae, multorum animae liberandae.’ Eleem. 18 (CChr.SL 3A, 66). 19 For Job as an exemplum in Tertullian and Cyprian, see J. Daniélou, Origins of Latin Christianity (1977), 324-6. 20 The ‘language and concept of sacrifice’ is not, therefore, absent from De opere et eleemosynis, as claimed by D. Downs, Alms (2016), 96. 21 Job 1:1a-3, 5 (LXX). 22 ‘Probat scriptura dicens: “Iob homo uerus et iustus habuit filios septem et filias tres et emundabat illos offerens pro eis hostias Deo secundum numerum illorum et pro peccatis eorum uitulum unum.” Si ergo uere filios tuos diligis, si eis exhibes plenam et paternam dulcedinem caritatis, operari magis debes ut filios tuos deo iusta operatione commendes.’ Eleem. 18 (CChr.SL 3A, 67). 23 Phil. 4:18. For discussion of the use of this passage by Cyprian, see Edwina Murphy, ‘Cyprian, Paul, and Care for the Poor and Captive: Offering Sacrifices and Ransoming Temples’, ZAC 20 (2016), 418-36. Neither Roman Garrison nor David Downs elaborates on the sacrificial aspect of this text. Roman Garrison, Redemptive Almsgiving in Early Christianity (Sheffield, 1993), 67 n. 4; D. Downs, Alms (2016), 162-5. 24 ‘Hoc est caris pignoribus in posterum prouidere, hoc est futuris heredibus paterna pietate consulere,’ citing Ps. 36:25-6 and Prov. 20:7 in support. Eleem. 19 (CChr.SL 3A, 67). 25 ‘Religiosa et uera pietate.’ Eleem. 19 (CChr.SL 3A, 67). 26 Eleem. 19 (CChr.SL 3A, 67).

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Such instruction to one’s pledges is demonstrated by Tobit, who gave ‘useful and saving precepts’27 to his son, directing him to serve and bless God, to do justice, and to give alms.28 Christian parents should follow Tobit’s example, passing on the same advice to keep God’s commands, with a particular focus on almsgiving: Give alms of your property, and do not turn your face away from any poor person. Then, neither will God’s face be turned away from you. As you have, son, so do. If you have a large amount of property, give alms from it all the more. If you have little, share of that little. And do not fear when giving alms: for you are laying up a good reward for yourself against the day of necessity, because alms deliver from death, and do not allow us to go into darkness. Almsgiving is a good offering before the most high God for all that do it.29

Once more, Cyprian appeals to parental affection and devotion – truly loving one’s children is exemplified by giving to the poor and instructing them to do likewise. Although Tobit may have earthly advantage in mind,30 for Cyprian, the quotation suggests a heavenly dimension as well. In De opere et eleemosynis, then, the widow of Zarephath, Job, and Tobit join other models of giving, demonstrating that the Christian obligation to assist the poor is not incompatible with parenthood. Rather, almsgiving is an expression of parental affection, providing for one’s children both now and in the future. Martyrdom In Ad Fortunatum, Cyprian again employs a large number of models.31 Of particular interest here are those of righteous people who have suffered, supporting the testimony: It was predicted beforehand that the world would hate us and stir up persecutions against us, and that nothing new is happening to Christians, since from the beginning 27

‘Utilia et salutaria praecepta.’ Eleem. 20 (CChr.SL 3A, 67). Citing Tob. 14:10-1. Eleem. 20 (CChr.SL 3A, 67-8). 29 ‘Ex substantia tua fac eleemosynam et noli auertere faciem tuam ab ullo paupere. Ita fiet ut nec a te auertatur facies dei. Prout habueris, fili, sic fac: si tibi fuerit copiosa substantia, plus ex illa fac eleemosynam. Si exiguum habueris, ex hoc ipso exiguo communica. Et ne timueris, cum facis eleemosynam: praemium bonum reponis tibi in diem necessitatis, quia eleemosyna a morte liberat et non patitur ire in tenebras. Munus bonum est eleemosyna omnibus qui faciunt eam coram summo deo.’ Tob. 4:7-11 (Vulgate: Tob. 4:7-12). Eleem. 20 (CChr.SL 3A, 68). Cyprian’s use of Tobit is discussed in J. Daniélou, Origins of Latin Christianity (1977), 327-8. 30 D. Downs, Alms (2016), 62-5. 31 Moses, Jeremiah, Noah, Daniel, and Job (Fort. 4. CChr.SL 3, 190-1); Matthias (Fort. 5. CChr.SL 3, 192); the Exodus Jews and Lot’s wife (Fort. 7. CChr.SL 3, 194-5); Moses (Fort. 8. CChr.SL 3, 197); Moses and Balaam’s ass (Fort. 10. CChr.SL 3, 200); and Adam (Fort. 13. CChr.SL 3, 215). 28

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of the world the good have suffered, and the righteous have been oppressed and slain by the unrighteous.32

The examples cited include Jesus (and his words of warning), Abel, Jacob, Joseph, David, Elijah, Zechariah, the three youths, Daniel, Tobit, the seven Maccabean brothers and Eleazar. The crowd of martyrs in Revelation, which cannot be numbered, is used in contrast to these ancient examples, which can be.33 Our interest is in the mother of the seven Maccabees who, despite the weakness of her sex and her multiple bereavements, did not count these things as punishments of her pledges, but as glories.34 When only the youngest son was left, Antiochus promised him great things and asked the mother to entreat him to give in.35 As Cyprian relates it: She entreated, but it was as became a mother of martyrs … as became one who loved her sons not delicately, but bravely. For she entreated, but it was that he would confess God. She entreated that the brother would not be separated from his brothers in the company of praise and glory, only counting herself the mother of seven sons if she bore seven sons, not to the world, but to God. Therefore arming him, and strengthening him, and so bearing her son by a more blessed birth, she said, ‘O son, pity me … receive death, that in the same mercy I may receive you with your brothers.’36

Cyprian points out that she does not excuse her son, or herself, from martyrdom – believing they could rely on the prayers of his martyred brethren – but instead persuades him to join them.37 The mother then followed her sons to 32 ‘Ante praedictum esse quod nos mundus odio habiturus esset et quod persecutiones aduersum nos excitaret et quod nihil nouum christianis accidat, quando ab initio mundi boni laborauerint et oppressi adque occisi sint iusti ab iniustis.’ Fort. 11 (CChr.SL 3, 201). 33 Fort. 11 (CChr.SL 3, 201-11). Jesus appears first as the most important exemplar, then the others follow in roughly chronological order. This form of historical awareness is noted by Nienke Vos, ‘A Universe of Meaning: Cyprian’s Use of Scripture in Letter 58’, in Henk Bakker, Paul van Geest, and Hans van Loon (eds), Cyprian of Carthage: Studies in His Life, Language and Thought (Leuven, 2010), 91. 34 Fort. 11 (CChr.SL 3, 208). There is also a typological component to this scene: the seven brothers perfectly fulfil the sacramental number seven; the mother represents the catholic church; the absence of a human father shows that martyrs – ‘Dei filios in passione’ – have no other father but God. Fort. 11 (CChr.SL 3, 205-6). 35 Variations on the verb ‘to entreat’ appear four times in quick succession. This is typical of Cyprian’s style. See, for example, the repetition of ‘confessor est’ in Unit. eccl. 21 (CChr.SL 3, 264-5); ‘Locupletem te dicis et diuitem’ in Hab. virg. 8-11 (CChr.SL 3F, 295-8); and ‘mori timeat’ in Mort. 14 (CChr.SL 3A, 24). 36 ‘Depraecata est illa, sed ut decebat martyrum matrem … ut decebat filios suos non delicate sed fortiter diligentem. Depraecata est enim, sed ut deum confiteretur. Depraecata est ne a fratribus suis frater in consortio laudis et gloriae separaretur, tunc se septem filiorum conputans matrem si sibi contingeret filios septem deo potius peperisse, non saeculo. Armans itaque eum et corroborans et feliciore tunc partu filium generans, fili, inquit, miserere mei … excipias mortem, ut in illa miseratione cum fratribus te recipiam.’ 2Macc. 7:27-9. Fort. 11 (CChr.SL 3, 208-9). 37 The example of Eleazar, who refused the opportunity to avoid martyrdom by only appearing to eat unlawful meat, is used to demonstrate that Christians should not obtain certificates. Fort. 11 (CChr.SL 3, 209-10).

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God, united in glory with them, as was fitting for one ‘who had borne and made martyrs’.38 The classic ‘pity the mother who bore and nursed you’ is transformed.39 That which the mother desires most of all is the spiritual well-being of her children. Such courageous love should be the hallmark of Christian parents.40 Conclusion Cyprian’s language of parenthood is full of references to love and affection. Associating devotion to one’s family with piety clearly has affinities with Roman ideals.41 But pietas takes on another dimension in Cyprian’s thought, beyond its usual sense of duty towards family, patria, and the gods. Along with other Christian authors, Cyprian uses it to mean ‘pity’ or ‘mercy’,42 which he particularly associates with God in relation to his fatherhood.43 So Cyprian’s high regard for the role of parent also draws on the fundamental biblical image of God as father.44 Divine paternity confers honour upon human parenthood, providing a model to emulate: godly parents will love their children and do what is best for them. What is best must not be judged by worldly standards, however, but by heavenly. Success is measured by the extent to which parents 38

‘Martyras et pepererat et fecerat.’ Fort. 11 (CChr.SL 3, 209). Here expressed ‘miserere mei quae te in utero mensibus decem portaui et lac triennio dedi et alui et in aetatem istam perduxi.’ Fort. 11 (CChr.SL 3, 208-9). 40 Such fortitude is also attributed to Abraham in Mort. 12 (CChr.SL 3A, 23). He was prepared not only to lose his son, but to slay him in order to please God. The righteous person must therefore be prepared for everything, even the ‘mournful and sorrowful tearing away from wife, from children, from departing dear ones … since all injury inflicted by present evils is contemptible in the assurance of future blessings’ (‘sit de uxore, de liberis, de excedentibus caris funebris et tristis auulsio … cum contemnenda sit omnis iniuria malorum praesentium fiducia futurorum bonorum’). Once more we see the natural affection for family members, and the future reward received by those who triumph in the battles of this life. 41 Mappalicus granted reconciliation to his mother and sister ‘for the most virtuous of motives – pietas.’ G.W. Clarke, Letters (1984-9), 1:356, referring to Ep. 27.1.1 (CChr.SL 3B, 128). The presbyter Numidicus was left for dead, but ‘dum postmodum filia sollicito pietatis obsequio cadauer patris inquirit’ and nursed him back to life. Ep. 40.1.1 (CChr.SL 3B, 194). 42 ‘Ce sens de pietas, «pitié» … s’est surtout développé dans la langue chrétienne: pietas y devient l’équivalent de misercordia.’ Hélène Pétré, Caritas: Étude sur le vocabulaire latin de la charité chrétienne (Louvain, 1948), 253-4. The sense of ‘pity’ does appear, on occasion, in classical authors. See, for example, Virgil, Aen. 9, 493 (LCL 64, 148-9). Thanks to Oliver Norris for this reference. 43 For example, the connection between the ‘diuinae pietatis et paternae leniatis’ in the letter to Antonianus is further reinforced by three uses of pietas in the discussion of God as father. Ep. 55.13.1; 55.23.1-2 (CChr.SL 3A, 270, 283-4). 44 ‘Ce qui définit Dieu avant toute autre chose et ce qui caractérise la relation homme Dieu c’est précisément la paternité.’ Cyril Brun, ‘La paternité divine, solution du dilemme transcendance – immanence, chez saint Cyprien’, in Aline Canellis and Martine Furno (eds), L’Antiquité en ses confins. Mélanges offerts à Benoît Gain (Grenoble, 2008), 21. 39

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entrust their children to God, confident that he will provide for them. He will guarantee their inheritance;45 he is the true father of those who are his sons in suffering.46 The call to follow Christ therefore relativises, or rather, transforms, family bonds. This concern for the spiritual welfare of one’s children will also be expressed by making sacrifices on their behalf, as Job did, although the offerings now required are gifts to those in need. Finally, parents must give wholesome advice to their children and model it themselves. This aspect of parenthood is particularly prominent in Tobit’s directions on giving to the poor, and in the exhortations of the mother of the Maccabean martyrs to persevere under torture. Just as parents should be models for their children, so Christians should imitate their biblical forebears. The choice may appear to be between putting one’s children first and putting God first, but that is a false dichotomy. Obeying the command to put God first is, in fact, the best way to care for one’s children, as these exemplars show. The widow of Zarephath, by her gift of food, demonstrated that she valued the spiritual above the physical. In return for the little she gave, however, she received an ongoing supply.47 This promise of temporal reward is also expressed by Tobit, although for Cyprian it extends to the eternal. The other two models emphasise spiritual reward: Job’s sacrifices commended his children to God, cleansing them from sin. Likewise, the mother of the Maccabean martyrs looked beyond earthly suffering, or the potential for earthly reward in the case of the youngest son, to heavenly glory. These examples illustrate a common strategy in Cyprian’s pastoral care – future hope as a motivation to persevere in godly living.48 Through his use of these models from the Hebrew Bible, Cyprian presents parenthood as a valid field of spiritual labour.49 By referring to children as ‘pledges’,50 he identifies them both as tokens of love and as commitments to be honoured – righteous people will produce blessed children.51 This positive attitude towards parenthood suggests that Cyprian’s views on marriage and celibacy need to be reconsidered. Although Jerome defended his teaching 45

Dom. or. 19 (CChr.SL 3A, 102). Fort. 11 (CChr.SL 3, 206). 47 See also Cyprian’s use of 2Cor. 9:10-11a, 12 in Eleem. 9 (CChr.SL 3A, 61), where both righteousness and wealth increase as recompense for giving, E. Murphy, ‘Cyprian, Paul, and Care’ (2016). 48 ‘Ceterum nullus his dolor est de incursatione malorum praesentium quibus fiducia est futurorum bonorum.’ Dem. 18 (CChr.SL 3A, 45). 49 As Daniélou notes, ‘Job is seen not just as a model of the righteous man who is persecuted, but as an ideal of the righteous man as such.’ J. Daniélou, Origins of Latin Christianity (1977), 326. 50 Seven out of Cyprian’s ten uses appear here, and of the others, one refers to Job after the death of his ‘pledges’. Mort. 10 (CChr.SL 3A, 21). The remaining two are the pledge to be returned to the debtor (Ezek. 18:7 in Test. 3.48 [CChr.SL 3, 137]), and the pledge of (eternal) life. Ep. 55.13.1 (CChr.SL 3A, 270). 51 As demonstrated by Ps. 36:25-6 and Prov. 20:7. Eleem. 19 (CChr.SL 3A, 67). 46

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against Jovinian by appealing to Tertullian, Cyprian and Ambrose,52 this study instead points to an element of discontinuity in the Latin tradition. Just as David Hunter has raised awareness of the diversity of early Christian thought in this area, recovering anti-ascetic tendencies, so further study of Cyprian, beyond De habitu virginum, may prompt a reassessment of his classification as a ‘moderate encratite’.53

52

‘Lege Tertullianum, lege Cyprianum, lege Ambrosium, et cum illis me uel accusa uel libera.’ Jerome, Ep. 48.18 (CSEL 54, 382). 53 D.G. Hunter, Marriage, Celibacy, and Heresy (2009), 122.

Orthodoxy, Heresy and Episcopal Authority in the Third-Century Church: The Debates between Cyprian of Carthage, the Laxist and the Rigorist Clergy Victor A. GODOY, Federal University of São Paulo, Brazil

ABSTRACT Elected Bishop of Carthage in 248-9, Cyprian acquired a decisive role in the debate regarding the disciplinary challenge that the emperor Decius inflicted on the Church. Thanks to his surviving works, it is known that Cyprian debated with the Carthaginian and Roman clergy, openly opposing the utility of penance to readmit to communion those who had lapsed during the Decian persecution of 249-50. In his works, Cyprian employed ‘heretic’ and ‘schismatic’ to refer to the clergy who, by defending a deviant ecclesiology and founding a rival community, defied his authority as a bishop, i.e. as the individual responsible for rightly teaching the sayings and acts of Jesus to the faithful. This article focuses firstly, on the development in Cyprian’s ecclesiology during the first years of his episcopate and moreover, on the role that a rapidly shifting context of disciplinary challenge had in this development; secondly, on how Cyprian defined any deviant ecclesiology as ‘heretic’; and thirdly, on how Cyprian, by endowing the ecclesiology of his opposing clergy with the epithet of ‘heresy’ defended, if not extended, his own authority but also collaborated towards a significant shift in the hierarchical nature of the organisation of the clergy.

At the end of 249, the emperor Decius published an edict to order all Roman citizens, except Jews, to sacrifice to the pagan gods on behalf of the Roman Empire, and obtain a certificate (libellus) from the relevant local officials attesting this sacrifice, in order to secure the ‘pax deorum’ in a period generally perceived as turbulent.1 Since nowhere in the forty-four surviving libelli are the participants required to confirm that they are Christians, very few scholars still insist that Decius had the Christians as his target. The universal character of Decius’ edict, however, did not stop the Christians viewing this as the work of the devil, since it forced them to choose between apostasy and death.2 If they 1 Regarding Decius’ edict, see John R. Knipfing, ‘The libelli of the Decian persecution’, HTR 16 (1923), 345-90; James B. Rives, ‘The decree of Decius and the religion of Empire’, JRS 89 (1999), 135-54. 2 For a debate distinguishing the intention of Decius in publishing the edict, and the way that Christians saw it, see Candida Moss, The Myth of Persecution: How Early Christians Invented a Story of Martyrdom (New York, 2013), 127-62.

Studia Patristica C, 133-141. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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stood before a local official, the Christians would be ordered to sacrifice. If they obeyed, in the eyes of the clergy they would violate their baptismal oath in which they pledged allegiance only to Christ and rejected every other religion or religious cult. If they refused, they would be arrested, judged and possibly tortured and then executed. The legal basis of such a system still remains uncertain.3 To be more specific, Decius’ edict forced the Christians to choose between the following five actions: to obey the edict and sacrifice, these being called sacrificati; to refuse to sacrifice and be subject to the possibility of execution, these being named confessores; to obtain, from the duly appointed local officials, a libellus falsely stating that sacrifice had been made, these being labeled libellaciti; to do nothing if not singled out by the local officials and hope to remain unnoticed, these being titled stantes; or to depart to a safer place where the implementation of the edict had not yet begun or had already ended.4 Among the Christian laity in Carthage, it is known that most of them indeed obeyed to Decius’s edict, thus becoming apostates or lapsi in the eyes of the Church. The responses given to Decius’ edict were diverse, not only between the Christian laity but also amongst their clergy and leaders. By the beginning of 250, well-known bishops had fallen victim of Decius’ edict. Some were executed and won the glory of martyrdom, the best-known example being that of Fabian, bishop of Rome. Others departed to safer places, the most famous case being that of Cyprian, elected Bishop of Carthage in 248-9, who departed to an unknown location and returned to Carthage only by the end of March 251, soon after Decius’ death, when the attempts to punish those who had not obeyed Decius’ edict had petered out. These two bishops’ responses to Decius’ edict, together with the immense number of lapsi, had similar consequences in the dioceses of Rome and Carthage. Fabian’s death left the Roman Church without a bishop for the whole period of the implementation of Decius’ edict, during which it was governed only by its presbyters. Soon after the so-called persecution of Decius ended, most of the clergy and the people, with the consent of most of the bishops of the neighbouring dioceses, elected Cornelius as Fabian’s successor. However, this election, held in March 251, was objected to by Novatian, one of the presbyters, who secured his own ordination as bishop in opposition to Cornelius and thus formed a schismatic Church in Rome. Commonly known as ‘rigorist’, the faction led by Novatian defended that, even with penance, the lapsi could never 3 The most relevant scholarship on the poorly-known legal basis for the execution of Christians in Late Antiquity is still Timothy D. Barnes, ‘Legislation against the Christians’, JRS 58 (1968), 32-50; Geoffrey de St. Croix, ‘Why were early Christians persecuted?’, Past & Present 26 (1963), 6-38. 4 For a discussion on these different responses to Decius’ edict, see Eric Rebillard, Christians and their Many Identities in Late Antiquity: North Africa, 200-450 (Ithaca and London, 2012), 34-60.

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be readmitted to communion since the Church could not forgive a sin directed against God, such as the sin of apostasy.5 Fearing that his return to Carthage would evoke an anti-Christian riot among the gentiles, since he was well-known even by them, Cyprian saw himself forced to deal with the legacy of Decius’ edict by correspondence. Around March 250, some of the clergy of the diocese of Carthage led by the deacon Felicissimus decided not to wait the end of the persecution. By readmitting the lapsi to communion without penance, before God had given peace to the whole Church, they thus permitted all the bishops under the tutelage of the bishop of Carthage to come together to decide the fate of the lapsi. Commonly known as ‘laxists’ for not requiring penance of the lapsi before readmitting them to communion, these clerics, who had opposed Cyprian’s election as bishop of Carthage in 248-9, soon after his departure to an unknown place, accepted the libelli released by the confessors to the lapsi and readmitted them to communion in March 251. After publicly denying communion to his supporters, they were expelled from the Church by Cyprian in May 252, and they then elected a pseudo-bishop to challenge his authority as Bishop of Carthage.6 Cyprian’s departure to an unknown place thus brought about most of the polemics and challenges that he had to deal with as bishop of Carthage. Nevertheless, it offers to posterity abundant documentation regarding not only how he determined the penance policy which the clergy under his tutelage should adopt in dealing with the lapsi, but also how he perceived and defined his ecclesiology.7 However, it is vital in reading Cyprian’s works, whether they take the form of epistles or sermons, to recall that he is always responding to situations unforeseen and unforeseeable. Further, it is helpful to bear in mind the two-fold argument that Cyprian was a pastor, not a theologian, and that the rapidly shifting context of disciplinary challenge inherent to the decade which he spent as bishop of Carthage is more important in the reading of his works than the purely intellectual or theological backdrop of developments up to the mid-third century.8 This approach helps to understand why Cyprian changed his penitence policy for readmitting the lapsi to communion during his episcopate and reworked his ecclesiology, in view of the challenges posed by his opponents. Therefore, in light of the excellent scholarly research done on Cyprian in the last decades, this paper seeks to highlight the ecclesiology he defined 5 For a debate on the ordination and theology of Novatian, see Ronald E. Heine, ‘Cyprian and Novatian’, in Frances Young, Lewis Ayres and Andrew Louth (eds), The Cambridge History of Early Christian literature (Cambridge, 2008), 152-60. 6 For a debate on the laxists, see Geoffrey D. Dunn, ‘Cyprian’s rival bishops and their communities’, Augustinianum 45 (2005), 61-93. 7 Ecclesiology, here, understood as the way he perceived and defined the nature and the mission of the church: Eric Plummer. ‘The development of ecclesiology: Early Church to the Reformation’, in The Gift of the Church (Collegeville, 2000), 23-44, 23. 8 Lucy Grig, Making martyrs in Late Antiquity (London, 2004), 27-32, 28.

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during the first years of his episcopate and how, by endowing his opponents with the epithets of heretics and schismatics, he defended his ecclesiology as orthodox and his authority as a bishop. In order to do so, this paper will examine a few of Cyprian’s works, namely (and in chronological order), Epistles 41 and 43, and his sermon The Unity of the Catholic Church. The decline of the relationship between Cyprian and the laxist clergy, led by the deacon Felicissimus, came to its peak near March 251. In Epistle 41, penned at this time, Cyprian, whilst still in exile, told the commission that he had appointed to attend to the ‘urgent needs’ of the people of the diocese of Carthage, and to find suitable people to replace the rebel clergy, that he had received their letter (I,1).9 In this letter, now lost, they told him that, when they were sent on their mission, Felicissimus intervened, attempting to keep anyone from receiving aid, and making it impossible for them to know, by careful inquiry, the matters he had requested. Further, they reported to him that Felicissimus had been menacing and intimidating those who had come to them to receive their assistance, declaring that those who had chosen to be obedient to them should not be in communion with him at death. A few lines later, Cyprian said that Felicissimus had come forward with a large following, wildly and madly claiming that he is the leader of a ‘faction’. In light of all this news, Cyprian informed his commission of the following: In view of the fact that Felicissimus has threatened that those who have obeyed us, that is to say, those who are in communion with us, should not be in communion with him at death: ‘Let him receive that sentence which he has already pronounced himself. Let him be informed that he has been excommunicated by us’.10

Cyprian learned of the clergy who were unduly readmitting the lapsi to communion around May 250, and he seemed willing to tolerate it as a policy, although it was not a policy he favoured, until Felicissimus intervened in the mission on which he sent his commission, and denied communion to those who support him. The faction that Felicissimus formed is understood by Cyprian in Epistle 41 as a direct revolt against the mission of his clerical commission and therefore, as a direct revolt against his authority as a bishop. This revolt, which led to Felicissimus’ excommunication, nurtured a rich development in Cyprian’s ecclesiology, recorded in Epistle 43, the next he penned. This epistle is particularly important in understanding this development, since it is the first of all Cyprian’s surviving epistles in which the term ‘heresy’ appears. At the end of this epistle, he defined the rebels led by Felicissimus as 9 Cyprian of Carthage, ‘Letter 41’, in Johannes Quasten, Walter J. Burghardt and Thomas C. Lawler (eds), The letters of St. Cyprian: Volume 2, Ancient Christian Writers 44 (New York and Mahwah, 1984), 59-60, 59. 10 Ibid. 60.

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a ‘heretical faction’, without further developing the idea of what that heresy was.11 However, a few lines before, Cyprian told the people of the diocese of Carthage, referring to Felicissimus’ faction, that: They have now received the punishment that they had so deserved – but through the providence of God, not by any wish or desire on our part; rather, we were forgiving and held our peace. ... without being cast out by us, they have voluntarily cast themselves out from the church; from their own consciences, they have actually passed sentence on themselves. ... these evil schemers have expelled themselves, on their own initiative, from the Church. (I,3)12

In light of this passage, which sets the tone for the rest of the epistle, the definition of the rebels led by Felicissimus as ‘heretic’ may seem inadequate, promoting doubt as to why he was not defined as a ‘schismatic’. In a recent study, G.D. Dunn showed that, in the period between Tertullian and Augustine, i.e. in the period from the beginning of the third century to the end of the fourth century, the concept of heresy was equivalent to, and inseparable from, the concept of schism.13 After codifying all the times that Cyprian used the term heresy, as well as the term schism, in his works, Dunn inferred that his usage is interchangeable, and his detection of them in the Church is interdependent, since, for him, there could be no schism without heresy, and no heresy without schism: deviant belief would lead to a rupture in Church unity, and a rupture in Church unity would impede any unity in belief.14 This is verified in Epistle 43, as is demonstrated in the following comments on the points made by Cyprian. With Felicissimus’ faction being outside the Church by their own will and the will of God, Cyprian said that he could no longer be forgiving, since they were not only damned by their own acts, but were leading the lapsi into damnation with their teachings (II,2). As if it were not enough to corrupt the minds of certain confessors, to seek to shatter the diocese of Carthage, and to set a part of it against its bishop, chosen by God, they were deploying their envenomed deception in order to damn the lapsi.15 ‘In opposition to the discipline laid down by the Gospels’, Cyprian understood (III,2) that the rebels led by Felicissimus denied the lapsi the possibility of repentance, secured with the help of the bishop, responsible for deciding the right policy of penance – which should be decided not by a single bishop but by all the bishops. There should be no change regarding the fate of the fallen 11

Cyprian of Carthage, ‘Letter 43’, in Johannes Quasten, Walter J. Burghardt and Thomas C. Lawler (eds), The Letters of St. Cyprian: Volume 2, Ancient Christian Writers 44 (New York & Mahwah, 1984), 61-67, 67. 12 Ibid. 62. 13 Geoffrey D. Dunn, ‘Heresy and Schism according to Cyprian of Carthage’, JTS NS 55 (2004), 551-74. 14 Ibid. 560. 15 Cyprian of Carthage, ‘Letter 43’ (1984), 61-7, 62.

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until all the bishops could meet, and, after sharing their views, could reach a decision which was tempered with rigour as well as mercy. By readmitting the lapsi to communion, Felicissimus’ faction was annihilating ‘all the authority of the office of the bishop’.16 The Carthaginian bishop also said that they possess teachings which defile the virtue of the Church and the truth of the Gospels (IV,3); that they do not let the Church call back and lead back the fallen, whilst they forsook the Church themselves (V,1); that God is one and Christ is one, so there is one Church and one chair founded, by the Lord’s authority, upon Peter (V,2). It is not possible that another altar can be set up, or that a new bishop can be appointed, over and above that one altar and that one bishop. Whoever gathers elsewhere, scatters, and whatever is taught by a man who, in his madness, defies what has been appointed by God is an offence to him.17 As Cyprian saw, it the wolves that separate sheep and shepherd must be avoided, as well as the envenomed tongue which seeks to lure away the lapsi, which are sick and ill, from the remedy that could heal their wound (VI,3). The rebels led by Felicissimus, therefore, talk in the name of the devil, ‘who, ever deceitful and lying since the beginning of the world, lies that he may deceive, cajoles that he may injure, pledges good that he may give evil’.18 It seems that there is not only a clearly disciplinary issue at stake (the right penance policy for the readmission of the lapsi to communion), but also, at the heart of that issue, there is the revolt, seen in Epistle 41, against the authority of the duly elected bishops, who together, were responsible for deciding this policy. Most of these points reappeared in the sermon The Unity of the Catholic Church, penned by Cyprian around May 251.19 In the third chapter of this sermon, Cyprian repeated the argument that the devil had invented heresy and schism with which to undermine the faith, to corrupt the truth of the Gospels, and to sunder the unity of the Church. In the next chapter, Cyprian resumed the point that there is only one Church, which God built upon Peter. Although God had assigned equal power to all the Apostles, in Cyprian’s thinking he founded a single Chair, thus establishing, by his own authority, the source and hallmark of [the Church’s] oneness. And although no doubt the others were all that Peter was, a primacy was given to Peter so it was thus made clear that there is only one Church and one Chair.20 This point, seen in Epistle 43 in a shorter version, is the bedrock for Cyprian’s most lengthy defence, made in chapter five, of the authority of the individual 16

Ibid. 63. Ibid. 64. 18 Ibid. 66. 19 Cyprian, ‘The Unity of the Catholic Church’, in Roy J. Deferrari (ed.), Saint Cyprian: Treatises (New York, 1958), 95-121. 20 Ibid. 98-9. 17

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bishops. Duly elected in apostolic succession and in unanimity with each other, they became the keepers of the unity of the Church and the truth of the Gospels. ‘This unity, we ought to hold firmly and defend, especially we bishops who watch over the Church’; so that they, the bishops, might show that the episcopate itself is one and undivided, such that no one might deceive the faithful or corrupt the faith by a corruption of the truth of the Gospels and they, as individual bishops, might hold together the parts of the episcopate to show that it is one.21 In chapter six, Cyprian cited biblical passages in order to confer a Christological character to his ecclesiology. Linking the passage in which the Lord says ‘I and the Father are one’ with the quotation in which it is said of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit ‘And these three are one’, Cyprian then inquired if anyone believed that the unity of the Church, which is of divine origin, can be separated by the divisions of colliding wills, concluding that he who does not hold this unity does not hold the faith of the Father and the Son.22 Living in a period in which debates on heresies focussed on matters of Christology, and, to a lesser extent, of soteriology, Cyprian’s point could be particularly effective: since the unity of the church is dependent on the unity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the schismatic, in dividing the first, is also the heretic who does not believe in the latter.23 This is not a defence of the idea that the schismatics to whom Cyprian referred, whether they were laxists or rigorists, were indeed heretics, i.e. of the historicity of this heresy. Rather, the point is that, by depicting them not only as schismatics but as heretics as well, Cyprian defended his own authority as a bishop. In chapter ten, Cyprian again related schism to heresy, claiming that heresies had arisen, and are arisen, ‘while the perverse mind has no peace, while the discordant perfidy does not maintain unity’, and that these had happen, and are happening, with the consent of God. Heresy is the way that God tests the faithful, to divide the just and the unjust, and to separate the wheat from the chaff, even before the Day of Judgment. It is those among the unjust and the chaff who, of their own accord, establish themselves as bishops without any law of ordination, who, although no one gives it to them, assume the name of bishops for themselves.24 The focus in this chapter is on those who found rebel factions and set themselves as its leaders, defending different opinions on the readmission of the lapsi to communion. These opinions led to a rupture with the unity found with, and kept by, all individual bishops.25 21

Ibid. 99. Ibid. 101. 23 Andreas J. Köstenberger and Michael J. Kruger, The Heresy of Orthodoxy. How Contemporary Culture’s Fascination with Diversity has Reshaped our Understanding of Early Christianity (Crossway, 2010), 70. 24 Cyprian, ‘The Unity of the Catholic Church’ (1958), 105. 25 G. D. Dunn, ‘Heresy and schism’ (2004), 58-70. 22

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In chapter twelve, Cyprian defended the idea that corrupters of the Gospels quote the final words, and pass over the ones which came before, being mindful of some parts, and neglectful of others. To this idea, Cyprian added that, as they themselves have been cut off from the Church, so they cut off sentences from chapters of the Gospels. Moreover, to be outside the church is to be without the source and origin of truth: But who can he agree with anyone, who does not agree with the body of the Church herself, and with the universal brotherhood? How can two or three be gathered in the name of Christ, who it is clear are separated from Christ and His gospel? For we did not withdraw from them, but they from us, and, when heresies and schisms arose, while they were establishing diverse meeting places for themselves, they abandoned the source and origin of truth.26

In chapter seventeen, Cyprian exhorted his audience to ‘avoid men of this sort’, for such a man ‘is perverted, and sins, and is condemned by his very self’, since, ‘despising the bishops’, he ‘dares to set up another altar, to compose another prayer with unauthorised words’.27 With this, Cyprian concluded, they damn others, since evil sayings corrupt good manners. To Cyprian, ‘these men’ seek after strange doctrines, and introduce teachings of human disposition, since they despise God’s tradition. Their offence is worse than that of the lapsi, who, through their rough penance, beseech God with full satisfaction: Here the Church is sought and entreated, there the Church is resisted; here there can have been necessity, there the will is held in wickedness; here he who lapsed harmed only himself, there he who tried to cause a heresy or schism deceived many by dragging them with him; here there is the loss of one soul, there danger to great many’.28

It is not vital to know whether this sermon was penned before (as a response to the Carthaginian challenge of Felicissimus or after (as a response to the Roman challenge of Novatian) the post-Easter synod of 251, in which the bishops under Cyprian’s tutelage at last met in Carthage to work out a common penitence policy for the readmission of the lapsi to communion. First, the series of references made by Cyprian in this sermon to illicit, heretic and/or schismatic bishops is so generic that it could be applied not only to both challenges, but to Cornelius and Novatian alike, since he decided to support the former against the latter only around June 251, and there is evidence which dates this sermon to May 251. Second, although it is possible that Cyprian did not know of the ordination of Novatian as pseudo-bishop of Rome by the time he penned this sermon, since news of it came to Carthage only near June 251 as attested by Epistle 44, this sermon is a general attack on schism and, therefore, on heresy. A third motif should be observed: although it is commonly maintained that this 26 27 28

Cyprian, ‘The Unity of the Catholic Church’ (1958), 107. Ibid. 113. Ibid. 115.

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sermon indeed dealt with the laxist challenge, in an epistle dated soon after July 251 Cyprian recommended its reading to some Roman confessors who had decided to abandon Novatian and return to the Catholic Church.29 Although Cyprian dealt with these themes in many other epistles, particularly in the epistles regarding the faction led by Novatian in Rome, in these specific works we can detect the basis of the ecclesiology that he developed in the first years of his episcopacy, which would remain the same until the beginning of 255, when he began a harsh baptismal polemic with Stephen, elected bishop of Rome in May 254. However, the changes that happened in his ecclesiology in 255, which even led him to produce the text of The Unity of the Catholic Church, deserve an analysis of their own.

29

To view the full exposition of these arguments, see Graeme W. Clarke, ‘Notes’, in Johannes Quasten, Walter J. Burghardt and Thomas C. Lawler (eds), The letters of St. Cyprian. Volume 2 (New York and Mahwah, 1984), 95-304, 301-3.

Foolish Faith: Defending Christian Wisdom in Paul and Lactantius Kirsten H. MACKERRAS, University of Oxford, UK

ABSTRACT In their different contexts, Paul and Lactantius both respond to the claim that Christianity is foolish. Lactantius borrows from Paul’s thoughts on wisdom and folly in the Corinthian letters to explain why Christians are wise to choose persecution over participation in Roman cults. This paper explores the possibility of a previously-unidentified allusion to Paul in Lactantius’ writing, and investigates Lactantius’ use of Paul’s writing about wisdom and folly. After introducing Paul’s and Lactantius’ understanding of wisdom and folly, the article examines Lactantius’ use of biblical material. It argues that his infrequency of quotation stems from his apologetic method and not lack of knowledge of the Bible, and follows Wlosok, McGuckin and Monat in arguing that Lactantius supplemented Cyprian’s florilegium Ad Quirinum with other sources. The sources for Lactantius’ quotation of 1Corinthians 3:19 in Divine Institutes 5.15.8 and a possible allusion to 1Corinthians 1:26-9 in Institutes 5.15.9 are then discussed. The parallels between 1Corinthians and Lactantius’ argument in Institutes 5.15 indicate that it is probable Lactantius knew more of Paul’s argument than he found in Cyprian. Finally, Lactantius’ reception of Paul is investigated. Like Paul, Lactantius argues that Christianity is the true wisdom, which has to be revealed to be understood. Lactantius incorporates Paul’s teaching that those who boast in human status will be eschatologically judged to criticise Roman elitism. And he uses Paul’s thoughts on the final vindication of Christians and their wisdom to argue that Christians are wise to endure persecution rather than apostatise.

1. Introduction ‘Human wisdom is the height of folly in God’s eyes, and folly the height of wisdom’1 (Lact. DI. 5.15.8; see 1Cor. 3:19). So Lactantius cites the Apostle Paul in the fifth book of his Divine Institutes. At first glance Lactantius, who typically supports his arguments with classical rather than biblical quotations, is a strange author to include in a study of patristic reception of Paul. However, Lactantius’ sparseness with biblical material makes the instances where he does 1 All English translations of Divine Institutes from Lactantius: Divine Institutes, ed. Anthony Bowen and Peter Garnsey, TTH 40 (Liverpool, 2003).

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appeal to it all the more significant, and one must ask whether the Bible is present implicitly where it is not made explicit. Despite their differing audiences and reasons for writing, Paul and Lactantius both respond to the challenge that Christianity is foolish. In the first century, Paul proclaimed the wisdom of trusting a crucified Messiah. In the fourth, Lactantius defended Christians who preferred being tortured to worshipping in traditional cults. This article investigates how Lactantius used Paul’s treatment of wisdom and folly in his response to the Diocletian Persecution (303-11 AD), and how much of Paul’s text Lactantius knew. Cyprian’s biblical florilegium Ad Quirinum gave many of Lactantius’s biblical references, but as has been accepted since the mid-twentieth century, is not sufficient to explain them all. My article identifies a further place where Lactantius’ knowledge of Paul goes beyond Cyprian, and explores how Lactantius applied Paul’s assessment of human wisdom to his own context. 1.1. Foolishness in Paul The Corinthian letters mention wisdom more frequently than Paul’s other letters, indicating that it was a Corinthian preoccupation.2 1Corinthians 1–4 addresses the Corinthians’ factionalism3 and triumphalism, which masked a general hostility towards Paul.4 The Corinthians resented Paul’s refusal to present himself as the boastful, aggressive, high-status leader their culture valued.5 In the Corinthian letters, Paul defends his gospel and gospel-shaped ministry from the charge of folly. Paul opens 1Corinthians by declaring that ‘the word of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing’ (1Cor. 1:18). Contemporary literature used μωρός for those of contemptuously low status, prudence, or foresight.6 By worldly standards, 2

Peter Lampe, ‘Theological Wisdom and the “Word about the Cross”’, Interpretation 44 (1990), 118. 3 Pickett and Lampe are typical of commentators who view this as the root of the Corinthian problem. Raymond Pickett, The Cross in Corinth, JSNT Supplement Series 143 (Sheffield, 1997), 37; P. Lampe, ‘Theological Wisdom’ (1990), 117. 4 Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians, NICNT (Grand Rapids, 1987), 48. Fee’s suggestion explains why, if factionalism was the primary problem, Paul does not address it in 1Cor. 1:18–3:2. 5 Savage’s study focuses on 2Corinthians, but his epigraphical analysis of Corinth’s culture across 50 BC-150 AD is relevant for both letters. Timothy B. Savage, Power through Weakness, NTS Monograph Series 86 (Cambridge, 1995), 41. Many scholars think that the Corinthians’ hostility was theologically motivated, but there is little evidence of Jew-Gentile tension in the letter, so it is more plausible to attribute these emphases to the Corinthians’ Hellenistic culture. G. Fee, First Corinthians (1987), 13. 6 Laurence L. Welborn, ‘μωρὸς γενέσθω: Paul’s Appropriation of the Role of the Fool in 1Corinthians 1-4’, Biblical Interpretation 10 (2002), 428-33. A book written around Paul’s time claimed that no one pretends to be a fool for their own gain, and only those who cannot avoid it display foolishness. Suetonius, Lives of the Caesars, ed. K.R. Bradley and John Carew Rolfe,

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worshipping a crucified man who failed to save himself is futile and scandalous. But Paul is innovating here: in classical literature, foolishness is rarely used to describe crucifixion.7 Paul continues: the cross is foolishness, but it saves. Though it seems absurd, God’s wisdom achieves what human wisdom cannot. Worldly wisdom cannot obtain knowledge of God, but rather opposes God and evaluates him by human standards (1Cor. 1:21, 29).8 Hence, it will be judged eschatologically (1:26-9).9 God saved mainly lower-class Corinthians, showing that he holds human status markers cheap (1:26-9). Paul also defends his preaching style, which was criticised for appearing weak and shameful (2:1-5). Having deconstructed the Corinthians’ worldly definition of wisdom, Paul constructs his own (2:6-16).10 Christianity appears foolish because those without revelation cannot appreciate its logic and truthfulness. True wisdom is Christocentric (1:30), and can only be discerned through the Spirit (2:11-3).11 1.2. Foolishness in Lactantius The stakes are much higher for Lactantius. While Paul tried to secure his congregation’s loyalty, Lactantius wrote to cultural elites who persecuted Christians.12 Unlike Paul, Lactantius could not appeal to a shared religious LCL 31, 38 (Cambridge, 2014), 38.3. Welborn observes that some classical satirists criticised society through the voice of the fool. See Horace, Satires; Epistles; The Art of Poetry, ed. H. Rushton Fairclough, LCL 194 (Cambridge, 2014), 2.7; Juvenal, Juvenal and Persius, ed. Susanna Morton Braund, LCL 91 (Cambridge, 2004), 9. However, they did so to confirm an accepted or elite definition of wisdom, not to invert it as Paul does. Horace shows the foolishness of the upper-class through comparison with his slave, but maintains the Stoic notion of wisdom as being unattached. Paul’s advocacy of folly goes further than his classical counterparts. 7 L. Welborn, ‘μωρὸς γενέσθω’ (2002), 420-1. 8 Hans Conzelmann, 1Corinthians, Hermeneia (Philadelphia, 1975), 47. Paul is not, however, opposing all kinds of intellectualism and philosophy, or academic rhetoric, but rather the self-promotion that muffles the gospel by glorifying the speaker. Ben Witherington, Conflict and Community in Corinth (Grand Rapids, 1995), 108-12; P. Lampe, ‘Theological Wisdom’ (1990), 120. 9 Contra P. Lampe, ‘Theological Wisdom’ (1990), 122-6, this does not include all human speech about God, nor render Paul’s own theological statements relative and dispensable. The Corinthians’ problem was not their absolute theological positions, but that these theological positions were not sufficiently cruciform (1Cor. 1:23-4) or guided by the Spirit (2:10-16). 10 H. Conzelmann, 1Corinthians (1975), 57, thinks that this section contradicts the previous one, but does not appreciate that while 1:18–2:5 dealt with a worldly definition of wisdom, 2:6-16 addresses true, Christian wisdom. 11 This passage used to be interpreted as positing two classes of Christian, the πνευματικοί and the ψυχικοί, in accordance with supposed proto-gnostic elements in the text. See H. Conzelmann, 1Corinthians (1975), 57. However, as Witherington notes, Paul contrasts spiritual Christians with natural or psychical non-Christians. B. Witherington, Corinth (1995), 127-8. 12 Christian apologies are usually thought to be written for Christian audiences; however as a court rhetor, Lactantius had more access to elites than his predecessors. The Institutes, though finished during the persecution (see Timothy Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius [Cambridge, 1981], 291 n. 96), challenges persecution as an imperial policy as well as encouraging scared Christians,

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heritage, and instead argues using rhetoric and classical literature.13 The idea that Christianity was folly was common among polytheists;14 Lactantius did not need Paul to tell him this! Specifically, Christians were thought foolish for their aversion to the traditional cults. Lactantius’ opponents thought ‘the fools … are those who, having it in their power to avoid torture, nevertheless prefer to be tortured and to die’ (Lact. DI. 5.13.2). Lactantius responds using Paul’s claim that worldly wisdom is foolishness to God. The first two books of Lactantius’ Divine Institutes argue that pagan religion is foolish, and the third indicts their philosophy. The remaining four books assert that the Christian faith is true and just. This study focuses on Lactantius’ use of Paul while arguing against persecution in 5.12–18. In these chapters, Lactantius considers whether justice is foolish if it causes loss, and defines folly as ‘a straying in deed or word caused by ignorance of right and wrong’ (5.17.29). He argues that justice appears foolish and inexpedient because true wisdom is only known eschatologically. Eternally, trusting in human status and elevating oneself above others is foolish (5.15.8). Lactantius argues that persecution is not a punishment proportionate to the Christians’ error; why not leave them to their folly (5.12.3-4)? Christianity’s acceptance by all ages, genders, and nations shows its legitimacy; such a diverse group cannot all be fools (5.13.3-4). And Christians’ ability to endure persecution is evidence of divine empowerment. In Lactantius’ eyes the fools are the persecutors, who assume that coercing worship will change Christians’ allegiances (5.13.8-9). Lactantius commends Christianity’s wisdom, and derides the folly of trying to suppress a flourishing religion through persecution. 2. Lactantius’ Sources and Use of Biblical Material Before considering how Lactantius used Paul’s ideas, we must ask how much of Paul he knew. Lactantius is often held to have little biblical knowledge.15 Though ostensibly writing a handbook of Christian doctrine, Lactantius cites likely appealing to moderate pagans. Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, The Making of a Christian Empire (Ithaca, 2000), 32, 39; H.A. Drake, Constantine and the Bishops (Baltimore, 2000), 209. 13 Like Paul, Lactantius knows that eloquence is often self-serving (DI. 5.1.19). However, where Paul celebrates his unimpressive speech, Lactantius aims to sweeten his distasteful message with beautiful words (5.1.14). This difference may result from Lactantius’ greater rhetorical education; however we note Forbes’ comment that Paul’s rhetorical skill shown in 2Cor. 10–13 indicates he had more than a basic rhetorical education. Christopher Forbes, ‘Comparison, SelfPraise and Irony’, NTS 32 (1986), 23. 14 Welborn writes that since Paul was the first to call crucifixion folly, subsequent Christian authors must have been dependent upon him when they depicted their opponents calling Christianity foolish. L. Welborn, ‘μωρὸς γενέσθω’ (2002), 421, n. 5. This overreaches; Christians uniquely associating the cross with foolishness does not mean non-Christians did not label the entire religion foolish. 15 See René Pichon, Lactance (Paris, 1901), 199-203.

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the Bible rarely, and his idiom is more Ciceronian and Virgilian than biblical.16 However, scholars such as Wlosok and McGuckin challenge this assumption, and give a more plausible account of Lactantius’ use of scripture. The following section outlines their findings, before locating Lactantius’ use of 1Corinthians 1–4 in this context. Lactantius’ stated intention is to argue using the classical sources his audience accepts, not the Bible which they reject (5.1.15-21). In Bowen and Garnsey’s words, Lactantius presents scripture as a definitive authority which waits silently while he cites other, lesser sources.17 Lactantius describes the scriptures as sacramenta and mysteria arcana, holy mysteries which are only intelligible to initiates (4.2.3; 4.10.19).18 Close attention shows that Lactantius knew more of the Bible than his lack of explicit references indicates.19 The sources and form of Lactantius’ scriptural material must also be considered, a task complicated by his loose quotations.20 Lactantius’ most obvious source is Cyprian’s biblical collection Ad Quirinum. The majority of his scriptural references are found in this text, and in many cases Lactantius follows Cyprian’s catenae, or omits the same phrases.21 However, Ad Quirinum cannot explain all Lactantius’s biblical references; over a third of the passages Lactantius uses are not found in it.22 In addition, Lactantius seems to have known different versions of texts found in Cyprian. Lactantius’ endeavour to make Christianity sound eloquent explains some divergences, but in other places Cyprian’s version is the more classical, indicating that Lactantius’ version of Cyprian was different to ours. Lactantius clearly knew some form of Ad Quirinum, but supplemented Cyprian with other texts.23 These might have come from his own Bible reading or from liturgies. However, based upon shared misattributions and interpretations of texts, Wlosok concludes that Lactantius used an eastern florilegium that was known to other patristic authors.24 Hence, 16 Antonie Wlosok, ‘Zur Bedeutung der nichtcyprianischen Bibelzitate bei Laktanz’, SP 4 (1961), 234. 17 Divine Institutes, ed. A. Bowen and P. Garnsey (2003), 20. 18 John A. McGuckin, Researches into the Divine Institutes of Lactantius, Diss. (Durham, 1980), 153-75. 19 R.M. Ogilvie, The Library of Lactantius (Oxford, 1978), 108: ‘It would be wrong to infer that his acquaintance with the Scriptures was … sketchy. His knowledge is wider and more pervasive than that.’ 20 Ibid. 96; Pierre Monat, Lactance et la Bible (Paris, 1982), 90. 21 R. Ogilvie, Library of Lactantius (1978), 98-102; P. Monat, Lactance (1982), 95. 22 A. Wlosok, ‘Nichtcyprianischen Bibelzitate’ (1961), 237, finds that two thirds of scriptural references in book 4 are Cyprianic; J. McGuckin, Researches (1980), 146, attributes 55% of Lactantius’ OT quotations to Cyprian. 23 Ibid. 153. 24 Lactantius used Greek etymologies, a non-western form of the Vetus Latina, and cites authorities which the western church did not accept. A. Wlosok, ‘Zur Bedeutung der nichtcyprianischen Bibelzitate’ (1961), 240-4; P. Monat, Lactance (1982), 98.

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there is scope to identify further biblical allusions in Lactantius that do not derive from Cyprian. 2.1. Lactantius’ Use of 1Corinthians 1–4 Cyprian also provided some basis for Lactantius’ knowledge of Paul’s theology of folly (Cyp. Quir. 3.69 = 1Cor. 1:17-24; 3:18-20). McGuckin’s index bibliorum lists five references to this chapter in the Divine Institutes.25 Lactantius argues that while no human can disprove wild philosophical speculation, God takes this supposed wisdom to be summa stultitia (Lact. DI. 3.3.16). The philosophers failed to find wisdom because God hides it under a veil of folly (4.2.3). Pagans reject Christianity because of the cross (5.3.6). But the rich, prudent and reigning are welcome to their bounty; Christians are content with their ‘folly’ (5.12.11).26 Lactantius uses Cyprian’s chapter to undermine the reputation of philosophers and elites, and explain why Christianity’s foolishness does not hinder its truthfulness. 2.2. Institutes 5.15.8, Quoting 1Corinthians 3:19 Lactantius references Paul in Divine Institutes 5.15.8-9 and arguably shows a broader knowledge of the apostle than is found in Cyprian. Lactantius writes, Just as ‘the wisdom of men in God’s eyes is the height of folly’ (1Cor. 3:19), and folly, as I have explained, is the height of wisdom, so anyone walking tall and conspicuous on earth is a low and abject thing before God. To say nothing of the good things here on earth, which earn a great regard but are opposed to real goodness and merely sap our spiritual energies, nobility, wealth and power are of little effect when God can bring even kings themselves lower than the lowest. God in counselling us therefore set this sentence in particular among his divine precepts: ‘He who exalts himself shall be brought low, and he who abases himself shall be exalted’ (Luke 14:11//Matt. 23:12).

The quotation from 1Corinthians comes from Ad Quirinum. Cyprian writes sapientia enim huius mundi stultitia est apud deum (Cyp. Quir. 3.69); Lactantius replaces huius mundi with hominum, and qualifies stultitia with summa.27 Cyprian’s text is closer to the Greek and extant versions of the Vetus Latina,28 25

J. McGuckin, Researches (1980), 531. McGuckin also lists allusions to 1Cor. 2:6-8, 14, which are not in Cyprian. 26 Lactantius’ quotation of this passage in DI. 3.3.16 has the same modifications. 27 Neither of the changes is distinctively Christian or classical, so tells us little about Lactantius’ typical idioms. 28 VL 56, 65 and the Vulgate agree with Cyprian; VL 77, 78 give mundi huius and VL 75, 76 give huius saeculi. Vetus Latina Database, Brepolis, 1Cor. 3:19, Brepols, http://www.brepolis.net/vld, accessed 27 Aug. 2016.

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so Lactantius presumably made these stylistic modifications himself. Lactantius balances the thought with stultitia summa sapientia est; God and humans have similarly low opinions of each other’s wisdom. This second clause alludes to 1Corinthians 1:17-24, also found in Ad Quirinum 3.69, which says that humans perceive the gospel to be foolishness. 2.3. Institutes 5.15.9: An Allusion to 1Corinthians 1:26-9? Lactantius continues: ‘nobility, wealth and power are of little effect when God can bring even kings themselves lower than the lowest’ (Lact. DI. 5.15.9). This statement and its context have resonances of 1Corinthians 1:26-9, where Paul writes that God shamed the wise, powerful and well-born by saving people of low status. This passage is not in Cyprian, nor in any of Lactantius’ other known Patristic sources, and neither Brandt nor McGuckin identify an allusion here.29 However, Lactantius echoes both Paul’s themes and vocabulary, so the rest of this section explores the plausibility of Lactantian dependence on 1Corinthians 1:26-9 in this statement. Institutes 5.15 argues that justice requires regarding all people as one’s equals, and that boasting in human status is eschatologically precarious.30 ‘Since everything in this secular world is short-lived and bound to decay, so people push themselves before others and fight for position, which is horrible, arrogant and far removed from wisdom: all those earthly achievements are quite the opposite of things in heaven’ (5.15.7). Just as God inverts worldly wisdom, he also disregards secular honours, whether nobility, wealth, or power, and will bring them low in the final judgment. Lactantius supports this idea by appealing to 1Corinthians 3:19 and its Cyprianic context of 1Corinthians 1:17-24 (Cyp. Quir. 3.69); Luke 14:11//Matthew 23:12 (Cyp. Quir. 3.5);31 and a quotation he attributes to Euripides (Lact. DI. 5.15.11). Neither of the passages from Cyprian occur in the context of God’s judging his opponents. Quir. 3.5 exhorts Christians to personal humility. 3.69 focuses on wisdom, and does not follow Paul’s thought through to the comments about status. The use of these texts in this context was not suggested to Lactantius by Cyprian, but it closely follows the thematic progression of 1Corinthians 1, which first discusses God’s reversal of wisdom, and then his eschatological reversal of human status. The close parallels between Paul’s and Lactantius’ arguments make sense if Lactantius knew how Paul had structured his thoughts, and reordered what he found in Cyprian accordingly. 29

Lactanti Opera, ed. S. Brandt (1893), 392; J. McGuckin, Researches (1980), 531. The theme of reversal occurs throughout the Bible; see e.g. Pss. 2:10-2; 76:12; Isa. 10:13; Dan. 4:33-5; Luke 1:52-3. 31 Bowen and Garnsey cite this as Matthean, but Brandt and Cyprian attribute it to Luke. The difference is negligible. 30

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Lactantius also uses the vocabulary of 1Corinthians 1:26-9. ‘Nobility, wealth and power are of little effect’ (Lact. DI. 5.15.9), very similar to the wisdom, power and nobility shamed by the Corinthians’ lowliness. Paul has σοφοί, δυνατοί, and εὐγενεῖς, and Lactantius uses nobilitas, opes and potentia, while sapientia is the passage’s theme. There is close conceptual overlap. In this passage, Paul alludes to Jer. 9:23-4 (9:22-3 LXX), which contains the triadic structure and theme of boasting that Paul and Lactantius both use. Cyprian cites this passage, in the context of trusting in God rather than people, and renders the three status markers as sapientia, fortitudo and divitia (Cyp. Quir. 3.10).32 Conceptually, sapientia, fortitudo and divitia almost align with the triad of nobilitas, opes and potentia that Lactantius uses, though Lactantius gives different words for ‘strength’ and ‘riches’. However, Lactantius is closer to the majority of Vetus Latina witnesses to 1Cor. 1:26, which have sapientes, potentes and nobiles.33 Lactantius includes the reference to nobilitas and potentia. The triad of human status markers, combined with the eschatological warning against boasting, make a good case that Lactantius is alluding to one of these passages.34 The closer parallels with Paul’s vocabulary, the foolishness theme which is not found in Jeremiah, and the proximity of the Pauline quotation about wisdom suggest that 1Corinthians is the more likely source. Having just referenced 1Cor. 1:17-24, it is logical that Lactantius’ mind would jump to the following verses. Lactantius gives another indication he knew the Corinthian passage: ‘“Let kings secure their kingdoms and wealthy men their wealth”, as Plautus says; and let prudent men secure their prudence: let them leave us our folly’ (Lact. DI. 5.12.11). By describing Christianity as ‘folly,’ Lactantius alludes to 1Cor. 1:18-24.35 However, it is suggestive that Lactantius introduces this allusion by expanding the quotation into a triad of status markers, again intimating a knowledge of the connection between 1Cor. 1:18-24 and 1:26. The evidence suggests Lactantius knew 1Cor. 1:26-9 and its context, and strengthens the case that Lactantius knew more of Paul than was contained in Cyprian. Lactantius may not have cited Paul directly, but it seems he associated God’s definition of wisdom with the lowering of the wise, strong and noble, and that association made its way into his argument in the Institutes 5.15.

32 This agrees with most Vetus Latina manuscripts. Vetus Latina Database, Jer. 9:23, Brepols, http://www.brepolis.net/vld, accessed 27 Aug. 2016. 33 VL 64, 65, 75, 76, 77, 78 and the majority of patristic authors. Vetus Latina Database; 1Cor. 1:26, Brepols, http://www.brepolis.net/vld, accessed 27 Aug. 2016. 34 Neither is identified by Brandt or McGuckin. 35 J. McGuckin, Researches (1980), 531.

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3. Reception Finally, how does Lactantius use these thoughts from 1Corinthians? Lactantius presents Paul’s words as true, but does not highlight their divine origin or authority.36 Possibly, this means that he expected the reference to be apparent to Christians but not to pagans. Lactantius borrows Paul’s ideas that God evaluates wisdom differently to humans, that boasting in human status is foolish, and that divine wisdom will be eschatologically vindicated to argue against persecution. 3.1. A Different Wisdom Lactantius adopts Paul’s idea that God perceives human wisdom as foolishness while humans cannot understand God’s wisdom (3.3.16). Paul defines wisdom Christologically, and locates it in the saving cross (1Cor. 1:18-25, 30). Discerning it requires the Holy Spirit (2:6-16). Lactantius expresses many of these ideas in depersonalised language: Christ revealed true wisdom, which is knowing the piety, justice, and virtue which lead to eternal life (Lact. DI. 1.1.19; 4.2.6; 4.3.1-2; 4.25.2-7). In Lactantius, wisdom and religion are inseparable; misunderstanding one compromises the other. ‘It is one and the same God who should be both understood, which is the work of wisdom, and honoured, which is the work of religion’ (4.4.2; see 3.1.9; 4.3.4-10). He believes that polytheism is the ultimate folly, and pagan philosophy is undermined by this error, since denying the true God cuts philosophers off from the source of life, truth, and virtue (4.1.2–4.4.8; 6.7.8).37 Revelation is necessary for true knowledge; philosophers have ‘no capacity at all to speak truth, because they never learnt it from him who is lord of it’ (3.1.13). But they do not perceive this revelation as wise, because God obscured wisdom under a veil of folly to make it difficult to discern (2.3.21; 4.2.3; 5.17.2).38 Lactantius expands Paul’s ambivalence towards philosophy into a systematic treatment of its achievements and limitations. He consistently appeals to Paul to explain why philosophers do not recognise wisdom and why wisdom had to be divinely revealed. 3.2. Boasting in Status Markers is Foolish Lactantius also borrows Paul’s idea that trusting in human status markers – riches, power or nobility – is foolish, because of their eschatological fate. 36

Unlike the dominical saying at the end of DI. 5.15.9. Lactantius concedes that philosophy has gained genuine insight, such as disproving pagan religion, but denies it definitiveness on determining what is true. Divine Institutes, ed. A. Bowen and P. Garnsey (2003), 22. 38 These passages allude to 1Cor. 1:18-24 and 2:14. 37

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In 5.15 he quotes Paul after praising humility and ridiculing the folly of pursuing fleeting secular honours (5.15.6-7). The context for this passage is Lactantius’ definition of equity. Aequitas means considering others equal to oneself39 and is a necessary ingredient of justice and wise governance; this shows Christians are just and wise while the persecutors are not (5.8.11; 5.14.15-20). For Paul, human status is valueless, shown by God’s building his church out of nobodies (1Cor. 1:26-31). It becomes problematic when it tempts one to boast in oneself rather than God. Lactantius goes further: such qualities make a person lowly in God’s sight (Lact. DI. 5.15.8).40 He supports this with a quotation attributed to Euripides: ‘What here are thought ills are in heaven goods’ (5.15.11). Like Paul, Lactantius justifies this claim eschatologically. Furthermore, in Lactantius’ eyes, any use of wealth or status to justify valuing one person above another is unjust and destructive of society (5.14.15-20). As Garnsey says, ‘this is an extraordinary thing for a Roman, any Roman, to say. Social inequality was a given in ancient society.’41 Lactantius has a complex relationship with the markers of human prestige. A member of an educated elite himself, he seems to say that any trace of a social hierarchy is contrary to God’s intent and inherently unjust (5.14.19-20), but clarifies that it is sufficient if all recognise others as their spiritual equals (5.15.2-5). Nevertheless, this relativisation of social status shows that Lactantius has deeply imbibed the Christian tradition, in opposition to Roman values. Lactantius reflects and amplifies Paul’s teaching on the impropriety of boasting in one’s social status because of its irrelevance in God’s economy. 3.3. Eschatological Vindication Lactantius’ eschatology unites these thoughts; like Paul, he expects that his definition of wisdom will ultimately be vindicated. The context is Lactantius’ interaction with Cicero’s depiction of the sceptic Carneades,42 who says that it is wise to pursue one’s interest above justice (5.14.3–5.18.16). Lactantius argues that Christians are wise not to seek high status or worship the emperors, because the wisest action is not the most immediately expedient, but the most eschatologically rewarding (5.17.27-8). Lactantius believes that God made eternal life difficult to obtain, so that the pagan cults which exalt themselves should be proved hollow (5.18.11), an eschatological reversal similar to God’s 39

Cicero calls this aequibilitas and regards it unfavourably (Rep. 1.27.43; Off. 1.25.88), illustrating Lactantius’ divergence from the classical tradition. Jackson Bryce, The Library of Lactantius (New York, 1990), 171. 40 Probably from Lactantius’ conviction that suffering is necessary to produce virtue (DI. 1.1.7). 41 Peter Garnsey, ‘Lactantius and Augustine’, in Alan K. Bowman (ed.), Representations of Empire (Oxford, 2002), 169-70. 42 Cic. Rep. 3.5-29 in Cicero, De Re Publica; De Legibus, ed. Clinton Walker Keyes, LCL 213 (Cambridge, 2000).

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nullification of human boasting that Paul describes (1Cor. 1:27-8).43 Lactantius applies Paul’s pronouncement about those who exalt themselves before God to his own religious opponents. Lactantius concedes if there is no afterlife, it is foolish ‘to prefer to be tortured and killed, rather than pick three fingers of incense and cast it on a fire’ (Lact. DI. 5.18.12). However, given God’s eschatological judgment, the fools are those who exalt themselves against God and kill his people. Losing one’s life to retain one’s virtue is eschatologically wise. Lactantius uses Paul to justify the church’s actions as wise, and promise their future vindication, a common move by oppressed peoples. It is this combination of ideas – a new definition of wisdom that contradicted the thinking of the powerful, who would ultimately be judged – that made Paul’s writing so useful to Lactantius’ argument. 4. Conclusion Lactantius appeals to Paul to support his claim that his rulers have got wisdom catastrophically wrong. By calculating expediency without considering God’s judgment, they have trusted in flimsy status markers, and punished the only people who live wisely. While some scholars assumed that Lactantius had little contact with the Bible, this study has indicated he knows more of Paul than he found in Cyprian. Direct knowledge of Paul is the most plausible explanation for Lactantius’ allusion to 1Cor. 1:26-9 in Institutes 5.15.9. Lactantius depersonalises Paul’s language, and directs Paul’s criticisms towards the philosophers, polytheists, and persecutors of his day. Paul’s arguments that Christianity’s detractors fail to understand true wisdom, foolishly boast in their human status, and are unprepared for eschatological judgment, are powerfully applied to Lactantius’ own context. Lactantius uses Paul to argue that enduring persecution, however foolish it looks, is truly wise.

43 J. McGuckin, Researches (1980), 531, identifies the allusion to 1Cor. 2:7 in this passage, but not the resonances with Paul’s previous chapter.

Jerome’s and Ambrosiaster’s Interpretations of the Jerusalem Council’s Prohibitions (Acts 15:20, 29) Wojciech RYBKA, University of Edinburgh, UK

ABSTRACT More than twenty authors from Christian antiquity referred to, quoted or commented on the Jerusalem Council’s prohibitions as we find them in Acts 15:20, Acts 15:29 or Acts 21:25. The majority refer to the ‘Eastern’ version of these verses, containing four prohibitions, while a minority were acquainted with a slightly different ‘Western’ version. Both Jerome and Ambrosiaster not only belong to the group of ancient writers who commented on the prohibitions, but are also the only authors from the first five centuries of Christianity who provide clear evidence of their familiarity with both versions of the prohibitions from Acts 15. This particular status makes their contributions especially valuable. This article therefore offers a presentation and analysis first of Ambrosiaster’s references to Acts 15:20, 29 and then those of Jerome, as well as other texts which could lead to a better understanding of their interpretations of the prohibitions. In the last part, the writers’ views regarding the proscriptions will be compared.

As part of broader research on early Christian authors’ understanding of the Jerusalem Council’s prohibitions as they appear in Acts 15:20, 29 and Acts 21:25, this article addresses Ambrosiaster’s and Jerome’s views on this matter. These two writers are the only ancient authors who give clear evidence of being acquainted with both versions of Acts 15:20, 29, often called ‘Alexandrian’ (in this article it is called ‘Eastern’) and ‘Western’. The two writers will be considered in turn, before a final section which compares their views and a conclusion. 1. Ambrosiaster’s Understanding of the Prohibitions Ambrosiaster (Pseudo-Ambrose) is a name used by scholars1 to denote an anonymous ancient writer whose works had earlier been attributed to Ambrose 1

The Benedictines of St Maur are believed to have invented this name; they use it in their edition of Ambrose’s works published between 1686–1690: Sophie Lunn-Rockliffe, Ambrosiaster’s Political Theology (Oxford, 2007), 31.

Studia Patristica C, 155-164. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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or Augustine.2 The works in question were written in the second half of the fourth century, probably between 370 and 385 AD, and were quoted by other early Christian authors, e.g. Augustine, Jerome and Pelagius.3 One of these works, Commentarius in Epistulas Paulinas, contains a pre-Vulgate Latin text of thirteen New Testament epistles (from Romans to Philemon) as well as a detailed commentary on them. It is in the commentary to Gal. 2:1-2 where we find a direct reference to the Apostolic Council’s prohibitions from Acts 15: … dedissent non molestari eos, qui ex gentibus credebant, sed ut ab his tantum observarent, id est a sanguine et fornicatione et idolatria.4

As we can see, three prohibitions are mentioned by Ambrosiaster: abstaining from blood, from fornication and from idolatry. Putting abstention from blood at the head of the list might be explained by Ambrosiaster’s wish to underline it. This is supported by the fact that the next part of the commentary is mainly focused on explaining the meaning of this particular prohibition. The text reads as follows: nunc dicant sophistae Graecorum, qui sibi peritiam vindicant naturaliter subtilitate ingenii se vigere, quae tradita sunt gentibus observanda? quae ignorabant an quae sciebant? sed quomodo fieri potest, ut aliquis ea discat, quae novit? ergo haec inlicita esse ostensa sunt gentibus, quae putabant licere; ac per hoc non utique ab homicidio prohibiti sunt, cum iubentur a sanguine observare. sed hoc acceperunt, quod Noe a Deo didicerat, ut observarent a sanguine edendo cum carne. nam quomodo fieri poterat, ut Romanis legibus imbuti, quorum tanta auctoritas in servandis mandatis (est), nescirent homicidium non esse faciendum, quippe cum [et] adulteros et homicidas et falsos testes et fures et maleficos et ceterorum malorum admissores puniant leges Romanae? denique tria haec mandata ab apostolis et senioribus data reperiuntur, quae ignorant leges Romanae, id est, ut observent se ab idolatria, a sanguine sicut Noe et a fornicatione.5

One would expect that Ambrosiaster, having referred to the Western version of Acts 15, should interpret abstaining from blood as a prohibition of murder. However, as we can see in the text above, quite the opposite is true. Ambrosiaster understands the blood prohibition as a dietary rule and links it with a commandment given by God to Noah. He also provides us with a clear rationale behind his interpretation: It would make no sense for the apostles to forbid the Christians of Gentile origin to do something they already knew was wrong 2

Ibid. 12. Ibid. 16-7. 4 Ambrosiaster, Commentarius in epistulas Paulinas (ad Galatas, ad Efesios, ad Filippenses, ad Colosenses, ad Thesalonicenses, ad Timotheum, ad Titum, ad Filemonem), ed. Henricus J. Vogels, CSEL 81.3 (Vindobonae, 1969), 17-8. English translation: Ambrosiaster, Commentaries on Galatians – Philemon, ed. Gerald L. Bray, Ancient Christian Texts (Downers Grove, IL, 2009), 8-9. 5 Ambrosiaster, Commentarius in epistulas Paulinas (1969), 18-9. English translation: Ambrosiaster, Commentaries on Galatians – Philemon (2009), 8-9. 3

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because it was forbidden even by the Roman law. And since murder was forbidden by Roman law, abstaining from blood must be understood as referring to something else. Similarly, some other evil deeds like adultery, giving false witness, or stealing were punished by Roman law. Moreover, Christians of Gentile origin who were perfectly aware of the unacceptability of such actions did not need any additional rules in this regard. Thus, in this rationale we can find a reliable clue to Ambrosiaster’s understanding of the other prohibitions he mentioned. Abstaining from fornication would not mean adultery, already forbidden by the Roman law, but would most likely mean shunning other types of sexual immorality that were not punished by the Romans. As to the Apostolic Council’s prohibition of idolatria, we can deduce that Ambrosiaster saw the particular necessity of such a ruling due to the fact of the legality and ubiquity of polytheism in the Roman Empire. Still, in order to know more about his understanding of this prohibition, it will be necessary to analyse some statements from his other writings. Before we do so, however, let us examine the last part of Ambrosiaster’s commentary on Gal. 2:1-2: quae sophistae Graecorum non intelligentes, scientes tamen a sanguine abstinendum, adulterarunt scripturam quartum mandatum addentes, et a suffocato observandum. quod puto nunc dei nutu intellecturi sunt, quia iam supra dictum erat quod addiderunt.6

Whereas the two earlier quoted sections of Ambrosiaster’s commentary on Gal. 2:1-2 reveal his knowledge of a Western version of Acts 15, the last part gives us evidence that he also knew the Eastern variant. Still, as it is clear from his statement, he considered the Western version of Acts 15:20, 29 (but without the Golden Rule) to be the original reading. The existence of an Eastern version is, according to Ambrosiaster, a result of Greek textual interference: the Greeks added the prohibition of eating strangled animals because they did not understand the real meaning of abstaining from blood that already covered the content of this added prohibition. Thus, for Ambrosiaster, this addition is redundant. Returning to the question of Ambrosiaster’s understanding of idolatria, his commentaries on 1Cor. 10:14-33 and Rom. 14:1-23 are very helpful in this regard. In them, Ambrosiaster states that idolatry, i.e. worshipping of nonexistent gods and at the same time denying the true God, was invented by Satan.7 Worshipping such gods is, in fact, worship of the devil.8 An example 6 Ambrosiaster, Commentarius in epistulas Paulinas (1969), 19. English translation: Ambrosiaster, Commentaries on Galatians – Philemon (2009), 9. 7 Ambrosiaster, Commentarius in epistulas Paulinas (ad Corinthios), ed. Heinrich J. Vogels, CSEL 81.2 (Vienna, 1968), 115. English translation: Ambrosiaster, Commentaries on Romans and 1-2 Corinthians, ed. Gerald L. Bray, Ancient Christian Texts (Downers Grove, IL, 2009), 169. 8 Ambrosiaster, Commentarius... (ad Corinthios) (1968), 114-5. English translation: Ambrosiaster, Romans and 1-2 Corinthians (2009), 168-9.

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of such worship can be found in partaking of the table of demons.9 Nevertheless, eating food offered to idols is not always morally wrong. First of all, it is stated in Gen. 1:31 that all things which God created are good. Consequently, the righteous patriarchs like Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Lot, Isaac and Jacob did not abstain from certain kinds of food.10 The food that someone offered to the idols, was also created by God and belongs in reality to God, and on this ground cannot be held unclean. Therefore, for instance, meat bought in the market may be eaten without any investigation of where it came from.11 But the consumption of food offered to idols would be morally wrong if it scandalised another Christian or if it gave a false impression to non-Christians that a follower of Jesus venerates idols.12 To summarise, it can be concluded that while Ambrosiaster held idolatry as absolutely unacceptable, he did not consider the consumption of food offered to idols as an intrinsically evil act. Nevertheless, such consumption may be morally wrong in some specific circumstances. The issue of Ambrosiaster’s understanding of the normativity of abstaining from blood consumption is more complex. Apart from his already-quoted comment where he traced the Jerusalem Council’s prohibition of blood to God’s command to Noah (Gen. 9:4), we find an utterance concerning blood that seems to contradict his former statement. This text is found in Ambrosiaster’s Commentary on the Letter to Titus 1:14 and it reads as follows: quicquid enim adversus veritatem obponitur, humana inventio est, nescientes enim vim scripturarum et interiora verborum legis colorem sequuntur, non saporem. ideo fabulas dicuntur narrare, non veritatem. putant enim numquam recedendum ab his, quae Moyses tradidit, ut puta de escis aut coniugiis aut numeniis aut sanguine mustelae aut domo immunda septem diebus, cum sciant primores suos Abraham et Isaac et Iacob sine his iustificatos et dei amicos appellatos...13

In this passage, while criticising the followers of the superficial aspect of the law (symbolised by the colour of the law) and not of its inner meaning (symbolised by its flavour)14 he provides examples of Old Testament rulings 9 Ambrosiaster, Commentarius... (ad Corinthios) (1968), 115. English translation: Ambrosiaster, Romans and 1-2 Corinthians (2009), 169. 10 Ambrosiaster, Commentarius in epistulas Paulinas (ad Romanos), ed. Heinrich J. Vogels, CSEL 81.1 (Vienna, 1966), 433-4. English translation: Ambrosiaster, Romans and 1-2 Corinthians (2009), 104. 11 Ambrosiaster, Commentarius... (ad Corinthios) (1968), 116-7. English translation: Ambrosiaster, Romans and 1-2 Corinthians (2009), 170. 12 Ambrosiaster, Commentarius... (ad Corinthios) (1968), 116-8. English translation: Ambrosiaster, Romans and 1-2 Corinthians (2009), 169-70. 13 Ambrosiaster, Commentarius in epistulas Paulinas (1969), 326. English translation: Ambrosiaster, Commentaries on Galatians – Philemon (2009), 156. 14 See G.L. Bray’s short comment in: Ambrosiaster, Commentaries on Galatians – Philemon (2009), 156, n. 5.

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which had only temporary value and were to change in the future. These rulings include, among others, what Moses taught about food (esca) and about the blood of a weasel (sanguinis mustelae).15 Nevertheless, the latter expression is highly enigmatic, mainly because it does not occur anywhere, neither in the Pentateuch, nor in the rest of the Hebrew Bible. Moreover, the very word ‘weasel’ occurs only once in the Pentateuch, and only in its Greek and Latin version. Finally, it is not clear what activity is meant by Ambrosiaster with regard to blood in the above expression. It does not necessarily need to be its consumption: he may simply mean pouring blood or putting blood on something. The latter possibility is supported by two variant readings that in place of sanguine mustelae read sanguine hostiae16 (blood of a victim). This expression is found in the Pentateuch and is associated there with putting or pouring blood. In conclusion, we can state with certainty only that for Ambrosiaster blood consumption prohibition was binding for Christians in the apostolic times. It is not certain, however, whether Ambrosiaster held this prohibition as valid for his times and for the future. 2. Jerome’s Understanding of the Prohibitions Jerome, one of the greatest Bible translators and exegetes in antiquity, was born in 347 AD in Stridon, in the Roman Province of Dalmatia. He began his work as a scholar, a writer and a translator in Rome and continued it in Bethlehem where he spent the last 34 years of his life (died 420 AD). Although he was such a prolific author of many biblical commentaries, homilies and translations, he did not produce a commentary on the Acts of the Apostles. Nonetheless, we find three references to Acts 15:29 in three other texts. In Jerome’s Commentary to the Letter to Galatians Book II, Chapter 5, we read: Et in Actibus Apostolorum narrat historia, cum quidam de circumcisione surgentes adseruissent eos qui ex gentibus crediderant debere circumcidi et legem custodire Moysi, seniores qui Hierosolymis erant et apostolos pariter congregatos statuisse per litteras, ne superponeretur eis iugum legis nec amplius obseruarent nisi ut custodirent se tantum ab idolothytis et sanguine et fornicatione siue, ut in nonnullis exemplaribus scriptum est, et a suffocatis.17 15 It occurs in Lev. 11:29. The Greek term γαλῆ and the Latin term mustela (both meaning a weasel) are counterparts of the Hebrew term ‫ח ֶֹלד‬, which is a hapax legomenon in the Hebrew Bible and is usually rendered as ‘a mole’. 16 Codex Caroliruhensis Aug. XCVII and Codex Sangallensis 330, both from the ninth century: Ambrosiaster, Commentarius in epistulas Paulinas (1969), 2, 326. 17 Hieronymus Commentarii in epistulam Pauli apostoli ad Galatas, ed. Giacomo Raspanti, CChr.SL 77A (Turnhout, 2006), 149. Thomas P. Scheck (ed.), St. Jerome’s Commentaries on Galatians, Titus and Philemon (Notre Dame, Indiana, 2010), 197.

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In this very clear reference to the prohibitions from Acts 15, Jerome manifests his awareness of the fact that the word suffocatis is not found in all the manuscripts he knew. Thus, we find evidence of his acquaintance with both Eastern and Western texts of the verse in question. Nevertheless, in this passage Jerome does not reveal anything about his understanding of the prohibitions. Jerome’s next reference to the prohibitions occurs in his literary work Adversus Iovinianum composed about the year 393 AD. In Book I of this polemic, we read: Denique et apostoli et seniores de Hierosolymis litteras mittunt, ut non amplius imponatur oneris his qui de gentibus crediderunt nisi ut abstineant se ab idololatria, et fornicatione, et a sanguine, et a suffocatis; et quasi parvulis atque infantibus lac potum dant, non solidum cibum ; nec praecipiunt de continentia, nec de virginitate significant, nec ad jejunia provocant, neque dicunt illud quod in Evangelio ad apostolos dirigintur, ne habeant duas tunicas, ne peram, ne aes in zonis, ne virgam in manu, ne calceamenta in pedibus, aut certe illud: Si vis perfectus esse, vade et vende omnia tua et da pauperibus: et veni, sequere me (Matt. 19:24).18

As we can see, in this reference Jerome enumerates all four prohibitions without making any textual comment on suffocatis. The fact that he quotes only the Eastern version, not both versions as in the Commentary on the Letter to Galatians, may suggest that at that stage Jerome had reached certainty with regard to the originality of the Eastern text of Acts 15:20, 29. It can also be noted that the prohibition rendered as custodire ab idolothytis in the previous reference, this time is named with a more general term abstinere ab idololatria. In this reference, Jerome does not explain the meanings of the prohibitions. Instead, he expresses his view about the reason for which the prohibitions were introduced. They were given to Christians of Gentile origin in the same way as, in Jerome’s words (with an allusion to 1Cor. 3:2), milk is given to infants who are not yet able to eat solid food. It seems that in Jerome’s understanding, these four prohibitions contained the basic requirements that the newly converted Christians had to fulfil; probably not all the basic requirements (as we shall see below), but only the ones that were new for former pagans. Thus, the newly converted Christians, bound to observe only basic necessary rules of Christian conduct, did not have to be preoccupied about things metaphorically labelled by Jerome as ‘solid food’: continence, virginity and others. The next part of Jerome’s polemic reveals further details with regard to his understanding of the prohibitions. Continuing the explanation of the story about the rich young man who met with Jesus, he writes: Si enim adolescens illequi se jactaverat cuncta fecisse quae legis sunt, audiens hoc, tristis abiit, quia habebat possessiones multas, et Pharisaei hujuscemodi Domini sententiam subsannabant: quanto magis tanta gentium multitudo, cui summa virtus erat aliena 18 Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum libri duo (PL 23), 268. English translation: The Principal Works of St. Jerome, ed. W.H. Fremantle, G. Lewis and W.G. Martley, NPNF 2-06 (Edinburgh, 1892), 371.

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non rapere, non habebat necesse praeceptum de castitate et continentia perpetua, quibus scribebatur ut abstinerent se ab idolis, et a fornicatione, et in quibus audiebatur fornicatio, et talis fornicatio, quae ne inter gentes quidem est!19

In this passage, Jerome uses an a fortiori reasoning to explain why new Christians of Gentile origin were given fewer rules to observe: if the young man from the Gospel who had been observing all the commandments for years did not accept Jesus’ invitation to leave everything and follow him, much less would the new converts do it. According to Jerome, these converts were not yet able to do this as they were not sufficiently spiritually advanced (as he puts it in a straightforward way, ‘their highest virtue consisted of not robbing each other’). Here we find a hint that the basic standard of behaviour expected from all new converts was broader than the simple observance of the apostolic prohibitions. It is reasonable to assume that these converts were also required to be faithful in observing other commandments, with which they were already familiar and that were in line with the Christian way of life, e.g. prohibition of stealing. The next clear reference to the Apostolic Council’s prohibitions in the writings of Jerome occurs in his Commentary on Ezekiel (414). The reference appears within his explanation of Ezek. 44:31: Omne morticinum et captum a bestia de auibus et pecoribus non comedent sacerdotes.20

This ruling in Ezekiel is a reminder of a commandment from Lev. 22:8 where priests are forbidden to eat animals that died a natural death or were torn by other animals.21 Let us see in what way Jerome interprets it and how it relates to the Apostolic Council’s prohibitions: ... et iuxta litteram, omni generi electo, regali et sacerdotali – quod proprie ad christianos refertur, qui uncti sunt oleo spiritali de quo scriptum est: ‘Vnxit te Deus, Deus tuus, oleo exsultationis prae participibus tuis’ (Ps. XLIV,8) – haec praecepta conueniunt : ut ‘morticinum’ non comedat tam de auibus quam de pecoribus cuius nequaquam sanguis effusus est – quod in Actibus apostolorum dicitur ‘suffocatum’; et quae necessario obseruanda, apostolorum de Hierusalem epistola monet – et captum a bestia, quia et ipsum similiter suffocatum est : et condemnat sacerdotes, qui in turdis, ficedulis, gliribus, et ceteris huiuscemodi haec auiditate gulae non custodiunt.22

First it should be noted that Jerome interprets the word sacerdotes who must abstain from morticinum and captum a bestia in a very broad way: not only Aaronic priests are the addressees of this commandment, but every person who 19 Hieronymus, Adversus Iovinianum (1845), 268. English translation: The Principal Works of St. Jerome (1892), 371. 20 Hieronymus Commentariorum in Hezechielem libri XIV, ed. François Glorie, CChr.SL 75 (Turnhout, 1964), 669. 21 In Lev. 17:15 all Israelites and foreigners living with them are required to abstain from anything that died of itself or was torn by beasts. But in Deut. 14:21 foreigners are allowed to eat animals which died a natural death. 22 Hieronymus, Commentariorum in Hezechielem (1964), 669-70.

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can be labelled elect, which, in Jerome’s view, refers to every Christian. Thus, no Christian may eat meat of an animal that died of itself nor meat of an animal torn by beasts. Jerome identifies both of these categories with suffocatum mentioned in Acts 15:20, 29, most probably on the grounds that the things denoted by all these expressions have one common denominator: presence of blood that has not been poured out. Consequently, Jerome holds that the Jerusalem Council’s dietary proscription of eating strangled animals is still valid for Christians in his time. The same conclusion applies to blood prohibition understood by Jerome in this passage as a dietary rule. Nevertheless, we can infer from the final words of the above-quoted text that not all the priests known to him shared his opinion about the binding force of these dietary proscriptions. As to the other prohibitions issued by the Apostolic Council, Jerome states, without going into details, that they must be observed. It is worth examining yet another passage from Jerome’s writings that is relevant to our topic through a thematic link with it. This text is found in Jerome’s Commentary on Titus, namely on Titus 1:15: ‘Omnia munda mundis’, his uidelicet qui in Christo credunt, et sciunt omnem creaturam bonam esse et nihil abiciendum quod cum gratiarum actione percipitur; ‘Coinquinatis autem et infidelibus nihil mundum’ quia ‘polluta est eorum et mens et conscientia’; propterea etiam quae munda sunt per naturam, eis immunda fiunt, non quo uel mundum sit aliquid uel immundum, sed pro qualitate uescentium et mundum mundis et immundum contaminatis fiat; alioquin infideles quosque atque pollutos etiam panis benedictionis et calix dominicus non iuuat, quia qui indigne comederit de pane illo et de calice biberit iudicium sibi manducat et bibit. Aduentu Christi purgata sunt omnia. Quae ille mundauit, nos communicare non possumus.23

Jerome explains that, on the one hand, the inner disposition of a person is important: if someone is morally pure then all things will be pure to him and if someone is morally impure then everything will be unclean to him. Alluding to 1Cor. 11:29, Jerome states that even receiving the bread of benediction and the Lord’s cup would be an impure practice to someone who is impure inside. On the other hand, Jerome acknowledges that all things are in reality clean thanks to the coming of Christ. Thus, one would be inclined to think that in this commentary Jerome does not hold the dietary prohibitions of the Apostolic Council as binding for persons who can be considered pure inside. But, as we can see in the next part of the above quoted text, such a conclusion would be too hasty. The part in question reads as follows: Sed considerandum ne ista tractantes, occasionem illi haeresi demus, quae juxta Apocalypsim, et ipsum quoque apostolum Paulum scribentem ad Corinthios, putat de idolothytis

23

Hieronymus, Commentarii in epistulas Pauli apostoli ad Titum ed ad Philemonem, ed. Federica Bucchi, CChr.SL 77C (Turnhout, 2003), 35. English translation: T.P. Scheck, St. Jerome’s Commentaries (2010), 310-1.

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esse vescendum : “quia omnia munda sunt mundis”. Nunc enim Apostolo non fuit propositum de his quae immolantur daemonibus disputare: sed adversus Judaeos, qui secundum Legis abolitae disciplinam, quaedam munda, quaedam arbitrabantur immunda. “Non enim”, inquit, “possumus mensae Domini participare, et mensae daemoniorum : nec valemus simul bibere calicem Domini, et calicem daemoniorum” (1Cor. 10:20-1). In nobis itaque est comedere vel munda, vel immunda. Si enim mundi sumus, munda nobis est creatura. Si autem immundi et infideles, fiunt nobis universa communia: sive per inhabitantem in cordibus nostris haeresim, sive per conscientiam delictorum.24

In the passage above, Jerome presents his position on eating offerings to idols. He strongly opposes an opinion that allows consumption of the pagan sacrifices on the grounds that ‘to the pure all things are pure’. According to Jerome, these words were not meant to condone the practice of eating sacrifices to idols, but were written as a polemic with the Jews who still insisted on the division between clean and unclean food. Moreover, Jerome refers to other biblical verses that in his view prove his point: Rev. 2:14 and 1Cor. 10:20-1. Thus, in Jerome’s understanding, the prohibition of consumption of pagan sacrifices is an exception to the rule that ‘to the pure all things are pure’, not in the sense that such food is unclean in itself, but that its eating is a form of participation in a pagan cult that can never be considered pure. In the light of his Commentary on Ezekiel quoted above, we can conclude that the other two dietary prohibitions from Acts 15:29 are probably subject to the similar interpretation. 3. Comparison and Conclusion Juxtaposing Ambrosiaster’s and Jerome’s views concerning the prohibitions from Acts 15:20.29, we discover that the crucial difference between them lies in their attitude to the originality of these biblical verses: According to Ambrosiaster, the version without ‘strangled animals’ (that can be called the ‘Western’ variant) was original, Jerome, however, probably preferred the reading that contained this term. Nevertheless, in spite of this difference, both authors’ interpretations of the meaning of Jerusalem Council’s prohibitions are relatively similar. For instance, both writers regarded abstaining from blood and from strangled animals as dietary prohibitions. Also, both authors probably shared a view that the prohibitions from Acts 15:20, 29 should be interpreted as forbidding actions which were allowed by the Roman law on the grounds that the proscriptions forbidding what was already seen as unacceptable would have been redundant. 24

Hieronymus, Commentarii in epistulas Pauli apostoli ad Titum ed ad Philemonem, ed. F. Bucchi, CChr.SL 77C (Turnhout, 2003), 35. English translation: T.P. Scheck, St. Jerome’s Commentaries (2010), 311-2.

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In conclusion, the examples above seem to indicate that an author’s conviction about originality of a certain reading does not necessarily have to influence their interpretation in a substantial way. It would be interesting to analyse the relationship between textual variants and interpretations of other biblical verses with major textual issues that were quoted and commented on by Jerome and Ambrosiaster.

Historiographic Narratives on the Authority of Imperial Writings in Christian Polemics Luise Marion FRENKEL, DLCV/FFLCH – Universidade de São Paulo, Brazil

ABSTRACT Among the Christians said to have been martyred during the Diocletianic Persecution, one of the best known nowadays is the man who was executed for tearing down an imperial writing said to contain the order for the destruction of Christian scriptures. Scholars regularly refer to him when analysing late-antique texts which refer to some similar incidents, suggesting a widespread resonance of this martyrology during Late Antiquity. The article assesses the influence of the narrative on fourth- and fifth-century Christian and Rabbinic references to a paradigmatic deadly incident linked to disrespect towards authoritative writing or flouting of the order for book destruction, using a passage in a homily by Theodotus of Ancyra as a case-study. The plausibility and veracity of the earliest sources on the incident and of its incorporation into late-antique collective memory in the Roman Empire and beyond is assessed.

The man who suffered capital punishment for tearing down an imperial writing said to contain the order for the destruction of Christian scriptures is nowadays one of the best known Christians said to have been martyred during the Diocletianic Persecution. Influential classicists, historians, theologians and researchers in political and social sciences1 rely on the veracity of what are probably the earliest narrative accounts, found in Lactantius, De mortibus persecutorum 13,2 1 Fundamental studies, which will not be cited repeatedly, include Timothy David Barnes, ‘Lactantius and Constantine’, JRS 63 (1973), 29-46, 22-3; id., ‘Latin literature between Diocletian and Ambrose’, Phoenix 45 (1991), 341-55; Clifford Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire, Classics and contemporary thought 6 (Berkeley and London, 2000), 107-8; Simon Corcoran, The Empire of the Tetrarchs: Imperial Pronouncements and Government, AD 284-324, Oxford classical monographs, 2nd rev. ed. (Oxford, 2000), 179-81; id., ‘The heading of Diocletian’s Prices Edict at Stratonicea’, ZPE 166 (2008), 295-302; Geoffrey Ernest Maurice De Ste. Croix, Michael Whitby and Joseph Streeter, Christian Persecution, Martyrdom, and Orthodoxy (Oxford and New York, 2006), 39-40, 96-7; Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, The Making of a Christian Empire: Lactantius and Rome (Ithaca NY and London, 2000); ead., ‘Persecution and the art of writing between the lines: De vita beata, Lactantius, and the Great Persecution’, Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire 92 (2014), 29-46. 2 Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum, ed. J.L. Creed, Oxford Early Christian Texts (Oxford, 1984), 20. See Kristina A. Meinking, ‘Anger and adjudication: The political relevance of de ira dei’, Journal of Late Antiquity 6 (2013), 84-107, 86, 94-6, 103. See also Elizabeth DePalma

Studia Patristica C, 165-172. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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and Eusebius of Caesarea, Historia ecclesiastica 8.5.3 They adduce a number of other passages from historiographic, patristic and rabbinic literature, largely to gather more details or to show the reception also in non-Christian contexts.4 Their shared direct relation to classical topoi of stories of book-burning and images of the tearing down of cartæ casts doubts on the influence of Lactantius’ and Eusebius’ accounts. From the early fourth century onwards, narratives of the destruction of writings frequently reflect a notion that however nondurable the support was, the act could irrevocably damage a tradition and prevent the spread of its message. Thus, destroying a copy of an imperial writing is, narratively, a retribution of the legislation.5 The truth-value of the stories Digeser, ‘Lactantius, Porphyry, and the debate over religious toleration’, JRS 88 (1998), 129-46; T.D. Barnes, Constantine (2011), 176; Jörg-Dieter Gauger, ‘Der “Tod des Verfolgers”: Überlegungen zur Historizität eines Topos’, Journal for the Study of Judaism 33 (1998), 42-64, 61; Erica Reiner, ‘The reddling of Valerian’, CQ 56 (2006), 325-9, 327; Martijn Icks, ‘Bad emperors on the rise: Negative assessments of imperial investitures, AD 284–395’, Klio 94 (2012), 462-81, 465-7. Harold A. Drake, ‘Nicaea to Tyre (325-335): The bumpy road to a Christian empire’, Antiquité Tardive 22 (2014), 43-52, 45-6. 3 Eusebius Werke II.2. Die Kirchengeschichte, ed. Eduard Schwartz, Theodore Mommsen and Friedhelm Winkelmann, GCS n.s. 6 (Berlin, 1999), 746-8. See Anthony Grafton and Megan Hale Williams, Christianity and the Transformation of the Book: Origen, Eusebius, and the Library of Caesarea (Cambridge, MA, 2006), 209; on the anachronism of separating modes of discourse, see Elizabeth C. Penland, ‘Eusebius philosophus? School activity at Caesarea through the lens of the Martyrs’, in Sabrina Inowlocki and Claudio Zamagni (eds), Reconsidering Eusebius: Collected Papers on Literary, Historical, and Theological Issues, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 107 (Leiden, 2011), 87-98, 91-2. 4 For example, Ste. Croix, Barnes and Creed laconically and uncritically mention that a Syriac martyrology names the man. See J.L. Creed, Lactantius (1984), 94. See also Paul Keresztes, ‘From the Great Persecution to the Peace of Galerius’, VC 37 (1983), 379-99, 382. T.D. Barnes, one of the most ardent defenders of the ‘factual accuracy in what it [=Mort.pers.] explicitly states’, writes a page earlier also of Lactantius’ ‘embroidered version’. See Timothy David Barnes, Constantine: Dynasty, Religion, and Power in the Later Roman Empire, Blackwell Ancient Lives (Chichester and Malden, Mass., 2011), 8-10, 216 note 29. On the overall capriciousness in his selection of sources, see Clifford Ando, ‘Review of Constantine: Dynasty, Religion and Power in the Later Roman Empire. By Timothy Barnes’, The American Historical Review 117 (2012), 277-8. On Eusebius’ accuracy and editorial dexterity, see Meike Willing, Eusebius von Cäsarea als Häreseograph, Patristische Texte und Studien 63 (Berlin, 2008), 508 and for an example, ibid., 368-75; Harold A. Drake, ‘Nicaea to Tyre (325-335): The bumpy road to a Christian empire’, Antiquité Tardive 22 (2014), 43-52, 45-6. 5 Pace Dirk Rohmann, Christianity, Book-Burning and Censorship in Late Antiquity: Studies in Text Transmission, Arbeiten zur Kirchengeschichte 135 (Berlin and Boston, 2016), 41. See also Caroline Humfress, ‘Judging by the book: Christian codices and late antique legal culture’, in W.E. Klingshirn and L. Safran (eds), The Early Christian Book (2007), 141-58, 145; Judith Herrin, ‘Book burning as purification in early Byzantium’, in ead. (ed.), Margins and Metropolis: Authority across the Byzantine Empire (Princeton, 2015), 335-56, 341; Armin Eich, ‘Überlegungen zur juristischen und sozialen Bewertung der Fälschung öffentlicher Urkunden während der späten Republik und der Kaiserzeit’, ZPE 166 (2008), 227-46, 242-3; Maijastina Kahlos, ‘Paganchristian debates over the interpretation of texts in late antiquity’, The Classical World 105 (2012), 525-45.

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is assessed by comparison with the evidence for the veneration of this martyr, which is part of the set of later references to this topic. 1. Resonances No evidence for a commemoration or cult of the martyr during the fourth century exists.6 The later sources do not link the scene to Diocletian’s edict or even to Christian persecution. Their inconsistencies and tentative indications of legal foundation in any imperial legislation or interpretation of an imperial document cast doubt on their historicity and the basis of the incidents in Roman Law.7 The historical enforcement of such measures had more ritual and symbolic than practical dimensions.8 The passage from Basil’s letter, the opening of a reply to Candidianus, governor of Cappadocia, echoes that edicts possibly were the most typically directive form of imperial communication, partially circumventing a significant lack of familiarity with administrative and political workings in the provinces.9 Chrysostom used the topos to defend proper behaviour at the Christian liturgies during readings from the Scriptures. The 6 On the earliest sources and their uncertain dates, see Baudoin de Gaiffier, ‘Palatins et eunuques dans quelques documents hagiographiques’, Analecta Bollandiana 75 (1957), 17-46, 21. The relevance of veneration of saints in late-antique Christianity is analysed by Christine Shepardson, Controlling contested places. Late antique Antioch and the spatial politics of religious controversy, Transformation of the classical heritage 49 (Berkeley, 2014), 244-5. On the individual and individual experience in late-ancient historiography, see Peter Van Nuffelen, ‘The poetics of Christian history in Late Antiquity’, SP 92 (2017), 227-246, 238, 244. The individual focus falls on the narrative voice of the historiographer with which the public can identify. Although oddly never mentioning religious persecution, see also Devin Singh, ‘Eusebius as political theologian: The legend continues’, HTR 108 (2015), 129-54. 7 On the actio de albo corrupto and further legislation against the defacement and destruction of material objects see Claudia Kreuzsaler, ‘Aeneis tabulis scripta proponatur lex. Zum Publikationserfordernis für Rechtsnormen am Beispiel der spätantiken Kaiserkonstitutionen’, in Rudolf Haensch (ed.), Selbstdarstellung und Kommunikation (München, 2009), 209-48, 223-5. Pace A. Eich, ‘Überlegungen’ (2008), 242. 8 See Jan N. Bremmer, ‘Religious violence between Greeks, Romans, Christians and Jews’, in Albert C. Geljon and Riemer Roukema (eds), Violence in Ancient Christianity: Victims and Perpetrators, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 125 (Leiden and Boston, 2014), 8-32, 23-6. On the legislation, see Marta Victoria Escribano Paño, ‘Impios libros ... publice conburi decernimus. El control de la palabra en la legislación de los ss. IV y V’, in Stefano Giglio (ed.), Organizzare, sorvegliare, punire. Il controllo dei corpi e delle menti nel diritto della tarda antichità, Atti dell’Accademia Romanistica Costantiniana 16 (= ÖAW Phil.-hist. Kl., Denkschriften 379) (Roma, 2009), 541-66. 9 Basil, Ep. 3.1, Basil. Correspondance, Tome 1, Lettres I-C., ed. Yves Courtonne, Budé (Paris, 1957), 13-4. See also Philip Rousseau, Basil of Caesarea, The transformation of the classical heritage 20 (Berkeley, 1994), 159. See Simon Corcoran, ‘State correspondence in the Roman Empire from Augustus to Justinian’, in Karen Radner (ed.), State Correspondence in the Ancient World: From New Kingdom Egypt to the Roman Empire, Oxford studies in early empires (Oxford and New York, 2014), 77-90.

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βασιλικὰ γράμματα serve as authoritative points of reference and social importance and by comparing the Scriptures to them, he asked for the same behaviour during their reading, which points to the awareness and some widespread acceptance of imperial authority.10 Basil’s and Chrysostom’s versions are typical of the passages in patristic literature in referring to an incident at an unspecified past moment as analogies or illustrations. Considering the pervasive influence of concepts, narratives and images they used in later Greek and Eastern oral and written literature, it is unlikely that subsequent references to the man or martyr tearing down an imperial promulgation are directly related to either classical topoi or Eusebius’ and Lactantius’ accounts, but rather, mediated mostly by Chrysostomian and Cappadocian legacy. The plausibility of the references depended only on awareness of Roman imperial identity in the social and cultural settings so that the amount of legal or historical detail can be related to greater or smaller influence of Graeco-Roman traditions.11 Rabbinic Midrashic texts feature similar hypothetical incidents which acknowledge the authority of an imperial λόγος and point to the attention paid to its written or oral transmission.12 These are relevant parallels because they were transmitted and further elaborated orally in a cultural setting likewise continuously influenced by the developing Graeco-Roman culture and with links to the imperial administration. The passages clearly show that they are largely true to life and culture at the time of redaction, which for many is the fifth century, introducing contemporary concepts of imperial authority, power and jurisdiction, and relevant literary topoi into traditions set at the time of the rabbis mentioned in the narratives.13 10 Hom. in cap. II Gen. 14.2 (PG 53.112), Hom. in Matth. 19.9 (PG 57.285). See Benjamin Dunning, ‘Chrysostom’s Serpent: Animality and Gender in the Homilies on Genesis’, JECS 23 (2015), 71-95, 72-3. 11 See Jan Stenger, ‘Athens and/or Jerusalem? Basil’s and Chrysostom’s views on the didactic use of literature and stories’, in Peter Gemeinhardt, Lieve Van Hoof and Peter Van Nuffelen (eds), Education and Religion in Late Antique Christianity: Reflections, Social Contexts and Genres (London, 2016), 86-100, 95; Clifford Ando, Roman Social Imaginaries: Language and Thought in Contexts of Empire, Robson classical lectures (Toronto, 2015). 12 Beyond the Rabbinic examples usually adduced, further parallel readings and similar concepts which refer to edict in Rabbinic literature can be found in Daniel Sperber, A Dictionary of Greek and Latin Legal Terms in Rabbinic Literature, Dictionaries of Talmud, Midrash, and Targum 1 (Ramat-Gan, 2007), 157-8; Amram D. Tropper, ‘Roman contexts in Jewish texts: On “diatagma” and “prostagma” in Rabbinic literature’, Jewish Quarterly Review 95 (2005), 207-27, 216-8. See also Ranon Katzoff, ‘Sperber’s Dictionary of Greek and Latin legal terms in rabbinic literature – a review’, Journal for the Study of Judaism 20 (1989), 195-206; Steven Fraade, ‘Response to Azzan Yadin-Israel on Rabbinic polysemy: Do they “preach” what they practice?’, Association for Jewish Studies Review 38 (2014), 1-57, 3-4. 13 See on its oral tradition Yaakov Elman, ‘Order, sequence, and selection: The Mishnah’s anthological choices’, in David Stern (ed.), The Anthology in Jewish Literature (Oxford, 2004), 53-80. Elizabeth Shanks Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah: The Shaping Influence of Oral

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2. Qualifiers of discourses and writings The legal reasoning and eventual backing for the sentence in the various examples is unrelated to the content of the law being torn, only that it was an imperial edict. The Christian identity of the tearer mentioned by Eusebius and Lactantius mattered at best indirectly, possibly contributing to being charged and the sentence actually enforced. The Mishnah did not address the exegetical difficulty in finding a satisfactory logical explanation for the narrative incident directly, but did so insofar as it engaged with artefacts which serve as receptacles of concepts such as impurity. It depended on seeing an investment of human subjectivity in an inanimate material object as transforming the nature of the object in such a way that it acquired a quality that, in the case of writing, was identified as quintessential to human bodies: the ability to convey meaning and thereby language.14 The focus of the narratives on the qualifier of the discourse passing to the material support distinguishes them from most other traditions in which writing figures prominently, not least the bond of Sin, the Heavenly Book, remission by writing and recourse to written evidence and contracts in Graeco-Roman and local laws. They concentrate on the visibility of the writing as evidencing the writing and its content, but not the characteristics of the content, that is, they approach the object as conveyor of the writing which can be assimilated by reading.15 The attributes of the material support distinguish Theodotus of Ancyra’s version from most fourth- to sixth-century Christian passages and Midrashic references in which it does not matter if the letters, γράμματα or material Tradition (Cambridge, 2006), 158-9 argues that the writings had a didactic purpose. On the chronology of early Midrashic texts, such as Midrash Esther, and the differences to the later Midrashim, see Günter Stemberger, ‘From inner-biblical interpretation to rabbinic exegesis’, in James Carleton Paget and Joachim Schaper (eds), From the Beginnings to 600, The New Cambridge History of the Bible 1 (Cambridge, 2013), 190-21, 203; and Steven Bowman, ‘Jewish responses to Byzantine polemics from the ninth through the eleventh centuries’, Shofar: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Jewish Studies 28 (2010), 103-15. 14 See Mira Balberg, ‘Artifacts’, in Catherine M. Chin and Moulie Vidas (eds), Late Ancient Knowing: Explorations in Intellectual History (Oakland, 2015), 17-35, 18, 22 and 34 (note 26). 15 Claudia Rapp, ‘Holy Texts, Holy Books, Holy Scribes: Aspects of Scriptural Holiness in Late Antiquity’, in William E. Klingshirn and Linda Safran (eds), The Early Christian Book, Catholic University of America Studies in Early Christianity (Washington DC, 2007), 194-222, 199-200 and ead., ‘Safe-conducts to heaven: Holy men, mediation and the role of writing’, in Philip Rousseau and Manolis Papoutsakis (eds), Transformations of Late Antiquity. Essays for Peter Brown (Farnham and Burlington, 2015), 187-203, 192-5. See also Theodore de Bruyn, ‘Papyri, parchments, ostraca, and tablets written with biblical texts in Greek and used as amulets: A preliminary list’, in Thomas J. Kraus and Tobias Nicklas (eds), Early Christian Manuscripts: Examples of Applied Method and Approach, Texts and Editions for New Testament Study 5 (Leiden and Boston, 2010), 145-89, 147 and Kristina A. Meinking, ‘Eusebius and Lactantius: rhetoric, philosophy, and Christian theology’, in Aaron P. Johnson and Jeremy M. Schott (eds), Eusebius of Caesarea: Tradition and Innovations, Hellenic studies 60 (Washington, DC, 2013), 325-50.

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objects take on the qualities of the discourse.16 In the rabbinic examples, oral redelivery merits the attention which ought to be given to the emperor himself but the person who reads aloud or silently does not take on the accidental qualities of the discourse: it is not clear that the letters, γράμματα or material object also take on those qualities. In Theodotus, however, the narrative gives a human and worldly parallel for the claim that a material object which is inscribed takes on the accidental qualities of the λόγος represented on it in symbols, and the exegesis correlates the universal authority of the Roman emperor to that of Christian faith. The grounds of the argument require the intended audience to accept the plausibility of the narrative, and to be largely familiar with the concepts of language and writing and with the story, but its fame could be only rhetorical, or a collective memory of oral or written accounts, and not a living memory of incidents in which it had been enforced. That is, Lactantius’ and Eusebius’ narratives may be relevant only as examples of shared topoi, and not as precedents, as seen according to positivistic readings of hagiographic and historiographic narratives. What Theodotus’ initial public was and whether this passage was in the first delivery cannot be ascertained. The rubrics in some collections of conciliar documents indicate that the homily was read in Ephesus to the Cyrillian bishops gathered as a synod during the summer of 431, which may or may not be accurate. The narrative should also have seemed plausible to the editors of the first conciliar compilations and their intended readerships. Theodotus was furthermore known to circulate his writings in the manner of pamphlets in support of the Cyrillian Council of Ephesus and against Oriental leaders.17 Despite the logical inconsistencies of Theodotus’ theory of language, the passage suggests an adroit engagement with the cultural and historical tensions of a multilingual Christian Roman Empire in the construction of his oratorical and literary persona. Theodotus’ account differs from other non-Latin versions by referring to the edict as sacra and not an idiomatic equivalent. Pointing to deficient knowledge of legal vocabulary and limited enforcement of imperial writings in the provinces, language variance and barrier are central to relating narration and theological argument. In the context of its reading in Ephesus and its inclusion in synodical collections and early reception, this contributed to a problematisation of the 16 Theodotus Homilia 1, Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum – iussu atque mandato Societatis Scientiarum Argentoratensis edidit Eduardus Schwartz [continuauit Johannes Straub], ed. Eduard Schwartz (Berlin, 1914ff.) [= ACO] I 1/2, 73-80. See Luise Marion Frenkel, ‘Theological debates and language: the Nestorian controversy’, in Tim Denecker, Mathijs Lamberigts, Gert Partoens, Pierre Swiggers and Toon Van Hal (eds), Language and Culture in Early Christianity: A Companion (Leuven, forth.). 17 See Luise Marion Frenkel, ‘“Dear prefect, Stop the ill rumour!” – John of Antioch’s tactics to counter Cyrillian propaganda after the Council of Ephesus I’, SP 72 (2014), 257-67; ead., Theodotus of Ancyra’s homilies and the Council of Ephesus (431), SPS 4 (Leuven, 2015), 87-8.

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translatability of worldly and theological concepts. The incident points to the universal relevance of both Christian doctrine and imperial identity, regardless of the mastery of any particular language. Referring to the ethnic and linguistic diversity of the Roman Empire and ensuing disunity and obstacles to communication, as well as to imperial enforcement of legislative measures and circulation of collections,18 Theodotus’ political and figurative interpretation of the sacra is not a linguistic ‘curiosity’. Rather, it refers to the imperial identity of Christianity which is part of his Christian economy and possibly echoes renewed imperial concern with uniformity and standardisation across the provinces of legislation, circulated in Latin. Conclusion This paper has argued that similar accounts share an engagement with contemporary Roman imperial identity and power, for which the classical topos was relevant and commensurate with the issue at hand. The illustrations that address the punishment in the case of the disruption of the oral announcement of imperial promulgations largely referred to contemporary life and a shared and accepted set of values that was anchored in imperial identity to make a claim about faith or religious practice. In Chrysostom and Basil, the analogy referred to the contemporary practice of oral announcement and focused on acoustic disturbance. When Theodotus and Midrashic texts referred to the material receptacle of the message because it was apposite to their argument, they did not elaborate on the Christian identity of the victim. By itself, the incident did not need to be associated exactly with Christian persecution commanded by a Roman emperor. Roman imperial values served as measures against which to assess the Christian or Jewish topic, and Graeco-Roman literary images illustrated the materiality of a published λόγος. Despite logical and grammatical inconsistencies and linguistic idiosyncrasies, the images contributed to the authority of the literary personæ and the relevance of the discourses, underpinning imperial authority. In the absence of any evidence of an actual ritual veneration of the martyr in any community for more than a century, the historicity of the passage of a Christian tearing down the material receptacle of 18 The interpretation of imperial legislation allowed for regional, particular and private appropriation of the legislation and weakened its imperial identity, despite imperial attempts to curb it, attested by the prologue of the Theodosian Code and decrees in the Justinian Code, on which see Benet Salway, ‘The publication and application of the Theodosian Code’, Mélanges de l’École française de Rome – Antiquité 125 (2013), http://mefra.revues.org/1754, 3. See also Jacek Wiewioroski, ‘Imperial authority as exemplified by enactments related to the judiciary in the late Roman diocese of Hispania’, in Kazimierz Ilski and Krzysztof Marchlewicz (eds), Authority in the Past and Present: Sources and Social Functions, Publikacje Instytutu Historii UAM (Poznań, 2013), 425-70, 76.

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Diocletian’s imperial λόγος promulgating the persecution of Christians is uncertain. A living memory of him is less likely than a collective memory of a narrative that Lactantius and Eusebius could use to emphasise an edict which was recognised as the beginning of Diocletian’s great persecution but of which few exact details were known, and to which fifth- and sixth-century authors in widely different cultural and semantic contexts resorted sporadically. Their audiences probably were not familiar with the historical background to which scholars now point as the sources, but to the narrative topos as used in education and oratory at their time.

Gregory Nazianzen’s Portrayal of Paul Oliver B. LANGWORTHY, University of St Andrews, UK

ABSTRACT Gregory Nazianzen’s use of Paul’s letters, in defence of the divinity of the Holy Spirit and more widely, is readily acknowledged. Gregory’s portrayal of Paul as an individual rather than just the reception of his texts has received less attention. That is to say, how he handles the man apart from, or as part of, the quotation and allusion of text reception. Although Gregory often drew parallels between himself and figures from Scripture, Paul is distinct as a source of guidance or a contrast rather than simply comparison or substitute for Gregory’s own actions. This body of material extends over many of Gregory’s orations, and such a re-assessment has implications for several areas of his thought. In deference to this, this article is principally concerned to outline the concept and its impact upon Gregory’s pneumatology.

Introduction Gregory Nazianzen often called upon biblical figures in various capacities. They generally served as exemplars, often through direct comparison. Moses, Abraham, Isaac, Zechariah, and Christ are all common referents. Paul sits very neatly in Gregory’s practice of scriptural allusion and citation, but receives a far greater share of attention in the setting out of his character and state of mind. This is as opposed to serving just as a point of comparison or narrative substitution, in which, for example, Gregory is a new Isaac but born in Bethlehem, and his father is simultaneously Abraham and Moses.1 Paul appears in Gregory’s writings as a fully developed and authoritative interlocutor to whom Gregory appeals not just as a source of theology, but as a theologian in his own right. While Paul’s letters were Gregory’s source for much pneumatological reflection, he interpreted these texts as resources on the Spirit and Paul himself. The recursive nature of this reception, with Gregory’s wider theology of the Spirit informing his portrayal of Paul, and his reading of Paul’s letters informing his pneumatology, results in the rhetorical portrayal of a figure who was at once a subject and an interlocutor for Gregory, influenced and at the same time. While the significance of Paul for Gregory’s theology is apparent, the complexity 1

See, among other instances, Or. 1.7 and Or. 3.6.

Studia Patristica C, 173-180. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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of his representation as figure, not just as ‘the divine apostle’ but as someone about whom Gregory understood himself as possessing a great deal of biographical information concerning, is less immediately clear. As a different way of thinking about Gregory’s approach to Paul, beginning from some notable absences in Gregory’s writings helps to frame his understanding of Paul as an individual, rather than just, or in addition to, his textual reception. Parallels and Absences In Gregory’s poetic recounting of the events of his life, De vita sua, composed around his departure from Constantinople, there is a lengthy description of the sea journey he made while traveling from Alexandria to Athens. The description of this sea journey forms the largest part of Gregory’s account of his travels before arriving at Athens. On the basis of De vita sua and other sources it is possible to reconstruct a general sense of this journey, since he departed Caesarea Mazaca to go to Caesarea Maritima, from where he continued on to Alexandria to ‘cull a few fruits of learning’.2 ‘Along the coast of Cyprus’, as Gregory tells it, the ship was caught in a storm, buffeted, turned in circles, had its supply of water destroyed, nearly collided with other vessels, and Gregory was afflicted with a terror that he would die unbaptised, and entreated God:3 Despairing of everything here below I looked to you, my life, my breath, my light, my strength, my salvation, you who terrify and strike, smile and heal, ever entwining the good with its opposite. I reminded you of all your former miracles in which we recognise your powerful hand: of the sea which parted to allow Israel to cross it, of enemies defeated by the raising of hands, of the Egyptians utterly destroyed by plagues, of creation itself obeying the leaders of the army, of walls destroyed by a procession with trumpets.4

Needless to say, the ship was saved, and Gregory concluded, ‘after passing Rhodes a little later and sailing before a favourable wind, we docked (it being an Aeginetan ship) in the harbour at Aegina’.5 Two things from this account are striking. First, that passing by Cyprus and Rhodes would put Gregory on roughly the same sea route as Paul took going from Ephesus to Caesarea Maritima. Second, that Gregory makes no reference to Paul’s own shipwreck while a prisoner, which, while on a different route, shares obvious thematic,

2 Carm. 2.1.11.129, Carolinne White, trans. and ed., Gregory of Nazianzus: Autobiographical Poems (Cambridge, 1996), 18-9. 3 Carm. 2.1.11.131, trans. White, 20-1. 4 Carm. 2.1.11.182-192, trans. White, 23-5, alt. White’s translation re-orders the lines. 5 Carm. 2.11.1.208, trans. White, 24-5.

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rather than geographic, parallels.6 Both of these would suggest an easy opportunity to draw some contrasts, whether thematic or geographic, or even parallels between himself and Paul. It is possible that it is left to the reader to make these obvious connections, or perhaps simply that Gregory would not have wanted to remind God of an event that left Paul’s ship grounded on a sandbar. Or, that Gregory wished, as later in the poem, to create a rhetorical distance between himself and Paul in favour of Christ.7 At the very least this suggests that as a circumstance of his significance Gregory thought of Paul differently than he did of other scriptural figures. Whatever his reasons might have been, this absence suggests some reconsideration may be due to those instances where Gregory does discuss Paul. The densest account Gregory offers of Paul is in his Or. 2. It is among Gregory’s most exhaustive accounts of any biblical personage. The esteem in which he regards Paul, particularly on the matter of staying the ‘disease’ infecting those who would be shepherds of souls, is apparent not just from his identification as a ‘great [disciple] of Christ’ and the ‘bravest of the athletes’, but in that Gregory explicitly chooses to discuss him above Moses, Aaron, Joshua, Elijah, Elisha, the Judges, Samuel, David, the prophets, John, the apostles, and their successors.8 Gregory wrote that, ‘passing all these by, I put forward Paul as the only witness of my words, [...] That we may come to know and perceive this, let us hear what Paul himself makes known of Paul.’9 What follows is an extensive treatment of Paul’s various accomplishments and trials. It is fairly complete, replete with direct citation and allusion, and obviously familiar with the contours of Paul’s life, including ‘the travelling about, the perils by land and sea, the deep, the shipwrecks, [and] the perils of rivers…’10 So Gregory, whether we accept that Or. 2 was redacted later or not, held Paul in such esteem that, having mentioned him, he would choose to recount his life over that of others ‘in similar office’ well in advance of his composition of De vita sua.11 Gregory’s apparent preference for Paul is further apparent on comparison with those who do receive mention, namely Hosea, Micah, Joel, Habbakuk, Malachi, Zechariah, Ezekiel, and Jeremiah.12 None of the accounts he provides approach the depth and detail that Gregory devoted to his earlier discussion of 6 McGuckin highlights an even more evident parallel in that Acts account of Paul’s ship journey mentions the journey being ‘past the safe date for sailing’. See John A. McGuckin, St Gregory of Nazianzus: Intellectual Biography (Crestwood, 2001), 52 n. 72. 7 Hofer argues convincingly that Gregory distances himself from Paul in favour of Christ later in the same poem. See Andrew Hofer, Christ in the Life and Teaching of Gregory of Nazianzus (Oxford, 2013), 66. 8 Or. 2.51-2; 2.84. 9 Or. 2.52. 10 Or. 2.53. This also shows that Gregory was, not surprisingly, conversant with Paul’s own difficult relationship with sea travel well before the composition of De vita sua. 11 Or. 2.52. 12 Or. 2.57-68.

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Paul. In addition, he concludes his remarks upon them by asking, ‘And why should I speak of ancient times? Who can test himself by the rules and measures Paul set out [...] without discovering much flight from the straightness of the rule?’13 However suggestive, the account of Paul that Gregory offers in Or. 2 is of more interest for a study of reception of Paul’s works, as it is largely just a re-presentation of scripture, albeit artfully constructed. In this way, it is not really a representation of the figure of Paul.

Paul as a Theological Authority The topic of theological authority emerges more strongly when Gregory appeals to Paul’s theological authority. In two noteworthy instances, this is done by making reference to 2Corinthians 12 and Paul’s apparent averring of ascension to the third heaven: Thus and only thus, can you speak of God, be you Moses, Pharaoh’s ‘God’, had you reached, like Paul, the third heaven and heard ineffable mysteries, and had you even transcended it, deemed worthy of an angel’s or an archangel’s station and rank.14 Had Paul been able to express the experiences gained from the third heaven, and his progress, ascent, or assumption to it, we should, perhaps have known more about God – if this really was the secret meaning of his rapture. But since they were ineffable, let them have the tribute of our silence. Let us give this much attention to Paul when he says: ‘We know in part and we prophesy in part.’ This is and the like.15

Paul’s access to knowledge and visions of higher things grants him a theological authority that, even if inexpressible, extends to those teachings he does offer and makes it firm ground from which Gregory could build. While the basis of Gregory’s use of Paul in Or. 28.20 relies on his not having been able to speak of what he saw in the ‘third heaven,’ that he saw it at all makes him an authority.16 However, those who would deviate are disabused in a similar manner: Will you not permit young widows to marry, because their age lets them be easily abused? Paul was bold enough to do this, though you, it seems, are his teacher – as if you had gone beyond him to the fourth heaven, and found another Paradise, and heard 13

Or. 2.69. Or. 28.3, Lionel Wickham, trans., St Gregory of Nazianzus: On God and Christ: The Five Theological Orations and Two Letters to Cledonius (Crestwood, 2002), 39. 15 Or. 28.20, trans. Wickham, 52. 16 Norris summarises this theological application most effectively in writing that ‘the Apostle Paul’s argument fits the Theologian’s argument because 1Cor. 12 might mean that he did not speak about what he saw in the third heaven. He certainly indicated that our earthly knowledge of heavenly things would only be partial.’ See Frederick W. Norris, Faith Gives Fullness to Reasoning: The Five Theological Orations of Gregory Nazianzen (Leiden, 1991), 122. 14

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yet more unspeakable mysteries, and embraced yet a wider circle by the power of the Gospel!17

In each of these cases, Paul is appealed to as a secondary, external figure of whose spiritual authority is derived from his personal sanctity and vision. Unlike other biblical figures, there is not an attempt to parallel Gregory with Paul, as with Isaac, Moses, David, or others. This pattern persists into Gregory’s pneumatology, where direct citation, allusion, and personal portrayal intersect: Do not prostitute yourself concerning the Godhead. You have been bound to Christ, do not dishonour Christ. You are being perfected by the Spirit, do not make the Spirit your own equal. If I still sought to please men, says Paul, I should not be the servant of Christ.18

Gregory here makes an appeal to Paul as a theological authority, thereby reinforcing his own pneumatological dictum with reference to a passage that bears less direct significance than suggestive power. The closest Gregory comes to personal parallels is to claim that he is ‘rather one of those who can say with Paul, who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is made to fall, and indignation and concern are not mine?’19 This use of Paul as an external pneumatological authority in the manner previously seen is most clearly in a progressive comparison of baptismal practice: Moses baptised, but in water; and before that, in the cloud and in the sea. This was by way of figure, as Paul also realised. The Sea was a type of water; the cloud, of the Spirit, the manna, of the bread of life; the drink, of the drink given by God. John baptised, but not in the Jewish fashion, for it was not only in water, but aimed at conversion; but it was not completely spiritual, for he does not add the phrase, in the Spirit. Jesus also baptises, but in the Spirit; the Spirit is baptism’s perfect completion!20

Paul is introduced secondarily as a fellow interpreter, whose reading gives authority to Gregory’s own. While Paul does not affirm Gregory’s own identifications, agreement in one area imputes authority in a roundabout way.21 This permits the introduction of a pattern of increasingly perfect baptisms closer to the truly perfect baptism of the Spirit performed by Jesus. 17

Or. 39.18, trans. Daley, 137. Or. 37.17. 19 Or. 26.4, Martha Vinson, trans., St. Gregory of Nazianzus: Select Orations (Washington DC, 2003), 178. 20 Or. 39.17, Brian E. Daley, trans., Gregory of Nazianzus (London and New York, 2006), 136, alt. 21 The connection between Exodus, Baptism, and the Spirit finds its origin in Paul in 1Cor. 10:1-2, and Ferguson suggests it finds its fullest flowering in Origen. See Everett Ferguson, ‘Gregory’s Baptismal Theology and the Alexandrian Tradition’, in Christopher Beeley (ed.), Re-Reading Gregory of Nazianzus: Essays on History, Theology, and Culture (Washington DC, 2012), 68. 18

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Identifying Basil with Paul The question of why Gregory fails to identify himself with Paul in order to import this authority, rendering all these representations as appeals to an external authority, remains an open question at this point. Gregory is not usually shy in this department, and readily compares his own struggles, successes, and thinking to those of august figures in a manner far stronger than he does with Paul. On certain readings, Gregory even encourages a close identification of his narrative with that of Jesus. The defining nature of Gregory’s portrayals of Paul is found elsewhere, where it emerges that a lack of identity is because that role has already been filled. Although the other identifications are suspect, it is clear that the role of Paul was taken by Basil: You refused to prefer our friendship to the Spirit: although you favour us over anyone else, still, in your eyes, the Spirit is far more precious than we. You refused to let the talent lie buried and hidden in the ground. You refused to let the lamp, by which you mean my light and my mission in life, remain concealed under the bushel for so long. You sought someone to play Barnabas to your Paul. You sought a Titus to complement Silvanus and Timotheus in order that your charism might course through those who are genuinely concerned for you and you might fully preach the Gospel from Jerusalem and as far round as Illyricum.22

Paul, to whom Gregory appealed to as an external authority and spiritual visionary, has Basil of Caesarea, not Gregory of Nazianzus, as his contemporary in their circle. Whichever of Basil’s brothers or friends filled the other roles, it is clear that Gregory conceived that principal authority had been vested in Basil. At the opening of this passage, Gregory refers to Basil’s desire to have his friend leave Nazianzus and join him in shoring up his own new position as bishop of Caesarea. The conflict between the two, inculcated in part by this, is often couched in terms of Basil’s apparent reticence in declaring the Spirit God, and in doing so alienating those of his supporters who were less firm on the subject than those in Gregory’s communities.23 Were this the case, an identification of Basil with Paul would be somewhat perverse, and seem more of an insult than anything else. Paul, spiritual authority and authority on the Spirit, was not just a leadership figure but a theological one to Gregory. For Basil to be socalled in earnest, and, by Gregory’s own accounting, value a true defence of the Spirit more than their friendship suggests a greater belief in Basil’s convictions than sometimes allowed by scholarship. It is worthwhile to take a slight excursus to get a sense of what Basil’s arguments for the Spirit were like in the period around Gregory’s elevation to the

22

Or. 14.3, trans. Vinson, 28. On this, and for a broader discussion of Hom. 15, see Andrew Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea: A Guide to His Life and Doctrine (Eugene, 2012), 99-107. 23

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episcopacy, his declaration of the Spirit as God, and letters 58 and 59 that form the focus of inquiry into the dispute between the two. Basil wrote in Hom. 15: He illuminates all apprehension of deity, inspires the prophets, instructs lawgivers, perfects priests, strengthens monarchs, steadies the righteous, exalts the temperate, effects grace, makes the dead live, frees the bound, adopts as sons the estranged. From on high he effects these by regeneration. If he seized a faithful tax-gatherer, he produces an evangelist; if he came upon a fisherman, he completes a theologian; if he found a perceptive persecutor, he perfects an apostle to the nations, a herald of faith, a vessel of the chosen.24

Without getting too much into the exact dating of this homily and whether it is the particular cause of letters 58 and 59, this was delivered well before Basil completed On the Holy Spirit.25 Basil’s own glowing characterisation of Paul in this quotation aside, this suggests a deftly worked out pneumatology worthy of a identification with the apostle to the nations, the herald of faith, and the vessel of the chosen. Pneumatology and Representation Thus, while avoiding venturing too far into speculation or psychologism, Gregory’s representations of Paul, and their interaction with his pneumatology, may be influenced by the identification of Paul with Basil. Paul, in Gregory’s thinking, occupies a place of particular authority by his own right. However, in the pre-existing association with Basil, Paul becomes more of a third party than other biblical figures, who are more readily employed in adaptation to personal parallel. Gregory’s interaction and subsequent representation of Paul is rather closer to Gregory’s interaction with Basil. It is necessarily coloured by humour, exaggeration, and contrast, whether in jibes about opponents’ access to the fourth heaven and yet more unspeakable words, or as in the following: What do you make of our exile, and what fruit do you think has come of it – or better, what is the fruit of the Spirit within us, by whom we are always stirred, and remain stirred even now? For we do not desire to possess anything as our own, and perhaps we have nothing to claim. [...] Paul, too, shared his Gospel with the Apostles, not in a spirit of competition, as he makes clear in what he writes about himself [...] And if Paul gave his account privately and only before a few, but I do so publicly and before all, 24

Hom. 15.8. For a discussion of these datings, see A. Radde-Gallwitz, Basil of Caesarea (2012), 99; J.A. McGuckin, Gregory of Nazianzus (2001), 214 n. 212; J. Bernardi, La prédication des pères cappadociens. Le prédicateur et son auditoire (Paris, 1968), 85-6; Michael A.G. Haykin, The Spirit of God: Exegesis of 1 and 2 Corinthians in the Pneumatomachian Controversy of the Fourth Century (Leiden, 1994), 150. 25

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do not let that surprise you. For I crave, even more than he did, to be free from the accusations that in some way I seem to have failed in my duty, ‘else somehow I should be running or had run in vain.26

Although delivered not long after Basil’s death, the interleaving of Basil and Paul in Gregory’s portrayals of Paul has some consequences for interpretation. The literary Paul is affirmed as a figure of spiritual authority, whose possession of the Spirit necessarily abrogates any claim to competitiveness. However, even when it would seem that Gregory should make a strong comparison, he instead offers contrast. While Gregory here refers to his actions in relation to the presidency of the Council of Constantinople, these events are inextricable from his own strong affirmation of the divinity of the Spirit. Such events in turn, are inextricable from his relationship to Basil, who throughout his career encouraged him towards ever more public positions for the apparent defense of the Spirit’s divinity. Gregory’s own public defense of his actions, ordered to the good by the Spirit, is the more public in that Gregory’s need exceeded Paul’s own, just as his public declaration of the Spirit’s divinity preceded Basil’s own. Conclusion In sum, this paper has sought to explore Gregory’s portrayal of Paul as an individual, rather than just as a text to be received, particularly in Gregory’s pneumatology with its explicitly Pauline entailments. The interaction of these representations with Gregory’s pneumatology is, even superficially, distinct from other uses of biblical figures in Gregory’s work. For Gregory, Paul is a more vibrant, but also a more distant figure. Given the significance of Gregory’s reliance on Paul as a theological authority, this bears close scrutiny, a sense of which has been offered here. The introduction of Basil as Gregory’s Paul is consistent with this and provides some further explanatory power to the interactions of Paul and the Holy Spirit in Gregory’s thought. While certainly not universal, such a perspective, even if it is of limited demonstrable validity, is a useful reminder that in addition to textual and historical nuance, it is necessary to remain conscious of the even less accessible human and relational qualities which inform patristic texts when approaching their theological content.

26

Or. 42.1, trans. Daley, 139-40.

Gregory Nazianzen: Interpreting the Human Eikon of God Literally as a Physical Bearer of God’s Presence Gabrielle THOMAS, University of Nottingham, UK

ABSTRACT Drawing from Gen. 1:26-8, Gregory refers to the human person as an eikon (image) of God throughout his corpus. In their discussions of this, scholars generally draw attention to the occasions upon which Gregory describes the eikon as the soul, highlighting how Gregory was influenced by Greek philosophical thought. The result is an essentialist interpretation of Gregory’s approach to the human eikon, which underestimates the breadth of Gregory’s profound insight into what it means for humans to be an image of God. This paper aims to highlight the extensiveness of Gregory’s presentation of the human eikon by reading the texts in light of contemporary ideas concerning pagan eikones. Through this approach, I argue that in addition to interpreting the eikon metaphorically as the soul, Gregory presents the whole human eikon literally as a physical eikon of God, a bearer of God’s presence on earth. Thus, Gregory’s approach allows an expansive reading of what it means for a human person to be an image of God, which incorporates both metaphorical and literal interpretations.

Eikon plays a substantial role in patristic theology, occupying over five pages in Lampe’s Patristic Greek Lexicon.1 Deriving from εἴκειν, which translates as ‘to be like, to seem,’ ἡ εἰκών can mean ‘likeness’ in the sense of that which is physical, such as a picture or a statue, or that which is immaterial, for example, a phantom or semblance. Like church fathers before him, Gregory Nazianzen deploys eikon in a variety of ways, using the term primarily to describe the human person and Christ, but also using it to refer to metaphors, paintings and pagan statues.2 This paper focuses on Gregory’s use of eikon as a significant means of identifying the nature and purpose of humankind. With the application of rhetorical 1 Geoffrey W.H. Lampe, Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford, 1961), 410-6. Note that the concept occupies only one page in Henry George Liddell, Robert Scott and Henry Stuart Jones, A GreekEnglish Lexicon (Oxford, 1973), 485. 2 For eikon as paintings, see Oration 2.11, SC 247, 104; 11.2, SC 405, 332; 14.32, PG 35, 900D; 21.22, SC 270, 156; metaphor, Carm. 1.2.24, PG 37, 793; pagan statues, Oration 4.65, SC 309, 172; 4.80, SC 309, 202; 11.5, SC 405, 338; Carm. 1.2.27, PG 37, 854, 8.

Studia Patristica C, 181-189. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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questions, Gregory contemplates the complexity of human existence throughout his orations, letters and poetry, ‘Who was I at first? And who am I now? And who shall I become? I don’t know clearly.’3 Thus, Gregory expresses the human person in the realm of mystery, in his attempts to explore human existence. In his quest for human purpose and value, Gregory often draws his inspiration from Genesis 1:26-8, And God said, ‘Let us make humankind according to our eikon and according to likeness’ (καὶ εἶπεν ὁ θεός, ποιήσωμεν ἄνθρωπον κατ᾽εἰκόνα ἡμετέραν καὶ καθ᾽ὁμοίωσιν).4

Gregory is not alone in making this move, but draws on a prominent aspect of theological anthropology in the early church, which continues at the heart of the Eastern Orthodox tradition.5 Regarding Gregory’s approach to the human eikon, scholars often focus upon Gregory’s depiction of the eikon as the soul (ψυχή) or spiritual intellect (νοῦς).6 They draw attention to this because Gregory likens the eikon to the soul on numerous occasions throughout his work:7 3

Carm. 1.2.14, PG 37, 757, 17. Translations my own, unless stated otherwise. Gen. 1:26-7; And God said, ‘Let us make humankind according to our eikon and likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea, and over the flying creatures of heaven, and over the cattle and all the earth, and over all the reptiles that creep on the earth.’ And God made humankind, according to the eikon of God he made him. Male and female he made them (καὶ ἐποίησεν ὁ θεὸς τὸν ἄνθρωπον, κατ᾽εἰκόνα θεοῦ ἐποίησεν αὐτόν, ἄρσεν καὶ θῆλυ ἐποίησεν αὐτούς). Greek text from Septuaginta, Alfred Rahlfs (ed.) and emended by Robert Hanhart. Rev. edn. (Stuttgart, 2006). Translation adapted from Sophie Cartwright, The Theological Anthropology of Eustathius of Antioch (Oxford, 2015), 142. Also, see Goran Sekulovski, ‘L’homme à l’image du Christ? Les fondements christologiques de l’anthropologie de Grégoire de Nazianze’, BLE 115 (2014), 231-42, 240. 5 Andrew Louth, Genesis 1-11 (Chicago, 2001), 27; Vladimir Lossky, In the Image and Likeness of God (New York, 1974), 126. 6 In contemporary English translations, νοῦς is often translated as ‘mind, intellect or rationality’, all of which imply that reason is the primary connotation: G.W.H. Lampe, Patristic Greek Lexicon (1961), 923; Francis E. Peters, Greek Philosophical Terms: A Historical Lexicon (New York, 1967), 121-39. However διάνοια concurs much more closely with the notion of reason, since it denotes the formulation of arguments on the basis of reasoning. For Gregory, νοῦς is that aspect of the soul through which human beings experience and perceive God, relating to the spiritual realm; see Dragoş A. Giulea, ‘The Noetic Turn in Jewish Thought’, JSJ 42 (2011), 23-57, 47. For this reason, ‘intellect’ alone is insufficient for conveying Gregory’s intent. In order to reflect this, I have opted to use two words as a translation of νοῦς: ‘spiritual intellect’, assuming that this encompasses personal feelings and emotions as well as intellectual endeavour. 7 Manfred Kertsch, Gregorio Nazianzeno: Sulla virtù. Carme giambico [I, 2, 10] (Pisa, 1995), 195; Michael Oberhaus and Martin Sicherl, Carmen 1,2,25 (Paderborn, 1991), 75; Frederick W. Norris, Gregory Nazianzen’s Doctrine of Jesus Christ (Ph.D. Diss., Yale, 1970), 69; Kenneth Paul Wesche, ‘“Mind” and “Self” in the Christology of Saint Gregory the Theologian: Saint Gregory’s Contribution to Christology and Christian Anthropology’, GOTR 39 (1994), 33-61, 51; Jostein Børtnes, ‘Rhetoric and Mental Images in Gregory’, in Jostein Børtnes and Tomas Hägg (eds), Gregory of Nazianzus: Images and Reflections (Chicago, 2006), 37-57, 56; Heinz Althaus, Die Heilslehre des heiligen Gregor von Nazianz (Münster, 1972), 72-4; Ben Fulford, Divine 4

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… even though the greatest feature in the nature of the human is that she is [made] according to the eikon (εἰκών) and [possesses] the capacity of spiritual intellect (νοῦς).8 … it is towards these that the soul (ψυχή), which has been made according to the eikon of God, should gaze immovably.9

The emphasis on the occasions when Gregory refers to the eikon as the soul or spiritual intellect leads to the conclusion that Gregory assumes an essentialist interpretation of the eikon of God. By ‘essentialist’, I refer to the reduction of the eikon to one essential aspect of the human person; in this instance the essential aspect is the spiritual intellect, namely the human soul. This metaphorical interpretation of eikon as the soul follows Philo and later, Origen, who writes, ‘The soul, not only for the first man but of all men, arose according to the image.’10 However, in addition to the quotations above, Gregory also applies the concept of the human eikon in a manner which suggests that he has a broader understanding of the eikon than simply equating the eikon with the soul. Few scholars have observed this; as far as I am aware, only Knecht, Richard and Pelikan have highlighted that Gregory sometimes includes the body in his interpretation of the human eikon.11 Added to this, Vasiliu has noted that Gregory’s approach is complex, yet none of these sheds further light on Gregory’s varied interpretations of the human eikon.12 Therefore, I aim to demonstrate that, in addition to his metaphorical interpretations of the eikon as the soul in Genesis 1:26-8, Gregory also presents the whole human person literally as a physical eikon of God, a bearer of God’s presence on earth. Said another way, I argue that Gregory’s approach is both metaphorical and literal, rather than only one or the other. In order to determine this, I shall approach Gregory’s writing about the human eikon in the light of ideas Eloquence and Human Transformation: Rethinking Scripture and History through Gregory of Nazianzus and Hans Frei (Minneapolis, 2013), 80-1; Hannah Hunt, Clothed in the Body: Asceticism, the Body and the Spiritual in the Late Antique Era (Surrey, 2012), 194; Hilarion Alfeyev, La chantre de la Luminère: Introduction à la spiritualité de saint Grégoire de Nazianze (Paris, 2006); Kirsten Koonce, ‘Agalma and Eikwn’, AJP 109 (1988), 108-10; Anna Ellverson, The Dual Nature of Man (Uppsala, 1981), 25; Joseph Barbel, Gregor von Nazianz. Die fünf theologischen Reden (Düsseldorf, 1963), 284. 8 Oration 22.13, SC 270, 248; 14.2, PG 35, 860B-861A; 28.17, SC 250, 134; 32.27, SC 318, 142-4. 9 Oration 6.14, SC 405, 156. 10 Philo, Opif. 134-35; Origen, Homilies on Jeremiah; Homily on 1 Kings 28, trans. John Clark Smith, TFC (Washington, DC, 1998), 23. 11 Andreas Knecht, Gregor von Nazianz. Gegen die Putzsucht der Frauen. Verbesserter griechischer Text mit Übersetzung, motivgeschichtlichem Überblick und Kommentar (Heidelberg, 1972), 71; Anne Richard, Cosmologie et théologie chez Grégoire de Nazianze (Paris, 2003), 265; Jaroslav Pelikan, Christianity and Classical Culture: The Metamorphosis of Natural Theology in the Christian Encounter with Hellenism (New Haven, 1993), 129. 12 Anca Vasiliu, Eikôn (Paris, 2010), 328.

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about pagan eikones, by which I mean physical statues and idols, demonstrating how Gregory draws on ideas concerning the intellectual background to statuary in order to inform this significant aspect of his approach to being human. I shall begin by outlining the origins of this literal interpretation of the human as a physical, living eikon of God. As a means of informing further the interpretation of the eikon in Genesis 1:26-8, Hebrew Bible scholars have attended to the way in which ‫צלמ‬/εἰκών is employed throughout the Old Testament.13 On a number of occasions ‫צלמ‬/εἰκών describes a physical object, such as a statue or an idol.14 This, alongside recent archaeological discoveries, has led a number of scholars to re-examine ideas of the eikon in light of cultures contemporary to those of the Old Testament.15 Research has demonstrated that the Ancient Near Eastern notion of an image (‫ )צלמ‬involved a ritual process of transformation.16 Once the ritual was completed, the image of the god was believed to embody the god so fully that the image became the god itself. Egyptian texts make clear that the craftsmen were not concerned primarily with representing what a god looked like; instead, the image was the place where the god manifested itself, ‘thus the presence of the god and the blessing that accompanied that presence were effected through the image.’17 Therefore, the images were considered to be living images embodying the divine presence, rather than being merely lifeless wood or bronze statues. Since this background evolved in a vastly different time and culture to that of Gregory, I shall consider corresponding concepts of statues in Greco-Roman culture, since this was the worldview in which Gregory formed his ideas. Traditionally, scholars are sceptical regarding the belief that the Greco-Roman gods were present to their statues. This is due to the lack of evidence for any ritual of animation in ancient Greece, unlike in ancient Mesopotamia.18 Furthermore, following a negative reading of Platonic mimesis, scholars have argued that the educated elite understood the eikon as merely a copy.19 More recently 13 Frances Young has explored early church fathers’ concepts of eikon in relation to Ex. 20:4 and idolatry; Col. 1:15 and Christology; Gen. 1:27 and anthropology, arguing that these three passages are implicitly related in Athanasius, the Cappadocians, and Cyril of Jerusalem; see Frances M. Young, ‘God’s Image: The “Elephant in the Room” in the Fourth Century?’, SP 50 (2011), 57-72. 14 Wis. 2:23; Num. 33:52; Ezek. 7:20; 2Kgs. 11:18; Dan. 3:1. 15 Edward M. Curtis, ‘Image of God’, in David N. Freeman (ed.), Anchor Bible Dictionary, H-J (New York, 1992), 389-91. 16 E. Curtis, ‘Image of God’ (1992), 390; Zainab Bahrani, The Graven Image: Representation in Babylonia and Assyria (Philadelphia, 2003), 121-48. 17 Ibid. 389; Ellen J. Van Wolde, ‘The Text as an Eloquent Guide: Rhetorical, Linguistic and Literary Features in Genesis 1’, in Craig A. Evans, Joel N. Lohr and David L. Petersen (eds), The Book of Genesis: Composition, Reception, and Interpretation (Leiden, 2012), 134-52. 18 Walter Burkert, John Raffan (trans.), Greek Religion (Harvard, 1985), 91. 19 Verity J. Platt, Facing the Gods: Epiphany and Representation in Graeco-Roman Art, Literature and Religion (Cambridge, 2011), 204; Danielle S. Allen, Why Plato Wrote (Oxford,

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however, studies onfimages have successfully challenged this argument by building on the ‘popular’ Greco-Roman view, which accepted the presence of deities in statues.20 For an example of this, Fox appeals to Augustus, who banished Poseidon’s statue because of bad weather; through this action it was believed that Augustus insulted Poseidon himself.21 Also, an ambiguity in the Greek language means that ‘Artemis’ can imply either the goddess herself or an image of her.22 This explains why so much care had to be taken when handling statues; the ‘ambiguity afforded an edge of danger, since incorrect treatment of a statue could be construed as an assault on the deity embodied in it.’23 This notion of representation extends to ancient dream theory, where it makes no difference whether the dreamer sees the statue of a god or the god itself.24 Images of Roman emperors are also pertinent to this discussion.25 For instance, Theodosius made Maximus an emperor by erecting the latter’s image, which he commanded the people to worship in place of their Alexandrian gods.26 Furthermore, in Gregory’s own lifetime, the images of the emperor Theodosius were smashed to pieces in the tax rebellion in 387 AD, and he was angry precisely because his imperial image ‘embodied his own actual presence within the city.’27 Thus, in the same way that a statue of a god embodied the divine presence of the god, statues of emperors were perceived to embody the emperor’s presence, functioning as a substitute for the emperor. Ideas such as these, where a statue embodies the presence of the god or emperor whose image it bears, appear to have contributed to the interpretation of Gen. 1:26-8 in the work of certain early theologians, such as Clement of Alexandria, as Nasrallah has argued.28 In fact Nasrallah goes as far as to claim 2010), 174-6; Kenneth Lapatin, ‘New Statues for Old Gods’, in Jan N. Bremmer and Andrew Erskine (eds), The Gods of Ancient Greece: Identities and Transformations (Edinburgh, 2010), 126-54, 133. 20 Christopher A. Faraone, Talismans and Trojan Horses: Guardians and Statues in Ancient Greek Myth and Ritual (Oxford, 1992); Moshe Barasch, Icon: Studies in the History of an Idea (New York, 1992), 24; Hans Belting, Edmund Jephcott (trans.), Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image Before the Era of Art (Chicago, 1994), 37. 21 Suetonius, Augustus 16, LCL 31. 22 Pausanias, Descr. 3.16.9 in Matthew Dillon and Lynda Garland, Ancient Greece: Social and Historical Documents from Archaic Times to the Death of Alexander (London, 2010), 240; also see Jas Elsner, Roman Eyes: Visuality & Subjectivity in Art & Text (Princeton NJ, 2007), 11; Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians (Harmondsworth, 1986), 133. 23 J. Elsner, Roman Eyes (2007), 11. See Pseudo-Lucian’s Amores, 15-6, LCL 432. 24 M. Barasch, Icon (1992), 32-3. 25 Plutarch wrote that the Roman emperor was considered to be an ‘image of God, who orders all things’, Princ. Iner. 780E. See Harold North Fowler, Plutarch. Moralia Vol. X, LCL 321 (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1936). 26 Sabine MacCormack, Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, 1981), 67. 27 Frederick G. McLeod, The Image of God in the Antiochene Tradition (Washington, DC, 1999), 236. 28 Prot. I.5.4, I.6.4; see Laura Nasrallah, ‘The Earthen Human, the Breathing Statue: The Sculptor God, Greco-Roman Statuary, and Clement of Alexandria’, in Konrad Schmid and Christopher

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that Clement’s writing on the human person is understood only in light of contemporary views on pagan statues and idols. Further to this, Irenaeus emphasises the inclusion of the body when discussing the human eikon, resulting in the whole human person being, quite literally, an eikon of God.29 Next, I shall demonstrate that this idea, i.e. that pagan statues are likenesses which have the potential to bear some presence or power of the figure represented, informs Gregory’s interpretation of Gen. 1:26-8, in which humankind is created according to the eikon of God. In order to establish this, I shall consider three key streams of Gregory’s theological anthropology; namely, his views on Christ, priests and women, demonstrating how Gregory treats each literally as a visible eikon of God. I begin by considering Gregory’s presentation of Christ, because Gregory, drawing on St Paul, speaks of Christ as the Identical Eikon, upon whom all human eikones are modelled.30 In the past decade, Hofer’s research has demonstrated that Gregory views the unified, incarnate Christ as the Eikon of God.31 The following examples which I have chosen affirm his argument. In his poem Against Apollinarius, On the Incarnation, Gregory writes, Flesh is God’s shared dwelling place and is also God’s Eikon (σαρκὸς μέν, ὡς σύνοικος, ὡς δ᾽εἰκών, θεοῦ). God’s nature (φύσις) mingles (μιγεῖσα) with its kin, And from there it has communion with the dull, thick flesh (πάχους).32

Above, Gregory names explicitly Christ’s flesh as God’s Eikon, demonstrating that he views the incarnate Christ as a visible Eikon of God. Added to this, he addresses the following acclamation to ‘Lord Christ’: Highest Light of the Highest of all Lights, Only Child, Eikon of the Immortal Father, and seal of eternity.33

With Gregory’s view of the incarnate Christ as the visible and Identical Eikon of God in place, we may turn to Gregory’s concept of human eikones. In relation to Gregory’s incorporation of contemporary views on statuary into his view of the human person as the eikon of God, we need look no further than Riedweg (eds), Beyond Eden: The Biblical Story of Paradise [Genesis 2-3] and its Reception History (Tübingen, 2008), 110-40; John Behr, Asceticism and Anthropology in Irenaeus and Clement (Oxford, 2000), 145-51. 29 Dem. 22, see Matthew C. Steenberg, Of God and Man: Theology as Anthropology from Irenaeus to Athanasius (New York, 2009), 17. 30 Oration 1.4, SC 247, 76; 2.98, SC 247, 216; 4.78, SC 309, 200; 14.2, PG 35, 860C; 14.7, PG 35, 865C; 29.17, SC 250, 212; 30.3, SC 250, 230; 30.20, SC 250, 268; 38.13, SC 358, 132; 45.9, PG 36, 633C; Carm. 1.1.2, PG 37, 40; 1.1.10, PG 37, 469; 1.2.1, PG 37, 533; 1.2.14, PG 37, 762; 2.1.1, PG 37, 1016, 1017; 2.1.38, PG 37, 1326; 2.1.45, PG 37, 1356. Also, see Col. 1:15. 31 Andrew Hofer, O.P., Christ in the Life and Teaching of Gregory of Nazianzus (Oxford, 2013). 32 Carm. 1.1.10, PG 37, 469, 56-60. 33 Carm. 1.2.38, PG 37, 1326, 1-2.

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A Funeral Oration on the Great Basil. The role that Basil, the priest, is performing at the altar during the Epiphany eucharist entails that he becomes like a statue. Here, we observe Basil in his function as the priest who is an image of the High Priest, Christ, being reverenced in a manner similar to a pagan statue: With body and eyes and mind unswerving, as though nothing new had occurred, but rather being fixed like a statue (ἀλλ᾽ ἐστηλωμένον) so to speak, for God and the altar, while those around him stood in fear and reverence (τοὺς δὲ περὶ αὐτὸν ἑστηκότας ἐν φόβῳ τινὶ καὶ σεβάσματι).34

Like a stone or wooden eikon, Basil is perfectly still. In the same way that we would expect pagans to respond to a pagan eikon with fear and reverence, those around Basil respond likewise with ‘fear and reverence’. If we bear in mind that eikones were often seen as being ‘direct links back to their prototypes’, it is logical that those around Basil would revere him, for in revering Basil as God’s eikon, they revere God.35 It is not only the male priest whom Gregory casts in the role of God’s literal eikon, but women too are incorporated into this literal interpretation. In particular, Gregory’s approach to women’s use of cosmetics provides further examples of Gregory alluding to the human eikon literally as a visible eikon of God. Gregory believes that the use of make-up adulterates the human eikon, as seen below in his poem Exhortation to Virgins.36 Here again, he treats the eikon literally: Let another adulterate the eikon of God with coloured complexions, A breathing work of art…37 (ἄλλη χρώμασιν εἰκόνα τὴν θεοῦ νοθευέτω πίναξ ἔμψυχος…)

Gregory believes that humans should not attempt to improve on God’s handiwork: therefore, a female eikon should not wear make-up since she, as God’s visible eikon, is a breathing work of art. Consider also Gregory’s argument below in Against Women Wearing Ornaments.38 Drawing on the Genesis creation narratives, Gregory imagines God’s response to a woman who wears make-up as a means of enhancing her beauty. In a section of his poem, employing 34

Oration 43.52, SC 384, 234. Jas Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer: The Transformation of Art from the Pagan World to Christianity (Cambridge, 1995), 170; Peter Stewart, ‘The Image of the Roman Emperor’, in Rupert Shepherd and Robert Maniura (eds), Presence: The Inherence of the Prototype within Images and other Objects (Hants., UK, 2006), 245-58, 243-44; Suzanne Saïd, ‘Deux noms de l’image en grec ancien: idole et icône’, CRAI 131 (1987), 309-30, 323; Peter Brown, ‘A Dark-Age Crisis: Aspects of the Iconoclastic Controversy’, EHR 88 (1973), 1-34, 13 note 2. 36 Carm. 1.2.3, PG 37, 632-40. 37 Carm. 1.2.3, PG 37, 637, 57-9. 38 Carm. 1.2.29, PG 37, 884-908. 35

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the rhetorical device of ethopoiia Gregory assumes God’s voice, laying out what God would say to a woman who wears make-up: Who is and whence came the creator? Be gone, one who belongs to another! I did not inscribe you, dog! But I moulded an eikon of myself.39 How is it that I have an idol in place of a dear form?40 (τίς, πόθεν ὁ πλάστης; ἔρρε μοι, ἀλλοτρίη οὕ σ᾽ἔγραψα, κύων, ἀλλ᾽ ἔπλασα εἰκον᾽ ἐμοῖο πῶς εἔδωλον ἔχω εἴδεος ἀντὶ φίλου;)

Gregory’s insulting use of ‘dog’ (κύων) to describe a woman who relies on make-up for beauty might be somewhat shocking for a twenty-first-century Western reader. Laying aside the insulting nature of the lines above, I observe two significant points about Gregory’s approach to the eikon.41 First, the defacement of the eikon occurs through the body, which dispels the arguments that Gregory presents the eikon as solely the soul and lends itself to a reading where the eikon can function as a term for the whole human.42 Second, Gregory’s play on words around the idea of eikones and idols shows that Gregory considers the human eikon to be that which is moulded by God. The addition of cosmetics to a woman’s body means that she is no longer able to function as God’s visible eikon, but rather as an idol, a term which Gregory generally uses negatively to describe that which is dead.43 Through depicting the transformation from an eikon to an idol, Gregory undermines the power of the pagan eikon, by demonstrating that the human eikon is a unique kind of eikon because only she is created by God.44 Gregory makes this explicit in his second poem on Ignoble Ways of Nobility: For indeed a painted eikon (εἰκών) is not greater than the breathing man, even though it shines (τῆς τοῦ πνέοντος ἀνδρός, εἰ καὶ λάμπεται).45

For the breathing eikon is the human eikon, unique and far superior to pagan eikones. The breathing eikon bears the presence of her Creator. 39

Gen. 1:26 and Gen. 2:6. Carm. 1.2.29, PG 37, 887, 46-8. 41 ‘Die Gottesebenbildlichkeit ist hier durchaus körperlich, gewissermaßen naturalistisch aufgefaßt, wie es für die griechischen Kirchenväter trotz der zugleich vorhandenen Vergeistigung des Bildbegriffs bezeichnend ist’, A. Knecht, Gegen die Putzsucht der Frauen (1972), 71. 42 Carm. 2.1.45, PG 37, 1353. 43 Oration 5.28, SC 309, 348; 8.10, SC 405, 266; 39.6, SC 358, 160; 40.38, SC 358, 284; Carm. 1.2.1, PG 37, 532; 1.2.29, PG 37, 883; 2.1.1, PG 37, 979. On the basis of Gregory’s use of the phrase εἴδωλον τοῦ καλοῦ (Oration 2.74, SC 247, 186), Anna Williams suggests that Gregory applies εἴδωλον interchangeably with εἰκών; see The Divine Sense: The Intellect in Patristic Theology (Cambridge, 2007), 9. However, Gregory does not refer to humankind as an εἴδωλον of God anywhere in his work. 44 Patricia Cox Miller, The Corporeal Imagination: Signifying the Holy in Late Ancient Christianity (Pennsylvania, 2012), 133-42. 45 Carm. 1.2.27, PG 37, 854, 8-9. 40

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Conclusion By considering Gregory’s work in light of discussions concerning pagan eikones, this paper has demonstrated that Gregory extends his view of the human eikon to include a literal interpretation, in which the human functions as a physical eikon of God who, through breathing God’s breath, bears God’s presence on earth. In making this move I have challenged the general view that Gregory interprets the human eikon only metaphorically, equating the eikon purely to the soul or spiritual intellect. Whilst Gregory undoubtedly subscribes to the latter approach, I have demonstrated that his ideas are much broader, since he regards human nature ultimately as a mystery.46 I believe that contemporary theological anthropology would benefit from engaging with Gregory’s approach to the human eikon which encompasses both metaphorical and literal readings, since, in presenting the human eikon so broadly, Gregory offers an inspiring vision of what it means to be human. His ability to incorporate both metaphorical and literal interpretations offers an inclusive reading of Genesis 1:26-8, which includes human eikones of any race, gender, age and ability. This allows all to claim, along with him, that ‘I am a human person, a model and an eikon of God’ (ἄνθρωπός εἰμι, πλάσμα καὶ εἰκὼν θεοῦ).47

46 47

Carm. 1.2.14, PG 37, 757, 17. Carm. 1.2.34, PG 37, 947, 20; also see Oration 40.10, SC 358, 218; 32.30, SC 318, 148.

Chrysostom, Preaching and Jigsaws: Did John Chrysostom Preach on Scripture in Series? Jonathan R.R. TALLON, Luther King House, Manchester, UK

ABSTRACT The preaching of John Chrysostom has traditionally been arranged in series, whether scriptural (for example, his homilies on Romans) or reacting to events (for example, the Riot of the Statues in Antioch in 386). Older scholarship generally assumed that this arrangement reflected his preaching: that homilies covering the same book of scripture were preached by Chrysostom in order at one location (either Antioch or Constantinople). This meant that if the place of one homily could be identified, the provenance for an entire series was secured. More recent scholarship has undercut many of the old assumptions, with a more critical look both at the criteria used to judge provenance, and also arguing that each homily needs to be examined individually for evidence of provenance, rather than assuming that homilies were preached together as a series. As a result the accepted provenance of much of Chrysostom’s preaching is insecure. This article considers one piece of evidence for Chrysostom preaching in series on scripture: the way in which one homily starts where another homily stops, with little gap or overlap. One explanation for this phenomenon is that Chrysostom did preach these homilies in turn, rather than trying to fit some homilies into an existing gap, as if the series were a jigsaw. This means that evidence in one homily within a series could help to identify the provenance of all previous homilies (if Antioch) or all subsequent homilies (if Constantinople). Other possible explanations further problematise the possibility of assigning any provenance.

1. Introduction Chrysostom is famed for his preaching and studied for the light he sheds on late antiquity. However, the provenance and exact date of many of his homilies is uncertain. Traditionally, scholarship assigned complete series of homilies to a single location, confident that the provenance of one homily in a series provided a provenance for the whole series. More recently, Allen and Mayer have problematised this assumption.1 This has led to a position where each homily 1

In particular: Pauline Allen and Wendy Mayer, ‘Chrysostom and the Preaching of Homilies in Series: A New Approach,’ Orientalia Christiana Periodica 60 (1994), 21-39; Pauline Allen and Wendy Mayer, ‘Chrysostom and the Preaching of Homilies in Series: A Re-Examination of

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needs to be considered independently of any others to establish its provenance. As a result, the majority of Chrysostom’s homilies are now unassigned. While welcoming Mayer and Allen’s rigorous approach, I argue in this paper that more weight should be given to the way that homilies in scriptural series begin at the point that the previous homily ended, with little or no overlap, and few or no gaps. I argue that this feature of the homily series is explained if Chrysostom did preach sequentially through scriptural books rather than trying to fill gaps like a homiletic jigsaw. If so, we have more information to assign a provenance to a much larger number of Chrysostom’s homilies than Mayer and Allen’s caution would suppose. Alternative explanations of this phenomenon further problematise the issue of provenance, meaning that even some homilies assigned under Mayer and Allen’s criteria may not be secure.

2. Background The preaching of John Chrysostom has been revered since soon after his death in 407 CE. Admirers collected written records of his homilies so that later generations could benefit from his pastoral teaching. Many of his homilies have come down to us, providing fertile material for scholarly investigation into a diverse range of areas of late antiquity.2 Such critical study of Chrysostom would be aided by knowing both date and provenance for his homilies. We can be reasonably confident of these within broad parameters. Chrysostom was ordained priest in Antioch in 386, consecrated as bishop of Constantinople in

the Fifteen Homilies in Epistulam ad Philippenses (CPG 4432)’, Vigiliae Christianae 49 (1995), 270-89; Pauline Allen and Wendy Mayer, ‘The Thirty-Four Homilies on Hebrews: The Last Series Delivered by Chrysostom in Constantinople?’, Byzantion 65 (1995), 309-48; Pauline Allen and Wendy Mayer, ‘Traditions of Constantinopolitan Preaching: Towards a New Assessment of Where Chrysostom Preached What’, Byzantinische Forschungen 24 (1997), 93-114; Wendy Mayer, The Homilies of St John Chrysostom – Provenance. Reshaping the Foundations, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 273 (Rome, 2005). 2 To give a few examples: Isabella Sandwell, Religious Identity in Late Antiquity: Greeks, Jews and Christians in Antioch (Cambridge, 2007); Wendy Mayer, ‘Patronage, Pastoral Care and the Role of the Bishop at Antioch’, Vigiliae Christianae 55 (2001), 58-70; Ramsay MacMullen, ‘The Preacher’s Audience (AD 350-400)’, Journal of Theological Studies 40 (1989), 503-11; Jaclyn L. Maxwell, Christianization and Communication in Late Antiquity: John Chrysostom and His Congregation in Antioch (Cambridge, 2006); Aideen M. Hartney, John Chrysostom and the Transformation of the City (London, 2004); Blake Leyerle, Theatrical Shows and Ascetic Lives: John Chrysostom’s Attack on Spiritual Marriage (Berkeley, 2001); Margaret M. Mitchell, The Heavenly Trumpet. John Chrysostom and the Art of Pauline Interpretation (London, 2002); Elizabeth Ann Clark, Women in the Early Church (Collegeville MN, 1983); Robert L. Wilken, John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the Late 4th Century (Eugene, 2004). Many more studies could be cited.

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397, and exiled from Constantinople in 404.3 His preaching can therefore be dated within a period of less than twenty years, and within two main locations: Antioch and Constantinople. However, more precision would be helpful. In particular, scholars would benefit from knowing where a particular homily was preached, as it would indicate whether Chrysostom was preaching as priest to a city congregation, or as bishop in an imperial capital, and also narrow the dating of the homily. Until relatively recently, a location has been assigned by scholars to many of Chrysostom’s homilies.4 This was possible because many of the homilies are presented as belonging to a series based either on a single book of scripture (for example, Romans),5 or around a single event (for example, the Riot of the Statues).6 The assumption has been that Chrysostom preached in series sequentially within single locations, and that these series are what has come down to us. This assumption makes identification of a provenance more straightforward: information in one homily that identifies its location also gives the location of the entire series. Take the following example, in which Chrysostom bemoans the lack of charity by his congregation except to beggars desperate enough to mutilate themselves in grotesque ways. He continues, ‘… and these things in Antioch [ἐν Ἀντιοχείᾳ], where they were first called Christians…’7 Taken at face value, Chrysostom preached this homily in Antioch. Because this homily is Antiochene, all forty-four homilies in the series on 1Corinthians have also been assigned by traditional scholarship to Antioch. Earlier scholars also used less clear-cut evidence to assign provenance, such as episcopal tone: sometimes, Chrysostom seems to be speaking with the authority that befits a bishop. In such cases, the argument went, the homily must have been delivered in Constantinople. Evidence of varying quality has thus been used to assign provenance, with the assumption that Chrysostom preached sequentially. As a result, every homily in a series was assigned a provenance on sometimes debatable grounds.

3 For a recent biography, see J.N.D. Kelly, Golden Mouth. The Story of John Chrysostom – Ascetic, Preacher, Bishop (London, 1995). For the dating of Chrysostom’s move to Constantinople, see Timothy D. Barnes and George Bevan, The Funerary Speech for John Chrysostom, Translated Texts for Historians 60 (Liverpool, 2013), 164-70. 4 Until Allen and Mayer’s work, the main treatments included H. Lietzmann, ‘Johannes Chrysostomos’, PRE 9 (1916), 1811-28; Max von Bornsdorff, Zur Predigttätigkeit des Johannes Chrysostomus. Biographisch-chronologische Studien über seine Homilienserien zu neutestamentlichen Büchern (Helsinki, 1922); Chrysostomus Baur, John Chrysostom and His Time, trans. M. Gonzaga, 2nd ed., 2 vols. (London, 1959). 5 John Chrysostom, Homiliae in epistulam ad Romanos (PG 60, 391-682). 6 John Chrysostom, Ad Populum Antiochenum De Statuis (PG 49, 15-222). 7 John Chrysostom, Homiliae in epistulam i ad Corinthios 21 (PG 61, 178).

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3. Provenance problematised Allen and Mayer offered a critique of this approach. They argue that previous scholarship should not have assumed that the series transmitted to us were necessarily preached sequentially. In particular, they note that: In fact, with very few exceptions, scholars have assumed that where internal evidence in one or two homilies in an exegetical series points indubitably to an Antiochene or a Constantinopolitan provenance, then all the other homilies in the series as it has come down to us were delivered in the same place as well.8

They also argue that assigning provenance was often made using a host of dubious assumptions (including episcopal tone). Their series of articles raised questions about the homogeneity of the series of homilies Chrysostom preached on Colossians,9 Philippians10 and Hebrews,11 with Mayer supplying further information in her individual comprehensive study. Mayer is clear about the correct process: … one cannot determine how the homilies interconnect, unless one first addresses the problem of where each and every homily was preached (provenance). After all, the linking of homilies in sequence presupposes that they were all delivered at the one place. Provenance is therefore the first step in the process; the issue of sequence is the next to be addressed; while an investigation and assessment of chronology necessarily comes last.12

Mayer and Allen have good reason for suspicion that homilies collected into a series were necessarily preached at the same location and in the sequence that has come down to us. They give examples from a range of series of homilies where this is not the case.13 They also argue that particular homilies within the same series can be identified as belonging to different locations. Therefore, their aim was: to have called into question the generally accepted assumption that such collections of homilies are homogeneous, and were delivered sequentially and/or in the one location.14

8 P. Allen and W. Mayer, ‘Chrysostom and the Preaching of Homilies in Series: A New Approach’ (1994), 23. 9 Ibid. 21-39. 10 P. Allen and W. Mayer, ‘Chrysostom and the Preaching of Homilies in Series: A Re-Examination of the Fifteen Homilies in Epistulam ad Philippenses (CPG 4432)’ (1995), 270-89. 11 P. Allen and W. Mayer, ‘The Thirty-Four Homilies on Hebrews: The Last Series Delivered by Chrysostom in Constantinople?’ (1995), 309-48. 12 W. Mayer, Provenance (2005), 25. 13 They cite, among other examples, John Chrysostom, De Paenitentia (PG 49, 277-350), John Chrysostom, Stat., and John Chrysostom, Expositiones in Psalmos (PG 55, 39-498). See P. Allen and W. Mayer, ‘Traditions of Constantinopolitan Preaching’ (1997), 95-6. 14 P. Allen and W. Mayer, ‘Traditions of Constantinopolitan Preaching’ (1997), 113.

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Mayer and Allen undertook ground-breaking work in systematically and rigorously analysing and evaluating the different types of evidence proffered for assigning a location to Chrysostom’s homilies.15 What place, then, did Mayer and Allen give to sequence as a factor in determining the provenance and chronology of Chrysostom’s preaching? Mayer does note the usefulness of sequence in verifying and upgrading results achieved by first attending to the evidence of an individual homily.16 She sees it as valid where there is a secure connection between two homilies, for example Hom. Col. 2 and Hom. Col. 3. Here, finishing the exegetical part of Hom. Col. 2 Chrysostom promises to expound Col. 1:15 the next day (αὔριον). The beginning of Hom. Col. 3 picks up with that verse, referring to his promise of Hom. Col. 2 and also describes his previous homily as being yesterday (χθές).17 Given that Mayer has found grounds for assigning Hom. Col. 3 to Constantinople, she considers this connection valid for assigning Hom. Col. 2 also to Constantinople. Where there is an apparent connection between two homilies, and both homilies contain evidence of provenance, then Mayer’s preferred methodology is first to assess each homily independently, to avoid prejudging evidence. If there is then a conflict between evidence from the sequence and evidence from within the homilies, this calls for re-examining the evidence surrounding both provenance and sequence. What is the result of Mayer and Allen’s work? Few of Chrysostom’s homilies have direct evidence of provenance (particularly of the rigorous, critical type introduced by their work). And few of Chrysostom’s homilies have internal, direct connections to other homilies, with evidence of the type that Mayer suggests as satisfactory. Most of Chrysostom’s homilies remain unassigned using this more critical approach. Mayer points out areas where further work is needed to establish provenance. Regarding sequence, she highlights the need for ‘a more reliable methodology … particularly in the light of the usefulness of sequence for extending provenance…’18 This article is a response to that call for further work on linking sequence and provenance.19 15

In particular, see the categorisation of the validity of criteria for provenance in W. Mayer, Provenance (2005), 465-8. 16 W. Mayer, Provenance (2005), 489. 17 John Chrysostom, Homiliae in epistulam ad Colossenses 2 (PG 62, 313). John Chrysostom, Hom. Col. 3 (PG 62, 317). 18 W. Mayer, Provenance (2005), 513. 19 A further issue not addressed in this paper is the lack of critical editions of many of Chrysostom’s homiletical series, and the issue of how the homilies were written and transmitted. Thus Baur argued that many were written but never actually delivered, whereas Goodall argues that the Pauline homilies at least were written up from stenographers’ contemporaneous notes. Blake Goodall, The Homilies of St. John Chrysostom on the Letters of St. Paul to Titus and Philemon. Prolegomena to an Edition, Classical Studies 20 (Berkeley, 1979), 62-78. The homilies on Acts give an indication of the problem: the manuscript tradition indicates three separate recensions:

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4. A partial solution – sequential rather than jigsaw preaching? When Chrysostom’s homilies are on a particular biblical book, one type of evidence not given weight by Mayer and Allen is whether one homily begins where the previous homily in the series ended.20 If homilies were entirely independent of each other, we would expect to see multiple gaps (verses omitted in the series) or overlaps (verses covered in more than one homily). If there are no gaps or overlaps, then there are a few possible explanations: 1. Chrysostom noticed existing gaps in his coverage of a biblical book, and deliberately preached to fill these gaps – treating preaching like a jigsaw puzzle. 2. Chrysostom or a later redactor edited his homilies where there were gaps or overlaps, to remove them. 3. Chrysostom followed a lectionary that was the same in Antioch and Constantinople, therefore homilies from either location could be used to complete a sequence. 4. Chrysostom preached through a biblical book in sequence. His practice was to start where he had finished the previous homily, and to continue throughout the book. The series that have come down to us represent this. The solutions vary in plausibility. With regard to 1, it is not credible to suppose that Chrysostom acted as if his preaching were like a jigsaw, with gaps to be filled in neatly years later, in a different location, to a different congregation. Option 2 is possible. Some of Chrysostom’s homilies do show some evidence of being edited (for example, the series on Acts).21 Additionally, we have a commentary on Galatians, which may have been culled from homilies, or may have been the foundation for future homilies. With regard to option 3, no previous scholarship has suggested either that Chrysostom was following a lectionary, or that such a lectionary would be identical between Constantinople and Antioch. Therefore, if there are no gaps or overlaps, the two possible solutions are that either the series has been redacted, or Chrysostom did preach his way through biblical books methodically, homily by homily. one rough (presumed original); one smoothed stylistically; and one which combines the first two. See Francis T. Gignac, ‘Evidence for Deliberate Scribal Revision in Chrysostom’s Homilies on the Acts of the Apostles’, in J. Petruccione (ed.), Nova & Vetera. Patristic Studies in Honor of Thomas Patrick Halton (Washington DC, 1998), 209-25. 20 Mayer and Allen do give weight to overlaps as a possible indicator of homilies not being preached in sequence, but do not then give any weight to the situation where this does not happen and there is no gap. See P. Allen and W. Mayer, ‘Chrysostom and the Preaching of Homilies in Series: A Re-Examination of the Fifteen Homilies in Epistulam ad Philippenses (CPG 4432)’ (1995), 277-81. 21 John Chrysostom, Homiliae in Acta Apostolorum. See F.T. Gignac, ‘Evidence for Deliberate Scribal Revision’ (1998), 209-25.

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5. The evidence I analysed all of Chrysostom’s homiletic series on the New Testament epistles and Acts. In particular, I checked whether there was a gap or overlap in verses commented on by Chrysostom between apparently sequential homilies (excluding the argumentum which introduces most series). The results, shown in Table 1, are striking. First, there are no gaps.22 Chrysostom covers every verse. Secondly, there are remarkably few overlaps: in 91.6% of cases, there is none between homilies.23 Thirdly, where there are overlaps, they are usually limited to one or two verses. In some cases, where there is an overlap, Chrysostom himself explains that he is covering the same ground.24 The lack of gaps or significant overlaps for Chrysostom’s preaching on Acts and New Testament epistles is evidence that most of these may have been preached sequentially by Chrysostom. If so, this could help to tie down the provenance of many more of Chrysostom’s homilies. Where Chrysostom’s homilies are based on a biblical book, and where there are few or no gaps or overlaps, it suggests (without strong evidence to the contrary): 1. If a homily can be assigned to Antioch, all previous homilies in that sequence can also be assigned to Antioch. 2. If a homily can be assigned to Constantinople, all subsequent homilies can be assigned to Constantinople. 3. We cannot assume that homilies subsequent to one preached in Antioch were necessarily preached in Antioch, nor that homilies prior to a Constantinopolitan homily were also preached there; Chrysostom may have continued an existing series after his move to Constantinople. 4. Where significant overlaps or gaps exist, then evidence from sequencing is less secure; in such cases we need to resort to the existing pattern of only using information found within each individual homily.25 However, this approach creates a conflict with existing work by Allen and Mayer. They argue that Chrysostom preached Hom. Col. 3 in Constantinople, 22

I have excluded Acts 15:34, omitted by Chrysostom, which is missing in many manuscript traditions, including the Byzantine. 23 I have also excluded from the overlaps one caused by Chrysostom clearly using a different manuscript tradition, John Chrysostom, Hom. Rom. 27 (PG 60, 564). Chrysostom places Rom. 16:25-7 between 14:23 and 15:1, as do some other early church interpreters. 24 For example, John Chrysostom, Homiliae in epistulam ad Philippenses 6 (PG 62, 217) and 7 (PG 62, 227). In Hom. Phil. 6 Chrysostom uses the passage to attack heretics; in Hom. Phil. 7 he explains that he is now going to explain the same passage positively. See also John Chrysostom, Hom. Act. 11 (PG 60, 93) and 12 (PG 60, 99). 25 So Allen and Mayer’s suspicions about the homogeneity of the Philippians series have some basis in overlaps, a factor which they also consider. P. Allen and W. Mayer, ‘Chrysostom and the Preaching of Homilies in Series: A Re-Examination of the Fifteen Homilies in Epistulam ad Philippenses (CPG 4432)’ (1995), 270-89.

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and Hom. Col. 7 in Antioch.26 There is near unanimous scholarly agreement (including Allen and Mayer) that Hom. Col. 3 should be assigned to Constantinople.27 However, prior scholarship has also assigned Hom. Col. 7 to Constantinople.28 Evidence from sequence also points towards a Constantinopolitan location. It is beyond the scope of this paper to analyse this homily in detail, but the strength of their argument for Antiochene provenance needs to be re-evaluated in the light of this article. There is a further problem: we do not know to what extent Chrysostom’s homilies were redacted after delivery and during their transmission to the current editions used by scholarship. Such redaction could have been carried out by Chrysostom himself. If so, a homily could have been delivered at Antioch, edited by Chrysostom at Constantinople then further edited by subsequent redactors elsewhere. If this is a realistic possibility, it problematises the notion of provenance for all of Chrysostom’s homilies. Further work on the transmission of Chrysostom’s homilies (both in Greek and in translations) is required to evaluate this notion.

6. Conclusion Allen and Mayer have rightly pointed out hidden assumptions and false confidence in previous scholarship on the provenance of Chrysostom’s homilies, and have laid the basis for a more critical approach. This paper builds on that approach, by arguing that the lack of gaps or overlaps in the scripture that homilies cover also need to be considered as evidence. This leads to two opposing possibilities: accepting this as direct evidence of Chrysostom’s preaching allows a greater number of his homilies to be assigned a provenance, and therefore also a tighter range of dates. However, it also raises the alternative possibility that we know so little about the transmission and redaction of Chrysostom’s homilies that we should be even more cautious about assigning provenance. Did Chrysostom preach sequentially, or did redactors reshape jigsaws?

26 P. Allen and W. Mayer, ‘Chrysostom and the Preaching of Homilies in Series: A New Approach’ (1994), 21-39. 27 Chrysostom refers to himself as having the rank of bishop. John Chrysostom, Hom. Col. 3 (PG 62, 324). 28 For example, Johannes Quasten, Patrology Volume III: The Golden Age of Greek Patristic Literature (Westminster MD, 1994), 448.

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Table 1: The gap or overlap between homilies in series on Acts & Epistles Gap of 2 or more verses

No gap or overlap

Overlap of 1 verse

Overlap of 2 or more verses

Homiliae in Acta Apostolorum

49

Hom. 27–28 Hom. 54–55

Hom. 11–12 Hom. 22–23 Hom. 30–31

Homiliae in epistulam ad Romanos

31

Homiliae in epistulam i ad Corinthios

42

Homiliae in epistulam ii ad Corinthios

28

Hom. 15–16

Homiliae in epistulam ad Ephesios

16

Hom. Hom. Hom. Hom. Hom.

Homiliae in epistulam ad Philippenses

12

Homiliae in epistulam ad Colossenses

11

Homiliae in epistulam i ad Thessalonicenses

8

Homiliae in epistulam ii ad Thessalonicenses

3

Homiliae in epistulam i ad Timotheum

15

Homiliae in epistulam ii ad Timotheum

8

Homiliae in epistulam ad Titum

5

Homiliae in epistulam ad Philemonem

3

Homiliae in epistulam ad Hebraeos

32

Totals Percentages

0

Gap of 1 verse

0

261 91.6%

Hom. 12–13

12–13 15–16 16–17 17–18 23–24

Hom. 8–9 Hom. 10–11

Hom. Hom. Hom. Hom.

2–3 3–4 6–7 10–11

Hom. 6–7 Hom. 7–8

Hom. 16–17

Hom. 6–7 Hom. 7–8

Hom. 12–13 11 3.9%

13 4.6%

Appealing to Antichrist: A Critical Examination of Donatist Juridical Appeals Joshua BRUCE, University of Edinburgh, UK

ABSTRACT While Augustine lampoons the insincerity of Donatist opposition to imperial authority, scholarly treatments of Donatism have generally told another story, with Tilley going so far as to argue that the Donatists identified Rome with Antichrist. This article offers certain evidence considerably more favourable to Augustine’s contention about the Donatist Church’s alleged opportunism. Specifically, it provides a critical exploration of one apparent outlier in Donatist conflict with Roman power, namely Donatist juridical appeals. These raise the following question: If the Donatists consistently saw Rome as Antichrist, why did they repeatedly ask this Antichrist to sit as judge? The tentative resolution of this question involves an examination of three judicial appeals during the fourth century (appeals lodged with Constantine, Constans, and Julian). This process poses questions about the inconsistency of the Donatist Church’s political loyalties during the fourth century, as well as raising broader issues regarding the convoluted nature of juridical relationships between Donatist leaders and imperial authorities in fourth- and fifth-century North Africa.

‘[The Donatists] take credit for being persecuted, because they are prevented from doing such things by the laws which the emperors have passed to preserve the unity of Christ.’1 With these words in his letter to the tribune Boniface, Augustine disparages the purported sincerity of the Donatists’ posture towards imperial coercion.2 According to Augustine, the Donatists claim to be persecuted, but only because they are prevented from persecuting their own enemies 1

Augustine, Ep. 185.2.8. Although there is some controversy surrounding the use of terms such as ‘Donatist’ and ‘Donatism’ to describe the dissident North African Church, for ease of reference this paper will continue to use these denominations. For a discussion of the nature of this controversy, and the contention that descriptors such as ‘Donatist’ and ‘Donatism’ were polemical monikers applied by the dissidents’ opponents, see Aaron Pelttari, ‘Donatist Self-Identity and “The Church of the Truth”’, Augustinianum 49 (2009), 359-69; see also Brent D. Shaw, Sacred Violence: African Christians and sectarian hatred in the age of Augustine (Cambridge, 2011) and Shaw’s decision to refer to the ‘Catholic-dissident controversy’ throughout that work. See also William H.C. Frend, The Donatist Church: A Movement of Protest in Roman North Africa (Oxford, 1952) (reprint: 1971; 2nd ed., 1985) and Frend’s consistent use of ‘Caecilianist’ to denote the Donatists’ opponents. 2

Studia Patristica C, 201-208. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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by imperial decrees. Statements such as this one about the Donatists’ purportedly opportunistic relationship to imperial force are generously peppered throughout Augustine’s anti-Donatist writings.3 These statements contrast sharply with more puristic assertions by the Donatists themselves, such as Donatus of Carthage’s famous taunt: ‘What has the emperor to do with the church?’4 Or the Donatist proclamation submitted at Carthage in 411: ‘Januarius and the other bishops of the catholic truth that suffers persecution but does not persecute.’5 Needless to say, Augustine remained unconvinced by these Donatist assertions. Should we be? At least since the publication of Frend’s The Donatist Church more than six decades ago, scholarly forays into Donatism have generally told a story closer to Donatist contentions and further from Augustine on this issue. Indeed, many noted scholars of Donatism (William Frend chief among them in terms of influence and chronological priority) have emphasised the Donatists’ antagonistic posture towards Roman power.6 The late Maureen Tilley provides precisely this perspective in her excellent introduction to Donatist Martyr Stories where she observes that it was the Donatist Church who revived the early Christian church’s notion of the empire as Antichrist.7 And, undeniably, there is good evidence to support such contentions. What little evidence remains from the Donatist sources certainly serves to undergird this perception of Donatist opposition to imperial power.8

3 For some of the more prominent examples of this, see inter alia Augustine, Ep. 185 cited supra; Ep. 93; Contra litteras Petiliani; and Contra Cresconium grammaticum et donatistam, all of which contain prominent allegations by Augustine in this same vein. 4 Optatus, Against the Donatists, 3.3 in Optatus, Against the Donatists, trans. and ed. Mark Edwards (Liverpool, 1997), 62. 5 Gesta Collationis Carthaginensis, iii, 258. P.L., xi, 1408; see also Frend’s discussion of this attitude of the Donatist party at the conference of 411 AD in William Frend, The Donatist Church (1952), 321. 6 Frend notes that ‘While the Caecilianists in theory and practice leant heavily on the secular arm, Donatus after A.D. 316 maintained the African Christian tradition of hostility to the world represented by the Roman authorities.’ Frend goes on to say that for Donatus, ‘The latter [the Roman authorities] could be abused at will if they interfered in the affairs of the Church’, W. Frend, The Donatist Church (1952), 165. See also Frend’s contention that, ‘The Donatists maintained African tradition on the subject of relations with the State. The separation of the Church from the outside world was a necessity. It was not merely that “the Emperor had nothing to do with the Church”, but his right to legislate for the Church could be denied’, ibid. 326. 7 Maureen A. Tilley, Donatist Martyr Stories: The Church in conflict in Roman North Africa (Liverpool, 1996), xii. 8 See certain Donatist martyr acta (especially the Martyrdom of Marculus), the Vienna Homilies, and the fragments from the Apocalypse commentary of Tyconius, all of which tend to evince this antagonistic posture towards imperial authority. For example, the author of the Martyrdom of Marculus states at the beginning of the account: ‘It is right and proper enough that the bravery of the more recent martyrs should be joined to the praise of the witnesses of old. The rage of the Gentiles who were obeying the devil chose the martyrs for the heavenly kingdom; and so the

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However, necessarily implicit in such recent interpretative trends in scholarship is the dismissal tout court of the weight of Augustine’s emphasis on the indisputable fact of the Donatists’ appeals to Rome. Accordingly, it will be the task of this article to take a fresh look at Augustine’s contentions regarding the Donatists’ appeals, raising the following question: If the Donatists singlemindedly and consistently viewed Rome as Antichrist, why did the Donatists repeatedly ask this Antichrist to sit as their judge throughout the course of the fourth century? Our tentative resolution of this question will involve first a brief examination of three of the Donatists’ juridical appeals (lodged with Constantine, Constans, and Julian). This will be followed by a discussion of Augustine’s polemical use of these appeals and the conclusions we may draw from them. The first of these Donatist appeals was raised with the emperor Constantine following the disputed election for bishop of Carthage. While the facts are well known and have been covered at much length by Frend, Tilley, and Shaw (just to mention a few) one thing is undisputed in the extant sources. This piece of evidence is that the Donatist party initiated the appeal to Constantine.9 Following Constantine’s adverse judgment against the Donatists and similarly negative adjudications by Miltiades and at the Council of Arles, the Donatist party was suppressed, with mixed results, for the next few years. Perhaps, as T.D. Barnes notes, Constantine’s attention gradually turned to the East and Licinius and he lost interest in dealing with this recalcitrant North African party.10 Over the next several decades the parties achieved, in Tilley’s phrasing, ‘a modus vivendi’ in North Africa.11 Along the way, a consensus seems to have developed that where two bishops occupied a city, the junior bishop should give way to his elder as the senior primate of that jurisdiction.12 However, this modus vivendi in North Africa was interrupted around the year 346 AD when Donatus of Carthage appealed to Constans for adjudication of this matter of seniority. As the senior bishop of Carthage, Donatus sought imperial recognition from Constans over and against Gratus.13 In response to the appeal from savagery of the traitors who were serving the Antichrist sent them to heaven’, Martyrdom of Marculus 1 (emphasis added; trans. Maureen Tilley). 9 For example, none of the ten appendices to Optatus’s Against the Donatists reflect any dispute over whether it was the Donatists or Catholics who initiated this appeal. See Optatus, Against the Donatists, trans. and ed. Mark Edwards (Liverpool, 1997), 150-201. 10 Timothy D. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge, 1981), 60. 11 M. Tilley, Donatist Martyr Stories (1996), xvi. 12 W. Frend, The Donatist Church (1952), 177. 13 W. Frend, The Donatist Church (1952), 177. Intriguingly, the appeal from Donatus came on the heels of the divisive council of Serdica of 343 AD, a council at which Donatus of Carthage was included as one of the Western recipients of the letter from Eastern/Anti-Athanasian bishops encouraging Western dissidents to hold fast against the Athanasian party then seemingly ascendant under Constans in the West. For further discussion of this, see Timothy D. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire (Cambridge MA, 1993), 71-81. While the date of Serdica has been the subject of some controversy, 343 AD seems most

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Donatus, Constans dispatched Paul and Macarius to North Africa on a purported fact-finding mission which resulted in the severe repression of the Donatist Church and the permanent exile of Donatus from his see.14 We know that North African politics in the fourth and fifth centuries were replete with alleged examples of attempts by Eastern emperors to ally themselves with North African factions in order to weaken the Western emperor’s position. However, whether Constans might have seen Donatus as a sort of subversive ‘fifth column’ allied with Constantius in the East is outside the narrow scope of this article. Instead, as with the appeal to Constantine, the significance of this appeal for our purposes is the uncontested fact that it was Donatus who brought the matter before Constans. After this period of repression and an imperial decree of unity in 348 AD, the Donatists again appealed to Roman power. This time, slightly more than a decade later, they appealed to the emperor Julian. The appeal lodged with Julian by the Donatist bishops Pontius, Rogatian, and Cassian in late 361 AD or early 362 AD sought the return of banished Donatist clergy and the restoration of Donatist basilicas that had been confiscated during the Macarian suppression of the late 340s.15 Julian’s policy with respect to Christian factions as humorously set forth by Ammianus Marcellinus inclined him to favour the Donatist appeal: it would appear that a number of Donatist basilicas which had been confiscated were returned to their prior occupants.16 If one gives any weight to Optatus, the Donatists’ return to their basilicas was accomplished with considerable violence.17 However, although temporarily successful, this appeal to Julian was to haunt the Donatists for many years. Five decades later, following Augustine’s victory likely. For a fuller discussion of this debate and the rationale for holding to a date of 343 AD, see Sara Parvis, Marcellus of Ancyra and the Lost Years of the Arian Controversy: 325-345 (Oxford, 2006), 210-17. 14 W. Frend, The Donatist Church (1952), 177. 15 W. Frend, The Donatist Church (1952), 187. 16 Ammianus Marcellinus, History 13.5 See also Optatus’s description of the Donatist appeal to Julian as follows: ‘You brought a petition to him, that you might be able to return; these prayers, if you deny making them, we can read. Nor did the one whom you asked offer a difficulty; to fulfil his own design, he bade them go, as he knew that they were going to disturb the peace with their madness. Blush, if you have any shame; freedom was restored to you by the same voice that commanded the idols’ temples to be reopened.’ Optatus, Against the Donatists, 2.16 (trans. Mark Edwards). 17 ‘It was almost at the same instant that your madness returned to Africa and the devil was released from his imprisonment. And you do not blush that you and the enemy have common joys at the same time! You came as madmen, you came in anger, mutilating the limbs of the church, subtle in deceit, ruthless in slaughter, goading the sons of peace into war. You drove many into exile from their sees, when, with hired bands, you broke into the churches; many of your number, in many places which it would take too long to tell by name, committed bloody murders so atrocious that an account of these deeds was submitted by the judges of that era.’ Optatus, Against the Donatists, 2.17 (trans. Mark Edwards).

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over the Donatists in Carthage at the conference of 411 AD, Augustine had records of this Donatist appeal to Julian publicly displayed throughout the city of Carthage.18 More could be said here. Perhaps the possibility of alliances between certain Donatists and Firmus and Gildo in the 370s and 390s could be discussed at more length. Augustine certainly alleges that the Donatists used Firmus and Gildo to repress their own dissidents in the form of the Rogatists, Maximianists and Claudianists.19 However, Shaw has made a compelling case in Sacred Violence for detaching much of what we know about the Firmus and Gildo revolts from the Donatist party.20 So, having now discussed the factual backgrounds for these Donatist appeals, let us ask the question: Why does Augustine make so much of the appeals in his polemics against the Donatists? The subject occurs repeatedly in his antiDonatist works. So often, in fact, that one might grow accustomed to reading Augustine’s refrain about Donatist appeals as little more than rhetorical flourish.21 It goes almost without saying that Augustine was an accomplished publicist and the embarrassing ‘shock value’ of such a tactic against the Donatists speaks for itself.22 Of course Augustine obviously sought to portray his opponents as opportunists and to ridicule them for what he perceived as their zealous hypocrisy. Perhaps most readers would acknowledge that Augustine was not an unbiased witness passively recording ‘the facts’. Here one need look no further than Augustine’s callous mockery of the Donatist martyrs thrown from cliffs for evidence of his own extreme partiality in these matters of controversy.23 But 18

See W. Frend, The Donatist Church (1952), 264. See Ep. 93. See also Contra litt. Petil. 1.24.26. 20 See B. Shaw, Sacred Violence (2011), 57-60. 21 See W. Frend, The Donatist Church (1952), 171 and Frend’s observation that, ‘it would be mistaken to see in the Donatism of the mid-fourth century a consciously anti-Imperial movement with political aims. The Donatists had no hesitations about appealing to Julian for the restoration of their Church. Imperial officials were numbered among their sympathisers, and one of them at least, Flavian, the Vicarius Africae in 377, was a communicant. Hostility was directed not against the Empire, but against the “world” generally, the domain ruled over by Satan, and represented by corrupt officials, oppressive landowners, “sons of traditores”.’ The distinction Frend makes between the empire and world is unclear and seems to represent an unresolved tension in his work. 22 Shaw has gone a long way in this direction by demonstrating Augustine’s effectiveness as a cagey propagandist for any not already convinced of that fact. Much of Sacred Violence turns on a highly sceptical reading of Augustine’s reliability as a source. For another example of this in Shaw’s work, see his assessment of Augustine’s interior motivations with respect to the Donatist controversy in Brent Shaw, ‘Augustine and Men of Imperial Power’, Journal of Late Antiquity 8 (2015), 32-61. Tilley had earlier and likewise advocated the application of a ‘hermeneutic of suspicion’ with respect to much of the source material for Donatism. See the introduction to Maureen A. Tilley, The Bible in Christian North Africa (Philadelphia, 1997). 23 Speaking of the Donatists’ putative martyrs, Augustine says: ‘Again, it was their daily sport to kill themselves, by throwing themselves over precipices, or into the water, or into the fire’, Aug., Ep. 185.3.12. Perhaps Augustine has in mind the death of the Donatist martyr, Marculus, at Petra Nova who was allegedly thrown from a cliff by imperial soldiers. Augustine goes on to remark in Ep. 185 that perhaps the Donatists were inspired by the devil who likewise counselled Christ 19

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can we say more about the strategy employed by Augustine in returning time and again to the issue of the Donatists own appeals to Rome? This article takes the position that we can. Augustine’s juridical experience (both prior to his conversion as well as thereafter) is well known.24 Moreover, Augustine’s experience as a legal advocate seems to have served him well during the decades of his life he spent engaged in litigation with various ecclesiastical parties (the Donatists chief among them). So it seems likely that Augustine had more in mind than simply hanging a limp albatross around his opponents’ neck. Or at the very least this article would suggest that the albatross Augustine hung around the Donatists’ neck had a robustly juridical shape and smell to it. Of course, Augustine’s own moral quandary and (gradual) change of heart over the use of imperial coercion against the Donatists has garnered significant attention since Brown and Markus took up the issue in the 1960s and has continued to elicit significant debate ever since.25 One section from Epistle 185 bears relating at length regarding Augustine’s justification for force vis-à-vis the Donatists. Augustine states: [T]hey themselves, by making it the subject of an accusation, referred the case of Caecilianus to the decision of the Emperor Constantine; and that, even after the bishops had pronounced their judgment, finding that they could not crush Caecilianus, they brought him in person before the above-named emperor for trial, in the most determined spirit of persecution. And so they were themselves the first to do what they censure in us, in order that they may deceive the unlearned, saying that Christians ought not to demand any assistance from Christian emperors against the enemies of Christ.26

While this is obviously not the place to resurrect earlier controversies regarding Augustine’s justification for coercion, it does bear noting that Augustine’s emphasis on the Donatists’ own appeals for coercive measures (such as in the passage just cited) might strike an unbiased reader as little more than an argument which might be characterised as: ‘Even if I did such and such, you started it.’ In a wide range of juridical matters, however, the defence of ‘you started it’ might carry significant juristic weight. Many defences in common law revolved to do the same. For contrasting perspectives on uniqueness and importance of the Passion of Marculus for Augustine, see Maureen Tilley, ‘African Asceticism: The Donatist Heritage’, and Bart Van Egmond, ‘Ab ipso patientia mea: Augustine’s Critique of Donatist Martyrdom and his Doctrine of Grace’, in Anthony Dupont, Matthew Alan Gaumer and Mathijs Lamberigts (eds), The Uniquely African Controversy: Studies on Donatist Christianity, Late Antique History and Religion 9 (Leuven, 2015), 127-52. 24 See Peter Brown, Augustine of Hippo: A Biography (London, 1967; rev. ed.: Berkeley and Los Angeles, 2000), 222. 25 See Peter Brown, Religion and Society in the Age of Saint Augustine (New York, 1972); see also Robert A. Markus, Saeculum: History and Society in the Theology of St. Augustine (Cambridge, 1970; 2nd ed., 1988). 26 Augustine, Ep. 185.2.6.

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around little more than this.27 The longstanding requirement in courts of equity that an initiating party have ‘clean hands’ in order to bring a claim in equity is one such example.28 Another example might be in realm of tort law where, in certain jurisdictions, a plaintiff’s action may be barred by that party’s own contributory negligence.29 Accounting for obvious differences, it does appear that Roman juridical policies travelled under certain similar principles. One analogy might be the Roman cause of action for calumnia under the Lex Remnia de calumnia in Cicero’s Republican Rome which penalised a prosecuting party who initiated a claim in bad faith; a principle likewise followed in the Codex Theodosianus. Even more directly related to our present subject, these general legal principles are reflected in the intense controversy at the Conference of Carthage over which of the two parties would be identified as the initiating party and accordingly subject to being discredited by the responding party. The Donatist party sought to position itself as the defending party and thus, as a preliminary matter, legally capable of discrediting the qualifications and conduct of Augustine’s bloc. However, this tactic was rendered ineffective by Augustine’s own juridical finesse – backed up, perhaps, by his close friendship with the presiding judge, Marcellinus.30 Thus, while it seems likely that Augustine’s strategy with respect to Donatist appeals had a more distinctively judicial flavour, what of it? What can Augustine’s contentions offer us by way of a better understanding and evaluation of the Donatists’ own attitude towards empire? One observation that must be made is that while the scattered remnants of the Donatists’ own words do confirm a rigid model of opposition to Rome, their repeated, uncontroverted appeals to Roman power seem to tell a different story. The old mantra: ‘Actions speak louder than words’ seems particularly appropriate here. Admittedly, even if the Donatists’ appeals do evince a flexible opportunism on the part of the Donatists, that does not say anything about the legitimacy (ethical or otherwise) of Augustine’s own faction of the North African church with respect to the utilisation of imperial power. That is a different question entirely. However, it might place the Donatists more securely within the broader milieu of the late antique Christian church’s ambivalent relationship with imperial authority. 27 My own background as a defence attorney in the United States and more importantly my experiences as a father of small children have taught me that the defences raised by large defendants are usually the same ones proffered by little children. And the defence that: ‘Even if I did such and such, he/she started it’ is chief among them, for large defendants and for small children. 28 For a fuller discussion of the so-called ‘clean hands doctrine’, see William J. Lawrence, ‘Application of the Clean Hands Doctrine in Damage Actions’, Notre Dame L. Rev. 57 (1982), 673. 29 See Steven Gardner, ‘Contributory Negligence, Comparative Negligence, and Stare Decisis in North Carolina’, Campbell L. Rev. 18 (1996), 1. 30 For an excellent discussion of this juridical posturing between the parties at the conference of 411, see William Frend, The Donatist Church (1952), 285-6.

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Other figures which come to mind include Athanasius, or the firebrand Ambrose who could condemn a Christian (albeit ‘Homoean’) emperor as yet another in a long line of persecutors,31 but praise another emperor if he submits to ecclesiastical discipline and repents in the mode of king David.32 Again, the late fifth-century chronicler of persecution Victor of Vita woefully bemoans the Vandal king Huniric’s persecution of Athanasian Christians in Africa, but then holds out the one positive characteristic of the Vandal king, that Huniric continued earlier attempts to persecute a common enemy: the Manichaeans.33 Examples such as these abound, and they do so outside the context of Donatist influence. Accordingly, we can say that if these observations hold true, the Donatists’ posture towards imperial power was not so uncommon in the late antique Church. Instead, it was (at best) the ambivalence or (at worst) the flexible opportunism exhibited by so many. This stance allowed one to claim the mantle of persecution but then make excuse for the exercise of imperial power if such authority became particularly favourable and/or necessary. Needless to say, this is certainly not a defence of such a posture, only a contention that it might have been an attitude shared by many, Donatist and non-Donatist alike. Perhaps this is why Augustine returned to the Donatists’ juridical appeals time and again in his response to them, to level the playing field with respect to imperial power; or at the very least to say: ‘Even if we did appeal to the emperor, you did it first.’

31

Ambrose, Sermo contra Auxentius. Ambrose, Ep. 51. 33 ‘And, to show that he was a man of religion, he decreed that the Manichaean heretics were to be sought out with painstaking care. He had many of these people burned, and he sold more of them for ships across the seas’, Victor of Vita, History of the Vandal Persecution 2.1 (trans. John Moorhead). 32

The Cognitive Value of the Disciplines in Augustine’s Mature Works Lars Fredrik JANBY, University of Oslo, Norway

ABSTRACT It is widely held that Augustine’s initial enthusiasm for the liberal arts at some point diminished significantly. The encyclopaedic project that he had engaged in at the beginning of his career as a writer was left uncompleted, and in De doctrina christiana he offers a rather tepid assessment of the study of the liberal arts. Did, however, this about-turn imply a wholesale rejection of the core ideas of his encyclopaedic writings? In this article, I discuss a selection of passages in the works written after 391 where Augustine comments upon his own encyclopaedic writings, or upon the disciplines in general. By discussing these passages and relating them to the essentials of the original encyclopaedic project in De ordine and De musica, I argue that while Augustine did point to the potential dangers incident to the liberal arts, the criticism he dealt out did not entail a complete dismissal of the cognitive value of the numerical disciplines. In this respect, I attach particular significance to the philosophy of number that had been at the heart of his encyclopaedic writings. The article submits that a close consideration of these passages will contribute to a more nuanced assessment of continuity and change in Augustine’s thought.

Introduction It is widely held by scholars that Augustine’s initial enthusiasm for the liberal arts diminished significantly in his mature works. The encyclopaedic project that he had engaged in at the beginning of his career as a writer in Cassiciacum was left uncompleted, and in De doctrina christiana he offers a rather tepid assessment of the study of the liberal arts. Did, however, this about-turn imply a wholesale rejection of the core ideas of his encyclopaedic writings? Previous scholarship has to a wide extent underscored his disillusionment with such studies, but less has been said about the fundamental insights that Augustine still appears to have kept about the cognitive value of the disciplines, and there is to my knowledge no study that has examined this topic beyond the observation that Augustine’s enthusiasm with time disappeared. Thus, the question of the extent to which Augustine in his mature oeuvre dismissed the liberal arts remains somewhat unclear in scholarship. There is no doubt that Augustine with time grew a lot more cautious about the study of the disciplines. When comparing the mature thought of Augustine

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for example in De doctrina christiana with the speculations that took place in Cassiciacum, it is reasonable to describe his development as one from the educational ideals of the classical world to scriptural studies. The turnaround should, however, not be described as abrupt, I argue. This article upholds the view that there is a recognisable change in Augustine’s thought over the years in what concerns the liberal arts, but in addition argues that his aloofness does not amount to a rejection of the original belief that the mathematical or numerical disciplines have a particular cognitive value in terms of acquiring knowledge of God. As I will argue, it can be shown that Augustine in his mature œuvre maintained views on these disciplines that he had held since his early years as a writer. By bringing up passages in the works written after 391 where Augustine comments upon the disciplines or upon his own encyclopaedic writings, and relating them to the essentials of the original encyclopaedic project in De ordine, I argue that while Augustine did point to the potential dangers incident to the liberal arts, the criticism he dealt out did not entail a complete dismissal of their cognitive value. Firstly, I give a brief account of Augustine’s outline of the liberal arts in De ordine, including the most extensive product of his encyclopaedic project, the six books of De musica, in order to establish what are the core ideas of this early enterprise. Secondly, I adduce evidence from De doctrina christiana, Epistula CI and Retractationes that I argue refute any hypothetical claim that Augustine in later years dismissed the core ideas of his encyclopaedic project. The article examines the legacy of the disciplines in Augustine’s mature thought, distinguishing between what Augustine rejected and what he maintained from the disciplines. As I will go on to show, despite discouraging anyone from taking up studies in the liberal arts, Augustine never disavowed a cognitive value of the disciplines in that they prepare the soul for knowledge of God’s invisible essence. From enthusiasm to detachment Augustine’s early encyclopaedic project was fundamentally a rationalistic enterprise with classical roots. By incorporating the liberal arts into his thought, Augustine adopted the educational ideals of the Graeco-Roman world. The classical authors all considered the liberal arts to be preparatory studies of some kind, and to Augustine the goal of the studies was philosophy, understood as contemplative insight into the oneness of being and, ultimately, the ineffable nature of God.1 In De ordine (386), Augustine gave an outline of how the study of the liberal arts could prepare the soul to contemplate the truth of God, as the 1 The question of the sources used by Augustine is contested in scholarship. But a good account of the Neoplatonic outlook of Augustine’s cycle and understanding of philosophy is given

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soul by occupying itself firstly with the language disciplines and then with the numerical (or mathematical) disciplines would remove itself from the realm of the senses, turn inwards and discover the divine origin of everything created.2 The numerical disciplines were perceived to have a particular cognitive value in this respect, as the study of their numbers led the soul to yearn for the unity of the intelligible world. The progress of study in these disciplines was described as an ascent by degrees, in which the soul used the disciplines as steps on its journey to discover the immutable truth of God. After composing De ordine, Augustine started on an encyclopaedic project which was meant to comprise all the disciplines, including a work on philosophy. The ambitiousness of this project barely has its equal in antiquity, but Augustine only managed to complete a few works before abandoning the project. De musica (387-90?) was by far the most comprehensive of the writings he managed to finish, and is preserved in all of its six books. The first five books cover the scientific knowledge of rhythm, while the sixth book, keeping with the original intent of De ordine, brings the study to its philosophical and theological conclusion, showing how the soul is led from corporeal numbers in music to the incorporeal, divine truth, in whose light the soul was able to see the truth of everything else. Thus, the first five books are written as an erudite and technical treatment of music as a discipline, while it is the sixth book that investigates how the soul proceeds or ascends from the corporeal numbers of music to the incorporeal realities of God. However, the project was soon abandoned, as Augustine’s life changed. Having until then lived as an independent intellectual, he was ordained as a presbyter in Hippo Regius in 391, and his interests and attention were from that time on directed to the study of Scripture and the concerns of the Christian faithful. And as Augustine started to immerse himself in the study of Scripture and the responsibilities of his new life, the educational ideals of the classical world were soon left behind, replaced by a certain aloofness with regard to his earlier encyclopaedic interests. The diminished status of the liberal arts is perhaps nowhere better assessed than in De doctrina christiana (396/7–426/7).3 Augustine’s principal concern in De doctrina christiana is the interpretation and teaching of Scripture, and he considers the utility of all branches of learning and knowledge from this perspective. And as the reading and interpretation of Scripture became the yardstick for what knowledge should be acquired, anything that did not contribute by Ilsetraut Hadot, Arts libéraux et philosophie dans la pensée antique: Contribution à l’histoire de l’éducation et de la culture dans l’antiquité, 2nd ed. (Paris, 2005), 101-36. 2 Augustine, De ordine, ed. William M. Green, CChr.SL 29 (Turnhout, 1970), II, 7, 24-19, 51. 3 For more recent readings of Doctr. chr. and the pagan classical heritage, see Karla Pollmann, Doctrina Christiana: Untersuchungen zu den Anfängen der christlichen Hermeneutik unter besonderer Berücksichtigung von Augustinus, De doctrina christiana (Fribourg, 1996), 192-5.

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to that end would have to be excluded as vain and superfluous. For this reason, he applies a strictly utilitarian view to the acquisition of the liberal arts. While the liberal arts could still have an ancillary function, they no longer prepared for philosophy, but for the reading of Scripture. What appeared as a canon of liberal arts with a strict, coherent unity in De ordine was here treated on a level with other branches of knowledge such as history, geography, geology and botany. The systematic use of the disciplines as a preparation for the knowledge of immutable numbers is irrelevant to the concerns of Augustine in De doctrina christiana, and the idea that preliminary studies in a cycle of disciplines would aid the soul’s journey to God is absent. Cautions and continuities Having now given an account of how Augustine, with time, developed a measured opinion of the educational ideals of the classical world, I will examine in detail a selection of texts that more closely document his mature position on the disciplines. I argue that evidence from his later writings shows that Augustine’s disillusionment was not tantamount to a rejection of their cognitive value. While there certainly are passages in which Augustine makes scathing remarks on aspects of the disciplines, the task here is to extract what he still could maintain from their insights. 1) De doctrina christiana Although De doctrina christiana often is said to signal Augustine’s break with the educational ideals of the classical world, there is a section of that very same work which manifestly shows that Augustine continued to hold the knowledge of numbers in esteem for their cognitive value. For, while the idea that a unified body of disciplines would lead the soul to the insights of philosophy had undoubtedly been overshadowed by more pressing concerns in De doctrina christiana, the long review of disciplines near the end of Book II tells us that Augustine did not disparage them.4 Here, Augustine draws a distinction between the disciplines which are instituted by man and those which are divinely instituted. In the last place among the latter, Augustine accounts for what he calls ‘the discipline of number’ (numeri disciplina), which from its description essentially corresponds to the mathematical disciplines from De ordine.5 Numbers are here treated by Augustine as a privileged field of knowledge, as the discipline has a cognitive value that facilitates understanding of the 4

Augustine, De doctrina christiana, ed. Joseph Martin, CChr.SL 32 (Turnhout, 1962), II, 19, 29-38, 56. 5 Doctr. chr. II, 38, 56.

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immutable. Fundamental to this privileged status is the numbers’ a priori existence, which is demonstrated by the fact that they were not invented by man, but discovered. Even simple arithmetical propositions demonstrate their immutable nature, since numbers can be shown to follow immutable laws. For this reason, the discipline of numbers cannot be of human origin, but must be divinely instituted. The utility of this discipline is that the knowledge that can be drawn from it is perceived to be useful for acquiring cognition of God, the creator of numbers. They have the ability to turn the soul to recognition and praise of their creator – to the cause on which everything created depends. As in De ordine, it is the immutable nature of numbers that refers the soul to their divine provenance, as the truth of this discipline does not undergo change in time. By this reasoning, the cognitive value of the numerical discipline is continued in Augustine’s thought. Evidence from De doctrina christiana therefore shows that Augustine now found the curriculum of the liberal arts irrelevant for his purposes, while still accepting that knowledge of numerical relationships could be used to acquire cognition of God. Fundamental tenets from the encyclopaedic project existed side by side with the new paradigm for studies of Scripture. 2) Epistula CI Augustine’s continued belief in the cognitive value of the numerical disciplines can furthermore be demonstrated from his reviews of De musica in a couple of later texts. Epistula CI (408) is the first of these, and constitutes the longest coherent argument on the liberal arts in Augustine’s mature œuvre. The letter was occasioned by an inquiry from Memorius, a bishop in Campania, who had requested a copy of De musica for the instruction of his son, Julian. The cultural horizon of Memorius was evidently one still influenced by the educational ideals of the classical world, and the reply that Augustine wrote to him reveals his reluctant attitude to the liberal arts, continuing the new mindset from De doctrina christiana. Augustine’s reluctance to engage with such studies is in the main motivated by the pride associated with the liberal arts.6 It is the alleged ‘freedom’ of the liberal arts that Augustine disputes, countering this classical ideal by referring to John 8:36, according to which the human being only can be freed by Christ. His target is those who boast of their secular learning, thus forgetting to praise God, the Creator, for what they have. This is a well-known set piece in Augustine’s polemic against secular learning, and had been repeated since De doctrina christiana. He openly berates those who take pride in their learning, who are inflated by their knowledge of this world. Their professed erudition makes them 6

Augustine, Epistulae, ed. Klaus-Detlef Daur, CChr.SL 31B (Turnhout, 2009), 101, 2.

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into fools, as they are bound to perish in their self-sufficiency if they do not follow the humility of Christ, failing to honour God. However, despite the emphatic warnings given of the dangers that are incident to these studies, Augustine in fact ends the letter by consenting to send Book VI of De musica to Memorius.7 The choice only to send Book VI rests on the all-important distinction between Books I-V and VI that is inherent to the structure of the work. As mentioned above, Book VI is the book that brings the scientific preliminaries to their philosophical and theological goal. This distinction is reflected in Epistula CI, where the distinction coincides both with what he could not accept from his writings of the liberal arts and with what he could accept. It is for that reason that Augustine in Epistula CI makes the comment that Book VI is the ‘fruit’ of the work. The first five books, on the other hand, are dismissed outright. Together with the approval of De musica Book VI comes the concession of the cognitive value immanent to the study of numbers.8 For while the letter predominantly points out the dangers associated with the liberal arts, Augustine still maintains that the study of numbers helps the soul to acquire cognition of the immutable truth. Augustine acknowledges that the disciplines are helpful in leading the mind from the corporeal world to the incorporeal truth, described in a lofty phrase as ‘the highest secrets of truth’. In all its brevity, this understanding of the study progress is fully consonant with anything Augustine would have written in his early period on the purpose of the liberal arts. This assertion of the soundness of its contents and the decision to send the book to Memorius tell us that the insights of De musica Book VI were still upheld by Augustine as late as 408. By contrast, Books I-V are plainly rejected: they are said to be about puerile matters that are not worth knowing, while the same letter shows that Book VI continued to be held in esteem. Admittedly, Epistula CI predominantly contains warnings of the dangers inherent in the liberal arts. Augustine’s alertness to such risks, did however not deprive him of previously-held beliefs on the immutable truth which reason could lead to. De musica Book VI was the book he approved, as that book explores the soul’s relation to numbers, ignoring the laborious five first books. 3) Retractationes This positive assessment of De musica and of the utility of the disciplines is not restricted to Epistula CI and the circumstances around the request of Memorius, as it can be shown to be a lasting conviction in Augustine’s mature thought. It was more or less reiterated in Retractationes (426/7) and the review therein of De musica, thus at the very end of Augustine’s career as a writer. 7 8

Ep. 101, 4. Ep. 101, 3.

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In Retractationes, a distinction is once more made between Books I-V and Book VI, as the first five books are completely bypassed, while Book VI is said to be about ‘a comely issue’.9 The plan of the book is furthermore summarised as a progression from the mutable to the immutable numbers, following the gradual discovery of the immutable truth from the corporeal to the incorporeal numbers. The movement through mutable to immutable numbers is also interpreted by means of Romans 1:20, as bringing knowledge of God through his works. Adopting this verse, Augustine explains that the human being is able to see God’s invisible essence through his creation, since traces lead the soul from the mutable to the immutable, from the created works to the Creator. Augustine’s review of De musica in Retractationes shows us that while he evidently did not attribute any importance at all to the first five books, he approved of the principal outline of Book VI even in his late years. Again, a distinction is made between the scientific studies and the philosophy of number. The preliminary studies are safely passed over, while the philosophical tenets are maintained. We can recognise this as the same distinction that had been there from the very beginning of Augustine’s encyclopaedic project, and had been given a clear demarcation in De musica in the gap between Book V and VI. Consequently, the ascent by degrees through the mutable to the immutable numbers was far from completely rejected in the Retractationes. This work upholds the positive assessment of De musica Book VI from Epistula CI, as there is nothing in its review that questions the fundamental insights of that book. On the contrary, it was given emphatic support by means of a theological basis in Romans 1:20. The review in Retractationes thus shows that the ascent from the mutable to the immutable numbers was still held in regard by Augustine in his mature œuvre. As in Epistula CI, moreover, Augustine is careful to note that this kind of knowledge is worthless without Christ, the mediator. While approving of the cognitive value of the ascent by degrees, Augustine needed to emphasise that there is no beatitude if one does not have Christ. Conclusion This paper has examined the extent to which Augustine in his mature thought dismissed the purpose he once attributed to the numerical disciplines: the ability to prepare the soul for acquiring cognition of God. On the one hand, Augustine in his mature years never saw the liberal arts as normative for the Christian believer, and continuously warned against the danger of becoming inflated by worldly knowledge. If one is filled with pride by erudition, one does not follow the humility of Christ, the true mediator between the human being and God. Such cautiousness was never really apparent in the Cassiciacum works. 9

Augustine, Retractationes, ed. Almut Mutzenbacher, CChr.SL 57 (Turnhout, 1984), I, 11, 1.

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On the other hand, evidence from the mature works shows that Augustine never disavowed the cognitive value of the number-based disciplines, which had a privileged position already in Cassiciacum. While De doctrina christiana does away with the cycle of disciplines as a necessary preparation for understanding God, the work does, however, contain concessions to the numerical disciplines. Augustine repudiated the classical prestige of the liberal arts, but continued to hold the numerical disciplines to be at the service of the truth. It is a similar point that is repeated in both Epistula CI and Retractationes, where he re-affirms the cognitive value of the numerical disciplines, while at the same time showing himself more cautious about encouraging studies in the liberal arts than had been the case in Cassiciacum. De musica is a valuable case in this respect, as Augustine’s comments on this work reveal his mature position. Both in Epistula CI and Retractationes Augustine distinguishes between the work’s first five books and the sixth, dismissing the relevance of the former and maintaining the validity of the latter. Augustine substantially maintains in both Epistula CI and Retractationes the main tenets of his encyclopaedic project, affirming that the study of numbers habituates the soul into contemplating immutable truths. The scientific studies were in this respect now seen as superfluous, while the philosophical tenets were preserved. The evidence from later works therefore shows that Augustine continued to hold De musica Book VI and the arrival at immutable numbers in esteem to the very end despite his relinquishment of the project.

Augustine on Faith and Evidence Gregory R.P. STACEY, Trinity College, Oxford, UK

ABSTRACT Augustine’s frequent use of the Old Latin (mis)translation of Isaiah 7:9 (‘Unless you believe, you will not understand’) secured, partly via its quotation by Anselm of Canterbury, its status as a classic formulation of the epistemological foundations of Christian theology. This maxim of Augustine, together with his rejection of Academic Scepticism, is frequently invoked by modern theologians and philosophers of religion in their expositions of the relationship between ‘faith’ and ‘reason’. However, there is no consensus as to the precise nature of Augustine’s characterisation of this relationship. In particular, Augustine is invoked by the defenders of ‘Reformed epistemology’, a position which seeks to show that Christian belief in propositions and authorities can be rational without there being non-circular ‘evidence’ for the truth of these propositions or the reliability of said authorities. Yet other commentators, some of whom oppose ‘Reformed epistemology’, give the impression that Augustine is in fact an ‘evidentialist’, who appeals to evidence which should be acceptable to non-believers (e.g. miracles, the miraculous growth of the Church etc.) to show the credibility of the Church and its documents as trustworthy religious authorities. This article aims to evaluate Augustine’s own position, and to argue that although Augustine makes some ambiguous statements on this matter, it is possible to give a persuasive reading of Augustine which does not render him an ‘evidentialist’.

The first quaestio of Peter Abelard’s Sic et Non Sic (c. 1120 CE), a twelfthcentury text uncovering apparent contradictions in the thoughts of the Fathers, runs as follows: “Quod fides humanis rationibus non sit adstruenda et contra”. Given his academic context and wider interests, Abelard was likely to be concerned with two questions. The first question is whether to be rational in their faith Christians must be able to offer logically/metaphysically coherent accounts of religious propositions they believe. The second issue is whether, in order to rationally commit to believing the testimony of religious authorities, a believer must be able to give reasons for the trustworthiness of the authority which (rather than, say, simply appealing again to the testimony of an authority) should be intellectually acceptable to a sceptic. This second question which Abelard raises here is of interest to contemporary theologians for two reasons. Firstly, since the work of Alvin Plantinga, Nicholas Wolterstorff and William Alston, contemporary philosophes of religion have disputed this

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issue.1 On the one hand, ‘Reformed epistemologists’ such as Plantinga and Alston claim that all systems of thought take some ‘basic’ propositions or belief-forming procedures as axiomatic (which almost everyone holds without reflection, e.g. the existence of other minds, the ordinary reliability of sense perception) without being able to refute the claims of sceptics. Likewise, as ‘Reformed epistemologists’ claim, Christians might rationally2 base their religious sets of beliefs on basic beliefs or authorities unacceptable to sceptics. I shall term this the ‘Reformed’ position, whilst acknowledging that it may be adopted by Catholics, Orthodox and other non-Reformed Christians. Other philosophers, however, have alleged that there are problems with such a position, notably that it might allow absurd systems of belief (e.g. in the rising of the Great Pumpkin) to count as rational. They typically hold that in order for religious beliefs to be justified, religious believers must have at least some evidence either directly for the propositions believed, or else for the reliability3 of ‘authorities’ which teach these propositions. Following Plantinga, I shall term this position evidentialist, while acknowledging that not all ‘evidentialists’ need hold to the famous maxim of W.K. Clifford that ‘it is always and everywhere wrong to believe upon insufficient evidence’.4 Secondly, however, Abelard’s question in Sic et Non Sic may be of some interest to Patristic scholars. This is because Abelard quotes (without offering a resolution) several Patristic theologians as seemingly contradicting themselves on this matter. The most influential figure in Christian theologian whom Abelard cites is Augustine, who is quoted as saying both “Propheta dicit: Nisi credideritis, non intelligetis” (De Fid Sym ad Pap. Laur.) and “Petite orando, quaerite disputando, pulsate rogando” (De Misericordia). In Abelard’s view, then, there is a prima facie ambiguity to Augustine’s treatment of the relationship between faith and reason, and so the analysis of tensions within Augustine’s thought on this matter may be salutary with a view to clarifying his position. Modern scholars (often, philosophical theologians) who discuss Augustine’s model of faith and reason are likewise divided as to whether Augustine espouses an ‘evidentialist’ or ‘Reformed’ position. On the one hand, J.T. Lamont writes that, ‘If we were to ask Augustine why it is that faith is certain, it is unlikely that he would enumerate any of the signs [i.e. miracles, fulfilled prophecies, the growth of the Church, etc.] found in his Letter 137’.5 In the view of Lamont

1 See in particular A. Plantinga and N. Wolterstorff (eds), Faith and Rationality: Reason and Belief in God (Notre Dame, 1983); W. Alston, Perceiving God: The Epistemology of Religious Experience (Ithaca, 1991); A. Plantinga, Warranted Christian Belief (Oxford, 2000). 2 ‘Reformed epistemologists’ typically argue that basic Christian beliefs can meet both ‘internalist’ and ‘externalist’ conditions for epistemic justification. 3 I.e. the reliability at imparting true information. 4 W.K. Clifford, ‘The Ethics of Belief’, Contemporary Review 29 (1877), 295. 5 J.T. Lamont, Divine Faith (Ashford, 2004).

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and other authors such as Dewey Hoitenga6 and Paul MacDonald,7 Augustine, with his famous slogan derived from the (mis)translation of Isaiah 7:9 ‘unless you believe, you shall not understand’ did not require evidence of the reliability of the Church’s teaching/Scripture for Christian belief to be rational. However, Norman Kretzmann’s article ‘Faith seeks, understanding finds – Augustine’s charter for Christian philosophy’8 presents Augustine’s religious epistemology as practically that of a modern ‘evidentialist’ philosopher of religion. Further commentators who hold that Augustine’s position is evidentialist include Avery Dulles, Ronald Nash, Etienne Gilson and Louis Pojman.9 In this article I aim to evaluate Augustine’s religious epistemology in more detail, with the aim of resolving the debate about his ‘evidentialism’. I should first raise two caveats, however. Firstly, it is clear that Augustine’s position need not be simply either Reformed or evidentialist, for two reasons. Firstly, many contemporary Christian philosophers hold that whilst it is acceptable and rational for Christians to believe in the absence of evidence for the propositions or authorities which they credit, some (such as William Lane Craig, and even Plantinga and Alston themselves) hold that there is in fact evidence acceptable to non-believers which supports Christianity. Secondly, Augustine is famously not a systematic thinker, whose views evolved over time on a number of issues. Particularly, therefore, since Augustine does not consider the issue which I am raising explicitly, his writings may contain strands of thought favouring the ‘evidentialist’ and ‘Reformed’ positions alike. In this case, one may be tempted to consider the question which I am aiming to answer anachronistic and hence inappropriate. Admittedly, Augustine lacked some of the conceptual resources developed by twentieth-century philosophy (e.g. the language of ‘basic’ and ‘warranted’ beliefs, ‘properly functioning’ cognitive mechanisms etc.) to discuss this issue. However, as I shall illustrate below, Augustine did discuss at length the issue of faith and reason, which provides some hope to the prospective inquirer that he may have an affinity with some modern position. Indeed, this task may help with the task of offering an intellectual appraisal of Augustine’s work, which is fitting giving his self-confessed willingness to have his personal opinions criticised. I shall start my exploration of Augustine’s religious epistemology with a brief exploration of what ‘faith’ (fides) and ‘believing’ (credere) means for Augustine 6 D. Hoitenga, Faith and Reason from Plato to Plantinga: An Introduction to Reformed Epistemology (Albany, 1991). 7 P. MacDonald, ‘Augustine and Aquinas on Faith and Reason’, in P. Cary (ed.), Augustine and Philosophy (Lanham, 2010). 8 N. Kretzmann, ‘Faith Seeks, Understanding Finds – Augustine’s Charter for Christian Philosophy’, in T. Flint (ed.), Christian Philosophy (Notre Dame, 1990), 1-36. 9 A. Dulles, The Assurance of Things Hoped For: A Theology of Christian Faith (Oxford, 1993), 26; R. Nash, The Light of the Mind: Augustine’s Theory of Knowledge (Lexington, 1969), 30; E. Gilson, The Christian Philosophy of St. Augustine (London, 1961), 30; L. Pojman, Religion Belief and the Will (London, 1986).

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and the epistemological status/role which he accords it. Eugene TeSelle10 notes three meanings of ‘faith’ for Augustine. Firstly, he sometimes just uses credere to mean propositional assent. He can also talk of faith as non-propositional trust in someone (e.g. fides in Deum), meaning ‘personal adherence to God or movement towards God’. Most importantly for what follows, however, he uses the word to mean propositional belief which rests on the deliverances of an external authority, since the object of belief is not immediately present. In this regard, Augustine draws a strong contrast between ‘knowledge’, and ‘belief in things unseen’ (see Heb. 11:1). Although in his writings against the Academics Augustine fails to defend the reliability of sense perception, elsewhere he seems to restrict knowledge to immediate (ideally, visual) sense-perception, and analogously the ‘spiritual’ vision of remembered or imaginary objects and the ‘intellectual’ vision of introspection and the divine ideas which God somehow makes present to the soul in the process of ‘illumination’. Augustine’s rejection of ‘knowledge by testimony’ may appear strange to modern philosophers, but makes better sense within the wider context of his thought. Firstly, Augustine was influenced by scepticism, and wanted knowledge to be something immediate and incapable of doubt.11 Secondly, he was famously driven by a desire for intimate personal knowledge of God which he came to believe would be achieved in the beatific vision. Anything less than immediate contact with an object of cognition would be seen by Augustine as substandard both epistemically and affectively. Belief, however, stands in an organic as well as a conceptual relation to reason for Augustine, as is well known from the account given throughout his work, perhaps most famously in Book IV of De Trinitate (see also the prologue to that same work). In his view, ‘intellectual vision’ (sapientia) of the divine ideas is rendered very difficult by the affection for corporeal sensation present in our fallen nature. God, however, through miracles in salvation history, and particularly the Incarnation and sacraments which offer signs of Christ’s presence in our midst, has resolved to stir up, by the mediation of our (fallen) affection for physical wonders, an affection for God as loving saviour. In turn, this should lead to our conversion and pursuit of spiritual discipline, eventually resulting in an ability to discipline our affections for sense perception an ability to concentrate on our ‘internal’ teacher, Christ, who shows us the divine rationes.12 There is a sense, then, in which faith precedes reason for Augustine. However, supporters of an ‘evidentialist’ reading of Augustine note that he is quite 10 E. TeSelle, ‘Faith’, in A. Fitzgerald and J.C. Cavadini (eds), Augustine Through the Ages: An Encyclopedia (Grand Rapids, 1999). 11 See Conf. 6.4.6. 12 For more on the redemptive transformation of human knowledge by faith, see J.P. Kenney, ‘Faith and Reason’, in D.V. Meconi and E. Stump (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Augustine, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 2014), 275-91.

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explicit that there are ways in which reason precedes faith. Firstly, one can only believe in propositions which one understands.13 Moreover, as Kretzmann argues,14 Augustine seems to maintain that reason is prior to faith when it comes to deciding which of competing authorities to trust. In De vera religione XXIV, Augustine writes, ‘Authority demands faith, and prepares a person for reason. Reason leads to understanding and knowledge. Reason does not entirely desert authority, however, when we consider who is to be believed.’ Augustine then proceeds to explain that reason first shows that a religious authority teaching monotheism is prima facie preferable to a polytheistic authority since polytheists often admit that there is really one governing God, and since mathematics itself starts with the number ‘one’. Augustine further argues that where there is disagreement between monotheistic cults, preference is to be given to those lent credibility by miracles and (in their absence, perhaps even more powerfully) those cults which have achieved great popularity in their preaching of the founding miracles. Augustine again mentions these ‘motives of credibility’ in De Fide in Rerum Invisibilium 5 when faced with a demand for visible ‘proof’ of the divine origin of the Church and its teaching analogous to the assurances of the invisible goodwill of a friend vouchsafed in his loving actions, and again in De Utilitate Credendi (e.g. 31-4), when Augustine appeals to the universal nature and rapid growth of the Church as evidence that its teaching ought to be preferred to that of heretical groups such as the Manichees. On the basis of this evidence, several scholars mentioned above have concluded that Augustine is some sort of ‘evidentialist’ about religious beliefs, at least in the face of ‘peer disagreement’. There are, however, several difficulties with a purely ‘evidentialist’ reading of Augustine. Firstly, Augustine teaches that the teaching of Scripture (as interpreted by the Church) is to be accorded complete certainty (i.e. a credence of ‘1’), and rational tenacity (that is, it is to be believed even in the face of counter-evidence). Augustine makes this clear when, in various places (e.g. Ep. 147.4), he makes it clear that although faith does not count as knowledge, the teaching of Scripture is to be ‘unreservedly believed’ with the same certainty and firmness with which propositions known on the basis of immediate sense perception or ‘mental vision’ are to be believed. Regarding the rational tenacity of faith, Hoitenga15 also notes Augustine’s avowal never to depart from the teachings of Scripture (see the end of Contra Academicos16) and his preference of the Church’s teaching to all other human authorities.17 13

E.g. Sermo XLIII vii, 9. N. Kretzmann, Faith Seeks (1990). 15 D. Hoitenga, Faith and Reason (1991), 141. 16 ‘I, however, am resolved in nothing whatsoever to depart from the authority of Christ’. 17 ‘The expression ‘City of God’ which I have been using is justified by that Scripture whose divine authority puts it above the literature of all other people and brings under its sway every type of human genius’ (De Civ. XI,1). 14

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Admittedly, Augustine’s attitude to defeaters for the Christian faith is more complex than Hoitinga suggests. Sometimes, Augustine seems to grant that if a very strong defeater can be found for Catholic Christianity, then it may have to be rejected in favour of another creed. In Contra Epistulam Manichaei Quam Vocant Fundamenti IV, for example, he admits that ‘if the truth is so clearly proved as to leave no possibility of doubt, it must be set before all the things that keep me in the Catholic Church’ [i.e. motives of credibility]. Similarly, in De Vera Religione XXIV, the assent to be accorded to a religion on the basis of the motives of credibility is apparently provisional. On the other hand, Augustine sometimes seems to contrast unfavourably the changeable and complex evaluation of arguments indulged in by his opponents with the simple belief of Catholics which renders them ‘completely secure’ in their faith.18 In the first chapter of Contra Faustum, Augustine writes of less educated Christians, ‘even those who are so deficient in faith as to be unable to reply to all your sophisms, are wise enough at least to know that they must not have anything at all to do with you’. He then states not that his purpose in the book is to remove obstacles to rational belief, but rather to write in order ‘that Christians may learn something from your refutation, and that the less advanced may learn to avoid you’ [i.e. by understanding that Manicheanism is opposed to Christianity, even if they can’t follow Augustine’s arguments in full]. Taken together, these statements seem to imply that, prior to their understanding of a sound rebuttal of Manichean claims, those aware that Faustus is opposing the Catholic faith can ‘know’ that his teaching is false. Perhaps the end of Ep. 102 (Ch. 38) gives a more rounded picture of Augustine’s attitude to defeaters for Christianity, wherein Augustine grants that although it is rational for an inquirer into Christianity to have some basic defeaters addressed (e.g. the question of the time taken for Christ’s appearance), given the importance of belief it is unreasonable to withhold faith even in the face of every apparently insoluble puzzle or intellectual worry. Augustine seems to hold here that one’s intellectual situation will likely be improved by faith (see above, and De Util. Cred. 13), but that it is possible that some difficulties will remain for mature Christians. At any rate, it is clear that Augustine accords a high degree of (normative) rational tenacity to Christian belief. It is possible that this is due to the weight of evidence in favour of the Church’s testimony, which is stronger than most potential defeaters. However, it is also possible that Augustine might on reflection regard trust in the authority of the Church as a basic belief/beliefproducing mechanism held/used with such warrant that it acts as what Plantinga terms an ‘intrinsic defeater-defeater’ against objections to faith. As modern Catholic philosophers have noted concerning the certainty of faith, it is difficult for the Church’s teachings to be believed with very high levels of certainty and rational tenacity on the basis of ‘evidence’ for the Church’s 18

Answer to the Letter of Mani 1.

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authority because this ‘evidence’ is often merely probable in force, and faces not only extant but potential countervailing evidence. Lamont19 uses this to suggest that Augustine could not have accepted ‘evidentialism’ and the certainty of faith on pain of irrationality. If Augustine does espouse evidentialism, then (which, as I have defined, is merely the position that some evidence acceptable to sceptics must be forthcoming if religious belief is to be rational), his position will be liable to severe criticism if it maintains that propositions ought only to be accorded the levels of certainty and ‘rational tenacity’ corresponding to the weight evidence in their favour/in favour of the reliability of an authority teaching them. This is a fortiori true, since Augustine himself recognises that human testimony can be deceptive,20 and even that God can allow humans to be deceived by false prophets and signs.21 Indeed, in De Fide in Rerum Invisibilium 2-3, Augustine explicitly notes regarding the goodwill of friends (an example he is using to discuss the rationality of religious faith) that one can place a very high degree of trust in friends even before they have had their loyalty proved by times of trial. If, then, Augustine is to be regarded as an evidentialist, then his thought would be best characterised as similar to modern philosophers of religion who hold that in situations where we have a moral or practical obligation to believe with a high degree of firmness and constancy, our credence in propositions can exceed the level which the evidence for the proposition warrants by itself.22 However, there are also clear indications that Augustine does not even hold to this weakly evidentialist position, since Augustine sometimes recommends faith in the absence of evidence. Instead, it is love for a testifier that induces belief in their testimony and their own faithfulness as a testifier.23 In Confessions X.3, for example, Augustine notes that his audience have no means of verifying the account of his life, and indeed, he makes no mention of evidence which will indicate his truthfulness: rather, he appeals to the reader’s charity for Augustine as a fellow believer. Similarly, Augustine often raises in defence of religious belief the analogous example of belief in one’s parentage.24 He notes that this belief falsifiable, yet in defending its propriety appeals to one’s ethical duty to love one’s parents rather than any evidence on the matter which may be forthcoming. From this perspective, it is also possible to read some of Augustine’s appeals to ‘motives of credibility’ as aimed more at the heart than 19

Lamont, Divine Faith (2004). See, for example De Fid. in Rer. Invis. 3. 21 De grat. et lib. arb. 41-3. 22 See, for example, Patrick Lee, ‘Evidentialism, Plantinga, and the Rationality of Religious Belief’, in L. Zagzebski (ed.), Rational Faith: Catholic Responses to Reformed Epistemology (Notre Dame, 1993), 140-67. 23 For Augustine on the importance of charity for belief’s rationality, see Cf. De Util. 26, De fid. in rer. inv. 2-5, De lib. arb., Ep. 147.5, Conf. VI.5. 24 E.g. Conf. VI.5. 20

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the head. When, for example, explaining his motives for belief in Contra Epist. Mani. 4, Augustine refers to the Church’s ‘authority, inaugurated by miracles, nourished by hope, enlarged by love, established by age’. Whilst it is possible to read this passage as simply another instance of Augustine pointing to ‘evidence’ of the Church’s divine trustworthiness – for which, see Confessions VI.5 – the reference to hope and love perhaps suggests that it is not merely a cognitive attraction to the authority of the Church which holds fast his faith. This reading might be confirmed by noting that Augustine goes on to talk of the Catholicity of the Church as a reason to accept her teaching, which he also cites in De Utilitate Credendi. One explanation of Augustine’s appeal to the age and catholicity of the Church’s teaching and scriptures is that Augustine thinks that arguments persuasive to many people are likely to contain the truth. However, it is also possible that Augustine is here presenting the Church as an institution in line with the preference for traditional religion in the ancient world, and evoking a suspicion of localised cults thought to be at variance with more widespread religious practice. Moreover, as MacDonald has argued,25 there is actually a case against an evidentialist reading of Augustine. Firstly, it may be noted that there is an important sense in which almost all ‘understanding’ is really based on testimony accepted without evidence for Augustine, because of his account of divine illumination. Without descending to contested details of his epistemology, recall that Augustine believes that there are certain objects/properties (the ‘divine ideas’) accessible to humans only because Christ, the ‘teacher within’ somehow causes contact between the mind/its ‘eye’ and these objects.26 Augustine holds this view for two main reasons. Firstly, since he rejects Aristotelian accounts of ‘abstraction’, Augustine needs an account explaining the contact between the human mind and the divine ideas. Secondly, as Augustine explains in De Magistro, illumination can be invoked to explain the knowledge of universal concepts which can be passed on between humans by ostention. For example, a teacher can ‘show’ a child the answer to a problem in arithmetic, or demonstrate the action specified by a verb. Sounding rather post-modern, Augustine wonders how teachers can communicate knowledge of precisely the desired universals by pointing at complex, concrete objects, and suggests that God himself is responsible for matching up the object of ‘intellectual’ vision intended by the teacher and gained by the student. As R. Nash notes,27 this means that, for Augustine, illumination is required for almost all knowledge, both that of the divine ideas (sapientia) 25

MacDonald, ‘The Epistemology of Faith’ (2010), 177. For a more detailed exposition of what follows, see Nash, Light of the Mind, and G. Matthews, ‘Divine Illumination’, in N. Kretzmann and E. Stump (eds), Cambridge Companion to Augustine (Cambridge, 2001). 27 Nash, Light of the Mind (1969), 92. 26

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and the comparison of remembered objects with these ideas (scientia). Yet Augustine has no way of telling, in particular, that God does not allow very widespread deception in ordinary matters since, indeed, he recognises that God can legitimately allow deception of sinful humans as punishment. Indeed, the testimonial nature of illumination is an even more direct foundation of religious belief than MacDonald notes. For Augustine observes in several places28 that the driving force behind his quest for religious truth is conscience, which gives a conviction that God exists, is providential, and ought to be sought. As M. Clark has noted,29 Augustine views conscience as a form of divine illumination, and expressly uses testimonial language to describe it. Given the above, it seems that Augustine should think it quite acceptable to accept divine testimony in a basic way, and so it is difficult to see why the other sorts of allegedly divine testimony (e.g. the Church’s teaching) should not be similarly accepted. Another strong argument against Augustine making ‘evidence’ the basis of faith is that that it is incompatible with his mature theory of grace. The worry is that if Christian faith is typically arrived at by consideration of the ‘evidence’ in favour of the divine inspiration of the Church/Scripture, then an ‘ascent’ to faith will be possible merely by the exercise of normal human mental capacities. Plausibly, this is incompatible with Augustine’s insistence (at least, after 396 AD) on the necessity for faith (and the love which should follow it) of God’s grace given ante praevisa merita. Pursuing this line of thought, MacDonald30 is able to note that Augustine states in various places that external signs do not always yield faith. In particular, however, he cites De Praed. Sanctorum 8.1.5, which states that external signs are actually insufficient to produce belief, which can only be gained by some sort of inner illumination: converts ‘hear of the Father within, and learn’. What, however, is the relationship between such inner divine testimony and evidence for Augustine? One might allege that Augustine could still maintain that evaluating evidence is a necessary (if insufficient) part of coming to faith rationally. Yet this has little textual support. When Augustine asserts that exterior presentation of the truth is insufficient to move people to faith in the text above, he makes no reference to an ability that they possess to independently evaluate testimony regarding the truth of Christianity. Might, however, Augustine be thinking in De Praed. Sanctorum, that Christ, the ‘teacher within’ enables a believer to properly interpret the motives of credibility and their proper evidential force? There are reasons to reject this 28

See De Utilitate Credendi 34, ‘For, if the Providence of God preside not over human affairs, we have no need to busy ourselves about religion. But if both the outward form of all things, which we must believe assuredly flows from some fountain of truest beauty, and some, I know not what, inward conscience exhorts, as it were, in public and in private, all the better order of minds to seek God, and to serve God; we must not give up all hope that the same God Himself has appointed some authority, whereon, resting as on a sure step, we may be lifted up unto God.’ 29 Mary T. Clark, ‘Augustine on Conscience’, in SP 33 (1995), 63-67, 64. 30 P. MacDonald, ‘The Epistemology of Faith’ (2010), 176.

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position. For a start, this would somewhat weaken Augustine’s case against the Pelagians that belief is a matter of special grace rather than the natural assistance that God renders to humans. Further, in his earlier works, before Augustine began to affirm that ‘external’ helps were insufficient to induce belief, he actively contrasts ‘external’ and ‘internal’ summons to believe (see Ad Simpl. 2 ‘being moved to faith by some internal or external admonition’, and De Spiritu 60, ‘[God acts] either externally by evangelical exhortations … or internally’) rather than suggesting that outward presentation of the faith is accompanied by an inner ‘illumination’.31 As J. Patout Burns notes,32 however, Augustine’s position in De Praed. Sanctorum and other works following De gratia Christiana is actually a development of and departure from his previous views on the subject, even after 396. In what Eric Jenkins33 characterises as the ‘middle period’ of Augustine’s thought on grace and free will, in both his letter to Simplician in 396, and De Spiritu Littera, Augustine holds that either external signs or interior illumination are sufficient to produce faith, and seems to hold that this is sufficient to refute a Pelagian position since (as Molinists later urged) God can produce the circumstances wherein an individual will properly evaluate the motives of credibility so as to come to faith. In other words, Augustine may have come to a position at odds with evidentialism, but only towards the end of his work. In conclusion, then, it seems that it is difficult to characterise Augustine as even a moderate evidentialist. His latest works seem to reject the notion that God typically intends Christians to come to faith on the basis of evidence rather than an ‘inner’ illumination, which is, I have stressed, a form of testimony. However, before the end of his theological career, Augustine seems to have become committed to the rationality of believing authorities without much evidence for their credibility. What is perhaps more important than evidence for Augustine is the affection of the will (voluntas) and conscience which often prompt and motivate belief. When Augustine encourages reflection on which authorities are to be believed, such as in De Vera Religione, he might have in mind a holistic reflection on the motivations for faith going beyond evidential concerns.

31 It may be of some significance to note that later authors who are influenced by Augustine in holding that the external presentation of evidence/testimony for faith is not always enough to produce faith in the listener also hold that there is an ‘inner’ witness to faith which is separate from any evidence or its evaluation. 32 J. Patout Burns, The Development of Augustine’s Theory of Operative Grace (Paris, 1980), 131-9; 141-2. 33 See E.L. Jenkins, Free to Say No?: Free Will and Augustine’s Evolving Doctrines of Grace and Election (Cambridge, 2013). Of course, as Jenkins notes, the issue of whether and how Augustine’s doctrine of free will developed is itself highly contested.

Contra Domini uel Apostoli auctoritatem. The Authority of Paul in the Polemical Treatise De Fide Contra Manichaeos of Evodius of Uzalis Aäron J. VANSPAUWEN, KU Leuven, Belgium

ABSTRACT De Fide Contra Manichaeos is an anti-Manichaean treatise attributed to Evodius of Uzalis, a contemporary of Augustine. Manichaeism was a dualistic religion founded by Mani in the third century. In Roman North Africa, the religion took the form of a Christian movement. Manichaeism was inspired by a variety of biblical texts, primarily New Testament, but also Old Testament and apocryphal sources. The most important New Testament texts in Manichaeism are the Gospels (especially those of Matthew and John) and, above all, the Epistles of Paul. The foundation of their religion on the Holy Scripture made the movement attractive for Christians in North Africa. For this reason Christian bishops often opposed or even persecuted the ‘heretic’ Manichaeans. This article will discuss how Pauline texts are used in De Fide Contra Manichaeos. The treatise attempts to discredit the ‘Christian’ Manichaean movement in early fifth-century North Africa primarily on a doctrinal basis. On the one hand, Manichaean teachings are refuted and ridiculed. On the other hand, an appeal is made towards the Manichaeans to convert to the true Christianity of the Catholic church. Evidently, the appeal to the Apostle was of utmost importance in the debate between Manicheism and Christianity, since especially the Manichaeans had a predilection for Paul in their preaching. The correct understanding of the same authoritative source was crucial to found one party’s position and to discredit the other’s. For Evodius, laying claim to the ‘correct’ Paul was an efficient strategy in order to realise the twofold goal of De Fide Contra Manichaeos: refutation of Manichaean doctrine and endorsement for the Catholic church.

1. Introduction Manichaeism was a religious movement founded by Mani in the third century. The religion taught a radical dualism of Light and Darkness.1 In the Roman empire, especially in North Africa and Italy, Manichaeism took the form of a Christian movement. The movement also had real affinities with Christianity, 1 Pheme Perkins, ‘Mani, Manichaeism’, in Everett Ferguson (ed.), Encyclopedia of Early Christianity: Second Edition (New York and London, 1997), 2, 707-9.

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and more specifically with Christian Gnosticism.2 Manichaeism was inspired by a variety of Christian texts, primarily New Testament texts, but also Old Testament and apocryphal sources.3 Because the Manichaeans presented themselves as Christians, leaders in the Church considered them heretics and vehemently opposed them. In this article, I will discuss the role of Pauline testimonies in the anti-Manichaean treatise De Fide Contra Manichaeos.4 Through the appeal to a common authority, in this case the apostle Paul, the preachers of one movement could attract followers of the other movement. This holds especially true for the polemics between Catholicism and Manichaeism in North Africa. In their preaching in North Africa, the Manichaeans scarcely made reference to typical Manichaean sources, such as the writings of their founder Mani. Instead they more frequently made use of Christian scriptures.5 The most important texts in this regard are the Gospels (specifically those of Matthew and John) and, above all, Pauline texts.6 Because Manichaeism was a ‘religion of the book’,7 it was particularly effective for a Catholic polemicist to refute the movement through their own sources. Evodius does this primarily through the testimony of Paul. He also cites proper Manichaean sources, either to show their opposition with Paul or instead their confirmation of the Catholic teachings. The discussion about the Apostle between the two parties also had an impact on the development of Augustine’s thinking. BeDuhn cites the debate between Augustine and Fortunatus, a leader of the Manichaeans in Hippo, as one of the motives for Augustine’s adoption of a more rigid stance on human nature, free will and divine grace in his later works.8 Evidently, the appeal to the apostle 2

P. Perkins, ‘Mani, Manichaeism’ (1997), 708. See Hans-Joachim Klimkeit, ‘The Use of Scripture in Manichaeism’, in Manfred Heuser and Hans-Joachim Klimkeit (eds), Studies in Manichaean Literature & Art, Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 46 (Leiden, Boston, Cologne, 1998), 111-22. 4 The text of De Fide Contra Manichaeos can be found in Josephus Zycha, Sancti Aurelii Augustini contra Felicem de natura boni, epistula Secundini contra Secundinum, accedunt Evodii de fide contra Manichaeos et commonitorium Augustini quod fertur, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 949-75. At the moment of writing this article I was preparing a new critical edition of the work. I will indicate where I considered it necessary to alter Zycha’s text based on the revision of the manuscript tradition. 5 François Decret, ‘Objectif premier visé par Augustin dans ses controverses orales avec les responsables manichéens d’Hippone’, in Johannes van Oort, Otto Wermelinger and Gregor Wurst (eds), Augustine and Manichaeism in the Latin West: Proceedings of the Fribourg-Utrecht International Symposium of the International Association of Manichaean Studies (IAMS), Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 49 (Leiden, Boston, Cologne, 2001), 57-66, 61. 6 Volker Henning Drecoll, Mirjam Kudella, Augustin und der Manichäismus (Tübingen, 2011), 219. 7 François Decret, ‘Exégèse et polémique chez Evodius d’Uzalis’, in L’esegesi dei padri latini: dalle origini a Gregorio Magno, Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum 68 (Rome, 2000), 383-9, 389. 8 Jason David BeDuhn, ‘Did Augustine Win His Debate with Fortunatus?’, in Jacob Albert van den Berg et al. (eds), ‘In Search of Truth’: Augustine, Manichaeism and other Gnosticism: Studies 3

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was of utmost importance in the polemics between Manichaeism and Christianity in North Africa. The usage of Pauline testimonies in De Fide Contra Manichaeos illustrates how crucial the claim to Paul was to found one party’s position and to discredit the other’s. 2. Evodius of Uzalis Evodius was a younger contemporary of Augustine.9 Like Augustine he was born in Thagaste. He was active in the Roman imperial administration in Milan before he met Augustine there in 387 and joined his group of friends. Together with Augustine he returned to North Africa in 388, where he lived in Augustine’s community of laymen, first in Thagaste and later in Hippo. Before 401, he was ordained Bishop of Uzalis. As bishop, Evodius was actively involved in religious polemics against the Donatists, (semi-)Pelagians and Manichaeans. Several letters in his correspondence with Augustine have been preserved.10 We are uninformed about his death. He probably died some time between 425 and 430. The treatise De Fide Contra Manichaeos is attributed to Evodius of Uzalis. There are no ancient testimonies to the work and its earliest sources are the medieval manuscripts in which the text has been transmitted. Modern scholars, however, see no reason to doubt the attribution to Evodius.11 3. The authority of Paul in De Fide Contra Manichaeos In the treatise De Fide Contra Manichaeos, the author refutes and ridicules Manichaean teachings. On the other hand, he also makes an appeal to the Manichaeans to convert to the true Christianity of the Catholic Church. Evodius makes use of Pauline testimony in his argumentation in three different ways. for Johannes van Oort at Sixty, Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 74 (Leiden, Boston, 2011), 464-79, 475-6. 9 For an overview of Evodius’ life, see James J. O’Donnell, ‘Evodius of Uzalis’, in Allan D. Fitzgerald, O.S.A. (ed.), Augustine through the Ages: an Encyclopedia (Grand Rapids, 1999), 344; Wolfgang Hübner, ‘Euodius’, Augustinus-Lexikon, 2, 1158-61; Anne-Marie La Bonnardière, ‘Evodius évêque d’Uzale’, Dictionnaire d’histoire et de géographie ecclésiastiques, 16, 133-5; and especially André Mandouze, ‘Evodius 1’, in André Mandouze (ed.), Prosopographie de l’Afrique chrétienne (303-533) (Paris, 1982), 366-73. 10 These letters (all written during the period 414-5) are counted among Augustine’s letters: their correspondence consists of the letters 158, 160, 161 and 163 (written by Evodius) and 159, 162, 164 and 169 (written by Augustine). Within the correspondence there are indications that two other letters, both by Evodius, have not been transmitted. The first of these two was written before letter 158, the other before letter 169. 11 See for example F. Decret, ‘Exégèse et polémique chez Evodius d’Uzalis’ (2000), 384; V.H. Drecoll, M. Kudella, Augustin und der Manichäismus (2011), 8.

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First, a citation of Paul can serve as the foundation of the Catholic teachings or conversely, as the primary source to discredit the Manichaeans. Second, Paul is used to affirm the unity of the Catholic canon. Third, several Pauline passages require a more thorough exegesis. The correct interpretation of Paul is at stake here, since the Manichaeans also use these passages to found their own doctrine. 3.1. Paul as the foundation of orthodoxy The opening chapter of the work is a confession of faith.12 The confession contains implicit references to two Pauline texts, namely the First Epistle to Timothy (1Tim. 6:16: ‘It is he alone who has immortality and dwells in unapproachable light’)13 and the Epistle to the Colossians.14 Especially the reference to 1Timothy is of importance when Evodius introduces the dualistic doctrine of Mani in the second chapter. Mani’s claim for the coeternal and thus immortal status of the principle of evil is immediately countered by the Pauline testimony, which states that only God has immortality. It is striking that the first biblical authority explicitly referred to in the treatise is Paul. Because he dismisses Mani’s explanation of evil, Evodius dedicates the following section (chapters 4 to 10) to propose Catholic teachings on the topic. Again, he founds his position first and foremost on Paul (1Tim. 6:10): ‘But if someone would ask what evil is, let him hear the Apostle who says: “The root of all evil is desire. In their pursuit of desire some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pains.”’15 Afterwards, Evodius cites a gospel passage (Matt. 12:33) to clarify his statement.16 Desire is the root of evil, and desire lies within the scope of free will. Thus, evil cannot be an absolute nature that exists in itself. It is rather the consequence of the free will of humanity. Here, it is remarkable that the testimony of the Lord is preceded by that of Paul and serves to confirm the Pauline testimony rather than the other way around. As a third type of source text in his argumentation on the nature of evil and sin, Evodius cites three texts which are part of the Manichaean canon: the 12 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 1, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 951, lines 3-12. 13 Translation from the NRSV. 14 Col. 1:16: ‘for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers – all things have been created through him and for him’ (New Revised Standard Version). 15 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 4, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 952, lines 7-10. The translation is mine, though the translation of the Pauline fragment is based on the New Revised Standard Version. The italicised words indicate where I modified the New Revised Standard Version. 16 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 5, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 952, lines 13-6.

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apocryphal Acts of Leucius,17 the Thesaurus,18 and the Epistula Fundamenti.19 He distils a series of short fragments from the three cited sources as a proof that these Manichaean texts only confirm Evodius’ position on the relation between sin and free will.20 Afterwards he cites the three types of sources again, this time in an inverted order (Manichaean text – Gospel – Paul), establishing a chiastic structure. Once again, the importance of Paul is evident in the position he holds in the discussion on this theme: Paul’s testimony serves as the basis of the doctrine of evil while also concluding the biblical argumentation on this topic. 3.2. Consensus between Paul and other scripture Though the Manichaeans seem to be familiar with several Old Testament passages and were probably influenced by the Psalms, they generally rejected or at least looked down upon Old Testament texts.21 For the Catholic Fathers, the canonicity of both the Old and New Testament was an important matter. Evodius discusses the issue primarily in chapters 37-9 of De Fide Contra Manichaeos. To reinforce his standpoint, Evodius makes use of a threefold argumentation: first, he lists various points of agreement in the Old and New Testament; second, he pleads for a figurative interpretation of the Old Testament, suggesting a typological reading; third, he exposes the arbitrariness of the Manichaeans’ selection of authoritative sources.

17 Five different apocryphal Acts have been attributed to Leucius. See Fred Lapham, An Introduction to the New Testament Apocrypha (London, 2003), 132-54. It is not known which of the five Acts are meant here. Evodius could possibly refer to the Acts of Andrew here, which he also cites in De Fide Contra Manichaeos 38. See also Montague Rhodes James, The Apocryphal New Testament: Being the Apocryphal Gospels, Acts, Epistles, and Apocalypses, with Other Narratives and Fragments (Oxford, 1924 [repr. Oxford, 1953]), 350. James Keith Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament: A Collection of Apocryphal Christian Literature in an English Translation (Oxford, 1993), 305 states that Evodius would also have been familiar with the Acts of John (evident in an allusion made in De Fide Contra Manichaeos 40). It thus remains impossible to ascertain which of the apocryphal Acts are referred to here, though they are probably either the Acts of Andrew or the Acts of John, both of which are generally viewed as gnostic texts. 18 On this work, see Gregor Wurst, ‘L’état de la recherche sur le canon manichéen’, in Frédéric Amsler et al. (eds), Le canon du Nouveau Testament. Regards nouveaux sur l’histoire de sa formation (Geneva, 2005), 237-68, 250-3. 19 For an introduction to the Epistula Fundamenti, see Madeleine Scopello, ‘L’Epistula Fundamenti à la lumière des sources manichéennes du Fayoum’, in J. van Oort, O. Wermelinger and G. Wurst (eds), Augustine and Manichaeism in the Latin West (2001), 205-29. The most recent edition of the Latin fragments, with a translation in German, is Markus Stein, Manichaica Latina, Band 2, Manichaei epistula fundamenti (Paderborn, 2002). 20 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 6, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 953, lines 17-27. 21 H.-J. Klimkeit, ‘The Use of Scripture in Manichaeism’ (1998), 111.

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Evodius first cites several Old Testament passages (Gen. 1:2; Gen. 1:10; Gen. 3:9; Exod. 20:5; Deut. 4:24; Deut. 32:42), after which he gives a series of New Testament citations, both from the Gospels and from the Pauline Epistles. Reminiscences in the vocabulary in both series of passages serve as a proof of their concordance. In this methodology he was probably influenced by Augustine’s Contra Adimantum. In that treatise, Augustine cites passages from a work of Adimantus, one of the first disciples of Mani and an influential Manichaean missionary,22 in which the Manichaean tried to expose contradictions between Old and New Testament. In his attempt to prove the unity of the canon, Augustine is more thorough than Evodius in his exegesis. The pairings between Exod. 20:5 and 2Cor. 11:2 and between Deut. 4:24 and Luke 12:49 respectively were perhaps inspired by Augustine’s Contra Adimantum 7 and 13. Evodius’ second argument could have been influenced by Augustine’s De Utilitate Credendi. In this work, another polemical work against the Manichaeans, Augustine mentions different ways of interpreting biblical texts.23 The analogous reading and the allegorical or figurative reading are especially used here by Evodius. His plea for an allegorical interpretation is based on the authority of the Lord and of Paul. While the testimony about Jesus remains rather vague (‘the Lord himself spoke figuratively of some of those scriptures [namely those of the Old Testament]’),24 the testimony on Paul refers more specifically to 1Cor. 10:11: ‘and the apostle Paul wrote that everything happened to that people [i.e. Israel] in a figurative sense’.25 The duo of Jesus and Paul symbolises the whole of the New Testament texts here. The equal importance of both is summed up in the following phrase: ‘but perhaps you in your usual vanity and with your blunt heart speak in opposition to the Lord’s and the Apostle’s authority’.26 Evodius’

22 More information on Adimantus/Addas can be found in Jacob Albert van den Berg, Biblical Argument in Manichaean Missionary Practice: The Case of Adimantus and Augustine, Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 70 (Leiden, Boston, 2010). 23 Augustine distinguishes four ways of interpretation: the historical reading, the etiological reading, the analogous reading and the allegorical reading. See Augustine, De Utilitate Credendi 5. 24 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 38, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 968, lines 12-4: ‘... ipse Dominus figurate inde quaedam dixerit’. 25 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 38, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 968, lines 14-5: ‘... et apostolus Paulus omnia illi populo in figura contigisse scribat’. 26 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 38, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 968, lines 16-7: ‘Sed forte dicitis solita uanitate et obtuso corde contra Domini uel Apostoli auctoritatem...’ I made an adjustment to Zycha’s text. Where the edition contains the reading dominum, the manuscripts read either domini or deum. It seems the reading domini is the original one, whereas the reading deum would have its origins in the similarity between the abbreviation dni (for domini) and dm (for deum). This emendation of Zycha’s text is important for the interpretation of this section, as the variant domini suggests an equivalent distribution of authority to Jesus and Paul, whereas the reading dominum would rather increase the distance between Jesus and Paul.

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advice towards the Manichaeans is clear: ‘Accept the canonical Scriptures purely, if you desire to be pure’.27 Evodius’ third argument is more of an ad hominem attack, in which he reproaches the Manichaeans for their inconstancy. Furthermore, their specific canonical texts betray their malicious intent. Evodius bases himself on the apocryphal Acts of Andrew here.28 In this (gnostic) text, Maximilla, who converted to Christianity as preached by Andrew, chooses a life of chastity, much to the frustration of her husband, the pagan Aegeates. In the first portion cited by Evodius, Maximilla sends one of her slaves to satisfy Aegeates’ carnal desires.29 In the second portion a young boy whom, according to Evodius, Leucius intended to be understood as God or as an angel, deceives Aegeates. He does so by mimicking Maximilla’s voice and complaining about the ‘pains of the female gender’ (i.e. menstruation), which discourages Aegeates’ intentions.30 The reference to these Manichaean passages serves two purposes: while it depicts the Manichaeans’ role models (Maximilla and the young boy) as liars and deceivers, it also illustrates that the Manichaeans are in discord with Paul, who affirms conjugal duties in 1Cor. 7:3.31 3.3. The correct interpretation of Paul at stake A more profound exegesis of Pauline fragments was needed by Evodius in the discussion about two themes, namely the virgin birth of Christ and the resurrection of the body. The disputed verse in the first instance is Gal. 4:4: ‘and the Apostle said: “born of a woman”’.32 The Manichaeans ask why Paul did not mention instead that Mary was a virgin. To answer to the objection, Evodius first refers to the biblical idiom, explaining that the term mulier (‘woman’) does not exclude virginity. He does this by drawing an analogy to 27 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 23, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 960, lines 27-8: ‘Accipite integre canonicas Scripturas, si integri esse desideratis’. 28 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 38, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 968, line 24-969, line 10. On the Acts of Andrew, see F. Lapham, An Introduction to the New Testament Apocrypha (2003), 146-50. A reconstruction of the Acts of Andrew can be found in M.R. James, The Apocryphal New Testament (1953), 337-63 and more recently in J.K. Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament (1993), 231-302. 29 See J.K. Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament (1993), 250. 30 I believe this anecdote should be inserted between chapters 32 and 33 in Elliott’s edition, as chapter 32 is the only instance in which a ‘beautiful young boy’ is mentioned. See J.K. Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament (1993), 254-5. 31 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 38, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 968, lines 26-7: ‘Although the Apostle said: “the husband should give to his wife her conjugal rights, and likewise the wife to her husband.”’ (‘... cum Apostolus dixerit: “uxori uir debitum reddat, similiter et uxor uiro.”’ The translation of Paul is taken from the NRSV). 32 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 22, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 960, line 7: ‘Dicit et Apostolus: “factum de muliere.”’

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Eve in a text from Genesis (Gen. 2:22) which reads ‘made into a woman’,33 even though this was obviously when she was still a virgin. Another example is found in the Gospel of Luke (Luke 1:42): when Mary is called ‘blessed among women’,34 she is blessed as a virgin among women. Afterwards Evodius again turns to Paul. In the Second Epistle to the Corinthians the apostle states: ‘But I am afraid that just like the serpent deceived Eve by its cunning, your thoughts will be led astray’.35 Evodius uses this passage as the basis for his analogous interpretation: as death was caused by a woman, so life will be recovered through a woman. In a reference to his earlier elucidation of the origin of evil and sin, Evodius emphasises that Eve sinned not because of her female nature, but because of her free will. Finally, he identifies the Son with divine Wisdom. Wisdom inhabited the apostles as well as multiple dignified women. Wisdom did not become polluted when it inhabited those people, thus the Son also cannot have been spoiled through Mary, which was one of the objections the Manichaeans made.36 The discussion of the resurrection depends almost exclusively on Pauline testimonies. The key element in this discussion is the resurrection of the flesh. First, a Pauline passage (1Cor. 15:42-4) serves to affirm the resurrection: Paul the apostle declares: ‘What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body.’37

This testimony in itself, however, does not convince the Manichaeans of the resurrection of the flesh. In the Manichaean mythology, the eschatological end of times comprises the restoration of the primordial distinction between Light and Darkness. The souls of the believers in Mani are taken up to the kingdom of Light, whereas non-believers suffer eternal damnation.38 The separation of light and darkness implies the distinction between body and spirit, and thus no carnal resurrection. In response to the Manichaean views, Evodius gives several Pauline citations which prove Paul’s positive appreciation of the body. He mentions the comparison made between the flesh and the Church, the Bride of Christ 33

Translation from the NRSV. Translation from the NRSV. 35 2Cor. 11:3. Translation from the NRSV. 36 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 23, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 961, lines 4-11. 37 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 40, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 970, lines 8-11: ‘Paulus apostolus clamat: “seminatur in corruptione, resurget in incorruptione; seminatur in contumelia, surget in gloria; seminatur in infirmitate, surget in uirtute; seminatur corpus animale, surget corpus spirituale.”’ Un-italicised forms are my proposed emendations to Zycha’s text. The translation of the Pauline fragment is the NRSV translation. 38 V.H. Drecoll and M. Kudella, Augustin und der Manichäismus (2011), 28-30; Heuser, ‘The Manichaean Myth According to the Coptic Sources’, in M. Heuser and H.-J. Klimkeit (eds), Studies in Manichaean Literature & Art (1998), 3-108, 86-9. 34

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(Eph. 5:29), the identification of the body as members of Christ (1Cor. 6:15) and as temple of the Holy Spirit (1Cor. 6:19) and the expectation of the resurrection of the body as an adoption (Rom. 8:23). The most difficult passage to explain in face of the Manichaean interpretation was Gal. 5:17: ‘For what the flesh desires is opposed to the Spirit, and what the Spirit desires is opposed to the flesh’.39 Evodius interprets this passage as an admonition. Paul encourages us to subject our flesh to the intentions of our spirit. Evodius compares this service of the flesh to that of a wife, without a doubt referring to the Pauline comparison between the flesh and the Church, Christ’s wife.40 While Evodius admits the necessity of God’s grace in this process, he reiterates that it is not the nature of the flesh which opposes us, but rather the punishment of the flesh. Because we have sinned, we deserved our mortal existence. The Catholic bishop is willing to admit the weakness of the body on one hand and the necessity of Grace and the submission of the body to the spirit on the other hand. However, against the Manichaeans, he does not believe the current imperfection of the body would contradict the expectance of a corporal resurrection. He alludes to one of the Manichaeans’ authoritative texts next, namely the Acts of John. In this text John (the apostle) is said to have turned hay into gold. This anecdote is then compared to the Pauline testimony Evodius mentioned before: if John could have turned hay into gold, God could easily turn a physical body into a spiritual body (1Cor. 15:44).41 Mentioning the Manichaean source serves two goals. First, the example of John functions as the base of an argument a minore ad maius: if John can bring about such a transformation, then God surely is able to accomplish a greater transformation. Second, the parallels between the Gnostic Acts of John and this epistle of Paul illustrate that the Manichaean texts themselves testify in favour of the Catholic point of view. 39 Translation from the NRSV. This Pauline citation was very popular among Manichaeans. An example in which a Manichaean uses this passage to corroborate his position can be found in Augustine’s Contra Fortunatum disputatio 21. 40 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 40, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 970, lines 25-7: ‘He does not condemn the flesh so that we would consider it as if it were an enemy, but rather he admonishes us so we would subject it to us. Thus the flesh like a wife will serve the spirit in its desire to bring forth good works.’ (‘Non carnem damnat, ut eam tamquam inimicam existimemus, sed admonet potius ut subiugemus nobis eam ut ad bona opera concupienda et parienda, uelut coniux spritui seruiat.’ I made an emendation to the text, replacing concipienda with concupienda, which seems to be better attested in the manuscript tradition. This reading also contains a stronger reminiscence to the fragment of the Epistle to the Galatians). 41 Evodius, De Fide Contra Manichaeos 40, ed. Josephus Zycha, CSEL 25/2 (Vienna, 1892), 971, lines 1-2: ‘You believe John made gold out of hay, and you do not believe the almighty God can make a spiritual body out of a physical body?’ (‘Creditis Iohannem de feno aurum fecisse et non creditis Deum omnipotentem de corpore animali spirituale corpus facere posse?’). See also J.K. Elliott, The Apocryphal New Testament (1993), 305.

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Conclusion The texts of Paul play a fundamental role in the debate between Manichaeism and ‘Catholic’ Christianity in North Africa as represented in De Fide Contra Manichaeos. When it comes to New Testament sources, the Pauline Epistles are considered on at least the same level as Gospel texts containing the words and acts of Jesus. Often Paul even seems more relevant than Jesus in Evodius’ argumentation. He is the first biblical authority implicitly and explicitly referred to in the treatise against the Manichaeans. On some theological themes the correct understanding of the Apostle becomes the most important endeavour of Evodius. This is not to say that Evodius for himself deems Paul more important than Christ. His chief concern with Christ is manifest in his discussion on Christological themes both in De Fide Contra Manichaeos and in his correspondence with Augustine. The importance of Pauline authority in De Fide Contra Manichaeos rather hints at the value of Paul for the Manichaeans in their preaching towards the Christians in North Africa. Evodius judges the appeal to the Apostle to be crucial in his polemical treatise against the Manichaeans. When he cites Manichaean sources to affirm his own vision, these sources are never used as evidence in themselves. Rather, they primarily serve to corroborate Evodius’ claim to Paul. The usage of Pauline proof serves to realise the treatise’s intended goal: on the one hand, it effectively refutes the Manichaeans’ position; on the other hand, it makes the endorsement for ‘Catholic’ Christianity and the invitation for conversion all the more reasonable and attractive.

Whistling in the Exegetical Dark: The Latin Pseudo-Origen Commentary on Job Paul PARVIS, New College, Edinburgh, UK

ABSTRACT This article revisits the Latin Arian Commentary on Job of Pseudo-Origen (CPG 1521; CPL 707a) and asks what light it has to shed on the survival of Latin Arianism. In an article of fundamental importance, Leslie Dossey concluded in 2003 that the text is a product of late Vandal North Africa, best placed in the reign of Hilderic, while Steinhauser in his critical edition argued for an earlier, Milanese provenance for the text (CSEL 96 [2006]). This article supports an African origin, though one some decades later than Dossey had suggested – around the middle of the sixth century, after the destruction of the Vandal kingdom. A brief comparison is then made with another piece of late Arian, Latin exegesis, the Opus Imperfectum in Matthaeum. There is a certain similarity between the two works in terms of exegetical genre and implied readership (or listenership) and their bluster and bravado in the face of a world gone – from the authors’ point of view – theologically mad. The conclusion is that small coteries of intellectually minded Arians may have continued whistling in the exegetical dark in quite a number of times and places in the Late-Roman – or post-Roman – world and that in small, learned groups at least (to which pieces of exegesis may provide access) Arian survival may have been more widespread than is usually assumed.

The anonymous Latin Commentary on Job, ascribed in most of the manuscript tradition to Origen (CPG 1521; CPL 707a) has done rather well in twentyfirst-century scholarship – indeed, some might churlishly conclude, rather better than it deserves. It received a major study from Leslie Dossey in 20031 and appeared in a splendid critical edition by Kenneth Steinhauser in 2006.2 It is a curious piece. Though for Steinhauser the author was characterised by ‘clarity and orderliness’,3 Meslin noted his abundant prolixité,4 while Dossey thought him ‘eccentric and verbose’ with a ‘longwinded style’, ‘complex, arrogant, and original’.5 1 Leslie Dossey, ‘The Last Days of Vandal Africa: An Arian Commentary on Job and Its Historical Context’, JTS N.S. 54 (2003), 60-138. 2 Anonymi in Iob commentarius, ed. Kenneth B. Steinhauser, with Hildegund Müller and Dorothea Weber, CSEL 96 (Vienna, 2006). 3 Ibid. 49. 4 Michel Meslin, Les Ariens d’Occident, 335-430, Patristica Sorbonensia 8 (Paris, 1967), 212. 5 L. Dossey, ‘The Last Days’ (2003), 64, 92.

Studia Patristica C, 237-246. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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The work is certainly rhetorical and repetitive, and the Anonymous is never short of words: the 314 pages of Steinhauser’s CSEL edition only get as far as Job 3:19 and manage to do even that only by dint of rushing a little toward the end and omitting verses here and there. The exegesis is highly moralising and ‘practical’ in a heavy-handed sort of way. And whether ‘original’ or not, it can occasionally take us by surprise. Job is of course a Stoic saint – virtuous, resolute and unflinching. The devil’s cunning is shown by the fact that he sends the messengers who announce, one after the other, the destruction of Job’s oxen and asses, his sheep, his camels and his sons and daughters just at dinner time. Receiving news like that might at the best of times make a lesser man flinch, but getting it just as you are tucking into a good spread is calculated to really put you off (I 64, lines 3-8 [PG 420]).6 Who wrote it? Meslin – here following Erasmus – ascribed it to Augustine’s opponent Maximinus the Arian ‘around 392’,7 in keeping with Meslin’s penchant for allotting to Maximinus more or less every piece of Latin Arian literature that was not firmly nailed down. Dossey and Steinhauser are more circumspect, though each identifies a time and place where they think it fits and fingers a possible author. Steinhauser concludes ‘with some certitude … that the commentary’s author was … an homoian bishop of a large diocese in northern Italy, probably Milan’ and if he is to be identified with a nameable individual ‘then the preponderance of evidence would have to indicate Auxentius of Durostorum’. The date, then, is ‘most probably … toward the end of the short-lived “homoian revival,” which took place in northern Italy after the Council of Aquileia’ or, more specifically, if Auxentius is fingered, ‘around 387’.8 Dossey’s reconstruction, three years before, is very different. The title of her article is ‘The Last Days of Vandal Africa’. The text fits best, she argues, during the pro-Nicene swing of the political pendulum under Hilderic (who was on the Vandal throne from 523 to 530) and ‘Pseudo-Origen becomes the spokesman for the Arian opposition to Hilderic, in particular for those … africani who became Arians, worked hard, and got rich under Vandal kings.’9 Who was he? She prudently refrains from a positive identification, but suggests that ‘the best counterpart for the real Pseudo-Origen’ is the Fabianus with whom Fulgentius of Ruspe debated and against whom he wrote – ‘an Arian scholar of late Vandal North Africa, literate in Latin and Greek, involved in debating the Greek Scriptures with his Nicene opponents’.10 This is a considerable spread, geographically and chronologically – Milan and North Africa, nearly a century and a half apart – and very different contexts, 6 To facilitate reference, I give book, chapter and line numbers from Steinhauser, together with the column number in PG 17, noted in the margin of Steinhauser’s edition. 7 M. Meslin, Les Ariens d’Occident (1967), 223. 8 Anonymi in Iob commentarius, ed. K. Steinhauser (2006), 44, 47, 41. 9 L. Dossey, ‘The Last Days’ (2003), 121. 10 Ibid. 116.

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politically, socially and theologically. Are we feeling our way in some sort of Arian twilight in the Late Roman world, or are we moving in a ‘Roman’ bubble in a new, post-Roman, ‘barbarian’ environment? Dossey relies heavily on an argument from text type: ‘Pseudo-Origen’, she says, ‘used an Old Latin translation of Job with affinities with the recension found in North African texts from the third to sixth centuries AD’. And, in particular, ‘one reason for dating the commentary late’ is ‘the frequency with which Pseudo-Origen’s Bible resembles that of Vandal-period Catholics such as Quodvultdeus and Pseudo-Fulgentius’.11 But she also seeks to establish a fit between what can be inferred of the circumstances of the original audience and a late Vandal context in the decade when Hasding rule was beginning to unravel. The Book of Job was written by Moses, the Commentary tells us – or, rather, the dialogue, which had been recorded Syricatim (I 2, 4-14 [PG 373]), was translated into Hebrew by Moses, who padded out the responsiones atque replicationes with the framing narrative. He wrote it to console the children of Israel for their afflictions in Egypt. At a key point – the very beginning of the commentary proper – Moses is made to address them: You suffer oppression from the Egyptians, you endure sharp agonies from pitiless men, even though you have in no way been proven sinners, nor blameworthy, but rather have been proven and shown to be holy, righteous, perfect men, and deserving friends both to them and to their fathers. But though you suffer these things wrongfully from the Egyptians, being reduced to servitude, and punished by them (though) without crime, and unjustly afflicted, do not be disheartened nor succumb … For liberation will come to you, as it did to that man (Job) … If you who ought to have been honourable and rich because of the goodness and wealth of your parents, have been made dishonourable and needy, do not despair, because the above-said man Job was also rolled off a royal and glorious seat into a dung-heap. (I 4, 10-24 [PG 375])12

Dossey sees the statement as programmatic: Pseudo-Origen, ‘like “Moses”, was speaking to a people who understood what it meant to be the governors of provinces (379D), advisers to kings (406A), slave-owners (383B), and the landlords of great estates. But their wealth and power were insecure’.13 Moreover, ‘Pseudo-Origen’s political terminology in general does not seem late imperial’; ‘his political assumptions’ (with reges in the plural, ‘a barbarian dux/rex sanctioning laws’) ‘correspond better to the post-Roman world’.14 And the commentator’s almost obsessive concern with family harmony – sons being obedient to their fathers, brothers not contending against each other – fits ‘the 11

Ibid. 89, 96. Tr. L. Dossey, ‘The Last Days’ (2003), 60; subsequent translations from the Commentary are my own. 13 Ibid. ‘… Pseudo-Origen has fashioned Moses in his own image – into a narrator, exegete, and translator of the story of Job, for the encouragement of a suffering people’ (ibid. 104). 14 Ibid. 109, 107. 12

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turbulent politics of the late Vandal kingdom’, with the succession crises surrounding the beginning and end of the troubled reign of Hilderic.15 Steinhauser tries to saw off the strongest single prop of Dossey’s platform by arguing in some detail that the ‘hypothesis of the author using a North African biblical text cannot be sustained’. In particular, ‘Anonymous’ access to a Job translation in common with Cyprian is insufficient to place Anonymous in North Africa’.16 We can, I think, conclude that the complexity of the transmission of text types and Ps-Origen’s apparent knowledge of and reliance on Greek text traditions make such arguments for provenance hazardous at best. Steinhauser constructs a positive picture of his own, of a homoian bishop operating ‘within the traditional Latin Arian stronghold extending westward from the shore of the Black Sea’ and then south across the Alps as far as Milan.17 The commentary was, Steinhauser argues, in origin homiletic: a reworking of perhaps catechetical homilies ‘preached in a diocese where there would have been resources for scribes to take down and subsequently publish the bishop’s words’.18 The idea that these homilies might have been catechetical is based in part on a reference at the beginning of the commentary to the fact that in the assemblies of the Church, on holy days, the passion of Job is read – on days of fasting, on days of abstinence … on the days in which we trace with fasting and abstinence the holy Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ. (I 3, 19-23 [PG 374])

He also relies in part on the reading of the Book of Job in Holy Week, which is attested in the East and in Milan in the time of Ambrose. Steinhauser bases the idea that the bishop who preached those homilies was homoian on one key anti-homoousian passage, on the fact that ‘nowhere does he mention Arius or call himself Arian’, on his little disquisition on the merits of the martyr Lucian, whose ‘type’ Job fulfils (II 31, 26-34 [PG 470-1]), and on his characteristic use of an Ingenerate/Only-begotten (infectus/unigenitus) distinction for Father and Son. It must candidly be said that both of these reconstructions are coherent and each accounts well for certain features of the Commentary. But perhaps each leaves some loose ends. Let us begin with the putative homoian bishop. Pseudo-Origen comment as follows on the three columns – wings or horns (cornua tria) – of horsemen the devil unleashed on Job’s camels: The devil made three columns for a type and figure of that three-name (trionyma) sect and heresy of the three Gods, which has filled the whole world like the dark, which sometimes worships Father and Son and Holy Spirit, but at times adores [them] as one 15 16 17 18

Ibid. 114. Anonymi in Iob commentarius, ed. K. Steinhauser (2006), 31, 28. Ibid. 38. Ibid. 42.

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– as the Greek tongue speaks of ‘triad’ or ‘homoousion’. Therefore already from long ago this most cunning devil signified this sect and heresy and infidelity of the Trinity by sending three columns to plunder Job. For so even now the three-name heresy I have mentioned plunders and sacks the Church. (I 75, 1-11 [PG 428])

So the author was scarcely Nicene. But does that make him ‘homoian’? There is a rather delicate question of terminology there. I have been using the descriptor ‘Arian’ above without any real sense of shame. And I am tempted not even to use scare quotes around it. Of course the author wouldn’t call himself ‘Arian’ – any more than, say, the author of the sixth of Gryson’s Fragmenta Theologica did (‘we Christians, on whom is imposed the false name “Arians”’)19 or than Palladius of Ratiaria did at Aquileia (‘I know not Arius’).20 But just for that reason ‘Arian’ makes a handy portmanteau word. The problem is that if we speak of ‘the homoians’ or – worse still – ‘homoianism’, we run the risk of reifying and objectifying a very amorphous clump of theological and political positions – and so covertly introducing a certain circularity of argument. In any event, the word ‘homiletic’ is also rather slippery. The Commentary on Job certainly abounds in direct address to an audience invoked (with second person plural verbs) by terms like the rather colourless o viri or o amici or by the slightly more strongly determined o filii religiosorum, o nati fidelium, o viri peritiae. The author speaks of things which ‘confound the mind of those who now hear’, at which ‘we now hearing fear and tremble’ (I 84, 3-4, 24-25 [PG 434]). ‘Let those who wish among the hearers’, he says, ‘so understand’ (II 36, 7-8 [PG 474]).21 Yet if there are liturgical homilies behind the text, they have been quite heavily reworked. It does not readily divide into homily-shaped or homily-sized chunks. Even so, there is the occasional peroration that looks like the end of a unit. For example, at I 52, But may the blessed Lord give to us a pure heart, chaste soul, pious mind, sound faith, the fullness of charity, sincerity of mercy, purity not feigned and hope immoveable, that all the attacks and assaults of the most wicked one might be turned far away from us and all his cunning may prove to be confounded and inefficacious. (I 52, 32-7 [PG 411])22 19 Roger Gryson (ed.), Scripta Arriana Latina, Pars 1, Collectio Veronensis, Scholia in Concilium Aquileiense, Fragmenta in Lucam rescripta, Fragmenta theologica rescripta, CChr.SL 87 (Turnhout, 1982), 237-8. 20 Gesta Concilii Aquileiensis 25, in Sancti Ambrosii Opera 10.3, Epistularum liber decimus, epistulae extra collectionem, gesta Concilii Aquileiensis, ed. Michaela Zelzer, CSEL 82.2 (Vienna, 1982), 313. 21 ‘Let all the faithful who hear these things keep themselves carefully from wicked conversations…’ (III 2, 1-2 [PG 495]) is rather less specific and may well refer only to the orality of ancient literature in general or to the scriptural text in particular. 22 See also I 23, 11-22 (PG 390); I 102, 30-44 (PG 446) – the end of book I; II 45, 17-24 (PG 494) – the end of book II. Steinhauser cites III 35, 30-3 (PG 518) as the ‘one place which still resembles the historical closing of a homily’ (Anonymi in Iob commentarius, ed. K. Steinhauser

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Perhaps instead of actual liturgical homilies we are dealing with a sort of bible study – lectures or conferences addressed to a (primarily) lay group of men and women.23 A parallel might be the underlying structure of the scriptural commentaries of Theodoret of Cyrus, which are, in the manuscripts, divided into ἀναγνώσεις – ‘lections’ – each ending in a pious doxology and too long to be comfortably delivered in a liturgical context. The point is that if we are dealing with lectures or addresses to a pious group, we need not think only of the ‘bishop of a significant diocese’ with substantial resources.24 A fairly small group of the pious – with some money in their pockets – might do as well. And the theological profile – rejection of homoousion and a disavowal of Arius, a firm distinction between the Ingenerate and the Only-begotten, devotion to the emblematic figure of Lucian – could apply to a variety of groups as well, including Anomoians or Eunomians. So the constraints which might point to a ‘large’ or ‘significant diocese’ in the homoian stronghold of northern Italy25 are rather less tightly constraining than might appear. Moreover, we must assume that ‘when these homilies were delivered, homoians were strong enough in the West for their author to be bishop of a significant diocese, yet at the same time this bishop reveals that homoian strength was beginning to wane.’26 That gives us a fairly narrow window. And, as Dossey notes, ‘the bulk of the commentary does not reflect a persecution mentality.’27 Though Pseudo-Origen can on occasion foam at the mouth about the fact that ‘now in the last times and the final age’ the devil ‘seduces and subverts through a multitude of heresies, through errors innumerable, through seductions abounding, through false Christs and false teachers, with which this world is filled’ (I 74, 5-10 [PG 427]),28 the Commentary is actually less embattled and embittered than is, for example, the Opus Imperfectum. So we have to assume that the three-name heresy ‘has filled the whole world like the dark’ and homoian strength is perceived to be waning, but the good bishop and his congregation can still feel snug – perhaps smug – and secure, as they contemplate the problems of being virtuously wealthy slave-owners and householders. This is rather like having it both ways.

[2006], 17). It ends with in saeculo saeculorum. Amen, but the whole passage fits seamlessly in its context, and I am inclined to regard the Amen (which appears in all the MSS) as a scribal reflex after in saeculo saeculorum. 23 Viri are often addressed; o mulier at I 14, 15, 19, 25 (PG 383) – in instructions on getting along with the in-laws. 24 Anonymi in Iob commentarius, ed. K. Steinhauser (2006), 41, 43. 25 Ibid. 43, 41, 44. 26 Ibid. 41. 27 L. Dossey, ‘The Last Days’ (2003), 109. 28 See also I 74, 30-2 (PG 427); I 81, 18-22 (PG 432).

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Dossey’s scenario has, in a sense, the same problem. She also postulates a context in which an established – even establishment – party is losing the game. Moses, as she notes, in that programmatic statement at the beginning of the Commentary ‘seems [my italics] to speaking to [sic] men who had recently lost their positions and possibly their freedom’.29 Though, as she fully acknowledges, that cannot be pressed. Rather, we have to think of ‘a time when Arians were part of the ruling élite rather than a persecuted minority, though a ruling élite conscious that their predominance might not last’.30 And the whole world is filled with the darkness of the Nicene night, though the Commentary is still written under Vandal rule – albeit the rule of the theologically unsound Hilderic – and Ostrogothic Italy is just across the water. There is a certain tension there. But the Vandal theory is attractive. For one thing it does offer an account of that curious speech of Moses. And for another it explains the obsession with brotherly harmony and filial obedience: the terrible example of Amnon, Absalom and David appears no fewer than four times.31 The ‘post-Roman’ feel of the political vocabulary then makes sense too. And Dossey at one point floats the possibility that Ps-Origen may have been ‘using an early form of the catenae’.32 That is, I suppose, unprovable, but it would help to explain the apparent range of his exegetical links and would fit much better with a sixth- than with a late fourth-century date. Where does that leave us? Dossey, in laying out the parameters, maintains that ‘the rough chronological boundaries for the commentary would be between AD 400 and 550.’33 What happens if we go to the very end of that range, or even a few years later? Placing Pseudo-Origen after the Byzantine occupation of 533/4 would certainly explain the tone of Moses’ speech, addressed to men dispossessed of their rightful expectations of honour and office. After the overthrow of Vandal power and the invasion of Ostrogothic Italy, ‘that three-name sect and heresy’ could indeed be said to have ‘filled the whole world’. If we could push the boat out as far as the 550s – twenty years, say, after the fall of the Vandal kingdom – we might have an explanation of a slight anomaly. In that key anti-homoousion passage, it is the worship of three Gods that gets top billing. It is the ‘sect and heresy of three Gods … which sometimes (aliquando) worships Father and Son and Holy Spirit, but at times (nonnumquam) adores [them] as one’ – ‘this sect and heresy and infidelity of the Trinity’. But an accusation of Tritheism is actually rather rare in Arian Latin literature. It does

29

L. Dossey, ‘The Last Days’ (2003), 106. Ibid. 110. 31 I 15, 24-30 (PG 384); I 23, 4-8 (PG 390), followed by an appeal to the Lord to keep us from being like those unworthy sons; I 25, 9-19 (PG 391); I 67, 11-19 (PG 422). See also I 63, 19-21 (PG 419); I 76, 26 (PG 429). 32 L. Dossey, ‘The Last Days’ (2003), 82. 33 Ibid. 105. 30

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occur, but much less frequently than the book-end accusation of bundling Father and Son together – in effect, of Sabellianism. Maximinus accuses Augustine of professing three (Gods) that are the same and equal. But that is a counter-punch: Augustine has just accused him of making two Gods (like the pagans).34 Gryson’s Fragmentum Theologicum 16 stoutly affirms that ‘there are not two Gods without beginning or two equals or two Fathers or two brothers or two Sons’, while Frag. 22 similarly maintains, ‘Therefore we confess one and one God, not two Gods, for we do not say two Ingenerates or two Fathers.’35 But passages like that are rare, and even they do not amount to a full-blown accusation of Tritheism. Tritheism did emerge just after the middle of the century in the East, within Severan Miaphysitism. Its chief proponent was the great theologian John Philoponus, whose Diaetetes, ‘written before 553’, ‘reveals’, according to Grillmeier, ‘“seeds” of the later tritheism’, while the Chronicle of Elias of Nisibis places the outbreak of the Tritheist controversy ‘in the year 868, that is, AD 556/7’.36 Could Ps-Origen have known something about an intra-Miaphysite dispute? The North African Church was never hermetically sealed off from developments in the East,37 and all the more so after the Byzantine occupation. There was, of course, passionate North African involvement in the Three Chapters affair, and Fulgentius engages enthusiastically with the Theopaschite question. Just as Miaphysites could regard Nestorians and Chalcedonians as an undifferentiated lump of error, so perhaps might a good Arian regard Miaphysite and Chalcedonian Nicenes as coming from essentially the same kettle of theological fish – in which case a formal Tritheist like Philoponus would be merely confessing to what Homoousians had really been about all along. The obvious objection to that theory is that while Pseudo-Origen’s implied audience may feel they are on the losing side, they still seem to be prosperous and comfortable. Could that be so for an Arian congregation in Justinian’s Africa? In the first place, it seems clear that Ps-Origen is a ‘Roman’ (in inverted commas), not a Vandal – however complex and ambiguous the question of ‘Vandal’ and ‘Roman’ identity might have been by the sixth century. That would follow both from the relatively high literary culture to which he can lay claim and from a rather distant reference to the way ‘barbarian nations’ go into 34 Augustine, Conlatio con Maximino Arianorum episcopo 11, in Scripta Arriana Latina 2, Augustinus, Contra Arianos opera, ed. Pierre-Marie Hombert, CChr.SL 87A.2 (Turnhout, 2009). 35 R. Gryson, Scripta Arriana Latina 1 (1982), 255 = V 72, 19-20; 264 = V 210, 46-50. 36 Alois Grillmeier with Theresia Hainthaler, Christ in Christian Tradition 2,4, The Church of Alexandria and Ethiopia after 451, tr. O.C. Dean (London, 1996), 119, 3. See H. Martin, ‘Jean Philopon et la controverse trithéite du VIe siècle’, SP 5 (1962), 519-25; A. Van Rooy, ‘La controverse trithéite jusqu’à l’excommunication de Conon et d’Eugène (557-569)’, Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica 16 (1985), 141-65. 37 On ‘contact between North African Arians and the Arians of the East’, see L. Dossey, ‘The Last Days’ (2003), 115.

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battle.38 And that means that at least he would not have been liable to the ethnic cleansing to which Justinian subjected male Vandals. A letter of Pope Agapitus, dated 9 September 535, deals with the problem, referred to him by a Carthaginian council earlier in the year, of how to deal with ‘those returning to us from the Arians, polluted, in any way, at any age with the stain of that pestilence’: they were to be excluded ‘from canvassing for honour’. They were not to be received ‘to their own office’ or to be advanced, though they could be pensioned off.39 But what happened to unreconstructed Arians? The simple answer is that we do not know. Procopius – and his hero, Belisarius – show a delicate sensitivity to the need for a careful, softly-softly approach in dealing with the Roman or Romanised provincials in the provinces (supposedly) newly liberated. But a fine-grained study like Conant’s Staying Roman40 has shown how little is really known of relations between the two – much less of relations with North African Arians in particular. The Commentary on Job is not the only Latin Arian text whose provenance is obscure. Another such is the Opus Imperfectum in Matthaeum of PsChrysostom,41 a more important, or at least more influential, text by far. Though they are certainly not by the same author, the two commentaries do have some things in common. Both, to begin with, are wordy and highly rhetorical – with patches of purple prose in abundance. And there may be a similarity of genre. As Joop van Banning’s meticulous study of the manuscript tradition has shown, the division into homilies found in all editions of the Opus is clearly secondary. But ‘many homilies start with a sentence which is very solemn, and fit for a new beginning of the work’.42 Thus it is possible that, as with the Job Commentary, we are dealing with a reworking of some sort of lectures or scriptural collations. Both texts are ‘practical’ and heavily moralising, and have a strongly voluntarist ethic. Yet the author of the Opus is emphatically and red-bloodedly Arian. He laments the times of Constantine and Theodosius (Hom. 48 [PG 901]; Hom. 49 [PG 907]). ‘The heresy of the homoousians is opposed not only to the Church of Christ, but also to all the heresies that do not think the same way they do’ (Hom. 49 [PG 903]). The heretics err in confounding Father and Son (Hom. 33 [PG 807]) and wishing to show them ‘one and equal’ (Hom. 22 38 Noted by Dossey, ibid., 63, as suggesting that Pseudo-Origen was ‘someone who, though not hostile [to barbarians], is not one of them’. 39 Collectio Avellana 86.5-6, in Epistulae imperatorum pontificum aliorum inde ab a. CCCLXVII usque ad a. DLIII datae Avellana quae dicitur collectio, ed. Otto Guenther, CSEL 35.1 (Vienna, 1895), 331-2. 40 Jonathan Conant, Staying Roman: Conquest and Identity in Africa and the Mediterranean, 439-700 (Cambridge, 2012). 41 While there has been substantial discussion as to whether the text was originally written in Greek or in Latin, I accept van Banning’s conclusion that the author’s ‘mother tongue was Latin’ (J. van Banning, Opus Imperfectum in Matthaeum, Praefatio, CChr.SL 87B [Turnholt, 1988], 5). I cite by homily number and column in PG 56. 42 Ibid. xix.

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[PG 753]). But they are also Tritheists (Hom. 11 [PG 740]; Hom. 46 [PG 889]). Like Ps-Origen, the author of the Opus may indeed be an Arian, but he is not a ‘barbarian’ (Hom. 50 [PG 626]; Hom. 41 [PG 864]). And the Opus Imperfectum, like the Job Commentary, belongs to a world in which the wrong side theologically has come out on top (Hom. 45 [PG 890]; Hom. 49 [PG 906]). Proposals for the origin of the text have been legion; at least in the current state of investigation of the text tradition, we simply cannot know. (Non-)conclusion The gloaming of the Late-Roman twilight and post-Roman dawn is a murky place. In Job and the Opus Imperfectum we have two substantial Arian commentaries displaying no little learning, theological acuity and rhetorical flair, but which there is no reason to assign to the same time or place. Indeed, neither can be firmly nailed down at all. Arian survival in that Late-Roman/post-Roman world may have been lumpy and patchy. The lenses through which we perforce view it simply do not have the resolution we need to bring those lumps and patches into focus. But in small, learned groups at least, that survival may have been more widespread than has usually been assumed. Arianism in the Romanised West may have ended not with a bang but a whimper, the whimper of little groups clinging tenaciously – sometimes truculently – to the faith of their fathers.

‘If you wish to contemplate God’: Pseudo-Dionysius on Will and Love Elena Ene D-VASILESCU, University of Oxford, UK

ABSTRACT Without even alluding to the Pelagian dispute that in the fourth century focused at length on the issue of human will, Dionysius ‘the Areopagite’ credits this faculty with an important role in salvation, i.e. in the process of the soul’s return to God. This is evident in the counsel he offers to his friend Timothy, who wanted to know better the profundities of his faith. The Syrian instructs: ‘If you wish to contemplate God through a mystical experience, my dear Timothy, I advise you to be aware and prepare yourself.’ In this fragment the human will is presented as the originator of the ascetic effort and of a closeness to Divinity. The Pseudo-Areopagite does not mention this – there was no need for him to do so – but it is obvious that in his devotional efforts the younger follower of Christianity was supposed to also be motivated by love for God: his will was directed by love. There have been publications about love as this is discussed in Dionysius’s writings, but not about human will and the love-will nexus; the present contribution therefore aims to fill this gap.

The notion of human will as an expression of longing for the divine is especially present in Dionysius’s Mystical theology and Ecclesiastical Hierarchy.1 He also makes direct remarks about God’s will (θεῖα θελήματα) in his treatises 1 Dionysius is still called ‘the Areopagite’ despite the fact that scholarship has established that he had no connection with the Areopagus in Athens and that he lived before 532 AD, and not during Paul’s time as he wanted people to believe and was initially thought. In this text, when I use the adjective ‘the Areopagite’ I place it within inverted commas. I shall also call Dionysius, the Pseudo-Areopagite and ‘the Syrian’ since the latest research suggests that he comes from Syria. Dionysius the Areopagite, Ecclesiastical Hierarchy, 393A. See also EH 392B and EH 400D. I use here the following abbreviations for the titles of Dionysius’ treatises: EH (for the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy), CH (for the Celestial Hierarchy), MT (for the Mystical Theology), and DN (for the Divine Names). The quotations will be given as in the critical edition: Corpus Dionysiacum I (DN), ed. Beate Regina Suchla, and Corpus Dionysiacum II (CH, EH, MT, Letters), eds. Günter Heil and Adolf Martin Ritter, Patristische Texte und Studien 33 and 36 (Berlin and New York, 1990-1). Mostly the translation of the fragments in the article is from Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite. The Complete Works, ed. and trans. Colm Luibheid and Paul Rorem (New York, 1987); where I have translated myself, or have preferred Clarence E. Rolt’s rendering of some passages this fact is is mentioned. C.E. Rolt’s translation of The Divine Names & Mystical Theology (London, 1983) is more literal than that of Luibheid.

Studia Patristica C, 247-255. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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Divine Names (here he uses the word θελήματα – the plural)2 and in the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy (where he has the word in the singular, θέλημα).3 The Pseudo-Areopagite describes the latter as the cause of everything that exists (hence including the human will), and in the same paragraph (DN 848B) he employs both the word θελήματα and βούλεσαι to render it. In DN 849A Dionysius refers to the same notion in terms of θείῳ θελήματι and θεαρχιϰὰ θελήματα.4 The thinker of presumed Syriac origin, mentions the yearning of people to be united with (or ‘assimilated to’)5 God when he addressses one of his friends (in Dionysius’s re-created apostolic environment he was one of the priests around Paul), thus: ‘If you wish to contemplate God through a mystical experience, my dear Timothy, I advise you to be aware and prepare yourself’.6 In addition to θέλημα and the other above-mentioned expressions used to designate the human will Dionysius also employs, in The Celestial Hierarchy, the term ἐπιθυμήσoμεν/ἐπιθυμία (desire) to express it; for him the word does not render ‘bad passions’ such as lust (this was aquired much later), but a longing for spiritual things.7 The most suitable expression for the way ‘the Areopagite’ conceives reality is perhaps his statement that ‘all things are moved by a longing for the Beautiful and Good to accomplish every outward work and form every act of will’.8 There is an intimation here that the human will aligns itself to the divine one and that it happens because of real love for God, because it is Love (one of the ‘titles’ Dionysius gave to the Supreme Being) that underpins all human attempts to encounter God. Suggestions that human will and love are instrumental in the redemption of the souls exist in some of Gregory of Nyssa’s writings, and as we shall see further, the Syrian might have been 2 Dionysius the Areopagite; Θέληματα; in the plural: DN 847 and DN 849; Complete Works (1987), 201. 3 EH 573: αὐτῇ δὲ ἐπιστητόν Θέλημα μέν; Corpus Dionysiacum II (1991). 4 DN 849A, Jean-Paul Migne, PG3 (Paris, 1860). DN 996D mentions the will of God with the sense of ‘what pleases Him’ [Ἀλλὰ τὰ μετὰ ταῦτα, ὡς τῷ Θεῷ φίλων … But be these matters as God wills (pleases)], and also in the same paragraph Dionysius uses the colloquial expression θεoῦ διδόντoς – God willing]. These two passages do not exist in the critical edition. 5 Dionysius the Areopagite, Corpus Dionysiacum II (1991), 142 (MT 997B); The Complete Works (1987), 135 (Luibheid has translated the fragment in MT 997B as ‘towards a union with him’). P. Rorem speaks about it in terms of ‘a union’, Pseudo-Dionysius. A Commentary on the Texts and an Introduction to their influence (Oxford and New York, 1993), 185. Ἕνωσις can be translated or expressed by either of the two lexemes [‘to be united with’ or ‘assimilated to’]. 6 Dionysius the Areopagite, Mystical Theology, 997B-1000A, my translation. In Mystical Theology (1991) the fragment is on p. 142. 7 De Coelestia Hierarchia/The Celestial Hierarchy, PG 3 (1860): CH 157C; G. Heil and A.M. Ritter have not included this fragment in their edition of the Dionysiac work, and it has not been translated by Luibheid and Rorem. 8 The Divine Names, 705D; this translation was made by Clarence E. Rolt, in Dionysius the Areopagite, The Divine Names & Mystical Theology (London, 1983), 101. See also The Complete Works (1987), 79.

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inspired by these in his treatises. In addition he was enthused by scriptural references; he mentions Paul’s letters, and these indeed speak about the pair will-love vis-à-vis God. One of the instances in which Dionysius explains how the human will is instrumental in salvation is that in which he lists the rituals a person needs to undergo when becoming a Christian, or rather a better Christian. He does so in his Ecclesiastical Hierarchy: ‘A postulant who wishes [ἕνωσις] to enter the spiritual life has a sponsor who presents him to the hierarch’ and he/she ‘is moved by the desire of salvation’.9 Another framework in which the Syrian father speaks about the will is when he presents his theodicy. While doing so, Dionysius not only elaborates on the longing for God peculiar to various elements of creation, but he also relates the divine and human wills. 10 All major discussions that characterised patristic, medieval, and modern theology were concerned with the relationship between the two, and such preoccupations are still current; the Pelagian dispute of the fourth century marked the beginning of a long-lasting argument. When touching on the notion of will in the context of introducing his view about the existence of evil, the Pseudo-Areopagite avers that the latter has neither ‘inherence in things that have being’11 nor ‘substance’ or ‘place’ because ‘its origin is due to a defect rather than to a capacity’.12 In this he might be indebted to Gregory of Nyssa (c. 332–after 385),13 who articulates the same opinion: ‘vice has no inherent existence’.14 Nyssen also believed that because of the freedom with which human beings were endowed when created, they ‘could decide in favour of evil, which cannot have its origin in the Divine will, but only in our inner selves where it arises in the form of a deviation from good, and so a privation of it.’15 Dionysius articulates the same thought, stating that evil ‘comes into being not on its own account’ but, paradoxically, ‘for the sake of the Good’; it exists ‘as an accident […] by means of something else’.16 For the Syrian it means that evil is initially a ‘good’ that weakens, and that even devils desire a proper life.

9

EH 392A, Corpus Dionysiacum II (1991), 68; The Complete Works (1987), 202. Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 177-8; The Complete Works (1987), 95-6. 11 Dionysius the Areopagite, ‘The Divine Names’, Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 177-8 ; The Complete Works (1987), 95; see also The Divine Names (1983), 129; more on 113. 12 DN 733D, Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 177-8 ; The Complete Works (1987), 95. 13 Gregory of Nyssa, for example in ‘Oratio Catechetica’, PG 45 (1863): 24C; ‘The Great Catechism’, in Dogmatic Treatises, Select Writings and Letters, translated and edited by Henry Wace and Philip Schaff, A Selected Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers (NPNF), second series, 14 vols. (Oxford and New York, 1893), V 474. 14 Gregory of Nyssa, ‘Oratio Catechetica’, 24C (1893); ‘The Great Catechism’, 480. 15 Ibid.; ‘The Great Catechism’; ibid. 479; emphasis added. 16 Dionysius the Areopagite, ‘The Divine Names’, Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 177; The Complete Works (1987), 94; The Divine Names (1983), 128. 10

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The comprehension of evil in the same manner is not the only communality peculiar to Gregory of Nyssa and Dionysius’s creation. Among other similar notions found in their writings the most obvious concerns the three stages through which the soul goes in its spiritual journey: purification, illumination, and perfection. In the case of Gregory, he found them in Origen’s work (as a ‘pattern’);17 here they constituted an ‘adaptation of some Stoic and Middle Platonic language’.18 With respect to evil, in some places the Syrian thinker explains that: ‘desire for what has no being [in those who sin] is proportionate to [its] lack of desire for the Good. Indeed the latter is not so much a desire as sin against real desire’.19 Moreover, Dionysius indicates that there are people who in spite of knowing the content of biblical precepts do not act in accordance with them due to their weak will. In some cases, the ‘will is so perverse’ that people ‘do not want to know how to do good’.20 Because of this, amongst other definitions of evil, one could be that it is ‘a deficiency of knowledge […], of desire’ or ‘an error of real desire’;21 the Areopagite seems to believe that these mean the same thing. Since Dionysius thought, as observed above, that ignorance is one of the causes of evil, it is logical to assume that by understanding things clearly one can turn to the Good. Ysabel de Andia comments on the above-mentioned passage in the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy (EH 392A), which concerns the candidate for a deep spiritual life, by noticing that for the Syrian it is precisely up to the human will to accept or not the gift of deification that comes from the ‘Divine Goodness’.22 The extent to which this process takes place depends on the individual capacity to receive the ‘gift’. Paul Rorem describes this state of affairs central to Dionysiac theology by saying that for the ancient author revelation can be ‘accommodated’ through symbols to the capacities of the receivers (and that its outcome needs to be kept secret from the uninitiated).23 In the Dionysian treatises, the ultimate reason that someone would wish to practise contemplation in the way describe above is love for God. This is especially evident in the passage in which the Areopagite addresses Timothy. A steady ascetic effort is involved when wishing to ‘meet’ the Creator, and it is love as well as the desire and ‘yearning’ for the divine that underlines this process.24 17

P. Rorem, A Commentary (1993), 59. Ibid. 19 DN 733D, Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 179; The Complete Works (1987), 95. 20 Dionysius the Areopagite, The Divine Names, PG. 733A; neither Heil and Ritter nor Luibheid have included this fragment in their editions. 21 DN 733D, Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 179; The Complete Works (1987), 96. 22 Ysabel de Andia, Henosis: l’union à Dieu chez Denys l’Aréopagite, coll. Philosophia Antiqua 71 (Leiden, New York, Cologne, 1996), 290. 23 P. Rorem, Pseudo-Dionysius. A Commentary (1993), 54. 24 DN 709C; Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 158; The Complete Works (1987), 81. In The Divine Names (1983) this is implied for instance in the text on p. 110. 18

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Dionysius conceives of love as an impulse that uplifts the souls, hence as the basis of their union with God. The Areopagite refers to it as eros (ἔρως); in this context we should remember that before Dionysius the sense of this word was close to that of agape (ἀγάπη), usually translated in contemporary English through the word ‘charity’ (which definitely had nothing to do with sensual desires, which eros only acquired later).25 In his book Apophasis and Pseudonymity in Dionysius the Areopagite, Charles M. Stang underlines that in the treatises written by the Syrian thinker the two Greek words for love are equivalent.26 Whatever term he uses at times, for the Areopagite love is ecstatic; it draws the person who is animated by it, out of himself/herself.27 The manner in which the Syrian conceives this ‘virtue’ connects it with his ideas of procession and return, and Paul Rorem’s interpretation of his works associates all these Dionysian notions: ‘Emanation and return describe respectively divine and human ecstasy’, he affirms.28 Andrew Louth comments that love is presented in a particular way in the Divine Names (one on which we expounded above) because Dionysius conceived it ‘as unitive: the lover is united to the beloved, who is, for him, a manifestation of beauty.’29 ‘The Areopagite’ understood that the relationship between the two leads both of them back to the Good and Beautiful. The concept of ‘return’ is Platonic.30 But there is a difference between Plato and Dionysius’s ideas: the Greek philosopher connects ‘return’ with the epistemological aspect of the relationship divinity-humanity. The fact that the essence manifests itself in the material world makes indeed the ‘return’ possible (elements of the ‘world of 25

On the love as conceived by Dionysius see, for example, Charles M. Stang, Apophasis and Pseudonymity in Dionysius the Areopagite (Oxford, 2012); Andrew Louth, Denys the Areopagite (London and New York, 2001), initially published as Dionysius the Areopagite (London, 1989); John M. Rist, ‘A note on Eros and Agape in Ps-Dionysius’, VC 20 (1966), 235-43; Eric D. Perl, ‘The Metaphysics of Love in Dionysius the Areopagite’, The Journal of Neoplatonic Studies 6 (1997), 45-73; Lisa Marie Esposito Buckley, ‘Ecstatic and Emanating, Providential and Unifying: A Study of Pseudo-Dionysian and Plotinian Concepts of Eros’, The Journal of Neoplatonic Studies 1 (1992), 31-61, and Alexander Golitzin, Et Introibo ad Altare Dei (Thessaloniki, 1994), especially chapters 1 and 2. 26 C.M. Stang, Apophasis (2012), 195. 27 A. Louth, Denys the Areopagite (2001/1989), 94-5. 28 P. Rorem, The Complete Works (1987), 130, note 266. 29 A. Louth, Denys the Areopagite (1989), 94. 30 See, for instance, Plato’s Republic; The Dialogues of Plato, 5 vols., ed., trans., and Introduction B. Jowett; 3rd ed. revised and corrected (Oxford, 1875, reprint 1982), III, Book 7; also The Collected Dialogues of Plato, ed. Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairnes, trans. Paul Shorey, The Bollingen Series 71 (Princeton, 1985). Concerning Plotinus, see for example ‘Ennead V’, 5, 4, in Plotinus, The Enneads, revised by B.S. Page, trans. Stephen MacKenna, the fourth edition, with foreword by E.R. Dodds; Introduction by Paul Henry, SJ (London, 1969), 406. Plotinus also mentions in a few places a movement of the ‘higher Soul’ that ‘circles about the Divine Mind’: for example in ‘Ennead V’, 1,7, or of the fact that the soul ‘re-ascends’, ‘Ennead V’, 2, 2. With regard to Proclus, in his famous The Elements of Theology, ed. and trans. Eric Robinson Dodds (Oxford, 1963), see prop. 39 where he speaks about ‘reversion and procession’, 40-3.

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the phenomena’ can go back to their real origin, essential in character), but the process results in a dissipation that negatively affects the human knowledge of it. For Dionysius the ‘return’ is as perpetual as the ‘procession’. For both ancient thinkers the ontological ground for the ‘return’ is the identification of the transcendent One with the Good. Going back to the discussion regarding the nature of love in Dionysius’ treatises, Louth rightly emphasises the ‘indissoluble fusion’31 which the Syrian remarks exists between people who love one another. Nonetheless, we have to keep in mind that Dionysius took great care to stress that ‘the harmony and the love which are formed between them [the lovers] do not obliterate [their] identity.’32 Such a dialectic is to be expected since Christianity works in paradoxes. Andia, paraphrasing Dionysius’s notions referring to the ‘circular movement – viz. an introversion’33 of the ‘divine intelligences’34 (or ‘Heavenly Minds’),35 speaks of the ‘circle of love’ in the work of the Syrian as ἔρως.36 The movement within that circle is still dependent on the capacity of the soul to open to the love it receives, i.e. to develop. The same scholar mentions ‘une aptitude à recevoir et une synergie de la volonté humaine’.37 When, in the same passage mentioned above from the treatise Ecclesiastical Hierarchy (EH 396 A) the deigning of God to live among people as Christ is highlighted, this is to make clear that the ‘move’ is an expression of love (of maximal love, one might say). Among the titles the Areopagite gives to God is that of ‘the Yearning’;38 Dionysius understands this title to concur with the other we remarked that he often ascribes to God – that of Love. This is because Divinity yearns for and loves creation, and creation yearns for and loves the Divine. People with deep knowledge of sacred things notice how this reality becomes concrete in some of the practical actions that take place within the Church. They would know how and to whom to impart their awareness, hence ‘Someone fired by love of transcendent reality and longing for a sacred share of it comes first to an initiate’.39 Dionysius also elaborates on love within the Trinity and within the hierarchies. Inside the Trinity it flows equally among its members. With respect to hierarchy, 31

A. Louth, Denys the Areopagite (2001), 94-5. DN 704C; Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 152; The Complete Works (1987), 77; see also The Divine Names (1983), 97-8. 33 DN 704D-705A; Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 153; The Complete Works (1987), 77; see also The Divine Names (1983), 98-9. 34 DN 705A; ibid.; also The Divine Names (1983), 98. 35 DN 705A; Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 153; The Complete Works (1987), 78. 36 Y. de Andia, Henosis (1996), 23. 37 Ibid. 290. 38 DN 708A; Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 155-56, in fact the entire fragment of the text from 705A to 708C; Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 153-55; The Complete Works (1987), 80. See also The Divine Names (1983), especially pp. 102-10; emphases added. 39 EH 392D; Corpus Dionysiacum II (1991), 71; my translation. Luibheid renders this passage thus: ‘He [who is] filled with love of God replies in accordance with the instructions given by the sponsor’; The Complete Works (1987), 202; emphasis added. 32

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the Syrian claims that it, as ‘a state of understanding’ (ἐπιστήμη) and ‘a sacred order’, allows an ‘energy’40 or ‘activity approximating as close as possible to the divine’ (CH 164D) to stream throughout it. Love as well courses through these entities; therefore for the Syrian the hierarchies (both celestial and ecclesiastical) are about love and salvation, and not about oppression, as the existence of a layered structure of power might have led people to expect. This is how the ancient thinker believes human beings find space for the manifestation of their will and love within the structure of the world. Stang appreciates that the manner in which Dionysius sees that the hierarchy ‘is an elaborate reinterpretation of Paul’s notion of the ‘body of Christ’ (σῶμα χριστοῦ): as the divinely sanctioned and ordered arrangement through which ‘love’ (ἀγάπη) should move’.41 However, as Andia stresses, love, even though going out, still remains inside God’s being.42 This is because God itself, in Dionysius’ words, ‘proceeds to everything while still remaining within himself’.43 So as observed, in the same manner (i.e. continuously) in which the love proceeds, it returns to its source. The texts of the ‘Areopagite’ clearly indicate how God poured out his being in the act of creation. He avers: The source of All things himself, in his wonderful and good love for all things, through the excess of his loving goodness, is carried outside Himself, in his providential care for all that is, so enchanted is He in goodness and love and longing. Removed from his position above all and beyond all he descends to be in all according to an ecstatic and transcendent power which is yet inseparable from himself.44

An example of ecstatic love – which in human terms is actually the maximum possible – is given by Dionysius,45 as that manifested by St. Paul, who is the master not only of Dionysius himself, but also Hierotheus, his teacher46 and of Timothy. In this respect, Dionysius cited 2Cor. 12:2-4 in DN 712A. Stang concurs with Louth in upholding the above-mentioned idea of ecstatic love and 40

C.M. Stang, Apophasis (2012), 195. Ibid. 42 Y. de Andia, Henosis (1996), 21-2. 43 DN 825B; Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 189-90; The Complete Works (1987), 103; see also The Divine Names (1983), 62. 44 DN 712 A-B; Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 159; The Complete Works (1987), 82; also The Divine Names (1983), 106. 45 DN 596D, Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 120; The Complete Works (1987), 82; also The Divine Names (1983), 85. 46 Hierotheus was supposed to have written a treatise known in literature as the Book of the Holy Hierotheos/the Ktābā d-Irotē’os. But now that text is attributed to Stephen Bar Sudayli, who lived in the early sixth century. This piece is a theological epic about the hidden mysteries of the Divine, and constitutes a commentary made by Gregory Bar ‘Ebraya (also seen as Bar Hebraeus, 1226–86), who was a Syrian Orthodox bishop and a Syrian mystic. The work is associated with Origenism, Dionysius’s treatises (both Origenist tradition and Dionysius have been credited with attempts to reconcile Platonism and the Scriptures), and with Evagrius of Pontus’s writings. 41

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shows that ἔκστασις/‘ecstasy’ derives from ἐξίστημι (‘I stand outside’);47 it is a negation of one’s self (the Syrian does not make this observation, but perhaps one should keep in mind that this is only possible to a limited extent since the identity needs to be preserved). In the treatise Mystical Theology Dionysius apophatically expresses this reality when avowing that the soul surrenders to the unknowable God.48 In The Divine Names49 he appreciates that, in fact, the soul ascends through negations since it stands ‘outside everything which is correlative with its own finite nature’; it seems that negations drive the soul out of itself – ἐξίστημι also means ‘going out’ or, by extension ‘being driven out’. But these negative steps have a positive purpose, which is the attaining of the ‘darkness of the unknown’ where God can be met. For the Areopagite, ecstasy is an occurrence that entails having one’s life centred on the Good and Beautiful. Rorem thinks that for this ancient man the entire process of being assimilated to God through an ‘intentional and systematic abandonment’ of the ‘inferior categories’ is one ecstatic in nature because, as he explains (in the same way Stang does), it means ‘standing outside ourselves and our natural, affective use of language about God.50 Divine love as conceived by Dionysius is supposed to become central to one’s life because God ‘has made one with himself all those capable of being divinised’ (EH 393A).51 This is experienced (Dionysius uses the term ‘suffering’ for it52), as is the case of love between human beings; it can reach such a high degree that the life of the beloved becomes one’s own. Love represents a virtue for Platonicians and other non-Christians alike. The idea of a divine ‘providential love’ (ἔρως πρωτοέτηκος) is specific, for instance, to Proclus’s text In Alcibiadem (51).53 But for him Ἔρως is one among the gods of the Greeks, and divine ecstatic love does not exist in their world. That is to say, the marked difference between the Platonic, and in general, pagan view about love on one hand and the Dionysian concept of love, on the other, is that in the Greek tradition love is ‘utilitarian’ (needs to fulfil a need), while for the Areopagite it is ‘an overflow of divine goodness – it needs nothing, it is the source of everything.’54 Louth believes that the Syrian’s position with regard to this affect/virtue ‘has deeply coloured [his] understanding of reality’.55 He is right 47

C.M. Stang, Apophasis (2012), 195-6. MT 1001A, Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 144; The Complete Works (1987), 137; see also The Divine Names (1983), 67. 49 DN 981B; Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 230; The Complete Works (1987), 130; see also The Divine Names (1983), 67. 50 P. Rorem, A Commentary (1993), 186, and part 4 of this book. 51 EH 392A; Corpus Dionysiacum II (1991), 70; The Complete Works (1987), 201. 52 Dionysius, The Divine Names & Mystical Theology (1983), 73. 53 See Proclus, In Alcibiadem 51, ed. L.G. Westerink (Amsterdam, 1954), 22f. - fn. 31 in Proclus; see also Louth, Denys the Areopagite (2001/1989), 95. 54 A. Louth, Denys (1989), 94-5. 55 Ibid. 95. 48

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and one can see that this is the case, especially because all the titles Dionysius employs when referring to God amount to that of Love and also because this is what the members of the Trinity enjoy. ‘The Areopagite’ gave thought to the synergy between will and love since he cites the Pauline letters in his treatises. The link between the two is certainly best expressed in Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians (1Cor. 3:9) in which people are named ‘fellow-workers with God.’ Stang comments that ‘the very goal of the hierarchy’, the concept around which the entire creation of the Syrian is built,56 is the co-operation of creatures with the ‘works of God’; he uses the term ‘coworkers with God’ for the people.57 To be able to join Divinity to such a degree means that human beings partake in some aspects of it. Dionysius talks about this participation and asserts that deification means the receiving of the divine energy by people within themselves as much as possible. He mentions this idea, for example, when offering one of his explanations concerning the ‘goal of the hierarchy’, which is ‘to enable being to be as like as possible to God’.58 Obviously, by doing so, he proffers a very favourable position to humanity. Conclusion What needs to be emphasised when speaking about will in Dionysius’ corpus is that the divine will is always informed by love and that the human will is supposed to align itself to it and reflect it. The summit of the ‘procession’ of love that is so important a concept to Dionysius is ecstasy. This is a way of negating oneself in order to allow room for God within the soul. On the part of Divinity one could perhaps say that the incarnation is a kind of negation, and that God, whom ‘all things desire’, ‘yearn for [and] love’ (DN 733D),59 initiated it out of his own ecstasy. Certainly he did so out of his will informed by love. Since human souls participate in God and their actions are made to occur by the divine energies, it can be said that in their journey to Him they are also moved by a will which love directs. 56

Both Rorem and Stang state that the Areopagite coined the term, but actually it is a Neoplatonic concept. For the representatives of Neoplatonism ‘a hierarchy of beings’ had a different structure than that peculiar to Dionysius’s two hierarchies. P. Rorem, A Commentary (1993), 3; C.M. Stang, Apophasis (2012), 4. 57 C.M. Stang, Apophasis (2012), 195. 58 Dionysius the Areopagite, the ‘Celestian Hierarchy’ 165A, The Complete Works (1987), 154; Corpus Dionysiacum II (1991), 17-8; see also 165B; Corpus Dionysiacum II (1991), 18-9. Dionysius repeats this idea in various forms in his treatises and letters. For instance, in DN 981B Dionysius speaks about the fact that ‘Beyond the outermost boundaries of the world, the soul is brought into union with God himself to the extent that every one of us is capable of it’; Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 230; The Complete Works (1987), 130; see also The Divine Names (1983), 67. 59 Dionysius the Areopagite, Corpus Dionysiacum I (1990), 180; The Complete Works (1987), 95; see also The Divine Names (1983), 129, especially footnote 3.

The Language of Love: Pseudo-Dionysius’ Detoxification of Eros in De Divinis Nominibus IV, 11–12 James F. WELLINGTON, Nottingham, UK

ABSTRACT In Apophasis and Pseudonymity in Dionysius the Areopagite, Charles Stang argues strongly that Pseudo-Dionysius’ choice of the pseudonym of the disciple of Paul (in Acts 17:34) is the best interpretative lens with which to understand the Corpus Dionysiacum. He also contends that his approach dispenses with what he describes as the false antithesis, which has been created by other approaches, between the author’s debt to Neoplatonism and his place within Eastern Christianity. Against the background of Stang’s contention, this article explores De Divinis Nominibus IV, 11–12, in which Pseudo-Dionysius sets out a fourfold justification for his preference for the word ἔρως over and against the word ἀγάπη in his treatise on divine love. Firstly, he argues that this name is based on scripture and Christian tradition. Secondly, he asserts that it is synonymous with the biblically-based ἀγάπη. Thirdly, he distinguishes what he describes as the ‘real’ ἔρως, which appertains to the divine, from a ‘partial, physical and divided ἔρως’, which does not. Fourthly, he defines both ἔρως and ἀγάπη as a ‘capacity to effect a unity, an alliance, and a particular commingling in the Beautiful and the Good’. Through the exploration of this fourfold defence this paper aims to show how Pseudo-Dionysius combines elements from both the Christian and Neoplatonic traditions in order to defend his choice of ἔρως in the language of divine love.

The point of departure for this article is to support Charles Stang’s rejection of the false antithesis created by some scholars between the Christian and Neoplatonic elements in the thought of Pseudo-Dionysius, and to affirm the more constructive approaches adopted by Stang himself,1 and others,2 towards the relationship between the two traditions in the Corpus Dionysiacum. 1

Charles M. Stang, Apophasis and Pseudonymity in Dionysius the Areopagite (Oxford, 2012). See for example, Andrew Louth, Denys the Areopagite (London and New York, 1989); Alexander Golitzin, Et introibo ad altare dei: The Mystagogy of Dionysius the Areopagite (Thessalonika, 1994), also Mystagogy: A Monastic Reading of Dionysius Areopagita, Cistercian Studies Series 250 (Collegeville, MN, 2013); Christian Schäfer, The Philosophy of Dionysius the Areopagite (Leiden, 2006); Eric Perl, Theophany: The Neoplatonic Philosophy of Dionysius the Areopagite (Albany, 2007); Sarah Klitenic Wear and John Dillon, Dionysius the Areopagite and the Neoplatonist Tradition (Aldershot, 2007). 2

Studia Patristica C, 257-262. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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In his opening chapter of De Divinis Nominibus, Pseudo-Dionysius, following Paul,3 declares his intention to set down the truth about God ‘not in the plausible words of human wisdom but in demonstration of the power granted by the Spirit’.4 He continues: ‘This is why we must not dare to resort to words or conceptions concerning that hidden divinity which transcends being, apart from what the sacred scriptures have divinely revealed’.5 Constrained by this stricture, in the fourth chapter of his treatise, we find the author having to defend his choice of ἔρως as the word he uses for divine ‘love’, and to justify this preference over and against the more biblically-based word, ἀγάπη. Let us consider the arguments which he employs in defence of this choice. For the sake of convenience rather than substance, for the purpose of this presentation, we shall follow Colm Luibheid’s less than satisfactory translation of ἔρως as ‘yearning’ and ἀγάπη as ‘love’. In De Divinis Nominibus IV, 11–12 Pseudo-Dionysius offers four arguments in defence of his choice. The first two rely heavily on the exegesis of Origen. In his first argument, he insists that his choice of ἔρως is indeed grounded both in scripture and in Christian tradition. He creates a certain amount of wriggle room for himself by appealing to what he calls the ‘power of meanings’ over and above words themselves.6 Following Origen in his prologue to his Commentarius in Canticum Canticorum, he quotes Proverbs 4:6 and 8, and, armed with this solitary citation, concludes, ‘And there are many other scriptural passages in which the yearning of God is praised’.7 He goes on to assert that ‘some of our writers on sacred matters have thought the title “yearning” to be more divine than “love”’,8 without specifying who those writers may be. One probable candidate is Gregory of Nyssa,9 to whom we shall return, while others may be Clement of Rome,10 John Chrysostom11 and Theodoret of Cyrrhus.12 In the next breath he comes close to exposing his pseudonymity by quoting the early 3

1Cor. 2:4. DN I,1; PG 3, 585B; Colm Luibheid (trans.), Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works (New York, 1987), 49. 5 DN I,1; PG 3, 588A; C. Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius (1987), 49. 6 DN IV,11; PG 3, 708B-709A. 7 DN IV,11; PG 3, 709A; C. Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius (1987), 80-1. 8 DN IV,12; PG 3, 709A; C. Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius (1987), 81. 9 J.M. Rist, ‘A Note on Eros and Agape in Pseudo-Dionysius’, Vigiliae Christianae 20 (1966), 237. 10 Homiliae 3.6. Τοῦ ἐνὸς καὶ μόνου Θεοῦ, τοῦ τὸν κόσμον πεποιηκότος καὶ ἡμᾶς κτίσαντος καὶ πάντα παρεσχηκότος, τοιαύτη πέφυκεν φύσις, παντὸς ἤδῃ ποτὲ ἐντὸς ὅρων θεοσεβείας ὄντος, καὶ μὴ βλασφημοῦντος αὐτοῦ τὸ ἅγιον Πνεῦμα, στοργῇ τῇ πρὸς αὐτὸν εἰς αὐτὸν φέρειν τὴν ψυχὴν ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ εἰς αὐτὴν ἔρωτος ἰδέᾳ: PG 2, 113D-116A. 11 Homiliae in Epist. ad Romanos 5.6. Ἀνῃρέθη καὶ ὁ Υἱὸς ἐλθών, καὶ οὐδὲ οὕτως ἔσβεσε τὸν ἔρωτα...: PG 60, 431. 12 In Canticum Canticorum Ι. Τὸ δὲ Ἆσμα τῶν ᾀσμάτων τὸν γάμον αὐτοῦ διαγράφει, καὶ τὸν περὶ τὴν νύμφην ἔρωτα διαγράφεται: PG 81, 52B. 4

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second-century words of Ignatius of Antioch: ‘He for whom I yearn has been crucified’.13 Here again he follows Origen, who once more comes into play as he quotes from Wisdom 8:2: ‘I yearned for her beauty’.14 Thus having formulated his argument that the use of ἔρως in relation to divinity is biblically based, Pseudo-Dionysius is able to press his case for his second argument, that the ‘sacred writers regard “yearning” and “love” as having one and the same meaning’.15 Here he is able to utilise the wriggle room which he has created for himself and, furthermore, to tap into an established strand of Christian teaching. Again, though here he does not quote the text, the prologue of Origen’s Commentarius in Canticum Canticorum supports his thesis. There Origen quotes several biblical passages where ἀγάπη is preferred to ἔρως by the Septuagint translators, ‘lest the word love should provide an occasion for falling for readers’.16 As well as being acquainted with this influential work from Origen, Christian readers of the Corpus may also have been aware of Gregory of Nyssa’s homiliae in Canticum Canticorum, in which the Cappodocian writes, ‘for ἀγάπη when intensified is called ἔρως’.17 Pseudo-Dionysius takes it for granted that this is familiar territory for those whom he addresses and, behind the mask of pseudonymity, he assumes paternity for this line of thought. Having established the biblical and traditional credentials for ἔρως, PseudoDionysius, in his third argument, moves into Neoplatonic country, while at the same time taking care to affirm only what is in accordance with ‘what the sacred scriptures have divinely revealed’. Here he is clearly mindful of Origen’s view that for some readers the use of the title ἔρως may be toxic and therefore a barrier to truth. Thus, he insists: The title ‘real yearning’ is praised by us and by the scriptures themselves as being appropriate to God. Others, however, tended naturally to think of a partial, physical, and divided yearning. This is not true yearning but an empty image or, rather, a lapse from real yearning. The fact is that men are unable to grasp the simplicity of the one divine yearning, and, hence, the term is quite offensive to most of them.18

He therefore distinguishes what he calls ‘real’ or ‘true’ ἔρως from meanings which are often attached to the word but which fall far short of the ‘divine’ ἔρως which is the subject of his presentation.

13

DN IV,12; PG 3, 709B; C. Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius (1987), 81. Ibid. 15 Ibid. 16 Rowan A. Greer (trans.), Origen (Mahwah NJ, 1979), 224. 17 Homiliae in Canticum Canticorum 13. Ἐπιτεταμένη γὰρ ἀγάπη ἔρως λέγεται: PG 44, 1048C. See also R.A. Norris (trans.), Gregory of Nyssa: Homilies on the Song of Songs (Atlanta, 2012), 403. 18 DN IV,12; PG 3, 709BC; C. Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius (1987), 81. 14

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In this third argument it is possible to discern strong overtones of the presentation of ἔρως which is to be found in Enneads III.5.1, where Plotinus distinguishes between three different types of ἔρως. The first, which he describes as ‘pure’ (καθαρός), belongs to the one who ‘will be satisfied with beauty alone’.19 The second, which he describes as ‘mixed’ (μέμικται), belongs to ‘those who love beautiful bodies, [but] also with a view to sexual intercourse’.20 The third, which he describes as ‘against nature’ (παρὰ τὴν φύσιν), belongs to ‘those who want to generate unlawfully’.21 In this erotic hierarchy, even though Plotinus includes the second type with the first type in terms of what he considers to be lawful, the ‘mixed’ ἔρως is reckoned to be inferior to the ‘pure’ ἔρως, which is free of any desire for self-perpetuation. According to Arthur Hilary Armstrong, this indicates a movement away from Plato himself, for whom even the highest love is essentially productive.22 It is not difficult to find in the description of the ‘real’ ἔρως in De Divinis Nominibus a clear resemblance to the account of the ‘pure’ ἔρως of the Enneads. Pseudo-Dionysius is at pains to distinguish the ‘real’ ἔρως from an ἔρως which sounds remarkably similar to the second type of ἔρως, which Plotinus has deemed to be inferior to his first type. Just as Plotinus’ second type of ἔρως is ‘mixed’, so the type of ἔρως which Pseudo-Dionysius distinguishes from ‘real’ ἔρως is ‘partial’ or ‘divided’ (μεριστὸν or διῃρημένον). Just as Plotinus’ second type of ἔρως self-perpetuates through sexual intercourse, so Pseudo-Dionysius’ version of the inferior ἔρως is ’physical’ (σωματοπρεπῆ). With his fourth argument, Pseudo-Dionysius is even more in debt to the Neoplatonic tradition. Here he offers a common definition for both ἔρως and ἀγάπη, thus returning to the substance of his second argument. He says that the ‘exact same meaning’23 for both words is a ‘capacity to effect a unity, an alliance, and a particular commingling (συνκρατικῆς) in the Beautiful and the Good’.24 With regard to this capacity, he goes on to say: ‘It binds the things of the same order in a mutually regarding union. It moves the superior to provide for the subordinate, and it stirs the subordinate in a return toward the superior’.25 Just as Pseudo-Dionysius aligns himself with Plotinus’ development of Plato’s concept of ἔρως in arguing for an ἔρως free from any productive desire, so now he aligns himself with Proclus’ development of Plotinus’ concept of ἔρως in arguing for an ἔρως which, unlike the Plotinian equivalent, explicitly ‘moves the superior to provide for the subordinate’. In other words, in both 19

Enneads III,5,1; Loeb Classical Library 442, 170. Ibid. 21 Ibid. 22 Enneads III,5,1; Loeb Classical Library 442, 170 note 1. See also Arthur Hilary Armstrong, ‘Platonic Eros and Christian Agape’, The Downside Review 79 (1961), 105-21. 23 DN IV,12; PG 3, 709C; C. Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius (1987), 81. 24 DN IV,12; PG 3, 709D; C. Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius (1987), 81. 25 Ibid. 20

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his third and fourth arguments in defence of ἔρως we find the author of the Corpus Dionysiacum placing himself within what is essentially a movement within Neoplatonic thought, as he seeks to demonstrate the compatibility of ἔρως with the biblical understanding of love. In an excellent doctoral thesis Dimitrios Vasilakis charts what he describes as a ‘transition’ in thinking about ἔρως, involving Plotinus, Proclus and Pseudo-Dionysius, a transition in which Proclus stands as the mediator.26 For, not content with resting in Proclus’ development of Plotinus’ concept of ἔρως, Pseudo-Dionysius, immediately following his defence of ἔρως, moves the development of the concept into new territory. Having defined divine ἔρως as a ‘capacity to effect a unity’ between superior and inferior, and also between ‘things of the same order’, Pseudo-Dionysius immediately says that it ‘brings ecstasy so that the lover belongs not to self but to the beloved’.27 As Vasilakis points out, ‘What is new here is that the reciprocal relations of the various entities are expressed in terms not only of love, but also of ἔκστασις (ecstasy). To love means to be ecstatic, i.e. to get outside one’s self in order to meet and unite with the other’.28 The introduction of ἔκστασις into this development should not be seen as an attempt by Pseudo-Dionysius to crudely Christianise ἔρως. The ecstasy of God is not, prior to the Corpus Dionysiacum, a Christian expression. Neither does Pseudo-Dionysius explicitly link the expression with the incarnation. Rather, it is indicative of the originality and creativity of a writer who is willing to employ both Christian and Neoplatonic insights in order to delve more deeply into the mystery of God, and who, in this section of the Corpus, is occupied with establishing common ground between the two traditions. The overall purpose of Pseudo-Dionysius in this presentation is to convince, nominally, Timothy, his so-called ‘fellow-elder’, and, practically, contemporary Christian readers, that it is both safe and legitimate to make use of aspects of pagan wisdom, in order to be ‘drawn toward the divine splendor’.29 To this end, his defence of the use of the word ἔρως for ‘love’ is an attempt to detoxify a word which, as he acknowledges, attracts a good deal of opprobrium. As we have seen, this detoxification takes two forms. Firstly, following the exegesis of Origen, and with nods and winks in the direction of Gregory, Clement, Chrysostom and Theodoret, Pseudo-Dionysius establishes that, far from constituting a pagan intrusion into theological discourse, ἔρως is a word which is rooted in both scripture and Christian tradition. Secondly, in placing himself within a train of thought which moves from Plato to Plotinus and on to Proclus, 26 Dimitrios Vasilakis, Neoplatonic Love: The Metaphysics of Eros in Plotinus, Proclus and the Pseudo-Dionysius, Ph.D. Thesis in Philosophy (Kings College, London, 2014). 27 DN IV,13; PG 3, 712A; C. Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius (1987), 82. 28 D. Vasilakis, Neoplatonic Love (2014), 230. 29 DN I,1; PG 3, 588A; C. Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius (1987), 49.

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Pseudo-Dionysius presents his readers with a definition of ἔρως which is both grounded in Neoplatonic philosophy and at the same time clearly consistent with the tenets of Christian revelation. It is a word which indeed merits praise ‘as being appropriate to God’. In this detoxification of ἔρως we see neither the subordination of Christianity to Platonism, nor the crude Christianisation of a Platonic concept. Rather, what we see is a ‘unity, an alliance, and a particular commingling’ of two great traditions, each retaining its own integrity, while at the same time, in effect, offering something from its own treasure-store for the other’s enrichment.

Different Accounts of the Martyrdom of St Paul and their Significance for the Epistola ad s. Timotheum de Passione Apostolorum Petri et Pauli Ascribed to Dionysius the Areopagite Michael MUTHREICH, Göttingen, Germany

ABSTRACT If we look at the accounts of the martyrdom of St Paul we find at least two different stories of his beheading in the city of Rome. On the one hand there is the story told in the ‘Martyrdom of the Holy Apostle Paul in Rome’ (BHG 2, 1451/2) on the other hand we read a different story in the apocryphal ‘Letter of Consolation to Timothy the Disciple of St Paul’ attributed to Dionysius the Areopagite (CPG 3, 6631; BHL 2, 6671; BHO 966-70). The ‘Martyrdom of the Holy Apostle Paul in Rome’ and the synaxarium of the Greek Orthodox Church relate that ‘milk splashed on the tunic of the soldier’ when St Paul was beheaded. The Coptic synaxarium – written in Arabic – tells that Paul took the scarf of a Christian handmaid of Nero, collected his blood in it while being beheaded and miraculously gave it back to her. This is the exact account given in the letter ascribed to Dionysius the Areopagite which is related to the narration of St Paul’s martyrdom in ‘The Martyrdom of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul’ (BHG 2, 1491). This article argues that the existence of an extant Greek version of the aforementioned apocryphal letter attributed to Dionysius the Areopagite is quite unlikely if we take into account that it relates St Paul’s martyrdom differently to the Greek synaxarium and if we furthermore assume a Monophysite origin of the letter in Syria.

1. Preliminary remarks The Epistola de Morte (the apocryphal ‘Letter of Consolation to Timothy the Disciple of St Paul’ attributed to Dionysius the Areopagite, from now on simply called Epistola) written to Timothy the disciple of Paul by Dionysius the Areopagite is extant in manuscripts written in many classical Christian languages such as Syriac, Latin, Armenian, Georgian, Arabic and Ge’ez but it is not extant in Greek, the native language of Dionysius who was – according to the Acts of the Apostles (17:34) – from Athens. It seems curious that a letter supposed to have been written by a prominent Greek disciple of St Paul was not preserved in its original language taking into account the fact that such a letter must surely have been of quite some importance to early Christians. In this paper I will try to give some reasons for this curious fact.

Studia Patristica C, 263-272. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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Modern scholarship is certain that the Dionysius mentioned in Acts, i.e. the one who was converted by St Paul in the city of Athens, did not write such a letter. On the other hand we also know that important philosophic-theological treatises were later on published under his name and afterwards bundled in the Corpus Dionysiacum. They were all originally written in Greek as far as we know. Within the Corpus we find ten letters but the Epistola does not belong to them. It may be called the twelfth letter, after the apocryphal letter to Apollophanes which then counts as the eleventh,1 if we think it suitable to be placed among the Dionysian letters because of its popularity especially in the oriental churches. In this paper I will cover the following topics. First I will present the special features of St Paul’s martyrdom as it is narrated in the Epistola, to render possible a comparison of it with other narrations of the martyrdom as well as its classification. After that I will introduce some other accounts of St Paul’s martyrdom – differing from the one in the Epistola as well as essentially corresponding ones – to indicate possible reasons for the absence of Greek manuscripts of the Epistola or at least for the enormous difficulty in finding them. 2. Narration of St Paul’s martyrdom in the Epistola The story is generally told as follows.2 When the sentence was to be carried out and St Paul and St Peter were led to the place of their execution they were first beaten, mocked and spat at by the crowd of unbelievers and Jews. They bade farewell to each other and were separated. Both were then executed at the same time but not at the same place, which is obvious from the fact that the martyrdom of St Peter is mentioned but not told, for Dionysius – as he says – followed his teacher St Paul to his execution, to be more precise his decapitation. As a result he was unable to be present at the crucifixion head-first of St Peter. After getting this clear two incidents are told: first, rather briefly, the decapitation and secondly, at greater length, a miracle which is supposed to have happened shortly after the execution of the two Apostles, the preceding events of which already started before St Paul’s decapitation. St Paul’s decapitation is told in a quite unspectacular manner. The executioner tells St Paul to prepare his neck. St Paul then looks into heaven making the sign of the cross on his forehead and his chest saying: ‘My Lord Jesus Christ in your hands I commend my spirit.’ Calmly and composed he finally extends his neck to the sword and receives the crown. The miracle is covered more extensively. There are basically two miracles. One of them happens to 1

Mauritius Geerard, Clavis Patrum Graecorum III: A Cyrillo Alexandrino ad Iohannem Damascenum (Turnhout, 1979), 274 (6630). 2 The versions sometimes differ in details.

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Dionysius himself insofar as he sees the two Apostles entering the city hand in hand after their execution, crowned and dressed in garments of light. The other miracle is described as follows. A Christian handmaid in the service of the emperor Nero – usually called Lemobia in Latin (Lubia in the Georgian version) – approaches St Paul on his way to his execution crying and lamenting. St Paul comforts her and asks her for her veil promising to give it back to her immediately. While being executed, he collects his own blood with the veil, wraps it and miraculously gives it back to the handmaid. There is, as an aside, an additional event in mss. Ambrosianae Mediolanensis, supplementi 139 and 216 which Martin imparts in his edition of the Latin Epistola.3 It says when the head of St Paul was severed from its body it jumped up from the ground three times calling ‘Jesus’ each time.4 This event cannot be found in any other manuscript of the Epistola as far as I can see. It might well be a later addition to the text. When the executioner then returns from the execution, the handmaid asks him where he put St Paul’s body and he answers that St Paul lies with his companion (referring most likely to St Peter) outside the city in a certain valley, her bloodstained veil still wrapped around his head. She responds by saying that she just saw St Peter and St Paul entering the city crowned and dressed in radiant garments. She proceeds to show the veil to the executioner and the people standing around which makes many of them believe in Christ. 3. Main features of the Epistola Looking at this narration of the martyrdom of St Paul we find others in accordance with it. Some of them I will review later. For the moment I want to have a closer look at pivotal assumptions made in the Epistola concerning the martyrdom of St Paul. Five main assumptions can be enumerated: 1. 2. 3. 4.

St Peter and St Paul suffer martyrdom at the same time in the city of Rome. St Peter is crucified headfirst. St Paul is decapitated. A female person belonging to the family of the emperor gives her veil to St Paul and gets it back shortly after his death. 5. Not only St Peter and St Paul suffer martyrdom at the reported time but also (many) other fellow Christians (even if they did not die with them on the same day), which is obvious from the fact that the bodies of the Apostles are thrown into a ditch together with the mortal remains of other believers. 3

Joannes Baptista Pitra, Analecta sacra spicilegio solesmensi parata, Tom. IV, Patres Antenicaeni (Paris, 1883), 261-71. 4 Ibid. 268.

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Assuming this, the Epistola can be classified chronologically as well as spatially: To 1: The acceptance of a martyrdom of the two Apostles at the same time and at the same place can be expected after the year 258 according to Zwierlein;5 at the latest after the fourth century when Ambrose and Jerome propagated it. Augustine as an aside supposes that the martyrdom of both Apostles occurred on the same day but not in the same year. Zwierlein sees an interrelation between the feast of the Apostles and the pagan celebration of the founding of the city of Rome on the 29th of June by Romulus and Remus.6 To 2: Tertullian is the first church father to mention the crucifixion of St Peter and the decapitation of St Paul in Rome. However, he does not know anything about a crucifixion headfirst, or at least he does not mention it. It occurs for the first time in the apocryphal Acts of Peter. The apocryphal tradition then had a great impact on the view of the church fathers towards the martyrdom of the two Apostles. To 3: Concerning the decapitation of St Paul the same applies as in regard to the crucifixion of St Peter. Information referring to this is mainly based on apocryphal acts, which were used later by the church fathers. To 4: This episode is told in at least two acts apart from the Epistola. The first one is Pseudo-Linus, if we assume it to have been written in the fourth or fifth century. The name of the young maidservant (Lemobia/Lubia) is Plautilla in this act and here she appears as a noble lady (matrona). This story is also told in the ‘The Martyrdom of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul’ (of the fifth or sixth century) with some variation. The name of the woman for instance has changed into Perpetua. She is neither a maidservant of Nero nor a noble lady, she is just a believing woman (γυνὴ θεοσεβής) and moreover she has one bad eye which is afterwards healed by the scarf stained with the blood of St Paul and given back to her miraculously. To 5: The persecution of Christians in Rome, i.e. the narration that not only St Peter and St Paul were martyred at that time, is to be found in the apocryphal acts of the martyrs as well. Taking all this into account the date of the appearance of the Epistola is likely to have been the fourth century at the earliest. It is more likely though that the Epistola belongs to the sixth century, adopting essential features from the ‘The Martyrdom of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul’.

5 6

Otto Zwierlein, Petrus und Paulus in Jerusalem und Rom (Berlin, Boston, 2013), 112. Ibid. 111, 112.

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4. Narrations of St Paul’s martyrdom generally in accordance with the Epistola 4.1. The Coptic synaxarium The martyrdom as it is narrated in the Coptic synaxarium shows striking similarities to the story told in the Epistola. The martyrdom is to be found at the end of a longer narration about St Peter and St Paul. In the Coptic Church it is read on the 5th of Abib (currently the 12th of July7). Below the report of St Paul’s martyrdom is cited completely: While St Paul was passing along with the executioner, he met a damsel who was a kinswoman of the Emperor Nero, and who had believed through him. She walked along with St Paul, weeping, to where they carried out the sentence. He comforted her and asked her for her veil. He wrapped his head with the veil, and asked her to return back. The executioner cut off his head and left it wrapped in the veil of the young girl, and that was in the year 67 A.D. The young girl met the executioner on his way back to the Emperor, and asked him about Paul and he replied, ‘He is lying where I left him and his head is wrapped in your veil.’ She told him, ‘You are lying, for he and Peter had just passed by me, they were arrayed in the apparel of kings, and had crowns decorated with jewels on their heads, and they gave me my veil, and here it is.’ She showed it to the executioner, and to those who were with him. They marvelled, and believed in the Lord Christ.8

4.2. ‘The Martyrdom of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul’ (BHG 2, 1491) Even if the report of St Paul’s martyrdom in ‘The Martyrdom of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul’ shares many similarities with the Epistola there are some important differences as well. One of them is the characterisation of the woman who gives her scarf to St Paul. It is much more detailed in ‘The Martyrdom of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul’. Her name is, as already mentioned, Perpetua and she is one-eyed. As an aside, Perpetua is also the name of a Carthaginian martyr whose martyrdom is testified at a quite early date (the beginning of the third century). It is written in Latin. Both women seem to have not so much in common at first sight. The Carthaginian martyr, for example, is not one-eyed. On the other hand Perpetua as depicted in ‘The Martyrdom of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul’ suffers a painful martyrdom as well and in addition she is not alone in prison but has ‘her Felicitas’ with her. It is a certain Potenziana who joins her and the sister of whom is the wife of Nero. The wife of Nero eventually leaves her husband after having talked to her sister Potenziana in prison. This seems to be one of the main reasons 7

The date points to the 29th of June. See Otto Zwierlein, Petrus in Rom (Berlin, New York, 2010), 342, note 16. 8 St George Coptic Orthodox Church (ed.), Coptic Synaxarium (Chicago, 1995), 418.

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for the martyrdom of the two women.9 By reason of comparison the narration is placed here: They led Paul three miles outside the city in order to decapitate him, and he was bound in irons […]. After they left the gate and had traveled about the distance of a bow shot, a pious woman came to met them. When she saw Paul being dragged along and bound in chains, she felt great pity for him and wept bitterly. The name of the woman was Perpetua, and she had only one eye. Seeing her crying, Paul said to her, ‘Give me your scarf, and as I am returning I will give it back to you.’ She took the scarf and gave it to him willingly. […] And it happened in that way. They decapitated him at the estate called Aquae Salvias, near the pine tree. But just as God wished, before the soldiers returned, the scarf, which was covered with blood, was given back to the woman. As soon as she put it on, immediately and at that moment her eye was opened.10

Perpetua then went to the emperor Nero and announced in the palace all that had happened to her, especially that the soldiers who executed St Paul became Christians. Nero was filled with rage and Perpetua was ordered to be thrown into prison where she met Potenziana. 5. Narrations of St Paul’s martyrdom substantially divergent from the Epistola 5.1. The Greek Synaxarium In the Greek synaxarium another account of the martyrdom of St Paul is given. Despite the fact that it is narrated very briefly it still relates a miracle, namely that blood and milk poured out of the wound caused by the beheading. The following is said in the synaxarium of Constantinople: After the chosen (i.e. St Paul) had thus become an instrument (of God i.e. after he was taught and baptised by Ananias) he enchanted the whole world traveling it like on wings. And when he arrived at the city of Rome he taught many and ended his life there some time later his head being cut off. It is said that blood and milk poured out of the wound. Even if the blessed Paul was perfected later their (mortal) remains (i.e. the bodies of Peter and Paul) were buried at the same place.11

This event is related in the ‘Martyrdom of the Holy Apostle Paul in Rome’ as well which is to be considered in the next paragraph. Furthermore, the Greek synaxarium assumes (differently to the Epistola) that St Peter and St Paul were not executed at the same time. St Peter in fact died some time before St Paul. 9

David L. Eastman, The Ancient Martyrdom Accounts of Peter and Paul (Atlanta, 2015), 310-3. Ibid. 307. 11 Hippolyte Delehaye (ed.), Synaxarium Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae (Brussels, 1902), 779. 10

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5.2. Martyrdom of the Holy Apostle Paul in Rome (BHG II, 1451-2) This apocryphon is quite old (second or third-century) and not very long. It is written in Greek but there is also a fragment of it extant in Latin.12 Concerning the martyrdom of St Paul, the same story is told as in the Greek synaxarium. St Paul’s Passio is narrated in a laconic way and the only miracle occurring during the decapitation is that blood and milk pour out of Paul’s carcass after his head was severed. Another miracle is the appearance of St Paul after his death. It is included in the Epistola as well but in its own way and much less concrete. It is only mentioned that he and St Peter entered the city hand in hand crowned and dressed in garments of the kingdom. The relevant part of this martyrdom should also be added here: After turning to the east and stretching out his hands, Paul prayed for a long time in the Hebrew language. He ended his prayer and shared the word with them (i.e. prefect Longinus and centurion Cescus, who tend towards Christianity but still are not Christians). Then he said the ‘amen’ and stretched out his neck to be severed. When he was silent and no longer speaking, the soldier cut off his head. As his head was cut off, milk spurted onto the clothes of the soldier. After they saw this, the crowds standing there were amazed and glorified God, who had given such grace to Paul.13

After the execution of St Paul, the emperor Nero is informed about his death. Surprisingly St Paul appears at the palace around the ninth hour reproving Nero which leads to the release of Christian prisoners. Furthermore, the prefect Longinus and centurion Cescus find Titus and Luke at the grave of St Paul with St Paul standing right in the middle of them. St Paul told them before to come to the tomb at an appointed time. Both eventually become Christians themselves. Thus St Paul appears after his death but he is not dressed in garments of the kingdom or crowned. He does not appear together with St Peter as well but seems to be unchanged. At the least, nothing special is told about his appearance after his death. He just appears. 6. The ‘Passio Sancti Pauli Apostoli’ (BHL 2, 6570) The ‘Passio Sancti Pauli Apostoli’ also called Pseudo-Linus (fourth- or fifthcentury according to Tajra,14 fifth- or sixth-century according to Eastman15) links the two above mentioned apocrypha. It is written in Latin and includes both mentioned miracles, the ‘milk miracle’ as well as the ‘scarf miracle’. The 12 Richard A. Lipsius and Max Bonnet (eds), Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha, pars prior (Darmstadt, 1959), 104-17. 13 D.L. Eastman, The Ancient Martyrdom Accounts (2015), 135. 14 Harry W. Tajra, The Martyrdom of St Paul (Tübingen, 1994), 138. 15 D.L. Eastman, The Ancient Martyrdom Accounts (2015), 141.

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woman, however, who hands her scarf to St Paul is neither Lemobia/Lubia nor Perpetua but Plautilla. A woman called Plautilla appears in this apocryphal act for the first time in the Acts16 about St Paul. Tajra sees parallels to legends about Veronica ‘who was said to have wiped the face of Christ on his way to Calvary and on whose scarf the Saviour’s image was miraculously imprinted’.17 The episode of Plautilla is in fact split in this martyrdom account. At first the handover of the veil is narrated after which follows a conversation between St Paul and two prefects, Longinus and Megistus, as well as the centurion Acestus corresponding to what is said in the ‘Martyrdom of the Holy Apostle Paul in Rome’. Afterwards the beheading is related during which the two mentioned miracles occur: When they were proceeding to the place of his passion accompanied by countless crowds of people, he came to the gate of the city of Rome. There he met a matron of the highest nobility named Plautilla, a most zealous lover of the apostles and supporter of the divine religion. She was weeping and began to entrust herself to his prayers. Paul said to her, ‘Greetings, Plautilla, daughter of eternal salvation. Give me the scarf with which you cover your head, and back away a little because of the hindrance of the people. Wait for me here until I return to you and repay your kindness [...]18

The martyrdom and the miracles are told thus: After saying these things he arrived at the place of his passion. Turning towards the east with his hands raised into heaven, he prayed in Hebrew for a very long time with tears and gave thanks to God. […] Then binding his eyes with the veil of Plautilla, he placed both knees on the ground and stretched out his neck. The executioner raised his arm high into the air. He struck with force and cut off Paul’s head. After it had been severed from the body, it called out the name of the Lord Jesus Christ in Hebrew in a clear voice. Immediately a stream of milk splashed out of his body onto the cloak of the soldier, and after that blood flowed out. The stole with which he had bound his eyes could not be found when certain people wanted to take it.19

As we see, another characteristic and interesting feature is added to this martyrdom (at least in Latin manuscripts of the Epistola). It is the report that the severed head of St Paul cried out the name of Christ in a loud and clear voice. This could point to a Roman tradition. As mentioned before, a similar yet extended story appears in at least two Latin manuscripts of the Epistola. Here it is said that the head of St Paul after decapitation jumped up off the ground three times crying, ‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!’ This is obviously an interpolation taken from a legend told about a presumed place of St Paul’s decapitation in Rome. Interestingly ‘The Martyrdom of the 16 17 18 19

H.W. Tajra, The Martyrdom of St Paul (1994), 141. Ibid. D.L. Eastman, The Ancient Martyrdom Accounts (2015), 163. Ibid. 165, 167.

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Holy Apostles Peter and Paul’ points to an estate called Aquae Salvias as the location of St Paul’s decapitation. Today there is the Abbey ‘Tre Fontane’ held by Trappist monks. In Latin it is called Abbatia trium fontium ad Aquas Salvias. Three churches belong to the monastery. One of them is the ‘Church of St Paul of Three Fountains’ which was built on the place where St Paul was beheaded according to this legend. For, as the legend goes, the head of St Paul after being cut off his body bounced and struck the earth in three different places from which fountains sprung up. Both Acts obviously exhibit a strong Roman influence. 7. Why is there no Greek manuscript of the Epistola? Possible reasons The question of why no Greek manuscript of the Epistola has yet been found is difficult to answer. We are not able to say with absolute certainty that there is no Greek manuscript of the Epistola at all. Nevertheless, some reasons shall be given here that may help to understand or at least to render plausible the lack of such manuscripts. I see two main reasons for it: 1. The Epistola supports a distinct Roman (Latin) tradition. 2. The Epistola originally belonged to Monophysite churches. The first reason is supported by the ‘The Martyrdom of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul’ as well as the ‘Passio Sancti Pauli Apostoli’ and the second by the Coptic synaxarium. As we have seen the Dionysian Epistola is related to ‘The Martyrdom of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul’ and the Coptic synaxarion. They all tell us the story of the maidservant and her veil. The Dionysian text is therefore connected with the Roman tradition of Aquae Salvias or Tre Fontane which does not go further back than into the sixth century. This, by the way, is the century in which the author of the Corpus Dionysiacum is supposed to have lived and written. Insofar as the Epistola is related to the Coptic synaxarion and not to the Greek one it seems closer to Monophysite traditions than to Chalcedonian ones. Moreover, the author of the Corpus Dionysiacum, and therefore the author of the Epistola as well, may in fact not really or openly have been a Monophysite but he was close to Monophysite positions and he was ‘discovered’ or first used by Severos of Antioch who was a Monophysite. In Monophysite churches moreover the text is surprisingly widespread. It seems to have been quite popular in these churches and this might have been a reason to regard the Epistola with suspicion by the Chalcedonians. Even if textual evidence suggests that the Epistola was originally written in Greek, as Eastman states,20 there are strong reasons to suppose that it actually 20

Ibid. 344.

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belongs into the Syriac church. On the one hand, the author of the Corpus Dionysiacum is to be located in Syria. Suchla, for example, places the author of the Corpus Dionysiacum into the environment of Caesarea (in Palestine), i.e. western Syria.21 Furthermore, Baumstark, who was well acquainted with Christian-Syriac literature, says: ‘The most distant part of Rome which still belonged to the Greek speaking world is to be considered as the place of the Epistola’s emergence because of its total ignorance of old Roman church history.’22 He additionally says: ‘Like the other Pseudo-Areopagitica […] the Epistola, of which the archetype contained oriental translations, originates from the most distant part of the Greek speaking world, in western Syria itself.’23 On the other hand there are quite old manuscripts of Syriac translations available. The oldest extant manuscript of the Epistola at all is, to my knowledge, Syriac (Vat. Sir 123 from the ninth century). Consequently the Epistola might have been primarily transmitted in the Syriac Church even if it was originally written in Greek. Finally, all these reasons do not make the Epistola a text favourable to the Greek Church. The Epistola tends to the Monophysite church and it shows strong references to Roman local traditions which may not have been very relevant for the Greek Church. So the text most probably was not found by the Greeks to be worth keeping or using. These may be at least some of the reasons why it no longer appears to be extant in the Greek language.

21

Beate Regina Suchla, Dionysius Areopagita. Leben–Werk–Wirkung (Freiburg, 2008), 21-4. Anton Baumstark, Die Petrus- und Paulusakten in der literarischen Überlieferung der syrischen Kirche (Leipzig, 1902), 35. 23 A. Baumstark, Die Petrus- und Paulusakten (1902), 37. 22

Three Practical Ways of Thinking about Virtue in Maximus the Confessor’s Cosmic and Ascetic Theology Emma BROWN DEWHURST, LMU Munich, Germany

ABSTRACT In this article I look at Maximus the Confessor’s understanding of love as simultaneously one and many. By bringing together Maximus’ cosmic, metaphysical understanding of love, and his ascetic, practical suggestions on love, I suggest three ways in which we might think practically about virtue and love in our everyday lives. I outline Maximus’ cosmic theology and the way in which love is many virtues and yet at the same time one. I then describe how this relates to Maximus’ ascetic theology, where personal spiritual practice is set forward. I show that, when trying to act in a loving way, we can break down ethical thought in a number of ways. These include (1) instead of trying to consider all virtues when we act, to instead think of love as their most perfect unity; (2) if we have difficulty thinking about love, we can break it down into virtues that we assess in light of them always being a kind of love; (3) that we need not always think in terms of how to do the virtuous thing, but instead can think about removing vices from ourselves, and preventing ourselves from being unloving and self-centred in our thoughts, desires and actions. This kind of ethics is very different from modern approaches that use virtue to consider how we should act, and may be important for developing a more consistent ethics for the present day.

Introduction In the last few decades there has been a revival of virtue and personal dedication to habit as a system of ethics. One of the difficulties in applying such ethics stems from the disagreement in what we should consider to be virtues. St Maximus the Confessor suggests that we can recognise these in the light of how we understand love, which is in itself defined through the life, death and resurrection of Christ. In this article I first explain what I mean by this – both where this relationship between love and the virtues comes from within Maximus’ theology and also what it is. I then go on to explain how this very theoretical understanding of virtue can have practical repercussions for how we use ethics in our everyday lives, giving three practical ways of thinking about virtue derived from Maximus’ thoughts.

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1. Love as the Virtues 1.1. Where does this come from? For Maximus there is a reciprocal relationship between love and the virtues. The origin of this relationship in Maximus’ works seems to come from Paul’s letters. Whenever we come across key passages in Maximus’ works that look at the way that love and the virtues relate, we see almost verbatim quotations from Paul. In a passage from the Mystagogia that closely resembles Colossians 3:12, Maximus describes how, when the Holy Spirit and Christ perfect humans, a virtuous way of life becomes possible: ... having clothed ourselves with heartfelt compassion (οἰκτιρμοῦ), with kindness (χρηστότητα), humility (ταπεινοφροσύνην), meekness (πραΰτητα), and patience (μακροθυμίαν), bearing (ἀνεχόμενοι) with one another in love and forgiving (χαριζόμενοι) one another if one has a complaint against the other just as Christ has forgiven us, and over all these let us clothe ourselves with love and peace (τὴν ἀγάπην καὶ τὴν εἰρήνην), the bond of perfection (τὸν σύνδεσμον τελειότητος), to which we have been called in one body...1

We can compare this to the passage in Colossians 3:12-15: As God’s chosen ones, holy (ἅγιοι) and beloved (ἠγαπημένοι), clothe yourselves with compassion (οἰκτιρμοῦ), kindness (χρηστότητα), humility (ταπεινοφροσύνην), meekness (πρᾳότητα), and patience (μακροθυμίαν). Bear with (ἀνεχόμενοι) one another and, if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive (χαριζόμενοι) each other; just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. Above all, clothe yourselves with love (ἀγάπην), which binds everything together in perfect harmony (σύνδεσμος τῆς τελειότητος). And let the peace (εἰρήνη) of Christ rule your hearts, to which indeed you were called in the one body (Col. 3 :12-15).

In Maximus and particularly in Paul, love appears as the culmination of all the virtues. It binds them together and is called the bond of perfection. Similarly we also find quotations on love and the virtues from 1Corinthians 13:4-8 in Maximus’ Letter 2: On Love, where love is described as being the other virtues: For love, says the divine Apostle, or rather Christ, speaking these things through him, is long-suffering and kind, not jealous or boastful, is not puffed up or rude, and does not insist on its own way, is not irritable, does not think evil, nor rejoice in injustice, but rejoices in truth. Love endures all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. Love never fails, since it possesses God who is alone unfailing and unalterable.2 1 Maximus, Mystagogia, Ch. 24. English translation from George Berthold, Maximus the Confessor, Selected Writings (London, 1985), 211. Greek from R. Cantarella, S. Massimo Confessore. La mistagogia ed altri scritti (Florence, 1931), 215-20. 2 Maximus, Letter 2: On Love (PG 91, 405A-B). English translation from Andrew Louth, Maximus the Confessor (London, 1996), 92.

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The passage, italicised above by the translator, corresponds to 1Cor. 13:4-8. Maximus draws attention to love as somehow being these virtues, and ultimately being unfailing or unending (ἐκπίπτω) because God Himself is love. Maximus has just identified God as love in this passage,3 and in the above quotation identifies Paul’s properties of love with God – love endures all things/ God is unalterable, love never fails/God who is alone unfailing. Interestingly, Paul, whilst also identifying love as being all of the virtues, seems to be referring to love in this passage as something that the human must have before they can even possess virtue. Love is not just the end of virtue but also the start, since, as he reminds us just before this passage: ‘If I speak in tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains but do not have love, I am nothing’ (1Cor. 13:1-3). The way Maximus uses Paul’s words invites a slightly different understanding of the place and purpose of love. For Maximus, the focus is about the divine quality of love, which is all virtue and most importantly is God Himself. Maximus writes ‘Love is the fulfilment of these [virtues], wholly embraced as the final desire, and furnishes them rest from their movement’.4 In the wider context of Maximus’ Letter 2 from which these passages come, we read that not only is this about the divine quality of love, but how one is led to divine love, and therefore deified. Maximus writes that ‘Out of these and through these the grace of love is fashioned, which leads one to God who defies the human being that he himself fashioned’.5 The relationship of virtues and love for Maximus is about the human being journeying to be in fullest communion with God. There is a cosmic dimension to Maximus’ ethics that is essential to his thought. Humans striving to be virtuous is not just a nicety, but is essential to who we are and the redemptive potential of the universe. There is a trajectory implied in the relationship between virtues and love for Maximus, and that is how we as humans grow in Christ and learn to become more like him. 1.2. What does this mean? So what does this mean for how we act? What value does it serve to point out that love seems to have special qualities above and including the rest of the virtues. In the language we have seen so far, love is a virtue, and yet it is more than that. It is the sum total of all the virtues, it is their starting point without which all virtues are meaningless, and the end point to which all virtues are gathered. It is, if we like, the centre-point of a wheel, the spokes of which 3 4 5

Ibid. (PG 91, 404C). Trans. A. Louth, Maximus (1996), 91; in which Maximus quotes 1John 4:8. Ibid. (PG 91, 396C). Trans. A. Louth, Maximus (1996), 86. Ibid. (PG 91, 405A). Trans. A. Louth, Maximus (1996), 92.

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are the virtues – all deriving from, and belonging to, and aiming for love.6 Maximus believes that since God is love, virtues are of Him and from Him. When we talk about virtues being gathered in love, we are talking about people who, through virtue, are brought into God’s embrace and share in Him. In another paper I go into detail about the metaphysical relationship between the virtues and love and how this maps on to Maximus’ larger understanding of cosmological movement and salvation.7 Here, I want to focus on what this relationship between love and the virtues can do for us on a practical level. It is worth noting that for Maximus, because the virtues ‘belong to God’ and in a kind of way are Him, humans do not just get them. We do not just acquire a virtue for ourselves, in the same way that we do not just acquire for ourselves grace, the Holy Spirit, or sanctification. The virtues are offered to us, and we as humans need to have the eyes, the readiness and the space to see and receive them. I will go on to consider how this offers a very different and perhaps more helpful way of thinking about habits and virtue in our daily lives than those traditionally suggested in virtue ethics. Additionally, Maximus’ cosmological works are very closely tied to his ascetic works, and for him, laying hold of virtue – that is, living in Christ – is natural to us as human beings.8 Virtues (and therefore God’s presence) are not alien to who we are, and are not a divine impossibility beyond our capacity in which to share. By saying that virtues are natural to humans, Maximus makes a statement about communion between God and creation always being intended, and indeed essential to the existence and perfection of creation. Humanity in communion with God is the most complete and perfect kind of humanity. So there are two important things to remember about virtue for Maximus: one, that it is not alien to us and that being virtuous is a perfect expression of ourselves; and two, that we do not acquire virtue but receive it, even though this still takes work on our part because we need to have our senses open in order to accept this gift. 2. Ethics in Practice 2.1. Virtues as Single If the virtues are given by grace, what are we meant to do? Maximus reminds us that we only need to look at the life of Christ if we wish to know how to 6 The circle and radii analogy is used by Maximus to illustrate the relationship between the logoi of creation and the Logos. In a paper elsewhere I demonstrate that this is also the relationship between love and the virtues, Emma Brown Dewhurst, ‘The Ontology of Virtue as Participation in Divine Love in the Works of St Maximus the Confessor’, Forum Philosophicum 20 (2015), 157-69. Circle and radii analogy can be found: Maximus, Ambiguum 7 (PG 91, 1081C); Maximus the Confessor, On Difficulties in the Church Fathers: The Ambigua, N. Constas (trans.) (London, 2014), 100-2; Maximus, Myst., 61-7 (Ch. 1); Maximus, Chapters on Knowledge (PG 90, 1126D-1128A) (II.4). 7 E. Brown Dewhurst, ‘The Ontology of Virtue’ (2015), 157-69. 8 Maximus, Disputatio cum Pyrrho (PG 91, 309B) (Paragraphs 88-93).

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act. But there are so many different kinds of virtues, and Christ was not only human but also God. Thankfully, monks in the sixth century were just as concerned by questions like these. Maximus’ Ascetic Life starts with a startlingly human outburst from a fellow monk, who addresses his spiritual father on precisely these issues. The monk asks, ‘And who, Father, can do all the commandments? There are so many.’ To which the response is ‘He who imitates the Lord and follows in His footsteps.’ The monk then says, ‘Who can imitate the Lord? Though he became man, the Lord was God. But I am a man, a sinner, enslaved to a thousand passions. How can I imitate the Lord?’9 Many things are explained to the monk, but eventually Maximus writes the following: This is the sign of our love for God, as the Lord Himself shows in the Gospels: He that loves me, He says, will keep my commandments. And what this commandment is, which if we keep we love Him, hear Him tell: This is my commandment, that you love one another. Do you see that this love for one another makes firm the love for God? ... The Lord Himself makes it clear and has shown it to us by His very works; and so too all His disciples, who strove til death for love of their neighbour and prayed fervently for those that killed them.10

Maximus paraphrases Christ, in explaining how we should love by being virtuous, love by following all the commandments, but what this truly means is that we should love one another in the love Christ has shown us – in the love Christ has restored to us. If we think about the relationship between love and the virtues discussed above, we can see how this metaphysical dimension makes sense in a very down-to-earth, practical way. When we think of all the commandments and how difficult it seems to abide by them all, we have only to think of love, which is the totality of all the commandments. When we think of the multitudes of things that have been called virtues, we can rest assured that when we love we have laid hold of all virtues. When doing good seems like a multitudinous unending set of rules, we can think of the spokes and wheel, the radii and the circle – virtues are not multitudinous but simultaneous. They are both many and one. This is why Christ can boil down all of the commandments and the law of God to love Him and one another – in other words, to love. Whenever we are overcome by what seems to be a great complexity of things we must measure up to, we can think of love. When we love, we complete all the commandments. As Maximus writes above ‘Do you see that this love for one another makes firm the love for God?’ In loving one another we partake in love itself which is God. This is the first practical way that we can consider Maximus’ theology of love and virtue when making ethical decisions: we can consider the virtues as single, united and simple – they are love. 9 Maximus, The Ascetic Life. English translation from Polycarp Sherwood, St Maximus the Confessor: The Ascetic Life and The Four Centuries on Charity (New York, 1955), 104-5. 10 Ibid. 108.

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2.2. Love as Many This understanding of simultaneity, of course, works the other way as well. Virtues themselves are a gift, but the reason we think of them at all is because the things they describe help us to think of how we should act. When Christ commands us to love, if we struggle to know what is loving in a situation, we can think of the instances of virtue that make it up. Provided we also always think of virtues as a form of love, this, perhaps at first glance, cyclical way of understanding what we as humans should do, offers a very nuanced way of trying to know how to act. This is not necessarily tautological: if we wish to know how to act in a situation and think ‘what is the loving thing to do?’, and come up short, we might then think, ‘well, what is the compassionate thing to do, the patient thing to do, the humble thing to do, the forgiving thing to do?’, allowing these virtues to deepen and qualify love for us. As we do so, we might also be aware that no single one of these virtues is the totality of love, we might think ‘this is a patient thing to do but is it a loving thing to do, is it what Christ would do?’ And especially for those things which are sometimes called virtues but are much more precarious – things like courage and justice – virtues like this are especially important to qualify in light of love and always as derivative of and moving towards love. Whenever I hear ‘justice’ called a virtue, I am always reminded of St Isaac the Syrian’s Homily 51, who claims that mercy is a virtue, not justice, and that to be Christ-like is always to incline our hearts in compassion and never to judge.11 Our calculation of what virtue is is always qualified by the love that Christ has shown us. Keeping in mind that love is the qualifier of virtue allows us to both explore what is meant by love, but at the same time define what we mean by virtue. Thinking of the simultaneous relationship between love and virtue allows us this insight into the kind of deliberation we might wish in our ethics – all situated in light of an end, a telos if we like, that is love – in other words, that is God. This understanding of love and virtue gives us a way of thinking ethically that is always about becoming more like God, imitating Christ and deepening knowledge of Him. This is a second way in which Maximus may help us with our ethical choices – love can be understood in different situations by thinking about different virtues and what it is that is loving about each of them – love is made up of the many virtues, it is both single and many, united and yet distinct. 2.3. Removing Vice Finally, because of Maximus’ understanding of virtue being offered through grace, there is an apophatic way in which we can consider how to act. If virtue 11 Isaac the Syrian, ‘Homily 51’, in Ascetical Homilies of St Isaac the Syrian (Massachusetts, 1985), 378-89, 379.

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is God’s presence in us, then acquiring it is a matter of accepting it and having the space within us to do so. If we are clogged up with desires for material wealth, hurtful emotions and attitudes, and self-obsession, then we can neither see nor recognise the Spirit, since such desires are an active rejection of a God who is love. Maximus uses the metaphor of humans being like rusted metal,12 who must clear away our self-centredness (‘the passions’ in ascetic thought) in order for virtue and Christ within us to shine through in all we do. The image of God is there in us all, but it has been marred – its renewal requires that desire to be again in God’s likeness, and the humility to allow the Spirit to work through us. This is where the vices come in. Like 1Cor. 13, quoted in Maximus’ Letter 2, we can also think about what is not love. We can think about what we do not wish to be, what we wish to eliminate from our habits and actions. Paul said that love ‘is not jealous, or boastful, is not puffed up or rude, and does not insist on its own way, is not irritable, does not think evil, nor rejoice in injustice’. Far from being a kind of checklist into Hell, I think the purpose of this list of vices, certainly for Maximus, is to provide us with an antithesis to the virtues. To give us another way to think about ethical activity – an apophatic way to think about virtue. In the event that I am not sure what a loving thing to do is, and I do not even know what thinking of the virtues might do to help me in a situation, I can think of what not to do: I can think about not being jealous; about not being boastful; about not insisting on my own way or being irritable. This is a final way in which we can think about virtue and ethics derived especially from Maximus’ ascetic works – we can push away vice and passion from ourselves, and focus on removing what is unhelpful from us. Conclusion My purpose in this article has been to introduce some of the key features in Maximus’ understanding of virtue, and to outline some ways in which they might help us develop it as a system of ethics. Inevitably, this is always going to look very different to modern systems of virtue ethics. For Maximus, the concept of virtue is inescapably tied to his metaphysical understanding of cosmic movement, reconciliation of the universe to God, and salvation through Christ. However, this need not be a difficulty or obstacle to using his thought on ethics in a very practical way. I have tried to outline some of the ways that this cyclical understanding of Christ as being the root and completion of all virtue, and love as the totality of virtue and the aim of human life, can form a useful thought process for us when we try to make ethical decisions. Rather than a rigorous system, we have a number of ways of thinking about how to 12

Maximus, Disputatio cum Pyrrho (PG 91, 309C-312A) (Paragraph 95).

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understand what a loving thing to do is, that always revolves around and comes back to the life of Christ. We have different approaches, and flexibility that allows nuance of thought, doing away with any simplicity that might arise from a wooden definition of a virtue and the assumption therefore, that we somehow always know what we should do. We also, within this understanding of ethics and given that Maximus is inevitably a Christian, have a very deep awareness of human failure and inability to achieve virtuousness alone. Virtue first and foremost for Maximus is a relationship. It is about reception of God, and consequently, so are our ethics. Maximus gives us a way of thinking about how to do practical, everyday things, whilst always reminding us of the cosmic scope of our personal relationship with God. We remain constantly aware that we cannot find goodness alone but are perpetually told that we are made good and that good is natural to us. The search for God is always going to be a relational one, since God is a ‘who’, not a ‘what’. This is a search that we were created to undertake, and therefore, through human nature that has been renewed in Christ, one that we are equipped to undertake and can strive for with well-founded hope. It is also of course, a relational one with all of our fellow creatures, since we know ‘that this love for one another makes firm the love for God’. We love God by loving those around us. Maximus’ personal ascetical writings are always simultaneously cosmic, challenging us to live in love with all those around us. This means that his ascetical advice is also the groundwork for our political relations with one another. We are called to be people who love – both a personal and a communal challenge. I have offered three ways of thinking about Maximus’ ethics: the first was to consider virtues as single, being versions of one single Love; the second was its reverse, to consider love as many and, whilst using love as a lens, to gain a deeper understanding of what love is; the final consideration was the antithesis of both – to think about what is not virtuous and what is unhelpful, and try to remove these passions from us. These three different ways of thinking about ethical behaviour, derived from the cosmic and ascetic theology of St Maximus the Confessor, may help us rethink our own approaches to contemporary ethics.

Taming the Rhinoceros. Pauline Backings of Gregory’s Mission Arnold SMEETS, Tilburg School of Catholic Theology, Utrecht, The Netherlands

ABSTRACT In Gregory the Great’s spirituality, conversion is not only the central authentic experience of faith but also the basic structure of the Christian life. For Gregory, the latter implies the return of the contemplative back into the world, to do God’s work, among which mission and preaching play a predominant role. Paul is one of the figures used by Gregory the Great as an inspirator and role model. For instance in Morals 31 where Saul/Paul plays a part in the inquiry into the significance of the figures of the rhinoceros, the horse and the eagle and hawk of Job 39:9-30. Both Paul’s conversion and his rapture into the Third Heaven play a role in Gregory’s exploration of Job, next to his reputation as Apostle of the Gentiles and status as one of God’s bold and holy preachers. In this article, I take the references to and interpretation of Paul in Morals 31 and (briefly) the Synodical Letter Ep. 1.24 as a lead to investigate how Paul is seen and used by Gregory the Great in the context of his spirituality of conversion and his ideas on preaching and mission. I argue that Gregory’s interpretation of Paul has a bearing on his missionary project, for instance in the case of the mission to Kent.

1. Introduction Gregory the Great’s spirituality centres around conversion. For Gregory conversion is not just a personal experience, turning oneself towards God, but (based on an authentic experience) also the basic structure of the Christian life and a core element of his political theology: a spiritual vision of the conversion of the world to the Truth, as revealed in Christ and preached by the Church.1 Especially in his commentary on Job, the Moralia in Iob (or Morals), Gregory reflects on how the history of salvation guides the history of mankind and the spiritual life of each soul.2 Job, the pious and righteous heathen, is imagined by Gregory as a figure of the gentiles and heretics of his own day and age. 1

Claude Dagens, Saint Grégoire le Grand. Culture et expérience chrétiennes (Paris, 2014). Sancti Gregorii Magni. Moralia in Iob, ed. M. Adriaen, CChr.SL 143B (Turnhout, 1979), 1345-6; English translation Moralia in Job. Morals on the Book of Job by Saint Gregory the Great. The First Pope of that Name. Translated with Notes. Vol. 1-3 (London, 2012). 2

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Morals proved to be a preparation for his later years as Bishop of Rome. 3 A famous example is a passage in Morals 27.21 about the English praising God with the Hebrew Alleluia. Whether it is an echo of the successful Christianisation of Kent or a reflection of Gregory’s missionary intentions, the reference illustrates that Gregory holds the idea of a ‘natural right’ of conversion.4 It is fair to say that the Apostle Paul is one of Gregory’s heroes. Paul is a perfect role model, not only because of his conversion and his successful mission to the Gentiles, but also because Paul is a man of God to Gregory’s heart. He is an expert doctor of souls; virtuous and humble, both courageous and active, combining ascetic detachment with exercise of power not for power’s sake but because of love for God and one’s neighbour. Important too is the fact that Gregory shares the eschatology and the dialectics of Pauline theology.5 In Gregory’s thought the opposition is modified into a complementarity. In effect, his spirituality is that of a dynamics of contemplatio (intus) and actio (foris) becoming missio. In this article I shall present some results of my reading of Morals 31. Gregory comments on Job 39:9-32 which presents an interesting zoo including a rhinoceros, an ostrich, a locust, a horse, a hawk and an eagle. Gregory explores the hidden meaning and significance of the animals in relation to the mission of the Church. I shall sketch how Gregory tries to convince his audience of the truth and value of his vision of the Church’s mission. He offers them two models for identification: that of the holy preacher (sanctus praedicator) and that of every soldier of Christ (unumquemque Christi militem). These two models are not only relevant for the original audience of Morals, but also for what I call the extended audience: those who later read Morals or who, inspired by Gregory’s ideas about the conversion of the world, joined the pope in for instance the execution of his missionary programme.6 I shall focus on the model of the holy preacher and on the figures of the rhinoceros, the horse and the two birds of prey. Gregory explains them in connection with Paul, especially his Damascus-experience and journey into the 3 Claude Dagens, ‘Grégoire le Grand avant son pontificat. Expérience politique et expérience spirituelle’, in De Tertullien aux Mozarabes, Tome 1: Antiquité tardive et Christianisme ancien (Paris, 1992), 143-50. 4 Agnès Boulouis, ‘Références pour la conversion du monde païen’, REA 33 (1987), 105; Claude Dagens, ‘Grégoire le Grand, Consul Dei. La mission prophétique d’un pasteur’, in Gregorio Magno e il suo tempo, Vol. 1. Studie Ephemeridis Augustinianum 33 (Rome, 1991), 42 refers to Morals 27.21 as a ‘hymne à l’universalité de la foi’. 5 Carole Straw, Gregory the Great. Perfection in Imperfection (Berkeley, 1988); Brendan T. Lupton, St. Paul as a Model and Teacher in the Writings of St. Gregory the Great (Washington DC, 2013). 6 Gregory the Great started working on Morals during his stay in Constantinople, at the request of a group of monks who had travelled with him from the monastery of Saint Andrew’s in Rome. On the original audience of Morals: Barbara Müller, Führung im Denken und Handeln Gregors des Grossen (Tübingen, 2009), 99-100.

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Third Heaven. The rhinoceros is, apart from a figure of the hero of Gregory’s narrative (the holy preacher Paul), explained as a figure of the anti-hero of the Church’s mission: the worldly powers, persecuting the Church. One of them is Saul. 2. The inevitability of the mission of the Church In Morals 31 Gregory takes up the theme of humility, which he explored in Book 30. In the opening remarks of Book 31, Gregory states that Christ came into the world to confound the mighty (quoting 1Cor. 1:27) and he links this moment in the history of salvation to Job and to the history of the Church: Mighty things were therefore confounded by the weak because while the life of the humble rises to veneration, the pride of the haughty has fallen. Because therefore blessed Job is a type of Holy Church, and Almighty God foresaw that, in the early times of the rising Church, the mighty of this world would refuse, with the suborn neck of their heart, to undertake its light burden (…).7

Gregory describes the continuing conversion of mankind to the truth. The Church’s mission is not without its set-backs and not without suffering. Reading Scripture, and reading the signs of the times, one cannot but believe that God is guiding the Church and that it is the sacred calling of the Church and of the flock (and especially the preachers), to spread God’s word to every corner of the world. The rhinoceros is an animal of ‘quite an untamed nature’ (indomitae omnino natura. Mor. 31.2). It is a wild beast. The horn on its nostril is a mighty weapon but also a reference to pride and folly. Gregory first comments on the historical meaning of these verses: the context of the history of the early Church. The rhinoceros stands for the worldly powers persecuting the Church.8 Those powers are cruel and rightly dreaded, but Gregory tries to reassure his audience: the feared and mighty animal can be transformed into an ally. History teaches that in time the devastating force of the rhinoceros was tamed. No doubt Gregory had the emperor Constantine in mind. He adds that he himself remembers seeing how the mighty rhinoceros ‘extinguished all the blaze of fury within, on the sign of the cross being suddenly imprinted on his brow’ (Mor. 31.5). If Gregory was not thinking of King Aethelbert of Kent when writing this, he certainly would 7 Moralia 31.1.1: ‘Per infirma ergo confusa sunt fortia, quia dum in veneratione vita surgit humilium, elatio cecidit superborum. Igitur quia beatus Iob sanctae Ecclesiae typum tenet, et omnipotens Dominus praevidet quod in primordiis nascentis Ecclesiae potentes huius saeculi leve eius iugum suscipere crassa cordis cervice recusarent (…)’, Adalbert de Vogüé, Grégoire le Grand. Morales sur Job, SC 525 (Paris, 2009), 180; ET Moralia in Job (2012), 3, 393. 8 Carole Straw, ‘Gregory’s politics. Theory and practice’, in Gregorio Magno e il sue tempo (1991), 47-63.

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remember this passage in Morals when, in the years after his conversion in 597, the king proved to be an enforcer of Christianity in his lands.9 So, the wild beast can be tamed and, what is more, can be bound to work for the Church. The Church herself is too weak to ‘break down the hardness of some of the haughty’ (Mor. 31.6). The mighty rhinoceros has the strength needed. In his comment on Job 39:11, Wilt thou have confidence in his great strength, and wilt thou leave to him thy labours?, Gregory teaches that because the rhinoceros is ‘dreaded by his subjects, he persuades them the more readily’ (Mor. 31.6). 3. Empowering the preacher The figure of the rhinoceros re-appears in Morals 31.30-5. There, the wild beast is explored in its mystical significance. In this sense, the rhinoceros is a figure of the People of the Old Convenant, and, to name one, a figure of Saul who in ‘keeping the Law, carried a horn on his nostril’ (Mor. 31.30). Saul was the feared one: ‘every preacher dreaded the cruelty of Saul’ (Mor. 31.30). The road to Damascus provides the turning point. Gregory quotes Acts 9:4, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?, and describes the Damascus experience: ‘the Virgin doubtless opened her bosom to the rhinoceros, when the Uncorrupted Wisdom of God disclosed to Saul the mystery of His Incarnation by speaking from heaven and the rhinoceros lost its strength, because, prostrate on the ground, he lost all his swelling pride (…)’ (Mor. 31.40). The ‘prostrate on the ground’ is of course interpreted as an echo of the story of Paul’s conversion in Acts 9. Paul fell and, blind, was then led to Ananias, who baptised him. He was bound both by blindness and by baptism, according to Gregory in his comment: ‘suddenly changed from being an enemy, he [Paul] is made a preacher: and in all quarters of the world announces the name of his Redeemer, endures punishments for the truth’s sake, exults at differing himself what he had inflicted, invites some by allurements, and recalls other by terrors, to the faith’ (Mor. 31.34). Here Gregory formulates a missionary strategy, with Paul setting the example. All who heard or read Gregory’s words knew this was exactly what had happened and all would feel stirred by it; this was their foreland, a statement of their calling as preachers. With Paul presented as the zealous and inspired example, it is time to explore what awaits the preacher when he takes up the challenge of his calling. For this Gregory turns his attention to the figure of the horse. Why a horse? Job 39:18 9 On King Aethelbert and the English Mission see Robert A. Markus, Gregory the Great and His World (Cambridge, 1997) and George E. Demacopoulos, Gregory the Great. Ascetic, Pastor, and First Man of Rome (Notre Dame, 2015). See also (in Dutch): Arnold Smeets, Conversio. Bekering en missionering bij Gregorius de Grote. Een semiotiek van het verleden [Conversio. Conversion and Mission in Gregory the Great. A Semiotics of the Past] (Nijmegen, 2007).

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has the first (indirect) reference to the horse: (the ostrich) scorneth the horseman and his rider. Gregory explains that the horseman in this verse refers to the ‘soul of a holy man, which keeps the body, its beast of burden, under good control’, which implies that the rider is none other than Almighty God (Mor. 31.27). The horse, a figure implied by the horseman and his rider, is ‘the body of the soul which belongs to each holy soul, which knows in truth both how to restrain from unlawful pursuits by the bit of continence, and again to let loose by the impulse of charity, in the exercise of good works’ (Mor. 31.27). The horse as such can have one of five meanings in Scripture: the slippery life of the wicked, temporal dignity, this present world, the preparation of the right intention, and the last and most important: the holy preacher. It is a fine and mighty horse, neighing, trampling, ready for battle (Job 39:19-25). The connection between the horse and the preachers is Hab. 3:15, Thou didst walk through the sea with thine horses, through the heap of great waters. Gregory explains: For the waters, in truth, lay quiet, because the minds of men were lulled to rest a long while, beneath the torpor of their sins. But the sea was disturbed by the horses of God; because, when holy preachers had been sent, every heart which was benumbed with fatal security was alarmed by the shock of wholesome fear.10

The horses disturbing the waters are the horses neighing in Job 39:19. The neighing refers to the ability to preach. Gregory uses the theme of the opposites intus and foris in his comment. He points at a manifest link between one’s own moral perfection (intus), the eloquence of the preaching (foris) and the impact of one’s words in the hearts of the heathen (intus). Life and teaching must both be part of the preacher’s personality. We must observe, why neighing, which is doubtless uttered inwardly through the throat, is said to be placed round the neck of the horse, that is, to be drawn in a circle outwardly. For as it rouses others to good living, it binds also the conduct of the preacher to good deeds (…).11

From the glory of his nostrils is terror in Job 39:20 onwards, the different elements of the figure of the horse are used to sketch the profile of a preacher and his missionary labour. The nostril stands for the foreknowledge of the Last Judgement and the manifestation of the heavenly fatherland; the terror is the 10 Moralia 31.24.43: ‘Quietae quippe aquae iacuerunt, quia humanae mentes diu sub vitiorum suorum torpore sopitae sunt. Sed equis Dei mare turbatum est, quia missis sanctis praedicatoribus, omne cor quod pestifera securitate torpuit, impulsa salutiferi timoris expavit’, SC 525, 260-2; ET Moralia in Job (2012), 3, 424. 11 Moralia 31.24.44: ‘Et notandum cur hinnitus, qui interius nimirum per guttur ducitur, equi collo circumdari, id est quasi per gyrum trahi exterius, dicatur, quia videlicet praedicationis vox de internis emanat, sed extra circumdat. Nam quo alios ad bene vivendum suscitat, eo ad bene agendum et opera praedicantis ligat, ne extra sermonem actio transeat, ne voci vita contradicat. Collo ergo equi hinnitus circumducitur, quia ne ad perversa opera prodeat, suis vocibus etiam vita praedicantis obsidetur’, SC 525, 262-4; ET Moralia in Job (2012), 3, 425.

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dread of the Judgement, felt by the unrighteous (Mor. 31.52). Gregory refers to Paul in 2Tim. 4:6-8: I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my dissolution is at hand (…)’, adding the promise of the crown of the righteous Judge for Paul and all those who expect Christ’s coming. The latter is a not unimportant pastoral twist: it links his audience with Paul and God’s judgement and grace (Mor. 31.52). The hoof in Job 39:21 He diggeth up the earth with his hoof, is a figure of missionary labour. The earth in verse 21 stands for the soil of sin in the hearts of the gentiles. The hoof digs up the earth, and force is needed to break it; to break the soil of sin. To be able to do this, the preacher needs strength which is displayed in the ‘perfection of virtues’. Gregory refers to Paul stating Brethren, be ye imitators of me, as I also am of Christ (1Cor. 11:1). Gregory has important and wise things to say about all other aspects of the horse in the verses of Job, quoting Paul and completing the profile of the bold and holy preacher. He is to be fearless but not irresponsible. Even Paul fled Damascus to save himself for later battles. ‘For courage was not wanting to the opportunity, but an opportunity for his courage’ (Mor. 31.58). The preacher has to realise the possibility of real physical pain and even death, for instance when Gregory considers the story of the stoning of Paul (Acts 14:19-22; Mor. 31.68). But the fear of suffering is transformed into a spiritual acceptance, leading to a hymn-like praise of Paul, which no doubt lifts up the spirit of Gregory’s audience: ‘O! what a noble weakness is there in this man! how victorious his punishment! how triumphant his endurance’ (Mor. 31.68). The next step in Gregory’s comment evokes the aspect of imitatio Christi. Both Peter (‘that boldest preacher’) and Paul are called as witnesses. Like the horse in Job, the apostles ‘seek with joy to undergo the peril of death for the Lord’s sake’. Peter (in John 21:18) helps to ‘understand how it [the figure of the horse] is willingly unwilling to undergo the peril of a glorious contest’. Paul is quoted, saying To me to live is Christ, and to die is gain (Phil. 1:21). It is typical for Paul to long for his death and to be afraid to die. The lesson is that a preacher should realise that a holy man is ‘both agitated by the weakness of his nature, and strengthened by the firmness of his hope’: For he cannot pass over to the kingdom, except by intervention of death; and is therefore doubtful, as it were, in his confidence, and confident, as it were in his doubts; both fears with joy, and rejoices with fear; because he knows that he cannot arrive at the prize of rest, without passing with labour that which intervenes. Thus we, when we wish to repel diseases from our body, take with sorrow, indeed, the bitter cup of purgation; but rejoice as being certain of subsequent health.12 12 Moralia 31.33.70: ‘Ad regnum quippe non potest nisi interposita morte transire; et idcirco confidendo quasi ambigit, et quasi ambigendo confidit; et gaudens metuit et metuens gaudet, quia scit quod ad bravium quietis non perveniat, nisi hoc quod interiacet cum labore transcendat. Sic nos, cum morbos a corpore repellere cupimus, tristes quidem amarum purgationis poculum

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4. Pauline wrinkles in Gregory’s pontificate In his lectio divina of God’s words to Job, Gregory opens himself up for the dynamics of the sacramental process which is revealed by the deeper significance of God’s words in Job and which is (as it were de divino) inescapable. The taming of the rhinoceros explains the growth of the Church and provides for a spiritual framework for an inspired missionary politics and strategy. The figure of the rhinoceros also tells the story of the conversion of Paul, whose missionary endeavours are mirrored in the figure of the mighty horse. Who could not feel a deep admiration for the Apostle of the Gentiles and who would not feel encouraged to follow his lead? That is to say Gregory’s lead, for he is the author of it all. In the flow of his comments, while he interprets Paul as a mighty horse, would-be preachers are stirred up to be courageous, realistic, cautious but also not afraid of or deterred by unavoidable resistance and personal suffering. They must take it step by step for, as Gregory later wrote to Bishop Augustine, the top of the mountain is not reached in one leap.13 It is typical for the spirituality of Gregory the Great that he not only explores the actio of the calling of the preacher in the figure of the horse, but also aspect of the contemplatio. For the latter, he turns his attention to the bird of prey in Job 39:26: Doth the hawk get feathers by thy wisdom, stretching her wings towards the South? (Mor. 31.92). The South is where the mild winds come from, warming limbs and loosen old feathers to give way to new feathers. The Pauline association is 2Cor. 4:16 and Col. 3:9: Stripping yourselves of the old man with his deeds, and putting on the new man. (T)o cast off the old feathers, is to give up the inveterate pursuit of crafty conduct; and to assume the new, is, by good living, to maintain a gentle and simple feeling. For the feather of old conversation weighs down, and the plumage of the new change raises up, to render it the lighter to flight, as it makes it newer.14

The second bird is the eagle (Job 39:27-30). The eagle is rich in meanings, from ‘the spoilers of souls’, to worldly powers, the flying of the Lord’s Ascension and the ‘subtle understanding of the Saints, and their sublime contemplation’ (Mor. 31.94). The eagle builds a nest of hope, high up in the mountains. Again sumimus, certi autem de subsequenti salute gaudemus’, SC 525, 308-10; ET Moralia in Job (2012), 3, 442. 13 Ep. 11.56: ‘(S)ummum locum ascendere nititur gradibus uel passibus, non autem saltibus elevatur’, Dag Norberg (ed.), S. Gregorii Magnum. Registrum Epistularum, CChr.SL 140-140a (Turnhout, 1982), 140a, 961-2. English translation John R.C. Martyn, The Letters of Gregory the Great, Vol. 1-3 (Toronto, 2004), 803. 14 Moralia 31.46.92: ‘Vetustam autem pennam proicere est inveterata studia dolosae actionis amittere, et novam pennam sumere est mitem ac simplicem bene vivendi sensum tenere. Penna namque veteris conversationis gravat, et pluma novae immutationis sublevat, ut ad volatum tanto leviorem quanto noviorem reddat’, SC 525, 348; ET Moralia in Job (2012), 3, 456.

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there are Pauline backings: Our conversation is in heaven (Phil. 3:2) and Who hath raised us up together, and hath made us sit together in heavenly places (Eph. 2:6). The position of his nest makes the elect see farther (Job 39:29b: Her eyes behold afar off). The point is that this not distances the elect from the world, but provides them with a better understanding and, so close to heaven, a clearer knowledge of how to proclaim the Gospel with success. Gregory continues: ’Let us consider, what a lofty eagle was Paul, who flew even to the third heaven and saw through a glass darkly’ (1Cor. 13:12; Mor. 31.103). Paul realised that the Truth is too perfect to be understood by all: ‘Whence also holy preachers, when they see that their hearers cannot receive the statement of His Divinity, come down to speak only of the Lord’s Incarnation’ (Mor. 31.103). The eagle, landed, can only take up the burden of the rhinoceros and prepare for battle as the mighty horse. 5. Conclusion Gregory the Great was elected bishop of Rome in 590. He was brought back from the height of contemplation to ‘bear the weight of pastoral care’. In his Synodical Letter dated February 591, Gregory begs the patriarchs of Constantinople, Alexandria, Antioch and Jerusalem to pray for him, for ‘considering the very immensity of the business, I am terrified’ (deterreor; Ep. 1.24). The letter describes the posture or profile of a bishop. He should, amongst other things, be close to individuals with compassion and more uplifting in contemplation than all others. In holding on to both charity (actio) and contemplation, he follows Paul after he came back from the Third Heaven (2Cor. 12:2-4). Behold he has already entered heavenly secrets (…). He transcends Heaven by contemplation, and yet he does not desert the carnal bed in his solitude. For being joined to the highest and the lowest alike by the bond of charity, in his own case he is strongly drawn to the heights by the virtue of his spirit, and by piety to others he is recalled patiently to the depths. As for his compassion of his charity he again says: Who is weak, and I am not weak also, who is scandalised and I do not burn with indignation? (2Cor. 11:29) On this he again says: and unto the Jews I became as a Jew (1Cor. 9:20). He exhibited this not by losing his faith, of course, but by extending his piety, so that by transforming himself into the person of an unbeliever he might learn from his own example how he ought to have shown pity towards others, to bestow on them what he would have rightly wanted to be bestowed on himself, if such had been the case.15 15 Ep. 1.24: ‘Ecce iam caelestibus secretis inseritur (…). Caelum contemplatione transcendit, nec tamen stratum carnalium sollicitudine deserit, quia compage caritatis summis simul et infimis iunctus et in semetipso virtute spiritus ad alta valenter rapitur et pietate in aliis aequanimiter ad ima revocatur. Pro hac suae compassione caritatis iterum dicit: Quis infirmatur, et ego non infirmor? Quis scandalizatur, et ego non uror? Hinc rursus ait: Factus sum Iudaeis

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Gregory follows Paul in a vita mixta, which was the lifestyle of the contemplative preacher he envisaged for himself during his years as a monk, and practised as pope, at first unwillingly willing.16 His eschatological awareness made him realise the urgency of actio, the fruit of contemplatio, to enhance the conversion of mankind and of the world. Backed by Paul, Gregory finds a way to tame the rhinoceros. He learns from the figure of the horse how to engage in the mission of the Church, as he indeed did when he wrote to king Aethelbert that Almighty God had made him king and that he should act accordingly: ‘protect that grace which you have received from heaven with a concerned mind, hasten to extend the Christian faith among the races subject to you, redouble your righteous enthusiasm in their conversion’ (Ep. 11.37); an enthusiasm he might not been aware of, but which allowed him to use all his powers and force for God’s cause. Aethelbert is promised the fame of the emperor Constantine and is instructed to be guided by the bishop Augustine, ‘a man brought up in the monastic rule, replete with knowledge of Holy Scripture and endowed with good works by the grace of God’ (Ep. 11.37). Augustine himself shared Gregory’s insights into the deeper meaning of God’s words to Job and no doubt felt encouraged by the figure of the horse and the example of Paul. In that spirit Gregory empowered and encouraged him. For instance, this involved keeping true to his humility amidst the great miracle of the conversion of the English (Ep. 11.36), and engaging the battle of conversion with prudence, when Gregory asked Augustine not to destroy the pagan temples but to turn them into places of worship of the True God (Ep. 11.56).17 These letters are written in the spirit of the thoughts and insights developed in Morals, an engine room of sacred knowledge and pastoral energy, with Paul bringing it all up to steam.

tamquam Iudaeus. Quod videlicet exhibebat non amittendo fidem, sed extendendo pietatem, ut in se personam infidelium transfigurans ex semetipso disceret, qualiter aliis misereri debuisset, quatenus hoc illis impenderet, quod sibi ipse, si ita esset, impendi recte voluisset’, CChr.SL 140, 27-8; ET J. Martyn, The Letters (2004), 144. 16 C. Straw, Perfection in Imperfection (1988), 46. Regimius Rudmann, Mönchtum und kirchlicher Dienst in den Schriften Gregor des Grossen (Sankt-Ottilien, 1956). 17 R. Markus, Gregory the Great (1997) and G. Demacopoulos, Gregory the Great (2015).

Christ the Physician. Affliction and Spiritual Healing in Bede’s Homilies for Lent and Holy Week Susan CREMIN, Cork, Ireland

ABSTRACT This article explores Bede’s employment of the image of Christ the Physician in his homilies on gospel readings for Lent and Holy Week and it examines related ideas pertaining to physical and spiritual affliction and spiritual healing. These themes are first explored in the Fathers’ use of medical language, especially in writing connected with the liturgical season of Lent. Bede’s Lenten homilies are next examined, specifically his references to Christ as medicus. His preaching on affliction and healing is then considered, including his discourse on the spiritual reasons behind corporeal malady, and spiritual healing provided as a result of the Incarnation. Finally, Bede’s adroit treatment of these spiritual themes in other genres of his work is noted.

1. Introduction The Venerable Bede, monk of the twin monastery of Wearmouth-Jarrow who died in 735 AD, wrote fifty homilies on the Gospels of which eleven were composed for the season of Lent and Holy Week.1 Among the various themes that Bede engages with in these Lenten sermons is the motif of Christ as physician and healer, along with contiguous ideas concerning corporeal and spiritual affliction and spiritual healing.2 In the synoptic Gospels following his calling of Matthew, the word physician or doctor is used by Christ about himself when he answered criticism that he sat to table with tax collectors and sinners: ‘It is not the healthy who need the doctor, but the sick’ (Matt. 9:12 and see Mark 2:17, Luke 5:31-2). Jesus defined his ministry in relation to spiritual healing: ‘And indeed I came to call not the upright, but sinners’ (Matt. 9:13, also Luke 5:32, Mark 2:17). Bede linked this image of Christ to the economy of salvation, a concept outlined in 1 Bede, Homiliae evangelii, ed. David Hurst, CChr.SL 122 (Turnhout, 1955), 148-224. The English translations are from Lawrence T. Martin and David Hurst, Bede the Venerable: Homilies on the Gospels, Cistercian Studies Series 110-1 (Kalamazoo, 1991). 2 Mention of Christ as physician and medical terminology occur elsewhere in Bede’s homiliary. However, gospel accounts of Christ’s healing miracles only appear in the pericopes for Lent, thus eliciting more extended engagement with medical analogy.

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his commentary on Luke 4:23: ‘No doubt you will quote me the saying “Physician, heal yourself”’ (Luke 4:23). Bede expounded: ‘Medicus est quia omnia per ipsum restaurata sunt in caelis et in terra. Et sicut de se ipse testatur: “Non habent opus sani medico, sed male habentes”’.3 Expanding further, Bede referred to the cure of the man blind from birth in John 9 and drew on a foundational tenet of his Christology, Christ’s human and divine nature. The clay being Christ’s flesh and the spittle his divinity, Bede surmised that we are spiritually illuminated with clay mixed with spittle in the pool in Siloam when we are baptised: ‘Sputum luto immixtum nos illuminat in natatoria Siloae baptizatos quia uerbum caro factum est et habitauit in nobis, et uidimus gloriam eius (John 1:14) quam prius tenebris arcentibus comprehendere non poteramus’.4 Consequently, through the mystery of the Incarnation (underscored with citation of John 1:14) and Christ’s coming as physician as this cure at Siloam depicts, healing was rendered to mankind by way of the spiritual illumination of baptism.5 Bede was the most distinguished exponent of the patristic inheritance that came with Christianity to Anglo-Saxon England,6 yet in his homilies on the Gospels he does not usually directly cite patristic authors.7 Nevertheless, exploration of his preaching indicates exegetical kinship with patristic traditions of biblical scholarship.8 In this essay I wish to explore the early Christian antecedents of Bede’s medical metaphors and then examine the contexts in which he refers to and draws on these ideas in his preaching for Lent. I will look first at instances of medical imagery in both the Greek and Latin Fathers including texts related to Lenten liturgical time. Bede’s Lenten references to Christ as medicus will then be surveyed. His preaching on affliction, including his discourse on the spiritual purpose behind corporeal infirmity, is then considered and I explore his thought on the grace of spiritual healing as a consequence of the Incarnation. Finally, the expression of his Lenten principles of affliction and healing in works of history and hagiography is discussed.

3

Bede, In Lucam 2, ed. David Hurst, CChr.SL 120 (Turnhout, 1960), 105. Ibid. 106. 5 Bede’s observation, ‘tenebris arcentibus, comprehendere non poteramus’, draws from the sense and vocabulary of John 1:5: ‘et lux in tenebris lucet et tenebrae eam non conprehenderunt’. 6 George Hardin Brown, A Companion to Bede, Anglo-Saxon Studies 12 (Woodbridge, 2009), 10-1. See relevant essays in Scott DeGregorio (ed.), Innovation and Tradition in the Writings of the Venerable Bede, Medieval European Studies 7 (Morgantown, 2006) and id., The Cambridge Companion to Bede (Cambridge, 2010). 7 Unlike for example his commentary on Luke, where he noted in the margins the sources that he used, Mark Stansbury, ‘Source-marks in Bede’s biblical commentaries’, in Jane Hawkes and Susan Mills (eds), Northumbria’s Golden Age (Stroud, 1999), 383-9. 8 With regard to Bede’s use of the Fathers in his homilies see observation in G.H. Brown, Companion to Bede (2010), 74-5: ‘he transforms them all into his monastic modality’. 4

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2. The Fathers The images of doctor, illness and healing had currency early within Christian writing. Ignatius of Antioch warned against heretical teachings about Christ declaring: ‘There is only one physician’.9 The bishop of Antioch mentioned Christian gatherings for the Eucharist referring to it as ‘the medicine of immortality’.10 Eighteen of Cyril of Jerusalem’s catechetical lectures for the catechumenate were delivered during Lent.11 Cyril taught that Christ healed maladies of the spirit and the body, enlightening minds and leading sinners to repentance. He linked physical infirmity to spiritual sickness and noted the priority Christ gave to spiritual healing, ministering first to the soul before curing the body.12 Christ is judge, physician and teacher combined in John Chrysostom’s Homilies on the Statutes, delivered in Antioch during Lent 387 AD,13 ‘as a judge He examines, and as a physician He amends, and as a teacher He instructs those who have sinned, directing them unto all spiritual wisdom’.14 John compared the effort of correcting a brother in Christian charity to a physician having to persuade a reluctant patient to take a draught of medicine.15 Medical and medicinal images also functioned with versatility. Epiphanius of Salamis termed his writings which refuted heresies as the ‘Panarion’, meaning a medicine chest which would yield remedies for treatment and prevention of heretical harm.16 In Ambrose of Milan’s commentary on Psalm 37, medicine, physician and wound are effective representative figures.17 According to Ambrose, the psalms are ‘medicine for the sinful conscience’ (‘medicamentum … conscientiae peccatricis’).18 The performance of penance was uera … medicina 9 Ignatius, Ad Ephesios 7, PG 5, 650. The English translation is from Maxwell Staniforth and Andrew Louth, Early Christian Writings (London, 1987), 63. 10 Ignatius, Ad Ephesios 20, PG 5, 662. See comment regarding this expression by Jaroslav Pelikan, The Emergence of the Catholic Tradition (100-600), The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Doctrine 1 (Chicago, 1971), 169. 11 For a brief summary of Cyril of Jerusalem including biographical overview and bibliography see Hubertus R. Drobner, Siegfried S. Schatzmann (trans.), The Fathers of the Church: A Comprehensive Introduction (Peabody MA, 2007), 296-9. On Cyril’s preaching see O.C. Edwards Jr., A History of Preaching (Nashville, 2004), 87-90. 12 Cyril, Catechesis 10.13, PG 33, 678-9. 13 O.C. Edwards Jr., History (2004), 81-4; H.R. Drobner, Fathers (2007), 334-5. 14 John Chrysostom, Homilia 7.4, PG 49, 96. The English translation is from NPNF 9, Ser. 1, 394. 15 Id., Homilia 3.5, PG 49, 54. 16 Epiphanius, Panarion 1.2, PG 41, 158-9; H.R. Drobner, Fathers (2007), 306. 17 On Ambrose’s commentary on the psalms see Boniface Ramsey, Ambrose (London, 1997), 59; John Moorhead, Ambrose: Church and State in the Late Roman World (London, New York, 1999), 73-4. See Michael S. Driscoll, Alcuin et la pénitence à l’époque carolingienne (Münster, 1999), 159 and references, for Ambrose’s attribution to Christ of the dual function of physician and medicine. 18 Ambrose, Explanatio Psalmorum 12, Explanatio Psalmi 37.1, ed. Michael Petschenig, rev. ed. Michaela Zelzer, CSEL 64 (Vienna, 1999), 137. The English translation is from Íde Ní Riain, Commentary of Saint Ambrose on Twelve Psalms (Dublin, 2000), 107.

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which was justly proclaimed when the physician came from heaven who healed and did not irritate wounds and whom Ambrose called the bonus medicus.19 A comparable perception of the kind physician is found in Jerome’s observation on the psalm text, ‘Show us, O Lord, your kindness and grant us your salvation’ (Ps. 84 (85):7). Jerome submitted that the Incarnation was founded in God’s mercy; Christ came as physician to the innumerable sick, he came to save all those who needed mercy.20 While not availing himself of the image in his sermons for Lent, Christ as healing physician is a recurrent feature in Augustine’s work.21 In his Confessiones, Augustine observed the struggles of the present life calling to the Lord, ‘medicus es, aeger sum; misericors es, miser sum’.22 For Augustine, Christ came as a physician to heal the injured or blinded eye of the heart (‘oculus cordis caecatus’).23 In his influential treatise De doctrina christiana, a text which would have been available at Wearmouth-Jarrow, Augustine illustrated that spiritual healing like medical treatment of the body, incorporated the principles of contrariety and similarity in healing wounds of the soul.24 For an instance of the principle of contrariety, humanity is healed by humility since it fell through pride, and for similarity, it was freed by someone who was born of a woman, as it was originally deceived by a woman.25 Leo the Great preached on preparing for Easter with the forty-day fast and called Lent ‘this health-giving time’ (‘saluberrimi temporis’).26 Leo preached on the mystery of the Incarnation where Christ brought his divine nature to humanity and in taking on human nature he healed it within himself. A dual treatment of mystery and example was prepared ‘ab omnipotenti … medico’, sacramental grace was provided by the mystery and the example was the pattern for human beings to follow.27 Gregory the Great, an influential Father for Bede, used the image of physician and cure when expounding that Christ preached a new way of life to the world which contrasted with the old unspiritual venial existence, ‘… our heavenly physician brought medicines to meet every single 19

Ambrose, Explanatio Psalmorum 12, Explanatio Psalmi 37.4, CSEL 64, 139. Jerome, Tractatus de Psalmo 84, ed. Germanus Morin, CChr.SL 78 (Turnhout, 1958), 104. 21 Rudolph Arbesmann, ‘The concept of “Christus Medicus” in St. Augustine’, Traditio 10 (1954), 1-28. For the theme in Augustine’s Johannine tractates see Marie-François Berrouard, Introduction aux Homélies de Saint-Augustin sur l’Évangile de Saint Jean (Paris, 2004), 139-41. 22 Augustine, Confessiones 10.28.39, ed. Luc Verheijen, CChr.SL 27 (Turnhout, 1981), 175. 23 Id., In Iohannis evangelium tractatus 124, Tractatus 2.16, ed. D. Radbod Willems, rev. ed. Augustinus Mayer, CChr.SL 36 (Turnhout, 1990), 19. M-F. Berrouard, Introduction (2004), 140. 24 Id., De doctrina christiana 1.14.13, ed. Joseph Martin, CChr.SL 32 (Turnhout, 1962), 13. 25 Ibid. 14. 26 Leo, Tractatus 43.3, ed. Antoine Chavasse, CChr.SL 138A (Turnhout, 1973), 254. The English translation is from Jane Patricia Freeland and Agnes Josephine Conway, FC 93 (Washington, 1996), 188. 27 Id., Tractatus 67.5, CChr.SL 138A, 411. 20

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vice’.28 Like Augustine, Gregory expounded the principle of contrariety in physical and spiritual healing.29 Gregory interpreted the Lord’s mention of the lost sheep (Luke 15:4) as a healing balm from the ‘caelestis … medicus’ to treat those who were spiritually sick and help them recognise their pride and self-righteousness.30 The image of physician and spiritual medicine also informed monastic regulation. The Rule of St. Benedict, with its citation of Matt. 9:12, ascribes to the abbot the role of sapiens medicus who would care for wayward brothers and it stipulates that the abbot’s commission is ‘care of the sick (‘infirmarum curam’), not tyranny over the healthy’.31 When dealing with offending recalcitrance, the abbot in the role of sapiens medicus utilises spiritual compresses (fomenta) i.e. ‘the ointment of encouragement, the medicine of divine Scripture …’ etc. If this is to no avail, an even better treatment is prayer, such that the Lord ‘may bring about the health of the sick brother’.32 Andries Van der Walt proposed that there was much in Bede’s homilies, including the Lenten sermons, that communicated the temper of the Rule of St. Benedict.33 3. Bede and Christ the Physician In his Lenten homily on the calling of Matthew (Matt. 9:9-13), Bede interpreted Matt. 9:12 as Christ’s own witness that he came as physician to heal the illness of sin. The Lord increased the hope of achieving healing and life in those who followed the teaching of the ‘Saviour and Life-giver’ (‘saluatori ac uiuificatoris magisterium’).34 The understanding of Christ the Physician is recognised in the perception of the Incarnation as the advent of Christ the redemptive healer in Bede’s homily on John 5:1-18, the cure of the man at Bethsaida Pool.35 Bede gives a mystical 28 Gregory, Homilia 32.1, ed. Raymond Étaix, CChr.SL 141 (Turnhout, 1999), 277-8. The English translation is from David Hurst, Gregory the Great: Forty Gospel Homilies, Cistercian Studies Series 123 (Kalamazoo, 1990), 257. 29 Ibid. 278. 30 Id., Homilia 34.3, CChr.SL 141, 301. 31 Regula Sancti Benedicti 27.1-2, 6, ed. Timothy Fry, RB 1980: The Rule of St. Benedict. In Latin and English with Notes (Collegeville, 1981), 222-3, 224-5. 32 Regula Sancti Benedicti 28.1-5, 222-5, 352, 430 and n. 57. 33 Andries G.P. Van der Walt, ‘Reflections of the Benedictine rule in Bede’s homiliary’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 37 (1986), 367-76. On the Rule of St. Benedict in seventh-century Anglo-Saxon England see Francisco José Álvarez López, ‘The Rule of St. Benedict in England at the time of Wilfrid’, in Nicholas J. Higham (ed.), Wilfrid: Abbot, Bishop, Saint. Papers from the 1300th Anniversary Conferences (Donnington, 2013), 40-53. 34 Bede, Homelia 1.21, CChr.SL 122, 152. 35 On this homily see Susan D. Foley, Bede, St. John and the liturgical year: studies on the Homilies on the Gospels (Unpublished PhD thesis, University College Cork, 2010), 133-74.

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significance to the event. The pool signifies the Jewish people and the five porticos indicate the five books of the Law. Just as the waters of the pool were periodically agitated, so the people were at times tempted to sin.36 The physical maladies of those languishing in the porticos are enumerated with an analogous spiritual infirmity. Only those in the pool were healed when the angel entered the water. Drawing on John 1:17, Bede underlines the disparity between the Law calling attention to sin and the forgiveness of sin through the grace of Jesus Christ.37 Writers such as Origen interpreted John 1:17 by contrasting the type of the Mosaic law against what Maurice Wiles called the ‘spiritual reality’ of the Gospel.38 There is a strong Christological note in Bede’s identification of the angel who descends invisibly into the water to heal (John 5:4) as a figure for the Incarnate Christ, the ‘angel of great counsel’ (Isa. 9:6), a text cited by patristic exegetes to emphasise Christ as the realisation of Old Testament prophecy.39 Bede preached the disturbed water of the pool to be a signifier of Jewish agitation which would lead to the death of Christ; the consequences of his passion providing a source of spiritual healing for those previously rendered incurable as they were released from the ‘curse of the Law’ (‘maledicto legis’).40 The precept of Christ the divine healer is emphatically articulated: ‘The grace of the gospel, however, through faith and the mystery of the Lord’s passion, heals all the illnesses of our iniquities (‘sanat omnes languores iniquitatum nostrarum’), from which we could not be justified in the law of Moses.’41 Equally corroborative is Bede’s description of Christ as ‘the pitying physician of the pitiful’ (‘misericors medicus miserorum’) in his homily on the Canaanite woman seeking her daughter’s cure (Matt. 15:21-28);42 Bede remarked that Christ did not scorn this woman’s entreaty but did not reply and kept her waiting in order to show the example of her perseverance. Persistent supplication of the Lord for healing is recommended in the sermon for Holy Saturday on the healing of the deaf-mute (Mark 7:31-7). Bede informs us, ‘the mercy of the heavenly physician’ (‘caelestis misericordia medici’) is not sluggish for those whose prayers are persistent.43 It concludes his exegesis of Mark 7:32 concerning those who brought the deaf-mute to the Lord and 36

Bede, Homelia 1.23, CChr.SL 122, 161. Ibid. 162. 38 Maurice F. Wiles, The Spiritual Gospel: The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel in the Early Church (Cambridge, 1960), 68. 39 Bede, Homelia 1.23, CChr.SL 122, 162. See commentary on this text by Robert L. Wilken with Angela Russell Christman and Michael J. Hollerich, Isaiah Interpreted by Early Christian and Medieval Commentators (Grand Rapids, 2007), 120, 122-4, 127-30. 40 Bede, Homelia 1.23, CChr.SL 122, 162. 41 Ibid. 42 Id., Homelia 1.22, CChr.SL 122, 156. 43 Id., Homelia 2.6, CChr.SL 122, 221. 37

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implored him for a physical cure. With regard to spiritual healing, Bede observes that if all human endeavour fails to transform a person into declaring and hearing the truth, that person needs to be brought to the ‘divine benevolence’ and we should beseech ‘the hands of the Most High’ for their healing.44 It echoes the prescription mentioned previously in the Rule of St. Benedict of a recourse to prayer for treating a wayward brother.

4. Affliction Prayerful intercession, as the responsibility of the Church, is illustrated in Bede’s discussion of affliction in the homily on the Canaanite woman’s daughter. The Church of the nations is symbolised by the Canaanite woman, a Gentile, who pleads with Christ for her daughter. The tormented daughter represents ‘any soul in the Church’ led astray by the power of ‘malign spirits’.45 Bede lists a catalogue of vice and sin which the demon-afflicted daughter signifies, in the event of being troubled by these one should as the Canaanite mother had done, ‘hasten to the Lord, making supplication for her healing’.46 In the Holy Saturday homily on the cure of the deaf-mute (Mark 7:31-7), the disabled person’s tribulation epitomises the fall of mankind and its consequences. Man was made deaf because he had listened to the serpent, he was made mute because he had spoken with the ‘seducer’.47 By the time of the Incarnation, except for a small number of committed Jews, nearly the whole world was ‘surdus … et mutus’.48 Bede gives the subject of physical infirmity and spiritual chastening particular focus in the homily on the cure at Bethsaida Pool. The man ailing for thirtyeight years (John 5:5) symbolises sinners ‘weighed down’ by many sins.49 Bede expounds the number forty to signal a ‘perfect way of life’; when this is not achieved, he concludes (following Augustine) that the two greatest commandments, love of God and of neighbour, are lacking: thereby denoting two less than the perfection indicated by forty.50 Bede’s interpretation of John 5:14, ‘Behold, you are healed. Sin no more lest something worse should happen to you’, prompts a discourse on the spiritual dimensions and purpose of physical trial. Bede cautions against belief that physical affliction is due only to sin and he offers and expounds on five reasons provided by Scripture as to why 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

Ibid. Id., Homelia 1.22, CChr.SL 122, 158. Ibid. 159. Id., Homelia 2.6, CChr.SL 122, 220. Ibid. Id., Homelia 1.23, CChr.SL 122, 163. Ibid.

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corporeal infirmity is given.51 Recast and rearranged but sharing common scriptural reference, it mirrors aspects of previous catalogues by Gregory the Great and John Cassian.52 Bede teaches that corporeal illness was imposed firstly so that through repentance sinners may be corrected, as in John 5:14.53 Secondly, because of the enormity of their transgressions, there are those who may receive punishment in the present life to reveal their destiny of damnation, Herod being an example. Having accepted blasphemous veneration, he was consumed by worms while still alive (Acts 12:23).54 Thirdly, as was the case with Job, corporeal suffering was imposed on the righteous that they may get the greater reward for patience.55 A fourth reason and a second cause for righteous suffering was that good people are given physical suffering to help them maintain a humble condition which Bede illustrated with 2Cor. 12:7 and 12:9.56 These texts were used by patristic writers to delineate spiritual perfecting with physical hardship. For instance, in De paenitentia Ambrose included 2Cor. 12:9 and 12:10 among quoted Pauline texts when proposing that physical ailment had a more effective impact on achieving spiritual consummation than healthiness.57 Bede’s final reason for the suffering of good people was that divine or saintly power and glory would be revealed through the miracle of their healing with citations of John 9:2-3 and 11:4 in affirmation.58 5. Spiritual healing At the core of redemption for Bede is spiritual healing. Concluding his Palm Sunday homily on Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem (Matt. 21:1-9), he exhorts that our behaviour spiritually emulates Christ’s course to Jerusalem and that we meditate on the Lord’s passion and resurrection from which all the elect received ‘the remedy for their wounds, together with a pledge of heavenly joys’.59 In the Lenten homily on the feeding of the five thousand (John 6:1-14), he interprets the large crowd that followed Jesus across the sea of Galilee (John 6:1-2) as the many nations who in the age of the Incarnation now follow 51

Ibid. 165-6. Gregory, Moralia in Iob, Prefatio 5.12, ed. Marc Adriaen, CChr.SL 143 (Turnhout, 1979), 17-8. Cassian, Collationes, Conlatio 6.11.1, 6.11.2-11, ed. Michael Petschenig, rev. ed. Gottfried Kreuz, CSEL 13 (Vienna, 2004), 167, 168-72. For Cassian’s use of medical language see Conlatio 6.11.7-8 (CSEL 13, 170-1). 53 Bede, Homelia 1.23, CChr.SL 122, 165-6. 54 Ibid. 166. 55 Ibid. 56 Ibid. 57 Ambrose, De paenitentia 1.61, ed. Roger Gryson, SC 179 (Paris, 1971), 104-5. 58 Bede, Homelia 1.23, CChr.SL 122, 166. 59 Id., Homelia 2.3, CChr.SL 122, 206. 52

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Christ, ‘desiring to be spiritually instructed, healed and satisfied’ (‘instrui sanari ac satiari desiderans’).60 In the Bethsaida Pool homily (John 5:1-18), Bede confirms that spiritual healing is accessed through baptism with a citation of Rom. 6:3-4,61 where Paul explains baptism as a direct participation in Christ’s death and resurrection. This corresponds with early Christian exegesis of the episode at Bethsaida which assigned a baptismal implication to it, Tertullian being the first in this respect.62 Ambrose portrayed the angel going into the pool at John 5:4 as a type for the descent of the Holy Spirit with the healing grace of baptism.63 The theme of spiritual healing is also magnified in the homily on the deafmute (Mark 7:31-7) with interpretation of the Lord’s healing actions. Jesus put his fingers into the disabled man’s ears signifying those who, through divine grace, are converted from unbelief to receiving his word. Spitting and touching the man’s tongue to make him speak is represented as the Lord enabling someone to comprehend and preach his faith; the Lord’s fingers represent the gifts of the Holy Spirit and Bede equates the spittle from the Lord’s mouth with the word of the Gospel which is dispensed to the world so that it can be healed.64 Christ’s action of looking to heaven and sighing as he was about to heal the deaf-mute signifies the extent to which spiritual healing is to be achieved, with ‘zeal for compunction and tears’ (‘compunctionis uel lacrimarum’).65 This observation coalesces with the spirituality of Lent and coheres with Bede’s references to Lent elsewhere in his writing. 6. The communication of Lenten themes in history and hagiography In his most famous work, the Historia ecclesiastica, Bede recorded that Bishop Eadberht of Lindisfarne customarily spent Lent in an isolated location, ‘in deep devotion, with abstinence, prayers, and tears’ (‘in magna continentiae, orationis et lacrimarum deuotione’).66 In the Historia ecclesiastica, the Lenten idea of a person of sanctity receiving suffering as an instrument of spiritual 60

Id., Homelia 2.2, CChr.SL 122, 194. In relation to the Incarnation see Homiliae 1.4, 2.14, 2.20, CChr.SL 122, 28, 273, 333, for Bede’s non-Lenten references to Christ as physician. 61 Id., Homelia 1.23, CChr.SL 122, 162. 62 Jean Daniélou, The Bible and the Liturgy (Ann Arbor, 1956, 1979), 210; see also M.F. Wiles, Spiritual Gospel (1960), 51. 63 Ambrose, De Spiritu Sancto 1.7.88, ed. Otto Faller, CSEL 79 (Vienna, 1964), 52. On the angel at Bethsaida Pool and baptism in early Christian commentary see J. Daniélou, Bible (1979), 211-5. 64 Bede, Homelia 2.6, CChr.SL 122, 221. 65 Ibid. 222. 66 Id., Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum 4.30, ed. and trans. Bertram Colgrave and Roger A.B. Mynors, Bede: Ecclesiastical History of the English People (Oxford, 1969, repr. with corr. 1991), 444-5.

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chastening and improvement is recognised in the accounts, including reference to 2Cor. 12:9, of the holy women Torhtgyth and Hild receiving a divine grant of sickness to perfect their souls in the years preceding their deaths.67 Bede also relates the story of Herbert, hermit and friend of St. Cuthbert, who endured the chastisement of a long illness in order that he might reach a sufficient state of grace to die at the same time as Cuthbert. Although he does not use the Corinthians text, Bede relates that the suffering was a divine concession, as in the case of the holy women.68 Bishop Eadberht of Lindisfarne’s death could also be considered along these lines; very soon after the discovery of Cuthbert’s uncorrupted remains during Lent, he was struck down by very severe sickness and he died soon after.69 This spiritual schema is represented in Bede’s Historia abbatum. The ailing and dying saintly abbots Sigfrith and Benedict Biscop are described in terms of their illness perfecting them spiritually, without exact citation of 2Cor. 12:9 but summoning its sentiment, ‘Their infirmity gave scope for the strength of Christ to be perfected within them’.70 Comparably, in his Vita of St. Cuthbert, Bede describes the holy man recovering from the plague but being left with lifelong residual inner pain, with a citation of 2Cor. 12:9. Cuthbert’s suffering before his death is described as preparation ‘by the fires of temporal pain for the joys of perpetual bliss’.71 Lenten homiletic themes of healing are replicated in Bede’s account in the Historia ecclesiastica of Bishop John of Beverley’s cure of the mute young man. A youth, afflicted inwardly with muteness and externally with an ugly disease of the scalp, was brought to John during his Lenten retreat at a remote oratory.72 On the second Sunday of Lent and putting the sign of the cross on his tongue, John begins to teach the youth to speak, allowing him to fully express his hitherto confined introspections. After that, the bishop orders a physician to cure the youth’s skin and scalp which the doctor accomplishes supported by John’s ‘blessing and prayers’.73 The inner healing was first accomplished followed by the external cure which reflects Bede’s preaching during Lent that if we are struck with physical affliction it warrants thorough introspection and we must not seek a physical cure before we attain interior health.74 John’s prayerful 67

Id., Historia ecclesiastica 4.9, 360-3; 4.23, 410-3. Id., Historia ecclesiastica 4.29, 440-3. Bede also recounted the story in Vita sancti Cuthberti prosaica 28, ed. and trans. Bertram Colgrave, Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert (Cambridge, 1940), 142-307, 250-1. 69 Id., Historia ecclesiastica 4.30, 444-5. 70 Id., Historia Abbatum 13, ed. Charles Plummer, Bedae Opera Historica 1 (Oxford, 1896), 364-87, 376. The English translation is from J.F. Webb and D.H. Farmer, The Age of Bede (London, rev. 1998), 200. 71 Id., Vita sancti Cuthberti prosaica 8, 180-3; 37, 270-1. 72 Id., Historia ecclesiastica 5.2, 456-9. 73 Ibid. 458-9. 74 Id., Homelia 1.23, CChr.SL 122, 166. 68

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entreaty for the healing of another echoes Bede’s teaching on this in his homilies on the Canaanite woman’s daughter and the healing of the deaf-mute. 7. Conclusion In Bede’s Lenten homilies, patristic references to Christ as physician are reconstituted in his preaching where he draws on the image to relay the central redemptive healing purpose of the Incarnation. Creatively reworked, patristic thematic motifs concerning the illness of sin, physical affliction and the grace of spiritual healing are voiced in his interpretation of the gospel lections for the season of Lent. Exploration of these homilies informs us that in his Lenten teaching and exegesis, Bede has availed himself of precepts that are ultimately obtained in the scholarship and liturgical theology of the Fathers. It also enables us to identify their subtle integration within the narratives of his own native Anglo-Saxon figures of sanctity.

‘It doesn’t say’: Metatextual Observations in Greek Patristic Commentaries on Galatians Susan B. GRIFFITH, University of Birmingham, UK1

ABSTRACT Early Christian commentaries occasionally draw attention to what the biblical text does not say, and do so using a consistent rhetorical formula in Greek: Οὐκ εἶπε A, ἀλλὰ B – ‘It does not say A, but B’. The purpose of this construction in context may be merely to clarify a point of vocabulary or grammar, but often it is more broadly theological, paraenetic, or even polemical. The pattern most likely entered usage from the first century BC onward in Greek commentaries on literature, philosophy, and medicine. Philo also deploys this antithesis in his Old Testament exegesis at nearly the same time, suggesting perhaps that this construction arose in a shared rhetorical tradition, possibly Alexandrian. Greek patristic commentaries develop the antithesis further into a relatively set formula, appearing with particular frequency in Origen and Chrysostom. Examples from a range of pagan, Jewish, and Christian commentaries are discussed, followed by a closer look at this pattern as found in patristic commentaries on Galatians. Usage of any similar formula in Latin patristic texts, however, appears to be comparatively rare.

Early Christian commentaries focus, unsurprisingly, on what the biblical text says but in doing so the commentators also, from time to time, draw attention to what the text does not say. This observation arose whilst researching comments that the church fathers make about variations in transmissions of the text of scripture. In looking for text-critical passages where early commentators tell us what the biblical manuscript before them really ‘ought to say’, I discovered that far more frequently, at least for the Greek fathers, they note what the text does not say, as a means of highlighting the specificity of the text itself rather than to point out a variant reading. 1. Structure The structure for this rhetorical technique in the Greek commentary tradition is surprisingly formulaic, and generally takes the form of a kind of antithesis 1

The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Union Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2007-2013) under grant agreement no. 283302 (COMPAUL: ‘The Earliest Commentaries on Paul in Greek and Latin as Sources for the Biblical Text’).

Studia Patristica C, 303-313. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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with a dependable pattern. Most frequently this pattern is along the lines of Οὐκ εἶπε A, ἀλλὰ B. Occasionally, a γὰρ is inserted, and/or a euphonic nu at the end of εἶπε: οὐ γὰρ εἶπεν A, ἀλλὰ B. And at times instead of εἶπε the verb used is λέγει. But for the most part, this pattern is so set within these small variations that, if one reads through a lot of early commentaries in Greek, it appears as a standard feature. The pattern is nearly always in this order: first what the text or author does not say, and then what the text or author does say. This structure appears frequently in a range of commentary traditions, whether about Greek literary works, medical textbooks, or Scripture, as a rhetorical device to heighten the listener or reader’s attention to some element of the actual text. Instances of this pattern also occur in the New Testament itself, particularly in verses that comment on Old Testament texts. A prime example is Gal. 3:16: τῷ δὲ Ἀβραὰμ ἐρρέθησαν αἱ ἐπαγγελίαι καὶ τῷ σπέρματι αὐτοῦ. οὐ λέγει· καὶ τοῖς σπέρμασιν, ὡς ἐπὶ πολλῶν ἀλλ’ ὡς ἐφ’ ἑνός· καὶ τῷ σπέρματί σου, ὅς ἐστιν Χριστός.2 Paul here cites the Septuagint for Gen. 12:7 and then offers exegesis. It is not surprising, given Paul’s Hellenistic education,3 to see a rhetorical pattern from Greek literary commentaries appearing in his own interpretative writing. The New Testament verses with this rhetorical pattern, however, are relatively few in number and probably not enough to account for the frequency with which this device appears in Greek patristic commentaries. In a few instances, the standard pattern (οὐκ εἶπε A, ἀλλὰ B) becomes partially inverted into a chiasm. In other words: A οὐκ εἶπε, ἀλλὰ B. On the whole, however, when a distinction is being made between what a text says and what it does not say, the previously described non-chiastic pattern holds. The very infrequent chiastic structure is generally used to flag up a difference in how or why something was said. A biblical example of this chiastic pattern occurs in John 11:51: τοῦτο δὲ ἀφ’ ἑαυτοῦ οὐκ εἶπεν, ἀλλ᾿ ἀρχιερεὺς ὢν τοῦ ἐνιαυτοῦ ἐκείνου ἐπροφήτευσεν. The text contrasts not what Caiaphas said, but rather under which conditions/authority he spoke: not speaking on his own initiative, but prophesying as high priest. Thus the chiastic form serves a somewhat different rhetorical purpose, and as such appears rarely. An exegetical example can be found in Origen’s Com. Io. 13.1.4, where the contrast is the Samaritan woman ignoring the first part of Jesus’ reply and instead asking a question about the second part: ‘Καὶ ἐπὶ μὲν τῷ προτέρῳ οὐκ εἶπεν, ἀλλὰ ἐπαπορεῖ περὶ τῆς συγκρίσεως τῶν ὑδάτων ἡ Σαμαρεῖτις.’ Origen’s use of the chiastic (A οὐκ εἶπεν, ἀλλὰ B) pattern signals that he is not discussing two possible variants, or two things that might have been said: he is highlighting the woman’s avoidance. 2

Nestle-Aland 28. See e.g. Christos Kremmydas, ‘Hellenistic Rhetorical Education and Paul’s Letters’, in B. Dyer and S.E. Porter (eds), Paul and Ancient Rhetoric: Theory and Practice in the Hellenistic Context (Cambridge, 2016), 68-85. 3

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A similar rhetorical contrast can be found in the Matthean antitheses of the Sermon on the Mount: ‘You have heard it said, … but I say to you…’. Some scholars hold those statements of Jesus to be drawn from a rabbinic pattern of exposition as found in the Talmud. Pious Jews sought to ‘draw a fence around the Torah’ by expanding the requirements of the halakhic law with rabbinical interpretations known as khumrot based on Deut. 22:8. In studying οὐκ εἶπεν ἀλλὰ antitheses in early Galatians commentaries, I concluded that they do not share the Matthean/khumrot usage, although there is some similarity in their structure. Both the khumrot and Matthean antitheses declare what the Law forbids and then extend the boundary. The antitheses found in early Christian commentaries, however, frame a variation to explore some point depending on grammar or vocabulary. Moreover, the New Testament contains a few verses with the sort of antithesis found in the Greek commentary tradition. In addition to the illustrations of οὐκ εἶπεν ἀλλὰ from Gal. and John mentioned above, a further example can be found in John 21:23, where the contrast is between what the other disciples thought Jesus was saying about John’s life, and what he actually said. Likewise in Matt. 16:12, the disciples needed clarity, in order to understand what Jesus was saying with his parable: the yeast is not what they should be focusing on. 2. The Origins of the Construction By searching through the Greek corpus of Thesaurus Linguae Graecae, it became evident that the origin of this construction predates the composition of the New Testament. This rhetorical strategy of negative argumentation can be found in literally thousands of places in ancient Greek texts, particularly with the rise of commentaries on pagan literature, such as those on Homer, on Plato and other philosophers, and on Hippocrates and other medical handbooks. It does not occur very often in antiquity outside of the commentary tradition. Thus it appears to be a rhetorical strategy limited to Greek exegetical literature, be it pagan, philosophical, or biblical. A few scattered examples, one possibly in Aeschylus and one in Demosthenes, occur a few centuries BC. The sustained deployment of this pattern however, really only starts in the first century BC, and possibly in Alexandria, as its emergence can be identified in Philo’s Old Testament commentaries, as well as the almost contemporary works of the grammarian Aristonicus, among others. Indeed, the first century before Christ marks the beginning of ‘systematic commenting,’ at least in the realm of philosophy.4 It is possible that the pattern entered the Christian tradition via the Alexandrian 4

Han Baltussen, ‘Philosophers, Exegetes, Scholars: The Ancient Philosophical Commentary from Plato to Simplicius’, in Christina S. Kraus and Christopher Stray (eds), Classical Commentaries: Explorations in a Scholarly Genre (Oxford, 2015), 173.

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school, given its frequency in Philo; but it is also possible (and perhaps more likely) that it came via the fathers’ school days spent studying pagan commentaries on both literature and philosophy. One early pagan commentator whose works survive was Aristonicus, a grammarian from Alexandria who straddled the turn of the millennium during the time of Augustus and Tiberius. He is renowned for explaining the marginal signs made by Alexandrian scribes in Homeric manuscripts. His commentaries illustrate a very early use of the οὐκ εἶπε … ἀλλὰ paradigm. In commenting on a line in the Odyssey, he notes Homer’s odd choice of masculine gender to refer to the feminine word ‘dew’: ‘[The diple {is here in the margin} because] it does not say “θήλεια” [in the feminine] but “θῆλυς” in the masculine, as it is more productive.’5 Similarly, Aristonicus comments on a passage in the Iliad, noting Odysseus’ shift in address in his lengthy speech, as the wily hero turns to tell his audience to go home, ‘For you will never reach the goal of lofty Troy.’6 The only indication that this shift has occurred, Aristonicus points out, is in the ending of the verb: ‘οὐ γὰρ εἶπε δήουσιν ἀλλὰ δήετε’.7 One final example, from among dozens in Aristonicus: ‘ὅτι οὐ λέγει τρεσσάντων δεισάντων, ἀλλὰ φυγόντων’.8 Here he uses λέγει to clarify a definition: τρεσσάντων ‘does not mean “scared” but “shirking”’, a runaway coward. It is important to keep in mind that these written illustrations from a Hellenistic commentator on Homer may well point to an earlier rhetorical tradition, perhaps originating in the classroom. Clearly though, an established pattern in the commentary tradition existed probably just prior to, or possibly contemporary with, the composition of the Pauline epistles, and certainly well before their commentaries. Philosophical commentaries likewise use this pattern. Moving into the second century CE, the anonymous commentator (previously thought to be Eudorus of Alexandria) on the Platonic dialogue the Theaetetus writes: ‘It does not say “You learn geometry as received from Theodore” but “some elements of geometry”.’9 Apparently, Theodore had failed to deliver the entire syllabus to his students. Second-century medical commentaries also contain this rhetorical device. For example, Galen comments on a text from Hippocrates by saying: ‘Why does he not simply say [οὐχ ἁπλῶς εἶπεν] “the bilious ones”, but [ἀλλὰ ] adds 5 Scholion on Odyssey 5.467, in Aristonici Περὶ σημείων Ὀδυσσείας reliquiae emendatiores, ed. Otto Carnuth (Leipzig, 1869), 62. A diple is a marginal mark identifying parts of a text for various reasons, ranging from citations to possible errors. 6 Homer, Iliad 9.685. 7 Aristonicus, De signis Iliadis (Aristonici Περὶ σημείων Ἰλιάδος reliquiae emendatiores), ed. Ludwig Friedländer (Göttingen, 1853), 169, Scholion on Iliad 9 (I).685. 8 Aristonicus, De signis Iliadis, 238 (scholion on Iliad 14.522). 9 Anonymi Commentarius in Platonis Theaetetum (P. Berol. inv. 9782), in H. Diels and W. Schubart, Anonymer Kommentar zu Platons Theaetet (Papyrus 9782) (Berlin, 1905), 14.45.

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“the things above”?’10 This variation on the formula by the insertion of ἁπλῶς emphasises the completeness of the original text. Galen frequently draws attention to Hippocrates’ precise words in this way. In Galen’s commentary on Hippocrates’ Epidemics, however, he uses this rhetoric to critique the sigla, abbreviations added by anonymous scribes just after a patient’s case history to summarise key details of their illness and death (or recovery), as an aidemémoire. He vents his frustration at their mistakes in assigning inappropriate sigla and cause of death for some cases: οὐ γὰρ εἶπεν “ἀπέθανε καυσουμένη”, καθάπερ ἐπὶ τῆς κυναγχικῆς “ἀπέθανε κυναγχική”, ἀλλὰ τό γε καῦσος ὄνομα κατὰ τὴν εὐθεῖαν πτῶσιν εὑρίσκεται γεγραμμένον, ἐν τῷ μεταξὺ δὲ τούτου τε καὶ τοῦ ἀπέθανε τό γε κοιλίη διὰ παντὸς ὑγρή καὶ τὰ τούτῳ συνεχῆ.11

In this case, Galen objected to the cause of death being annotated as καῦσος12 a fever that ‘originates in the bilious humours.’ This woman in Case 10 of Book 3 of the Epidemics however, had died of a fever arising from a miscarriage. Here the initial ἀλλὰ after the οὐ γὰρ εἶπεν serves to introduce a lengthy string of ideas (not all of which is cited here) that eventually settles on the ultimate rebuttal to the erroneous scribes. Jumping ahead momentarily to the third century, a later example of this pattern is Porphyry’s commentary on the Odyssey. In reference to one passage, he says, οὐκ εἶπεν ἐσκεδάννυεν, ἀλλ’ ἐσκέδασεν: ‘He does not say “he was scattering” but “he scattered”’ – in other words, the verb is not imperfect but aorist.13 Thus this negating pattern of textual criticism – what a text does not say – persists and develops in commentaries on ancient Greek literature, philosophy, and medical handbooks during the first few centuries of this era. 3. Biblical Commentators Returning to the turn of the millennium, another Alexandrian was writing commentaries on a different genre of text: that of the Old Testament. The Jewish Hellenistic philosopher Philo composed exegetical works, primarily on the Pentateuch, during a similar timespan as Aristonicus’s Homeric commentaries. 10 Galen, In Hippocratis de victu acutorum commentaria iv, in Claudii Galeni Opera Omnia, vol. 15, ed. Carl Gottlob Kühn (Leipzig, 1828), 565, line 4. 11 Galen, In Hippocratis librum iii epidemiarum commentarii iii, Corpus Medicorum Graecorum 10, 2.1, ed. Ernst Wenkebach (Leipzig, 1936), 100, lines 7-11 (Kühn volume 17a, page 633, line 14 – 634, line 1). 12 W.H.S. Jones, in referring to Galen’s list of the sigla (Kühn volume XVII, A 611-613), provides the likely sigla for Case 10 (Hippocrates, vol. 1, LCL 147 [London, 1923], 234, footnote 2). 13 Porphyry, Quaestionum Homericarum ad Odysseam pertinentium reliquiae, ed. Hermann Schrader (Leipzig, 1890), on Odyssey 13.352.4.

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In fact, it is difficult to say who may have come first, as we do not have very precise dates for Aristonicus. The intellectual environment of Alexandria no doubt influenced them both. Could Philo have been the originator of this type of exegetical strategy: ‘It doesn’t say this, but that’? Or perhaps they were both drawing on a tradition of commentary that arose just before them and was developing around them. Philo deploys this familiar formula to a distinct task: to bring clarity to the meaning of the Old Testament. His method requires strict attention to details in the biblical text. In discussing Gen. 2:11, he points out that it does not say Havilah has only gold, but that there is gold there.14 In another brief illustration from the same book, Philo points out that God did not say ‘I will put enmity for you and the woman’, but ‘between you and the woman’.15 Similarly, he comments on Ex. 21:12-14: ‘He did not say only “to be put to death”, but “to be put to death by death”.’16 He is supporting the Septuagint’s use of a cognate dative to translate woodenly Hebrew’s emphatic syntax. A century or two after Philo, Christian commentators begin to make their mark on the genre. One related antithesis that develops, appearing exclusively in these biblical commentaries, is οὐ γέγραπται … ἀλλὰ… . This form emphasises the writtenness rather than the orality of the scripture cited, and reflects the rise of the culture of the book, as well as, of course, drawing from a biblical phrase.17 Despite its biblical provenance, γέγραπται occurs surprisingly less often in this construction in the works of these Christian exegetes than the formula with λέγει/εἶπε, and examples with other tenses of γράφω are almost nonexistent. Οὐκ ἐγράφη does appear, but exclusively in citations of Rom. 4:23, with perhaps one exception in Epiphanius.18 Origen wrote far more commentaries than are now extant; in what remains of his exegetical works, there are too many illustrations of this pattern to list, so two will have to suffice. In commenting on Gen. 9:5, he elucidates, ‘He does not say “your blood,” but “the blood of your souls”.’19 Another very pithy example from Origen can be found in his exegesis of Matt. 18:20: ‘Notice that it [or: he] does not say “I will be” but “I am”.’20 This attention to a textual nuance was a significant development to the exegetical process in the early church, albeit leaning on Greek misapprehension of the underlying Hebrew idiom. This emphasis counters a common view of Origen as relatively uninterested in the literal meaning of the text. 14

Philo, Legum allegoriarum libri i-iii, in Opera, vol. 1, ed. Leopold Cohn (Berlin, 1896), 1.77.1-2. 15 Philo, Legum allegoriarum, 3.184.1-2. 16 Philo, De fuga et inventione, in P. Wendland, Opera, vol. 3 (Berlin, 1962), 110-155.54.3. 17 There is one possible earlier example in Plato, Cratylus, Stephanus page 432.a.2. 18 Epiphanius, Panarion, ed. K. Holl, GCS 37 (Leipzig, 1933), 3.466.8. 19 Origen, Dialogus cum Heraclide, ed. J. Scherer, SC 67 (Paris, 1960), 22, 19. 20 Origen, Scholia in Matthaeum, 17.300.9.

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Clement of Alexandria comments before the year 215 on a contemporary text known as the Kerygma Petri. The anonymous author declares, ‘Worship this God not according to the Greeks.’21 Clement analyses the text by noting, ‘He does not say, “Do not worship the God whom the Greeks do”, but “not according to the Greeks”’ – in other words, not in the Greek way.22 Moving on into the later third and the fourth century, the construction becomes very popular in a wide range of Christian writers, and expands beyond the commentary tradition. It can be found among the fragments of Eusebius’s commentary on Galatians, in Gregory of Nyssa (at least in some of his spurious writings), and in Epiphanius the heresiologist. Epiphanius in particular likes to deploy it in polemical contexts in which he corrects the false doctrine of the heretics, highlighting key biblical content they were missing or confusing. Athanasius, Didymus the Blind, and Chrysostom also use it. Due to the high volume of Chrysostom texts extant, hundreds of examples of this pattern can be found in him alone. 4. Galatians Commentaries Focusing now on early Greek exegesis of Galatians, as those commentaries are the locus of my current research, it becomes apparent that this pattern of antithesis continues, and not just in reference to Gal. 3:16. In a catena fragment from Eusebius of Emesa’s lost commentary, he comments on Gal. 1:4, regarding Christ: ‘For it does not say “the one who seized” [power], but “the one who gave himself for our sins”.’23 Chrysostom’s Galatians commentary, the most significant extant Greek patristic commentary on this epistle, has at least forty examples of this construction: slightly more than one per double-column page in the Migne edition. A few excerpts will suffice to illustrate the point. In his exegesis of Gal. 1:16, Chrysostom comments, ‘It does not say simply “I did not consult,” but “immediately”.’24 This form of the construction points out a significant word by stating the verse first without it (οὐκ εἶπεν ἁπλῶς), and then with it. This relatively common subset of the antithesis, with ἁπλῶς added, is popular with Chrysostom and found frequently in Galen’s commentaries, as noted above. Similarly, on Gal 5:13 he states, ‘Because of this he does 21 M. Cambe, Kerygma Petri: Textus et Commentarius, CChr.SA 15 (Turnhout, 2003), 15161, Fragment 3a.1-2; as found in Clement of Alexandria, Stromata 6.5.39.4.1-2 in L. Früchtel, O. Stählin and U. Treu (eds), Clemens Alexandrinus, vols. 2, 3rd ed. and 3, 2nd ed. GCS 52(15), 17 (Berlin, 2:1960; 3:1970). 22 Clement of Alexandria, Stromata 6.5.39.5.1-2. 23 Eusebius of Emesa, Fragmenta in epistulam ad Galatas (in catenis), ed. K. Staab, in Pauluskommentar aus der griechischen Kirche aus Katenenhandschriften gesammelt (Münster, 1933), 47.10-12. 24 Chrysostom, In epistulam ad Galatas commentarius, PG 61, 630.31.

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not say simply [ἁπλῶς] “Love one another”, but “Serve” – demonstrating an intense affection.’25 About Gal. 2:20, John points out (without ἁπλῶς), ‘It does not say, “I live” but “Christ lives in me”.’ A few lines later, he repeats this idea with amplification: ‘It does not say, “I live for Christ”, but what is much greater, “Christ lives in me”.’26 These illustrate a fuller comparison of ideas, rather than merely pointing out an important word: here, the inversion of subject and object. Theodoret, who wrote a compressed commentary on the Pauline epistles based heavily on Chrysostom among others, has just one example of this pattern in the Galatians section, although more can be located in his discussion of the other letters. In this case, Theodoret has borrowed directly from Chrysostom’s commentary. On Gal. 5:10, Theodoret says, ‘Οὐκ εἶπεν, Οὐ φρονεῖτε, ἀλλὰ Φρονήσετε.’27 In other words, it is fine if the Galatians think differently at first – Paul’s prayer is that eventually in future they will see things his way and ‘take no other view.’ Chrysostom’s commentary expounds further on this verse and offers another antithesis by way of explanation. ‘How do you know this is so?’ he asks. ‘Οὐκ εἶπεν, Οἶδα, ἀλλὰ, Πιστεύω.’ ‘He does not say “I know” but “I believe”.’28 Paul has faith that their thinking will be transformed. This formula thus continues from the pagan commentary tradition, expanding and persisting in the Greek commentary tradition of the early church. It varies little and functions at least in part as a form of punctuation for citations and anti-citations, i.e. the things that were not said. Apart from the occasional addition of qualifiers such as μόνον or ἁπλῶς, it is remarkably consistent and stable as a construction. It may well be yet another example of the two-pronged logic so prevalent in Greek thought and rhetoric. Emphasising a negative example, though, to prove a positive does seem like circumnavigating the point. 5. The Construction in Latin What about in Latin? Does this pattern transmit to the Western tradition? Naturally, it is found in the Vulgate for the New Testament examples of this antithesis cited above. John 21:23 states: ‘Et non dixit ei Jesus: Non moritur, sed: Sic eum volo manere donec veniam, quid ad te?’ Similarly, Matt. 16:12 reads: ‘Tunc intellexerunt quia non dixerit cavendum a fermento panum, sed a doctrina pharisæorum et sadducæorum.’ John 11:51 even keeps the chiastic 25

Id., Gal. com., PG 61, 670.22. Ibid. 646.11-6. 27 Theodoret, Interpretatio in xiv epistulas sancti Pauli, PG 82, 493.49. See Chrysostom, Gal. com., PG 61, 667.4. 28 Chrysostom, Gal. com., PG 61, 667.5-6. 26

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order of this expression: ‘hoc autem a semet ipso non dixit sed cum esset pontifex anni illius prophetavit quia Iesus moriturus erat pro gente’. The central example from Gal. 3:16 reads: ‘Abrahae dictae sunt promissiones et semini eius non dicit et seminibus quasi in multis sed quasi in uno et semini tuo qui est Christus’.29 Thus the Latin translations of New Testament texts clearly carry over this rhetorical pattern, as would be expected in that it relies on a Greek base text that includes it. But what of the Latin commentary tradition? Theodore of Mopsuestia’s commentaries on the Pauline epistles are no longer extant in Greek, but they survive in a Latin translation that is recognised as authentic by its correspondence with the Greek fragments attributed to Theodore transmitted in catenae.30 In commenting on Paul’s self-introduction in Gal. 1:1, Theodore writes: ‘non dixit secundum suam consuetudinem: Paulus apostolus Christi, aut Dei; sed interiecit: non ab hominibus, neque per hominem, hoc est, “sicut aduersarii dicunt”.’31 Here he illustrates the fact that this formula often has a polemical purpose: the addition to Paul’s normal greeting, Theodore maintains, is aimed at the apostle’s adversaries. Theodore continues: ‘non enim dixit et a Deo Patre; sed simpliciter: et Deum Patrum, per Iesum Christum pariter illud complectens.’32 For this second section, Swete identifies the Greek original as ‘οὐ γὰρ εἶπεν· καὶ ἀπὸ θεοῦ πατρός· ἀλλ᾽ ἁπλῶς· καὶ θεοῦ πατρός, τῷ διὰ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ τοῦτο συμπεριλαβών.’33 Both the Latin translation and the presumed Greek follow the established pattern of antithesis. Again, as this text represents a translation of a Greek text, the appearance of this formula in the Latin is hardly surprising but serves as further confirmation of the prevalence of this construction in the Greek tradition. It does provide an example, though, of a commentary including this pattern that was accessible to Latin-speaking communities. But what about other fathers, those who thought, preached, and wrote in Latin? Database searches of similar verbal strings in Latin texts of the first six centuries found next to none. One example of something close, however, can be found in a sermon of Augustine labelled as ‘Against the Pagans’; it is perhaps

29 The Latin citations here are from the Vulgate; the Vetus Latina manuscripts for the gospel texts, while differing in some phrasing, still include the ‘non dicit/dixit/dixerit … sed’ pattern. 30 See Rowan A. Greer, Theodore of Mopsuestia: Commentary on the Minor Pauline Epistles (Atlanta, 2010), x. 31 Theodore of Mopsuestia, Ad Galatas I.i (p. 6 lines 14-16 in Greer’s edition; in Theodori episcopi Mopsuesteni in epistolas B. Pauli commentarii: The Latin version with the Greek fragments, ed. Henry Barclay Swete [Cambridge, 1880-2], p. 4 lines 1-3). 32 Theodore of Mopsuestia, Ad Galatas I.i (Greer 6.22-23, Swete 4.9-11). 33 Swete, 4, footnote for line 9. He does not clarify provenance, i.e. which catena MS or other source; Greer does not have a Greek parallel in his edition, and I have not been able to locate one. It is thus possible that Swete is merely recognizing a familiar rhetorical formula and positing that this would be an example of it.

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not surprising to discover this rhetorical device in a polemical context. 34 Towards the end of the homily, as the focus of the attack shifts from pagans to Donatists, Augustine cites 1John 2:1-2 and argues against their exaltation of their bishop as a mediator between God and humanity: So did this John, then, ever say, ‘And if anyone does sin, you have me [John] with the Father; I am praying for you’? … Not only, I mean, did he not say that, but even if he had said, And if anyone does sin, you have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the Just One, … he would have seemed somewhat proud and arrogant. He didn’t say that.35

The rhetoric of this sermon portion perhaps reflects the chiastic pattern noted in the discussion of Greek texts (in Latin: A non dixit, sed B), but in this case Augustine never completes B, i.e. what was actually said; rather he rephrases it slightly, changing the more inclusive ‘we’ to ‘you’ (A′ rather than B). Thus even this citation falls short of the full paradigm, resorting to: ‘A non dixit, sed etiam si diceret A′.’ This deviation from the formula could be a marker of the discursive orality of Augustine’s transcribed Sermones ad populum. More likely, though, it serves to reinforce the idea that this pattern was not well-known in the Western exegetical tradition. Apart from these very limited and admittedly less than satisfying examples, the pattern under discussion does not seem to appear in Latin, at least not up to the sixth century, the outer limit for my research. It does not surface when searching on ‘non dicit/dixit/dixerit … sed’, the verb forms in the New Testament examples cited above and thus the most likely to be duplicated in commentaries. Neither can it be found with ‘scribit/scripsit’, ‘ait’, ‘loquitur’, nor other verbs of speaking and writing, although it is possible that some examples were overlooked. Thus in terms of sheer frequency, it appears to be largely a rhetorical hallmark of Greek commentaries. 6. Conclusion In conclusion, the rigid rhetoric of this form of antithesis connects the early Christian commentaries composed by the Greek fathers to broader commentary tradition – on pagan literature, philosophy, and medicine, as well as Alexandrian Jewish exegesis – that barely predates and then parallels the development of Christian commentaries. The fathers did not create a genre de novo, but built 34 Augustine, Sermo Dolbeau 26 (Mainz 62), in F. Dolbeau, Augustin d’Hippone, Vingt-six sermons au peuple d’Afrique, Études Augustiniennes: Antiquité 147 (Paris, 1996). Also identified as Sermon 198 in the standardised classification of the Sermones ad populum as it includes the previously known fragment labeled as 198, as well as 197 and 198A. See E. Hill, Sermons III/11: Sermons discovered since 1990 (Hyde Park NY, 1997), footnote 1, 229. 35 Augustine, Sermo 198.55 Dolbeau 26 (55), Vingt-six sermons au peuple d’Afrique, 410; trans. E. Hill, Sermons III/11, 222.

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on what many of them were familiar with from their own rhetorical education, which included earlier ‘pagan’ exemplars of textual commentary. The transformation of commentary writing – from notations in the margins of manuscripts to separate books interpreting the texts that were considered essential to be understood – began in the decades before Christ and exploded in the subsequent centuries. A concern over the precise wording of the text and explanations of confusing or culturally distant words were even more significant tasks to the early Christian community. Why this rhetorical methodology seems virtually invisible in the Western Latin tradition is more surprising and deserves further investigation.

A Unique Commentary Manuscript: GA 457 and the Pauline Catena Tradition Theodora PANELLA, University of Birmingham, UK1

ABSTRACT Biblical commentaries seem to have played an important role in theological and exegetical discussions in the East and West from the fourth century onwards. Most of the material in catenae remains unpublished, with little in the way of critical texts. Regarding the catenae on the Pauline epistles there is no thorough examination of the manuscript tradition and the patristic material that is preserved in them. Most, but not all, catenae manuscripts have been listed by scholars over the last century. However, Gregory-Aland 457, not identified as a commentary in the Kurzgefasste Liste, is a catena manuscript of Paul with a unique type of commentary which may help to illuminate the history of the genre. This article investigates the sources from which the commentary has been taken. It pays particular attention to unidentified scholia and any scholia found in the wrong place. It also looks at the affiliation of the biblical text to determine whether it was copied from another catena manuscript or is a new composition. More general comments about Pauline catena tradition will be offered on the basis of this manuscript.

Among biblical catena manuscripts are Greek manuscripts of the Pauline Epistles, which combine the scriptural text with a commentary drawn from early Christian Church Fathers, such as Origen, Chrysostom and Theodoret of Cyr. Four catenists are known to have compiled catenae on the Pauline Epistles during the Byzantine era. The earliest is Oecumenius, now believed to have lived at the end of the sixth century.2 He is followed some 600 years later by Theophylact, Archbishop of Ohrid or Bulgaria in the eleventh or twelfth century and Nicetas of Heraclea or of Serrae in the eleventh century. Finally comes Euthymius Zigabenus, a monk who flourished in the twelfth century. 1

The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Union Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2007-2013) under grant agreement no. 283302 (COMPAUL: ‘The Earliest Commentaries on Paul in Greek and Latin as Sources for the Biblical Text’). This work is also supported by an Arts and Humanities Research Council Midlands3Cities Doctoral Training Partnership award. 2 F. Diekamp, ‘Mittheilungen über den neuaufgefundenen Commentar des Oekumenius zur Apokalypse’, Sitzungsberichte der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin (Phil.-hist. Klasse) 43 (1901), 1046-56.

Studia Patristica C, 315-322. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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The earliest surviving catena manuscript is Codex Zacynthius, a palimpsest whose underwriting, probably dating from the early eighth century, is a catena on Luke.3 For Pauline catenae, the earliest known surviving catena manuscripts were copied in the ninth century, probably three centuries after the compilation was first made. Most manuscripts date from the tenth to twelfth centuries and are listed in the Kurzgefasste Liste of New Testament manuscripts.4 There has been no edition of the Pauline catenae since Cramer’s widely-criticised edition of 1844.5 However, subsequent scholars such as Staab6 and von Soden7 have worked on identifying different types of Pauline catena, characterising them according to the place that they were found (Vaticanus, Parisinus, Monacensis), the name of their author (Oecumenius, Theophylact, Nicetas, Zigabenus) and even further subdivisions, as in the five catena identified as Pseudo-Oecumenius a, b, c, d and e.8 Lamb’s recent work on the Catena in Marcum has suggested that all the catenae for Mark’s Gospel are in fact interrelated, based on one early compilation, which was subsequently enlarged or reduced by later editors according to their interests.9 My research so far suggests this is also the case for Paul. This paper concerns a manuscript housed at the Laurentian Library in Florence, with the classmark Plut. IV. 29. Palaeographically it was assigned by Montfaucon to the tenth century or even the last quarter of the ninth century, but not earlier.10 The codex consists of 294 parchment leaves (26cm by 19.6cm) and contains the text of the Acts of the Apostles, of the Catholic Letters and the Pauline epistles with a marginal commentary. Montfaucon described it as: ‘Membr. Acta Apostolorum cum Epistolis Catholicis, et D. Pauli cum argumentis et scholiis antiquis, et interlineari Latina versione in Epistolis’. The current binding of the codex is not original but matches the other 3000 codices that formed the basis of the newly founded Mediceo-Laurenziana Library in 1571. 3

Cambridge, University Library ms Add. 10062. Parker and Birdsall dated it to around 700: see J. Neville Birdsall and David C. Parker, ‘The Date of the Codex Zacynthius (Ξ): A New Proposal’, JTS NS 55 (2004), 121. 4 Kurt Aland, Michael Welte, Beate Köster, Klaus Junack, Kurzgefasste Liste der griechischen Handschriften des Neues Testaments (Berlin, New York, 1994). 5 John A. Cramer, Catenae Graecorum Patrum in Novum Testamentum, v. 4 (Oxford, 1844). 6 Karl Staab, Die Pauluskatenen nach den handschriftlichen Quellen untersucht (Rome, 1926). 7 Hermann Freiherr von Soden, Die Schriften des Neuen Testaments. I. Teil : Untersuchungen. I. Abteilung: Die Textzeugen (Göttingen, 1911), 249-89. 8 K. Staab, Pauluskatenen (1926), 93-182. 9 William Lamb, The Catena in Marcum: A Byzantine Anthology of Early Commentary on Mark, Texts and Editions for New Testament Study 6 (Leiden, 2012), 57. 10 According to Antonio Maria Biscionio, Bibliothecae Mediceo – Laurentianae Catalogus, t. 1, Codices orientales complectens (Florence, 1752), 70. But Montfaucon in his work Bibliotheca Bibliothecarum gives only this information about Plut. IV. 29 ‘Membr. Acta Apostolorum cum Epistolis Catholicis, et D. Pauli cum argumentis et scholiis antiquis, et interlineari Latina versione in Epistolis’, see Bernard de Montfaucon, Bibliotheca Bibliothecarum manuscriptorum nova, t. 1 (Paris, 1739), 253.

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The quires have been wrongly ordered in the extant binding, with ff. 233-240 (Col. 1:23 and 1Thes. 1:1) placed after 241-248 (1Thes. 2:14 – 2Thes. 3:14). The manuscript is written in one column with nineteen lines per page.11 A considerable amount of space was left in the margins in order to be used for comments on the biblical text. Leroy identifies Plut. IV. 29 as ruling pattern 44C1q and groups it with four more manuscripts with the same ruling dated between the tenth and eleventh centuries.12 The scribe copied the codex in two different styles, one for the biblical text and another one for the commentary, the titles of the chapters, the ὑποθέσεις and the indexes of chapters placed before the beginning of the biblical books. This manuscript is included in the Kurzgefasste Liste as minuscule 457.13 It was also used by von Soden [α67]14 and by Tischendorf [87a and 97p].15 However, surprisingly, it is not identified in the Liste as a commentary manuscript despite the presence of marginal comments in all three sections of the Bible apparently written by the original copyist. The manuscript arrived in Florence between 1396 and 1492.16 In 1396, Manuel Chrysoloras received a letter inviting him to buy the books necessary for his future work teaching Greek in Florence, the first period that he spent there being from 1397 until 1399.17 Since the manuscript has an interlinear word-for-word Latin translation of most of the text and also single words in margins, and since we know that Chrysoloras used this method to teach Greek to his pupils,18 we may assume that he acquired and used Plut. IV. 29 for this purpose. It seems that the Catholic Epistles and Pauline Epistles held the greatest interest for his students or their teacher, since there is no Latin translation of Acts (ff. 1r-80r). The Latin interlinear text is only on ff. 80v-253v, covering the Catholic Letters and Pauline Epistles up to 1Tim. 4:3, where the translation stops. There are several hands for the Latin interlinear text, which strengthens 11

K. Aland et al., Kurzgefasste Liste (1994), 74. Julien Leroy, Répertoire de réglures dans les manuscrits grecs sur parchemin, Bibliologia 13 (Turnhout, 1995), 207. The four manuscripts are: a) Ambros. gr. 0385 (G 016 Sup.), b) Vat. Reginensis gr. Pii II 50, c) Marc. gr. app. I. 011 (coll. 1275), d) Vat. Gr. 0458. 13 K. Aland et al., Kurzgefasste Liste (1994), 74. 14 H.F. von Soden, Die Schriften des Neuen Testaments, I.1: Die Textzeugen (1911), 218. 15 K. Aland et al., Kurzgefasste Liste (1994), 380. 16 See Jerry H. Bentley, Humanists and Holy Writ: New Testament Scholarship in the Renaissance (Princeton, 1983), 15-6 and Giovanni Mercati, Se la versione dall’Ebraico del Codice venetograeco VII sia di Simone Atumani arcivescovo di Tebe: Ricerca storica con notizie e documenti sulla vita dell’Atumano (Roma, 1916), 40-1. 17 Lydia Thorn-Wickert, Manuel Chrysoloras (ca. 1350-1415) (Frankfurt am Main, 2006), 41, 45; Coluccio Salutati, Epistolario, v. 3, a cura di Francesco Novati (Roma, 1896), lib. IX, Nr. 14, 119-25. See also Deno Jean Geanakoplos, Greek Scholars in Venice: Studies in the Dissemination of Greek Learning from Byzantium to Western Europe (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1962). 18 Paul Botley, ‘Learning Greek in Western Europe, 1396–1529: Grammars, Lexica, and Classroom Texts’, Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, New Series 100.2 (2010), 86. 12

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the argument that the codex was used for teaching purposes.19 Chrysoloras might have used the manuscript before it entered the Medici Collection, some time between 1417 and 1492. The former date is when Cosimo the Elder acquired the first 63 books of the collection, while the latter refers to the second visit to Greece by Janus Lascaris, Greek scholar and librarian of this library, who brought back about two hundred manuscripts from Mount Athos.20 In Antonio Maria Biscionio’s library catalogue of 1752, some comments in the commentary on Acts are ascribed to Oecumenius,21 although in Cramer’s edition they are described as of the catena Andreae.22 Regarding the commentary on the Catholic Epistles, this is identified as excerpts from a catena in two other manuscripts in the same library (Plut. IV. 1 and Plut. VIII. 19, dated to the tenth and twelfth centuries): ‘Scholia sunt rarissima, ac brevia, excerpta ex catena in Epistolas Catholicas, de qua Pl. IV. Cod. I., & rursum Pl. VIII. Cod. 19’.23 According to Staab, these both belong to Pseudo-Oecumenius type a (Normaltypus).24 Remarkably, however, no information is given about the commentary on the Pauline epistles. I therefore transcribed both the biblical text and the commentary, so as to collate the biblical text and identify the excerpts of the commentary with the help of the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae (TLG), and some printed editions.25 Despite the brevity of some extracts, precluding any further study, my conclusion is that the biblical text in this manuscript represents the Majority Text and that this is a Pauline catena made of excerpts of several Church Fathers. Some of the names of the sources are clearly written in this manuscript, e.g. Basil of Caesarea, Maximus Confessor and Cyril of Alexandria. The vast majority of the excerpts are from John Chrysostom. Some are found in other catenae (e.g. Vaticanus, Parisinus, Monacensis, Pseudo-Oecumenius), while others are not. The excerpts found in other catenae all belong under the general title of Pseudo-Oecumenian tradition.26 All the extracts thus far encountered in the Pauline catena which might belong to John of Damascus are identical to Chrysostom: this probably means that Damascus used Chrysostom. It is preferable to attribute these extracts to Chrysostom, because he is more ancient. However, in one case, 1Cor. 11:19, οὐ τὰς τῶν δογματων, ἀλλὰ τὰς τῶν σχισμάτων 19

A.M. Biscionio, Bibliothecae Mediceo-Laurentianae Catalogus (1752), 67-8. Κωνσταντίνος N. Σάθας, Βιογραφίαι τῶν ἐν γράμμασι διαλαμψάντων Ἑλλήνων, Ἀπὸ τῆς καταλύσεως τῆς Βυζαντινῆς Αὐτοκρατορίας μέχρι τῆς Ἑλληνικῆς Ἑθνεγερσίας (1453-1821), Νεοελληνική Φιλολογία (Αθήνα, 1868), 113-4. 21 A.M. Biscionio, Bibliothecae Mediceo-Laurentianae Catalogus (1752), 67. 22 J.A. Cramer, Catenae, vol. 3 (Oxford, 1838), 1-424. 23 A.M. Biscionio, Bibliothecae Mediceo-Laurentianae Catalogus (1752), 67. 24 K. Staab, Pauluskatenen (1926), 108, 111. 25 The TLG was accessed at http://stephanus.tlg.uci.edu/ in December 2014. It was supplemented by printed texts from J.P. Migne, Patrologia Graeca (Paris). 26 Maurice Geerard, ‘Concilia Catenae’, Clavis Patrum Graecorum IV (Turnhout, 1980). 20

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τούτων λέγει, the excerpt is closer to John of Damascus, because Chrysostom uses a different word order. A similar example occurs at 2Cor. 11:25 on the word βυθῷ: Οἱ μὲν ὅτι φασιν, ὅτι ἐν μέσῳ πελάγει φησίν πλέων· οἱ δέ, ὅτι νηχόμενος ἐμεσοπελάγει, ἔνθα οὐ γῆν, οὐκ ὄρος ἦν ἰδεῖν, ὅπερ καὶ ἀληθέστερον. Ἐπεὶ ἐκεῖνό γε τὸ πρῶτον οὐδὲ θαύματος ἄξιον, οὐδ’ ἂν μετὰ τὰ ναυάγια αὐτὸ τέθεικεν, ὡς τῶν ναυαγίων μεῖζον ὄν. Εἰπὼν γὰρ τρὶς ἐναυάγησα, ἐπήγαγε. Νυχθημερόν ἐν τῷ βυθῷ πεποίηκα.

This comment is for a few words closer to John of Damascus27 than to John Chrysostom,28 who himself took the idea from Athanasius.29 Works from which I have identified extracts in this catena are as follows: Chrysostom Homiliae, Basil of Caesarea Asceticon, Theodoret Interpretatio in XIV epistulas sancti Pauli, Cyril of Jerusalem Catecheses ad illuminandos, Index apostolorum discipulorumque Domini (textus Pseudo-Dorothei), Maximus Confessor Quaestiones et dubia, Isidore of Pelusium Epistulae, Cyril of Alexandria Thesaurus de sancta consubstantiali trinitate, Gregory Nazianzen De moderatione in disputando, Eusebius of Caesarea Commentarius in Isaiam, Didymus Caecus Commentarii in Psalmos, John of Damascus Commentarii in epistulas Pauli. Other authors cited include Gregory of Nyssa, Athanasius, Eusebius, Severianus and Oecumenius. It was possible to identify one excerpt on Titus 1:12, Ἐπιμενίδου Κρητὸς μάντεως χρησμός which, according to Staab’s edition, comes from Oecumenius.30 It is interesting that two excerpts from lexicographers are found: a single excerpt on Col. 2:8 from Hesychius31 (συλαγωγῶν: ὁ ἀπογυμνῶν) and one on Phil. 4:10 (ἠκαιρεῖσθε: ἐκωλύεσθε. Καιρὸν οὐκ εἴχετε) that could be attributed to Photius or an anonymous lexicographer of the eighth or ninth centuries.32 Another interesting feature is the fact that two extracts from other catenae on Romans are applied to different Epistles in GA 457. The first is Severianus’ comment on the word περιτομή in Gal. 2:7. This can be found as a comment on Rom. 4:11 (καὶ σημεῖον ἔλαβεν περιτομῆς) in a sixteenth-century manuscript from which Cramer edited his Typus Vaticanus,33 and also in other manuscripts 27 John of Damascus, Ἐκ τῆς καθόλου ἑρμηνείας Ἰωάννου τοῦ Χρυσοστόμου ἐκλογαὶ ἐκλεγεῖσαι (Exposition in Epistolas Pauli), PG 95, 765. 28 John Chrysostom, Ὑπόμνημα εἰς τὴν πρὸς Κορινθίους δευτέραν ἐπιστολὴν, PG 61, 571. 29 Athanasius, Quaestiones in Scripturam Sacram [Spuria], PG 28, 761. 30 K. Staab, Pauluskommentar (1933), 461. 31 Mauricius Schmidt, Hesychii Alexandrini lexicon, vols. 3-4 (Halle, 3:1861; 4:1862), 3:251439; 4:1-336; Peter A. Hansen, Hesychii Alexandrini lexicon, Vol. III, Sammlung griechischer und lateinischer Grammatiker (SGLG) 11/3 (Berlin, New York, 2005), 3-404. 32 Christos Theodoridis, Photii patriarchae lexicon (Ε-Μ), vol. 2 (Berlin, New York, 1998), 3-592; I.C. Cunningham, Συναγωγὴ λέξεων χρησίμων, Sammlung griechischer und lateinischer Grammatiker (SGLG) 10 (Berlin, New York, 2003), 73-523. 33 J.A. Cramer, Catenae, vol. 4 (Oxford, 1844), 1-162.

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edited by Staab.34 The same excerpt can be found also as a definition in the Suda lexicon composed in the tenth century (contemporary with the copying of Plut. IV. 29).35 Therefore, given that the provenance of Plut. IV. 29 is unclear, as is the speed of the expansion and influence of the lexicon, it could be suggested that this passage was written by Severianus and later influenced the lexicographer. The second is a comment on 2Tim 3:17 in Plut. IV. 29 on the word ἄρτιος, matching a comment on Rom. 14:22 in other catenae: Σὺ πίστιν ἔχεις; Κατὰ σεαυτὸν ἔχε ἐνώπιον τοῦ Θεοῦ. For this second excerpt, TLG gave two results: the first from John of Damascus and the second from the Catena in epistulam ad Romanos (Typus Monacensis, as edited by Cramer), where it is preceded by the name of Chrysostom but cannot be located in his works. Comments in 2Timothy on the names of the apostles and disciples in this manuscript are worthy of special mention. There are three works from which these could have been taken: a) Pseudo-Dorotheus’ Index apostolorum discipulorumque Domini; b) Epiphanius’ Index apostolorum discipulorumque Domini; c) the tenth-century Synaxarium Ecclesiae Constantinopoleos.36 The relationship between these is currently not fully understood: they differ in the order that the apostles are listed, in grammar and in syntax, but the content of all three is almost the same. The last work may be discounted as a source for Plut. IV. 29: not only is the Synaxarium quite late in date, but it differs textually from this manuscript. The following names are discussed: Φύγελος and Ἑρμογένης (2Tim. 1:15, fol. 259v; Φύγελλος ἐπίσκοπος Ἐφέσου καὶ Ἑρμογένης ὃς καὶ αὐτὸς ἐπίσκοπος κατέστη ἐν Μεγάροις καὶ ἑτεροδοξήσαντες, ἀντέστησαν τῇ διδασκαλίαν τοῦ ἀποστόλου), Ὀνησιφόρος (2Tim. 1:16, fol. 259v; ἐπίσκοπος Κορονίας γέγονεν), Δημᾶς (2Tim. 4:10, fol. 262v; ἐπορεύθη εἰς Θεσσαλονίκην κἀκεῖ ἱερεύς εἰδώλων ἐγένετο) and Τρόφιμος (2Tim. 4:20, fol. 263v; Τρόφιμος, Ἁρίστραχος καὶ Πούδης οὗτοι οἱ τρεῖς ἐν τοῖς διωγμοῖς τῷ ἀποστόλῳ συγκακοπαθήσαντες. Τέλος σὺν αὐτῷ τῷ ἀποστόλῳ τὰς κεφαλὰς ἀπετμήθησαν). These comments cannot be found in any of the edited catenae. However, Schermann in his edition of Epiphanius’ Index apostolorum discipulorumque gives a catalogue of witnesses that attribute this index to Epiphanius. One is characterised as Textus inter Oecumenii Commentaria, without giving more details about its sources. But the study of these texts in relationship with the extracts in Plut. IV. 29 shows that this is not the case here, since the word κατέστη at 2Tim. 1:15 and the phrase Θεσσαλονίκην κἀκεῖ ἱερεύς εἰδώλων ἐγένετο (2Tim. 4:10) do not exist in Epiphanius: instead, they 34

K. Staab, Pauluskommentar (1933), XLVIII, 213-25. Ada Adler, Suidae lexicon, 4 vols., Lexicographi Graeci 1.1-1.4 (Leipzig, 1928-1935). 36 Theodorus Schermann, Prophetarum vitae fabulosae, Indices apostolorum discipulorumque Domini, Dorotheo, Epiphanio, Hippolyto aliisque vindicate (Leipzig, 1907), 132-60; T. Schermann, Indices apostolorum discipulorumque (Leipzig, 1907), 118-26; Hippolytus Delehaye, Synaxarium Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae, Acta Sanctorum 62 (Brussels, 1902, repr. Wetteren, 1985). 35

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are present in the tradition attributed to Pseudo-Dorotheus. Again, the verb γέγονεν at 2Tim. 1:16 is frequently repeated in Pseudo-Dorotheus, but not encountered so often in Epiphanius. So, the source of these comments on Jesus’ disciples appears to be the Pseudo-Dorotheus Index apostolorum discipulorumque Domini. This manuscript also includes the Euthalian apparatus.37 This comprises: a) the ὑποθέσεις of the Epistles, b) the indexes of κεφάλαια – τίτλοι (chapters), c) the stichometric notations and d) the πρόλογοι, the three general prologues, to the Pauline Epistles, Acts and Catholic Letters. All except the prologues were copied as part of the original production of Plut. IV. 29. Sometimes the chapter titles can be found just before the beginning of the Epistle, but even if this initial list is absent, the titles are still included as headings above the biblical text, or even below it or in the outer margins. Almost all the titles are present in GA 457, although there are a few minor differences from the standard verse references.38 The ὑποθέσεις are present for all Pauline epistles but absent from 1John. and Acts, while κεφάλαια are only found between James and 2Peter and between Romans and Colossians. According to Blomkvist the question of authorship of these apparatus’ ὑποθέσεις is complicated since the ὑποθέσεις are present in three different works: in Euthalius, in the pseudoAthanasian Synopsis Scripturae Sacrae39 and, most importantly for us, in the Commentary of Oecumenius (PG 118-9).40 In addition to this indication of a connection between this catena manuscript and (Pseudo-)Oecumenian tradition, Antonio Maria Biscionio in his catalogue indicated that Plut. IV. 29 (GA 457) was related to Plut. IV. 01 (GA 454), another catena manuscript from the tenth century, which is attributed to Oecumenius. This same catalogue describes the catena of Acts in GA 457 as that of Oecumenius. Most importantly, most of the excerpts found in GA 457 are from the Pseudo-Oecumenian catena. For all these reasons I think that Plut. IV. 29 should be listed as a catena manuscript in the Liste and should also be cited as a witness to the Pseudo-Oecumenian catena tradition. It is not possible to attribute this catena to Oecumenius himself, because some of the extracts were taken from Maximus the Confessor and some others, as it seems from John of Damascus, who both lived in the seventh century after the time of Oecumenius.41 37 For a brief summary of this, see David C. Parker, An Introduction to the New Testament Manuscripts and their Texts (Cambridge, 2008), 268-70. 38 For example, chapter E’ begins in 2Tim 2:14 in GA 457 rather than in 2Tim 2:22: see Vemund Blomkvist, Euthalian Traditions: Text, Translation and Commentary (Berlin, Boston, 2012), 56. 39 PG 28, 282-438. 40 V. Blomkvist, Euthalian Traditions (2012), 147. 41 ‘Es sei hier beider seit 4 Jahrhunderten traditionelle Name beibehalten, wenn auch vor das Wort „Oecumenius-Typ“ im Geiste immer ein „Pseudo“ zu setzen ist.’ See K. Staab, Pauluskommentare (1933), 99.

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This catena gives us a little information about the Pseudo-Oecumenian tradition. First of all, it shows that catenae were open books to which more modern authors could be added. Secondly, catenae existed not only in longer but also shorter formats. One could also ask why the Pseudo-Oecumenian catena was here shortened so drastically. Given that this is a beautiful decorated book with considerable space between the lines and large, clear letters, it could have been a book for liturgical use. If we also take into consideration that only small excerpts or phrases can be found in the margins, then it can be assumed that the user had a good knowledge of the works of the Church Fathers and needed only few words to refresh his memory so as to interpret the Pauline Epistles to a congregation. Supporting evidence for this argument that the manuscript continued to be used for liturgical purposes are the lection identifiers that sporadically can be found in the manuscript.42 These were added later, probably in the fifteenth century, by a non-professional scribe. This hand has ‘an almost child-like clarity’, as Barbour characterises this style used by early humanists.43 Also, βαβαὶ as found in Chrysostom’s Homilies on Philippians44 is used here at the beginning of the comment on σύμμορφον (Phil. 3:21): βαβαί! ἐκείνῳ τῷ καθημένῳ ἐν δεξιᾷ τοῦ πατρός, σύμμορφον τούτῳ γίνεται, ἐκείνῳ τῷ προσκυνουμένῳ ὑπὸ ἀγγέλλων. ἐκείνῳ ᾧ παρεστήκασιν αἱ ἀσώματοι δυνάμεις, ἐκείνῳ σύμμορφον γίνεται. This appears to give an emphasis to the oral presentation. The examination of this catena manuscript raises questions for an editor of the catenae. Are there more manuscripts not currently identified as catenae? Who is their compiler? Are they part of an existing tradition? Do they relate to each other? What is the purpose of their compilation? These cannot be answered without further research on the subject of Pauline catena manuscripts.

42 A good and clear extended example for this is ε´ ῆ παραμονῆ τῶν ἀγίων Θεὀφανίων on f. 165v. In this lection identifier we can observe also some ignorance of the use of accents and breathings. 43 See Ruth Barbour, Greek Literary Hands A.D. 400–1600 (Oxford, 1981), xxiii, 29 image 106. 44 PG 62, 279.

The Fate of Jerome’s Commentary on Haggai in the Early Middle Ages Alisa KUNITZ-DICK, Cambridge, UK

ABSTRACT Within the early medieval Latin Christian tradition, there were four commentaries written on the book of Haggai, by Bede, Haymo of Auxerre, Rupert of Deutz and Adam of St Victor. All of them take Jerome’s commentary as their foundation. In these commentaries, one can observe a reaction against the ambiguity in Jerome’s commentary regarding the relationship between his Christological and literal/historical interpretations. In order to rectify this, Haymo takes steps to make Jerome’s commentary more spiritual, whilst Bede makes it more historical. In the twelfth century, Adam shortens Jerome’s interpretations to align with Jewish peshat interpretations when he knows them and Rupert adds as much additional historical information as he can, from sources which include Josephus and Jewish commentaries. This literal/historical method of exegesis however, does not resolve disagreements between them: for instance, Adam maintains, alongside Jerome, that the Second Temple was greater on account of its decorations and Rupert maintains that it was due to Christ’s coming to it. In the five contemporary Jewish commentaries, there is a shift towards placing the fulfilment of the prophecies in Haggai within the time period of Herod or the Romans instead of the Hasmonean period. This allows the Second Temple to be greater on account of its decorations and its years, and it allows for a period of peace, albeit an imperfect one. But one has the impression that the Jewish commentators are still not entirely satisfied with this explanation, which is one of the factors that motivated Eliezer, possibly influenced by Christian commentaries, to extend his time period of interpretation to his own present day and to the future.

Introduction In the Latin Christian tradition1 there were four commentaries written on the book of Haggai, one of the twelve minor prophets, between the seventh and 1 For the most relevant recent scholarship see, Frans van Liere, ‘Andrew of St Victor, Jerome, and the Jews: Biblical Scholarship in the Twelfth-Century Renaissance’, in Thomas Heffernan and Thomas Burman (eds), Scripture and Pluralism (Leiden, 2005), 59-76 and ‘Christ or Antichrist? The Jewish Messiah in Twelfth-Century Christian Eschatology’, in E. Ann Matter and Lesley Smith (eds), From Knowledge to Beatitude (Notre Dame, 2013), 342-57; Wanda Zembler-Cizewski, ‘The Literal Sense of Scripture According to Rupert of Deutz’, in Ineke van’t Spijker (ed.), The

Studia Patristica C, 323-333. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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twelfth centuries: A partial one was written by Bede, found in his commentary on Ezra and Nehemiah2 (early 700s);3 and full-length ones by Haymo of Auxerre (mid 800s);4 Rupert of Deutz in his own commentary (early 1100s);5 and Adam of St Victor (before 1150).6 These commentaries all take as their starting point Jerome’s commentary on Haggai, but also develop their own, original interpretations, which will be explored in this article.7 Within the same time period, five Jewish commentaries were also written on Haggai by Rashi (late 1000s); Joseph Kara (very roughly 1100); Ibn Ezra (ca. 1150s); Eliezer of Beaugency (mid 1100s); and David Kimhi (lived 1160-1235).8 They likewise developed their own, individual interpretations, largely based on the newly-developed peshat tradition of exegesis. The purpose of this study is to describe how the early medieval Latin Christian commentators employed, and also altered, Jerome’s commentary, and to compare their interpretations of Haggai to those of the Jewish commentaries. This will enable one to see the early medieval fate of Jerome’s commentary within the widest possible context, and it will allow us to characterise trends in medieval Christian and Jewish prophetic exegesis that have until now been unnoticed. The book of Haggai consists of a series of messages said to be given by God to the prophet Haggai, during the reign of Darius, when the exiles had returned from Babylon. In the first chapter the people are exhorted to rebuild the temple, which they had been neglecting to do. In the second, Zerubbabel and Joshua and the people are told to continue to rebuild the temple, to obey the Torah especially as it pertains to sacrifices, and not to worry about the greatly inferior state of the Second Temple in comparison to the first. God promises them that he will shake all things, and the nations will bring precious things to the temple. The major difficulty for exegetes concerns the promise that the Second Temple would be greater than the first, when from an historical and theological Multiple Meaning of Scripture (Leiden, 2009), 203-24; Robert Harris, ‘Medieval Jewish Biblical Exegesis’, in Magne Saebo (ed.), Hebrew Bible/Old Testament, vol. 1 part 2 (Göttingen, 2000); Yitzhak Berger, ‘The Contextual Exegesis of Rabbi Eliezer of Beaugency and the Climax of the Northern French Peshat Tradition’, Jewish Studies Quarterly 15 (2008), 115-29; Devorah Schoenfeld, Isaac on Jewish and Christian Altars (New York, 2013). 2 Bede, In Ezra et Neemiam, ed. D. Hurst, CChr.SL 119A (Turnhout, 1969), 235-392. 3 Scott Degregorio, ‘Bede and the Old Testament’, in Scott Degregorio (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Bede (Cambridge, 2010), 131. 4 Haymo of Auxerre, Enarratio in duodecim prophetas minores, PL 117, 9-294. 5 Rupert of Deutz, Commentaria in duodecim prophetas minores, PL 168, 684A-700B. 6 Adam of St Victor, Expositio super duodecim prophetas, ed. F. van Liere and M. Zier, CChr. CM 53G (Turnhout, 2007). 7 Rupert’s De Trinitate is allegorical and omitted for reasons of space. 8 The editions of all of these commentaries are found in the Mikra’ot Gedolot Haketer: A revised and augmented scientific edition of “Mikra’ot Gedolot” based on the Aleppo Codex and Early Medieval MSS, ed. Menahem Cohen (Bar-Ilan, 1992), abbreviated MGK. I have cited the commentaries based on the biblical verse in question.

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325

perspective it was not considered to be as great. For instance, according to Yoma 22b, the Second Temple lacked the ark, the holy fire, the Shekinah, the Holy Spirit, and Urim and Thummim. In addition, the temple was later destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. A second, related difficulty is to identify what is meant by the two references to shakings, and how the shakings relate to the promise about the Second Temple. The medieval commentators took it upon themselves to provide solutions to these problems. 1. Haggai 2:6-7/2:7-8 MT: ‫כי כה אמר יהוה צבאות עוד אחת מעט היא ואני מרעיש את השמים ואת הארץ ואת הים‬ .‫ואת החרבה והרעשתי את כל הגוים‬

Jerome’s translation from his commentary: Quia haec dicit Dominus exercituum, adhuc unum modicum est, et ego commovebo caelum et terram, et mare et aridam, et movebo omnes gentes…

In Jerome’s commentary, he offers a literal/historical interpretation which also serves as a Christological one. He firstly explains that earlier shakings occurred at the giving of the Torah at Sinai (‘in Sina … commovi caelum et terram’), the parting of the Red Sea, and the wandering in the desert.9 He then juxtaposes these shakings with the coming of Christ as depicted in the New Testament, explaining that the shakings prophesied in Haggai were due to the events surrounding the crucifixion and the conversion of the Gentiles.10 Haymo of Auxerre replicates Jerome’s commentary when he explains that the first shaking occurred at Sinai. He also takes up Jerome’s explanation that the coming of Christ was the second shaking referred to by Haggai. But he adds a small element of his own commentary with regards to the sea and the dry land, which is much less literal, explaining that the sea is the sea of this present age (‘motum est mare praesentis saeculi’)11 and the dry land is the barren hearts of the nations. Rupert does not follow Haymo’s allegorical method in his own commentary on Haggai, but produces a shortened version of Jerome’s commentary that exclusively considers historical events, writing: At the time of the gospel those believers by preaching (praedicantibus) stirred up a great tumult from those of the circumcision, and they likewise stirred up those who believed from among the Gentiles, as it is written in the Acts of the Apostles 13 and 14.12 9

Jerome, In Aggaeum, 729:111-730:116; 731:168-73. Jerome, In Aggaeum, 731:174-185: ‘Quod factum cernimus in adventu Domini Salvatoris. Tempore quippe passionis eius fugiente sole…’ 11 Haymo, Enarratio in duodecim prophetas minores, 0216C-D. 12 Rupert, Commentaria in duodecim prophetas minores, 691B. 10

326

A. KUNITZ-DICK

That is, Rupert, in contrast to Haymo, has altered Jerome’s commentary to make it more historically focused. Adam, in his own distinctive way, goes much further than Rupert, in that he only replicates Jerome’s commentary that compares the shaking mentioned in Haggai to the shaking at the giving of the Torah on Sinai. It appears that he deliberately omits any reference to Christ or the New Testament.13 When we move onto the Jewish exegetes,14 we see that Rashi takes another approach. Rashi15 understands echat to be substantive, in that it refers to another kingdom which will endure only for a little while. He surmises that this kingdom is Greece, which arose after Persia and then explains that the shaking was the miracles that were performed during the time of the Hasmoneans (‫)בניסים הנעשים לבני חשמונאי‬. He also explains that the nations, once they realised that the Shekhinah was dwelling in the temple, would bring gifts of silver and gold. Needless to say, for Rashi this passage of Haggai is not messianic and has been already fulfilled, assuming that Rashi thought the Shekhinah was present in the Second Temple. Joseph Kara,16 departing from Rashi’s Hasmonean interpretation, instead employs a kind of rolling interpretation which includes many time periods. The echat refers to the ‘one trouble’ (‫ )צרה אחת‬under the kingdom of Babylon, which would only last a little while, while the shaking refers to Alexander, who defeated the Medes. Ibn Ezra,17 in contrast, essentially writes a basic paraphrase of this passage, without much specific interpretative content. He says that it refers to a great miracle (‫)פליאה אעשה‬, and a little while refers to time according to God’s eyes. He also says that the shaking refers to thunder and noise (‫)רעם ורעש‬, and he writes that all the nations will come to the temple on dry land and on ships, bringing offerings (‫)מנחות‬: God will change hearts so that all the nations will want to bring gold (‫ )הזהב‬there. Eliezer of Beaugency18 interprets the shaking as a great calamity that befell Israel during the reign of Greece (‫ מעט היא‬,‫)יון‬, but he adds that the calamity only continued for a little while, the 180 years that Greece stood. He follows Rashi in the sense that he takes the echat substantively and in setting the prophecy in the time of Greece. David Kimhi19 cites Rashi’s opinion that this occurred during the time of the Hasmoneans (‫)חשמונאים‬, but he adds that others say it occurred during the time of Herod (‫)הורדוס‬, just as he says it is written in the book of Joseph ben Gurion. 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Adam, super duodecim prophetas, 271. I would like to thank Rabbi Reuven Leigh for helping me with parts of the Hebrew translations. Rashi, Commentary on Haggai 2:6-7. Joseph Kara, Commentary on Haggai 2:6-7. Ibn Ezra, Commentary on Haggai 2:6-7. Eliezer, Commentary on Haggai 2:6-7. David Kimhi, Commentary on Haggai 2:6-7.

The Fate of Jerome’s Commentary on Haggai in the Early Middle Ages

327

He further analyses and paraphrases the text, seeming to settle on a Herodian interpretation (‫)כי רעש גדול היה בימי הורדוס‬. The shaking of all things refers to the nations bringing their offerings and precious things to the temple. In summary, all of the Christian Latin writers add new elements to Jerome’s commentary: Haymo spiritualises parts of it; Rupert historicises it and Adam removes all references to the New Testament. The Jewish commentators, like Rupert and Adam, are eager to apply literal/historical exegesis, or peshat, to passage 1, but differ as to the time period, as described above. David Kimhi’s motivation seems in part to be derived from the Josippon, a tenth-century Jewish paraphrase of the writings of Josephus.20 2. Haggai 2:7-9 / 2:8-10 .‫והרעשתי את כל הגוים ובאו חמדת כל הגוים ומלאתי את הבית הזה כבוד אמר יהוה צבאות‬ .‫לי הכסף ולי הזהב נאם יהוה צבאות‬ ‫גדול יהיה כבוד הבית הזה האחרון מן הראשון אמר יהוה צבאות ובמקום הזה אתן שלום נאם‬ .‫יהוה צבאות‬

Jerome’s translation from his commentary: Et movebo omnes gentes et veniet desideratus cunctis gentibus, et implebo domum istam gloria, dicit Dominus exercituum. Meum est argentum, et meum est aurum, dicit Dominus exercituum. Magna erit gloria domus istius novissimae, plusquam primae, dicit Dominus exercituum. Et in loco isto dabo pacem, dicit Dominus exercituum.

Firstly Jerome draws attention to the difficulties of translating this passage, and as a solution he makes the plural verb singular, producing veniet desideratus. The difficulty lies with Jerome’s supplied masculine ending, which is absent in the Hebrew. Jerome, being vigilant, adds that the LXX reads, quae electa sunt. In his literal/historical interpretation, he explains that the Second Temple was considered to be greater because of its decorations of gold and silver.21 In contrast, in his Christological interpretation he explains that it was because Christ came to it.22 In his ecclesiastical interpretation, he identifies the Second Temple as the Church, to which the elect of the nations came. In this latter case, the jewels represent the saints (732:221-4). This passage has an additional early medieval commentator, Bede, who writes that the greatness does not apply to its size or decorations, which was Jerome’s opinion, but pertains to the temple itself (‘sed ad rem pertinet’), because the divine power was more manifest there, on account of the coming of Christ.23 20 21 22 23

See the identifications in the MGK. Jerome, In Aggaeum, 730:122-4. Jerome, In Aggaeum, 732:203-5: ‘Vere enim postquam ille venit’. Bede, In Ezra et Neemiam, 839A-B.

328

A. KUNITZ-DICK

In Haymo’s commentary he mostly mixes up Jerome’s literal and spiritual intepretations. Only at the end does he offer his own, which is both future and present, ‘The Lord gives peace in the Church of the present (Ecclesia praesenti), since it subdues the snares of the evil enemy, it mitigates the wars of vices, and in the future it will give true and eternal peace.’24 Rupert provides his own historical interpretation which was influenced by Jerome but also by others, such as Josephus. Rupert explains that this prophecy was fulfilled during the reign of Herod, but not because of Herod or his magnificent buildings, because Herod (rex impius) was too wicked to construct a temple to surpass Solomon’s. Rather, The true glory was for this place or temple, that in it God who was made man (in eo Deus homo factus), deigned to be presented according to the regulations of the law: ‘every male that opens the womb will be called holy to the Lord’.25

That is to say, Rupert also rejects Jerome’s idea that the temple was greater on account of its decorations, and instead he substitutes Jerome’s Christological explanation as the historical one, adding passages from Josephus to complete the picture. He additionally explains that at the end of the world the complete fulfilment of this prophecy will occur (692A-B). In contrast, Adam keeps to Jerome’s literal/historical meaning, and he applies veniet desideratus to Christ. In contrast to Bede and Rupert, however, he upholds Jerome’s historical explanation, writing: I shall give for the decoration of the temple gold and silver so that the glory of this house will be greater (‘ut maior fiat huius domus’) than the first.26

When we come to the rabbinic commentators, we once again find many differences: Rashi summarises Bava Batra 3a-b, in which there was said to be a controversy between Rav and Samuel. One said the second temple was greater on account of its years, while another on account of the building.27 In Joseph Kara’s opinion, the land of Israel is that desired of the nations (‫ארץ ישראל שהיא‬ .‫)חמדת כל הגוים‬, to which Alexander came. Then the Hasmoneans came and attacked the Greeks, thus maintaining peace as long as the second temple stood and for longer than the first temple. This was not the case in the first temple, during which there was not peace since the death of Rehoboam (‫מה שאין כל‬ .‫ שלא היה להם שלום משמת רחבעם‬,‫)בבית ראשון‬.28 Ibn Ezra explains that he follows the interpretation of Yefet, a tenth-century Karaite commentator: the temple was greater according to its years (‫)שנה‬. He adds that it was so in the days of Herod (‫ )בימי הורדוס‬according to the book 24 25 26 27 28

Haymo, Enarratio, 217A-217C. Rupert, Commentaria in duodecim prophetas minores, 691B-692A. Adam, Super duodecim prophetas, 271:131-272:144. Rashi, Commentary on Haggai 2:7-9. …‫רב ושמואל חד אמר בבניין וחד אמר בשנים‬ Joseph Kara, Commentary on Haggai 2:7-9.

The Fate of Jerome’s Commentary on Haggai in the Early Middle Ages

329

of Joseph ben Gurion.29 According to Ibn Ezra’s second commentary, the greater glory of the second temple refers to money (‫)ממון‬.30 Eliezer31 writes that, at the end of Greece’s rule, all were subject to Israel, namely in the time of the Hasmoneans and Herod (.‫ כגון במלכות החשמונאי והורדוס‬,‫ ויהיו כפופים לכם‬,‫)אלי‬ according to the book of Joseph ben Gurion. He writes that Herod’s building was very luxurious (‫)מפואר מאוד‬. Although they had to bring an offering for the Roman kings (‫)מנחה למלכי רומי‬, he explains that everything was peaceful then. David Kimhi32 repeats the argument as to why the second temple was greater, in its years or building, and quoting Bava Batra, he says both are correct (.‫)וזה וזה היה‬. He argues that, perhaps in response to those who said that there were too many wars at the time of Herod’s temple, there was peace for a long time, too (.‫ זמן רב היה שלום בארץ‬,‫)שהיו מלחמות רבות בזמן בית שני‬. In summary, as to why the Second Temple was greater, for the Christian commentators Bede and Rupert, it was because of Christ, and for Jerome and Andrew, its decorations. The Jewish commentators except for Joseph Kara generally maintain Bava Batra’s interpretation, a majority identifying this as Herod’s temple specifically; they also drew on the Josippon to provide historical background. Furthermore, it may be that Rupert’s concentration on Herod, which appears slightly out of place among the Christian scholars, may be due to his contact with Jewish scholars and his desire to engage in polemics. 3. Haggai 2:21-3 / 2:22-4 ‫אמר אל זרבבל פחת יהודה לאמר אני מרעיש את השמים ואת הארץ‬ ‫והפכתי כסא ממלכות והשמדתי חזק ממלכות הגוים והפכתי מרכבה ורכביה וירדו סוסים‬ .‫ורכביהם איש בחרב אחיו‬ ‫ביום ההוא נאם יהוה צבאות אקחך זרבבל בן שאלתיאל עבדי נאם יהוה ושמתיך כחותם כי בך‬ .‫בחרתי נאם יהוה צבאות‬

Jerome’s translation from his commentary: Loquere ad Zorobabel ducem Iuda, dicens: Ego movebo caelum pariter et terram, et subvertam solium regnorum, et conteram fortitudinem regni gentium; et subvertam quadrigam et ascensorem eius; et descendent equi et ascensores eorum vir in gladio fratris sui. In die illo, dicit Dominus exercituum, assumam te, Zorobabel, fili Salathiel, serve meus, dicit Dominus, et ponam te quasi signaculum, quia te elegi, dicit Dominus exercituum.

Jerome begins with a prophetic interpretation (744:701-2), writing that opinions concerning the meaning of these verses are divided as to whether it occurs in 29 30 31 32

Ibn Ezra, Commentary on Haggai 2:7-9. Id., Second Commentary on Haggai 2:7-9. Eliezer, Commentary on Haggai 2:7-9. David Kimhi, Commentary on Haggai 2:7-9.

330

A. KUNITZ-DICK

the first or second advent of Christ. Jerome indicates that both readings can be used: ‘nos utrumque suscipimus…’ This is a different position from the one Jerome took in his study of the first passage in this paper, in which the shaking was said to have occurred at the first coming of Christ. He also compares this third passage to Zech. 9:9-10, in which the Messiah is said to come meekly, riding on a donkey, and to disperse the chariots of Ephraim. Jerome employs a Christological interpretation by linking Zerubbabel with Christ, in that he understands the passage’s reference to the calling of Zerubbabel, my servant, as a reference to the Son’s subjection to the Father in the Trinity. As to Zerubbabel’s likeness to a signet-ring, Jerome explains, in a moral interpretation, that all the faithful are an image of the invisible God (745:735-746: 743). Haymo of Auxerre produces a modified and shortened version of Jerome’s commentary. He deviates from Jerome’s commentary by noting that Christ, not the faithful, is the image of the invisible God (‘imago Dei invisibilis…’ [0220D]). Rupert, in contrast, provides a literal/historical interpretation along with some allegorical elements. He compares the destruction of the armies in this passage to Daniel’s vision, using a rolling interpretation characteristic of the Jewish commentators: Finally, because there were four kingdoms which, since the time of these prophets, had exalted themselves against God, and which the devil used to destroy the place and the people, for that reason it was necessary that Christ the salvation of the world was born, as God swore to Abraham. In that regard four are said here: I will overthrow the throne of kingdoms, namely the throne of the Babylonians, and I will destroy the strength of the kingdom of the Gentiles, namely the Persians and the Medes, and I will overthrow the chariot and its rider, namely the kingdom of the Greeks, and also him who in that kingdom has been exalted against God, the impious Antiochus, who is called Epiphanes or the bright (1Macc. 1). And this kingdom is rightly called a chariot, because after the death of Alexander the Great it was divided into four kingdoms, as it was mentioned in Daniel, that a he-goat was made very great, and when had grown, his great horn was broken, and four horns arose under it by the four winds of heaven (Daniel 8). And the horses and their riders will descend, namely the Roman empire, whose horses and riders of horses were many. Where will they descend? There where Daniel wishes one to understand by saying, ‘and I saw that the beast was killed, and its body destroyed, and it was sent to be burned in the fire (Daniel 7)’ and then the Lord will do what he promised when he said: I will move both the heavens and the earth, concerning which motion all the Scriptures speak, where even the powers of heaven will be moved (Luke 21).33

This also contrasts with his first interpretation, in which the shaking comes from the proclamation of the gospel.

33

Rupert, Commentaria in duodecim prophetas Minores, 698A.

The Fate of Jerome’s Commentary on Haggai in the Early Middle Ages

331

Andrew gives a shortened version of the explanation of Jerome. He writes that this passage probably refers to the end of the world. In what he calls a mystical interpretation, he argues, If we wish to take this passage as referring to the end of the world (de fine mundi), we shall say that which the Apostle says to the Corinthians: every kingdom will be destroyed and every power and strength … so that God is all in all things. It is a mystical interpretation and it is said to pertain to the end of all things, in the sense that the prophet is commanded to speak to Zerubbabel alone, who is a type of Christ on account of the assumption of his body from the seed of David...34

Andrew does not contradict himself because he only gave a paraphrase of the first passage, and he differs from Jerome in that he calls Zerubbabel a type of Christ because of his Davidic descent. For Rashi35 this passage has a more immediate historical setting. It indicates that the kingdom of Persia will be taken over by Greece in thirty-four years from the rebuilding of the temple, as is also related in Avodah Zarah 9a. In the case of Zerubbabel, Rashi, like his predecessors, notes that repentance annulled the decree against Jeconiah, which said that his descendants would never rule. This does not align with his first interpretation in which shaking referred to the miracles performed by the Hasmoneans. Consistent with himself, Joseph Kara36 writes that this refers to the Hasmoneans who rose up over the Greeks and killed them, leading to a time of peace from all the nations (.‫ והיה להם שלום מכל האומות‬,‫)שבני חשמונים קמו על היוונים והרגום‬ Concerning Zerubbabel and the signet, it acts as a reminder that God has chosen him. Ibn Ezra37 most properly thinks that the text refers to wars in the time of Darius and Artaxerxes who came after him (‫בימי דריוש זה הפרסי ובימי‬ .‫)ארתחשסתא המלך אחריו‬. He interprets Zerubbabel as a signet as if he is being guarded by God. When we look at Eliezer we find something unexpected. He explains that this passage refers to the overthrowing of the nations who brought calamities to Israel: Persia, Greece, Rome, and the four winds of heaven, as is written in the book of Daniel (‫)כמפורש בדניאל‬. As for Zerubbabel, Eliezer explains that he serves as a signet for God all the days of the second temple and the Roman exile (‫)כל ימי בית שני ולגלות רומי‬.38 It is clear that his interpretation of this third passage does not align with his interpretation of the first, which he set in Greece. It also bears a close resemblance to Rupert’s interpretation, and like Rupert’s interpretation, it is unique among its contemporaries. In addition, Eliezer’s interpretation is the only one among his Jewish contemporaries to 34 35 36 37 38

Andrew, Super duodecim prophetas, 275:242-7. Rashi, Commentary on Haggai 2:20-3. Joseph Kara, Commentary on Haggai 2:20-3. Ibn Ezra, Commentary on Haggai 2:20-3. Eliezer, Commentary on Haggai 2:20-3.

332

A. KUNITZ-DICK

give an interpretation that extends to his own days, which are the days of the Roman exile, and the future. This data suggests that either Rupert or Eliezer was influenced by the other, either directly or indirectly. We know that Rupert had many Jewish contacts in the Rhineland39 and vice versa, so there was certainly an opportunity for this exchange of ideas to come about.40 David Kimhi41 proposes that this shaking refers to the wars in the time of the kingdom of Persia (‫)מלכות פרס‬, or the wars in the days of Darius and Artaxerxes who came after him, or to the establishment of the kingdom of Greece (‫)והתחדש מלכות יון‬. This happened thirty-four years from the building of the Second Temple. He then quotes R. Yosi who divided the rule of the second temple into four parts: the kingdoms of Persia, Greece, Hasmoneans, and Herod. In other words, he wanders in between various interpretations. Within these Jewish commentaries, we see a gradual shift from interpretations set in Persian or Greek times, towards an interpretation set in Herodian or Roman times. Usually the latter interpretations also include earlier time periods in various ways. Within the Christian commentaries, there is a fairly stable trend to interpret these passages as referring to the end of the world. Complete Table of Comparative Exegesis Italics are used to designate multiple periods; the asterisk marks a spiritual/allegorical interpretation. Passage 1 Sinai

Adam, analogously

Babylonians

Joseph Kara

Passage 2

Passage 3 Rupert

Persians

Ibn Ezra, Rupert, Rashi, Eliezer, David Kimhi

Greeks

Rashi, Joseph Kara, Eliezer

Joseph Kara

Rashi, Rupert, Eliezer, David Kimhi

Hasmoneans

Rashi, David Kimhi

Eliezer

Joseph Kara, David Kimhi

39

John van Engen, Rupert of Deutz, 240-8. Perhaps further research would be able uncover the more specific route that the influence may have taken. 41 David Kimhi, Commentary on Haggai 2:20-3. 40

The Fate of Jerome’s Commentary on Haggai in the Early Middle Ages

Herodians or Implied time of the Herodians; Roman rule

David Kimhi

Jerome, Rupert, Adam, Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Joseph Kara, Eliezer, David Kimhi

Rupert, Eliezer, David Kimhi

Christ and/or the Early Church

Jerome Haymo*, Rupert

Jeromespiritual, Bede, Haymo*, Rupert

Jerome, Haymo*, Rupert

Haymo, Rupert-Spiritual

Jerome, Rupert, Adam, Eliezer

End of the World

333

Conclusions In studying these texts, we see that that Haymo, Rupert, and Adam are reacting against the ambiguity of Jerome’s commentary: Haymo, by adding spiritualised interpretations, Adam by shortening Jerome’s interpretations to the most literal and to align with Jewish peshat interpretations when he knows them, and Rupert by adding as much additional historical information as he can, including Jewish commentaries. Within the Jewish commentaries there is a shift towards the Herodian solution: the exegetes seem to prefer this interpretation to, for instance, the Hasmonean one, because it allows for the Second Temple to be greater on account of its decorations and its years, and because it allows for a period of peace, however imperfect. But one has the sense that these commentators are still not entirely satisfied with this explanation, which is one of the factors that motivated Eliezer, possibly influenced by Christian commentaries, to extend his time period of interpretation to his own present day and to the future. Still, if one were to try to unite all of these opinions, one could say that they settle on a solution that places the fulfilment of these prophecies during the time of Herod and the Roman rule.

‘The First Cause gives everything to all things, even to that which is nothing’: Origen of Alexandria and Meister Eckhart on Rom. 4:17 Andrés QUERO-SÁNCHEZ, Max Weber Center, University of Erfurt, Germany

ABSTRACT There are some works by Origen that Meister Eckhart never – at least not explicitly – quoted, although they were accessible to him in Latin translation, among them especially Origen’s Commentary on Romans. Yet there is an important passage in this Commentary that seems to have been relevant to Eckhart, namely Origen’s interpretation of Rom. 4:17, particularly of the sentence: ‘And He calls the things that are not as things that are’. This article considers this reference, followed by some questions of textual criticism concerning Eckhart’s quotation of Rom. 4:17.

1. Introduction It is a well-established fact that Meister Eckhart (d. 1328) often quoted from Origen of Alexandria, whose texts he did not know in Greek but in the Latin translations made by Rufinus and Jerome in the fourth and fifth centuries. As Elisa Rubino has shown, he only quotes directly from Origen’s Homilies on Genesis, whereas the rest of the quotations – taken from Origen’s Homilies on Jeremiah, Homilies on Numbers, Homilies on Exodus, and (probably but not definitely) his Homilies on Luke – seem to be based on mediating sources. These include the Catena aurea and the Commentary on John’s Gospel by Thomas Aquinas, as well as the Glossa ordinaria, the standard commentary on the Bible in the late Middle Ages.1 There are, in addition, some other works by Origen that Eckhart, according to Rubino’s analysis, never – at least not 1 Elisa Rubino, ‘“... ein grôz meister”: Eckhart e Origene’, in Loris Sturlese (ed.), Studi sulle fonti di Meister Eckhart, vol. 2 (Fribourg, 2012), 141-65. See also Bernard McGinn, ‘The Spiritual Heritage of Origen in the West: Aspects of the History of Origen’s Influence in the Middle Ages’, in Luigi F. Pizzolato (ed.), Origene maestro di vita spirituale: Milano, 13-15 settembre 1999 (Milan, 2001), 263-89; Marie-Anne Vannier, ‘Eckhart, lecteur d’Origène’, Irénikon 88 (2015), 483-96; Andrés Quero-Sánchez, ‘Origen of Alexandria and Meister Eckhart on the Imperfectibility of Being’, SP 74 (2016), 117-46; Élisabeth Boncour, Maître Eckhart, lecteur d’Origène (Paris, forthcoming) (Thèse pour obtenir le grade de Docteur -École Pratique des Hautes Études, Paris).

Studia Patristica C, 335-344. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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explicitly – quoted, although they were accessible to him in Latin translation,2 among them also Origen’s Commentary on Romans, on which I will focus my attention in what follows. Origen composed this work around 246,3 but from the Greek original text only some fragments are extant.4 Hence, the work is, nowadays as in the Middle Ages, (mainly) known in the abbreviated Latin translation made in 406/7 by Rufinus, who reduced the original text to about half its length. 5 There is an important passage in this commentary that seems to have been relevant to Eckhart, namely Origen’s interpretation of Rom. 4:17, particularly of the sentence: καὶ καλοῦντος τὰ μὴ ὄντα ὡς ὄντα: ‘And He calls the things that are not as things that are’. In the Latin Vulgate, we find the verse translated as: ‘Et vocat ea quae non sunt tamquam ea quae sunt’, which is the version that we find quoted by Meister Eckhart no fewer than fourteen times, according to the Index Eckhardianus that has recently been published by Markus Vinzent and Loris Sturlese.6 This sentence can surely be understood – and both Origen and Eckhart did understand it this way – as ‘God calls the things that are not just as the things that are’, since both ὡς and tamquam can also mean ‘just as’. 2. Origen of Alexandria on Rom. 4:17 The following passage in Origen’s Commentary on Romans is the subject of this discussion: But let us also consider what he says in what follows and see how it should be interpreted. ‘And he calls the things that are not as things that are’. Elsewhere we have repeatedly explained that God alone says, ‘I am who I am’ (‘Frequenter et in aliis exposuimus quod Deus solus est qui dicit: ego sum, qui sum’). God’s essence is one and exists always. If someone should join himself to it, he becomes one spirit with it, and through him who always is, even he himself will be said to be (‘Et una est illa Dei substantia quae semper est, cui si quis se adiunxerit unus fit cum eo spiritus, et per illum qui semper est etiam ipse esse dicitur’). However the one who is far from him and assumes no participation in him is not even said to be, just as we Gentiles were before we came to the knowledge of the divine truth (‘Qui uero longe est ab eo nec participium 2

A. Quero-Sánchez, ‘Origen of Alexandria’ (2016), 119-20, footnote 12. Thomas P. Scheck, ‘Introduction’, in Origen, Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans (2 vols.), The Fathers of the Church 103 and 104 (Washington DC, 2001/2), I 1-48, 8-9. 4 See Origenes, Commentarii in epistulam ad Romanos, ed. and translated (in German) by Theresia Heither, Fontes Christiani 2 (Freiburg, u.a., 1990-9 [6 vols.]), VI (1999): Fragmenta. 5 Origenes, Der Römerbriefkommentar des Origenes. Kritische Ausgabe der Übersetzung Rufins, ed. by Caroline P. Hammond Bammel (Freiburg i.Br., 1990-8 [3 vols.]); English by T.P. Scheck, Origen, Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans (2001, 2002). 6 Index Eckhardianus. Meister Eckhart und seine Quellen, I: Die Bibel, ed. by Markus Vinzent and Loris Sturlese, Meister Eckhart, Die lateinischen Werke VI,1 (Stuttgart, 2015), 311. 3

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eius sumit ne esse quidem dicitur, sicut eramus nos gentes priusquam ad agnitionem ueritatis diuinae ueniremus’). And this is why it is said that God ‘calls the things that are not as things that are’ (‘et ideo dicitur Deus uocare ea quae non sunt tamquam quae sunt’).7

As Origen himself remarks in this passage, he had ‘repeatedly explained this thesis elsewhere’. We actually find an important parallel text in the second book of his Commentary on John, in the context of the explanation of John 1:3 (‘All things were made through Him, and without Him nothing was made’): The Apostle indeed appears to use the expression, ‘those things that are not’ (τὰ «Οὐκ ὄντα»), not for things which exist nowhere (οὐχὶ ἐπὶ τῶν μηδαμῆ μηδαμῶς ὄντων), but for things which are wicked (ἀλλ᾿ ἐπὶ τῶν μοχθηρῶν), considering ‘those things that are not’ to be things which are bad («Μὴ ὄντα» νομίζων τὰ πονηρά). For he says, ‘God called those things that are not as those that are’ («Τὰ μὴ ὄντα, γάρ φησιν, ὁ θεὸς ὡς ὄντα ἐκάλεσεν»).8

‘Those things that are-not’ are, accordingly, ‘wicked or bad things’, particularly ‘wicked or bad men’ as well as ‘wicked or bad acts’.9 Origen is then interpreting John 1:3 as an expression of what I would like to call the ‘Normativity-Principle’, that is, as stating that only those things that are ‘good’ (in particular, ‘morally good’) are to be considered as ‘really being’ or ‘really existing’ things. Origen’s interpretation of John 1:3 in his Commentary on John is also crucial to understand his reference to Exod. 3:14 in the passage of the Commentary on Romans that I have quoted above (‘Elsewhere we have repeatedly explained that God alone says, “I am who I am”’). This is the prominent verse in which God defines Himself as ‘Being’, by saying to Moses (according to the Vulgate): ‘Ego sum qui sum’. Thomas P. Scheck translates this sentence literally as ‘I am who I am’, but this translation, which is surely a standard one, makes it impossible to understand what Origen is telling us here. The Septuagint, which Origen always uses, says here Ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ ὤν, that is, ‘I am the one who is’. What God is telling to Moses here is therefore – at least according to Origen’s understanding of the verse – not that He is ‘Being itself’, but rather that ‘He’, that is, ‘God’ – ‘God alone’ – ‘is (really)’. To quote the crucial segment of the passage again, in a new translation in accordance with this position: ‘Elsewhere we have repeatedly explained that God alone is, the one namely who says, “I am the one who is”’ (‘Frequenter et in aliis exposuimus quod Deus solus est qui dicit: ego sum, qui sum’). No thing other than God Himself is really a being or a really existing thing, so that any thing has to ‘become’, as Origen 7 Origen, Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, ed. C.P. Hammond Bammel, II 307,169308,178; English by T.P. Scheck, I 265. 8 Origen, Commentary on the Gospel according to John, ed. by Erwin Preuschen, in Werke, IV: Der Johanneskommentar, GCS 10 (Leipzig, 1903), 69,4-6; English by Ronald E. Heine, Commentary on the Gospel according to John, FC 80 and 89 (Washington, DC, 1989, 1993), I 119. 9 See ibid. 69,23-8; English by R.E. Heine, I 119-20.

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explicitly says, ‘one spirit with God’ for it to become really a being or existing thing: ‘cui si quis se adiunxerit unus fit cum eo (i.e. cum Deo) spiritus’. Origen interprets Exod. 3:14 as an expression of what I call the ‘ExclusivityPrinciple’, that is, as stating that ‘God alone is (really)’ (‘esse [proprie] est Deus’). This is seen in the context of his discussion of John 1:3 in his Commentary on John. Origen first relates Rom. 4:17 to God’s self-definition in Exodus: ‘We can also introduce how the wicked are called ‘those who are not’ because of evil (διὰ τὴν κακίαν «μὴ ὄντες» οἱ πονηροὶ), from the name of God recorded in Exodus. ‘For the Lord said to Moses, “He who is, this is my name”” (Ὁ ὢν τοῦτό μοί ἐστιν τὸ ὄνομα)’.10 He then interprets such a definition in the sense of the ‘Exclusivity-Principle’: This is the same God the Savior honors when he says, ‘No one is good except the one God, the Father’ (Οὐδεὶς ἀγαθὸς εἰ μὴ εἷς ὁ θεός, ὁ πατήρ). ‘The one who is good’, therefore, is the same as ‘the one who is’ (οὐκοῦν «ὁ ἀγαθὸς» τῷ «ὄντι» ὁ αὐτός ἐστιν). But evil or wickedness is opposite to the good, and ‘not being’ is opposite to ‘being’ (ἐναντίον δὲ τῷ ἀγαθῷ τὸ κακὸν ἢ τὸ πονηρόν, καὶ ἐναντίον τῷ «Ὄντι» τὸ «Οὐκ ὄν»). It follows that wickedness and evil are ‘not being’ (οἷς ἀκολουθεῖ ὅτι τὸ πονηρὸν καὶ [τὸ] κακὸν Οὐκ ὄν).11

All things that are not ‘one with’ but rather ‘other than’ ‘the spirit of God’ (i.e. wicked things) ‘are-not’. Origen is at the same time insisting on the fact that such an ‘exclusivity of Being’ is nevertheless open or accessible to all different men as well as to all different peoples: all of them can become ‘one in spirit with God’, that is (morally) good men and as such really being or really existing ‘things’. Christian religion is therefore to be seen as a ‘appeal’ – that is to say: as a ‘claim’ or precisely as a ‘call’ (clamare or even uocare) – for all men or even for all rational beings: for the Jews just as for the Gentiles.12 3. Meister Eckhart on Rom 4:17 As noted at the beginning of this contribution, Eckhart never mentioned Origen’s Commentary on Romans. Yet there are some passages in which he clearly understands Rom. 4:17 in the same way as Origen did. He even refers to Origen in this context, particularly in his Commentary on Wisdom, interpreting Exod. 3:14 (‘ego sum qui sum’) in the sense of the aforementioned ‘Normativity-Principle’ by referring to Origen’s Homilies on Jeremiah: Now, God is; Exod. 3: ‘The one who is has sent me’ (‘qui est misit me’). The Devil is not, insofar namely as he is wicked (‘Diabolus vero non est, in quantum malus est’) .... 10

Ibid. 69,11-2; English by R.E. Heine, I 119. Ibid. 69,13-7; English by R.E. Heine, I 119. 12 See Origen, Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, ed. C.P. Hammond Bammel, II 308, 178-82; English by T.P. Scheck, I 265. 11

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Sinners are therefore not; they do not count [as really being or really existing things] but are sons of the Devil and are nothing ... (‘Sic ergo peccatores nec sunt nec computati sunt et filii diaboli et nihil sunt’). Also Saint Augustine interprets John 1, particularly the verse ‘without Him nothing was made’, by saying that ‘nothing’ here means ‘sin’ (‘nihil enim, id est peccatum’). This is precisely what Origen was telling us as he wrote (as the Glossa [ordinaria] recorded): ‘Just as many times as we sin, we are begotten of the Devil...’. The sinner is therefore the son of the Devil, [and] is nothing (‘totiens ex diabolo nascimur, quotiens peccamus. ... Peccator igitur filius diaboli est, nihil est’).13

And in the following paragraph, Eckhart, explaining the ‘Normativity-Principle’ that he had, by quoting Origen, just introduced, refers to Rom. 4:17: You should therefore notice that when it is said of any sinner that ‘he is a great or a wonderful man’, the true meaning of this assertion is that ‘he is a great or a wonderful nothing’ (‘magnum nihil vel pulchrum nihil’). That is why in Rom. 4 sinners are called ‘those who are not’, whereas good men are called there ‘those who are’, namely insofar as they are good (‘Hoc est quod Rom. 4 peccatores vocantur ea quae non sunt, boni vero vocantur ea quae sunt, id est tamquam bonos’).14

And in his Commentary on John, Eckhart interprets Rom. 4:17 in the sense of the ‘Exclusivity-Principle’, namely by stating that God alone is: Now, God is Being, and any kind of being ‘is’ in an immediate way because of Him (‘Deus autem esse est, et ab ipso immediate omne esse’). ... That which is not Being itself is outside of, alien to, as well as different from the essence of the thing (‘Omne quod non est ipsum esse, foris stat, alienum est et distinctum ab essentia uniuscuiusque’). ... Hence, according to Saint Augustine, the substance of things gets its name – namely the name ‘essence’ (essentia) – from ‘Being’ (esse); even the possibility of existence of things which are not yet is because of God, as Augustine says of prime matter in the eighth book of his Confessions. And this is in accordance with Rom. 4: ‘He calls those things that are not just as those things that are’ (‘Unde secundum Augustinum ipsa rerum substantia nomen ipsum essentiae trahit ab esse, sed ipsa rerum capacitas, quae nondum sunt entia, a deo est, sicut de prima materia dicit Augustinus ‘Confessionum’ l. VIII, secundum illud Rom. 4: vocat ea quae non sunt, tamquam ea quae sunt’). Also Dionysius says in his treatise On the Divine Names that the good extends ‘to both existing and non-existing things’ (‘Et Dionysius ‘De divinis nominibus’ dicit bonum se extendere ad exsistentia et non-exsistentia’); the good then, insofar as it is both the end and the first cause of all things, is God, and God alone (‘bonum autem, utpote finis et prima causarum omnium, deus est, et ipse solus’).15

13 Meister Eckhart, Commentary on Wisdom, ed. by Josef Koch and Heribert Fischer, Die lateinischen Werke, II (Stuttgart, 1964), 382,4-383,5 (n. 55). 14 Ibid. 383,6-10 (n. 56). 15 Id., Commentary on John’s Gospel, ed. by Karl Christ et al., Die lateinischen Werke, III (Stuttgart, 1994), 199,4-13 (n. 238). See Andrés Quero-Sánchez, Über das Dasein: Albertus Magnus und die Metaphysik des Idealismus (Stuttgart, 2013), 346-9.

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There are, in addition, some important passages in which Eckhart interprets Rom. 4:17 in the context of his characteristical panentheistic understanding of creation, according to which God gave – and is still giving – being to all things in Himself (‘in God’, ἐν θεῷ), so that for any thing ‘to be’ means nothing but ‘to be in God’. This is precisely the way in which Origen interprets God’s creation by referring to the opening of John, particularly in first Homily on Genesis, which was well known to Eckhart.16 Eckhart’s General Prologue to the Tripartite Work clearly presupposes a similar conception of the eternal creation of all things in God. The very first sentence of the Bible (‘In the beginning God made heaven and earth’) means, as Eckhart explicitly states, that ‘God created [the world] “in principio”, that is, “in Himself”’ (‘creavit in principio, id est in se ipso’).17 Things are not because God has given them an existence outside of Him, but, on the contrary, they are by themselves or existing outside of God ‘nothing’, while God is eternally calling them, asking them to come or return to Him as to the original principle of Being in the proper sense: ‘We have to understand accordingly ... Rom. 4 [:17]: “He calls the things that are not, etc.”’ (‘Secundum hoc exponitur illud ... Rom. 4: vocat ea quae non sunt etc.’).18

4. Mediating Sources? However, the similarities that can be observed between Eckhart’s writings and Origen’s interpretation of Rom. 4:17 do not necessarily mean that Eckhart actually knew Origen’s Commentary on Romans or on John. Since Eckhart’s relationship to patristic scholarship has not yet been adequately investigated, it 16 Origen, Homilies on Genesis, I, ed. by Wilhelm A. Baehrens, in Origenes, Werke, VI: Homilien zum Hexateuch in Rufins Übersetzung, Part 1: Die Homilien zu Genesis, Exodus und Leviticus, GCS 29 (Leipzig, 1920), 1,2-10; English by Ronald E. Heine, Homilies on Genesis and Exodus, FC 71 (Washington, DC, 1982), 47. See A. Quero-Sánchez, ‘Origen of Alexandria’ (2016), 130-7. 17 Meister Eckhart, General Prologue to the Tripartite Work, ed. by Loris Sturlese, Die lateinischen Werke I,2 (Stuttgart, 1987-2011), 33,18 (n. 17). 18 Ibid. 35,5-11 (no. 17): ‘God has not therefore created all things as if they would then exist outside of, near to, or besides Him as is the case with some other makers (‘Creavit ergo deus omnia non ut starent extra se aut iuxta se et praeter se ad modum aliorum artificum’), but He called [all things to come to Him] from “nothing”, namely from non-being to being (in the proper sense), which they can only find, receive and have in Him (‘sed vocavit ex nihilo, ex non esse scilicet, ad esse, quod invenirent et acciperent et haberent in se’). For He Himself is Being (Ipse enim est esse). It is significantly not said that God created “out of the beginning” (= “out of the principle”) but “in the beginning” (= “in the principle”) (‘Propter quod signanter non dicitur a principio, sed in principio deum creasse’). For how could they be otherwise than existing in Being as in the beginning (= in the principle) [of all really being things]? (‘Quomodo enim essent nisi in esse, quod est principium?’). We have to understand accordingly both Wisdom 1: “For He created all things that they might have their being”, and Romans 4: “He calls the things that are not, etc.” (‘Secundum hoc exponitur illud infra Sap. 1: creavit deus ut essent omnia et Rom. 4: vocat ea quae non sunt etc.’)’.

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is quite possible that he did not read Origen directly but rather some other authors that he then used as mediating sources. As is well known, Ambrose clearly paraphrased Origen’s passage on Rom. 4:17 in his Commentary on the Psalms (on Ps 36).19 Did Eckhart read Ambrose’s Commentary on the Psalms? This is a question that scholars will have to elucidate in the next years, ideally as part of project on Eckhart’s relationship to patristics as a whole. With regard to Origen’s Commentary on John’s Gospel, it is clear that Eckhart did not know it directly, since he did not understand Greek and the first Latin translation of this commentary was not made until the middle of the sixteenth century.20 However, Eckhart knew very well Augustine’s Commentary on John, which clearly presupposes that of Origen and he also knew Thomas Aquinas’s Catena aurea. Thomas himself certainly did not understand Greek, but, as he writes in his dedicatory letter to the section on Mark, ‘had some Greek commentaries translated into Latin’,21 among them also some crucial passages from Origen’s Commentary on John, which he often incorporates into his text.22

5. Some Questions of Textual Criticism Finally, I would like to discuss two passages in Eckhart’s Latin works, one in his Commentary on Ecclesiasticus, the other in his Commentary on John, from which we can clearly observe the kind of problem copyists and maybe also editors of Eckhart’s works faced with his Origenian understanding of Rom. 4:17. Let me start with the analysis of the following segment of Eckhart’s Commentary on Ecclesiasticus: For the First Cause gives everything to all things, even to that which is nothing (vel nihilo), in accordance with Rom. 4: ‘He calls the things that are not just as the things

19 See Saint Ambrose, Explanatio Psalmorum XII, ed. by Michael Petschenig, Sancti Ambrosii Opera VI, CSEL 64 (Vienna/Leipzig, 1919), 132,28-133,15 (n. 78). 20 See A. Quero-Sánchez, ‘Origen of Alexandria and Meister Eckhart’ (2016), 121-2. 21 See Thomas Aquinas, Catena Aurea, ed. by Angelico Guarienti (Turin/Rome, 1953 [editio nova Taurinensis]), I 428. 22 See particularly ibid., In Iohannem, chapter 1, lectio 3, ed. by A. Guarienti (1953); English by John H. Newman (originally Oxford, 1845 [repr. New York, 2007: Catena Aurea, IV,1: The Gospel of St. John]), 14: ‘Origen; If all things were made by the Word, and in the number of all things is wickedness, and the whole influx of sin, these too were made by the Word; which is false. Now “nothing” and “a thing which is not”, mean the same. And the Apostle seems to call wicked things, things which are not, God calleth those things which be not, as though they were. All wickedness then is called nothing, forasmuch as it is made without the Word. Those who say, however, that the devil is not a creature of God, err. In so far as he is the devil, he is not a creature of God; but he whose character it is to be the devil, is a creature of God. It is as if we should say a murderer is not a creature of God, when, so far as he is a man, he is a creature of God’.

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that are’ (‘Prima enim causa necessario dat omnibus omnia, vel nihilo, secundum illud Rom. 4: vocat ea quae non sunt, tamquam ea quae sunt’).23

I think this passage is not problematic as long as we realise that the expression ‘vel’ is used in the sense of ‘even’. But this is surely a problematic segment to someone who did not understand that, according to Eckhart – and to Origen –, it is possible for someone, for instance for God as for the First Cause, to give something to a thing which ‘is’, paradoxically enough, ‘nothing’. Actually, the text that I have just quoted is not the one that we find in the only two extant manuscripts of Eckhart’s Commentary on Ecclesiasticus nor in the critical edition of the text by Josef Koch and Heribert Fischer. These read as follows (with the modifications introduced by the anonymous editor indicated): For the First Cause gives everything to all things. For either it gives to all things or it gives to none of them; everything or nothing (‘aut enim omnibus aut nulli, omnia vel nihil’), in accordance with Rom. 4: ‘He calls the things that are not just as the things that are’ (‘Prima enim causa necessario dat omnibus omnia; aut enim omnibus aut nulli, omnia vel nihilo, secundum illud Rom. 4: vocat ea quae non sunt, tamquam ea quae sunt’).

This text is obviously the result of the action of an unknown editor or copyist of Eckhart’s Commentary on Ecclesiasticus, who, not having understood that, according to Meister Eckhart, a thing might ‘be-there’ being – paradoxically – ‘nothing’, did not understand the expression vel as ‘even’ but as ‘or’, so that he had to reformulate the passage accordingly, as if it were expressing an alternative: ‘either God gives to all things or He gives to none of them’ (‘aut enim omnibus aut nulli’). The result was then a new sentence, with a fully new meaning that was now intelligible to this editor: ‘It is not the case that God gives something to “that which is nothing”, but He gives – everything or nothing – either to all things or to none of them’ (see Fig. 1 below). There is another passage, now in Eckhart’s Commentary on John, in which we can easily detect similar problems for an unknown editor with Eckhart’s paradoxical conception of ‘things that “are there” being nothing’: God, who is the light and the first cause of all things, gives (whatever He might give) both to all things and to any of them, even to that which is nothing (‘deus, lux, prima causa omnium, omnibus et cuilibet omnium aliquid influit, cuilibet et omnibus, vel nihilo’). If it were not so, He would not be the cause nor the first cause of all things nor of any of them (‘Si non, iam non est causa nec prima causa omnium et singulorum’).24

This is not a problematic passage at all if one has understood that a thing might ‘be-there’, though being ‘nothing’. But also in this case, an unknown 23 See Meister Eckhart, Sermones et lectiones super Ecclesiastici c. 24,23-31, ed. by Josef Koch and Heribert Fischer, Die lateinischen Werke II (1964), 242,5-7 (n. 12). 24 See Meister Eckhart, Commentary on John’s Gospel, ed. K. Christ et al. (1994), 79,11-4 (n. 93).

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editor or copyist could not understand the passage in its original Neoplatonic sense; he did accordingly not understand the expression vel as ‘even’ but as ‘or’, introducing then a new sentence that describes an alternative (see Fig. 2 below). The text that was then obtained is the one that we actually find in the two extant manuscripts of Eckhart’s Commentary on John’s Gospel as well as in the critical edition of that work, which read as follows (with the modifications introduced by the anonymous editor indicated): God, who is the light and the first cause of all things, gives (whatever He might give) both to all things and to any of them – or He gives nothing [instead of: even to that which is nothing] (vel nihil [instead of vel nihilo]). If He gives nothing [instead of if it were not so] (Si nihil [instead of Si non]), He would not be the cause nor the first cause of all things nor of any of them. If He, however, gives anything to any of the existing things, then we have the conclusion which we were looking for (‘deus, lux, prima causa omnium, omnibus et cuilibet omnium aliquid influit, cuilibet et omnibus, vel nihil. Si nihil, iam non est causa nec prima causa omnium et singulorum. Si vero aliquid influit singulis, habeo propositum’).

The unknown editor would not have had any problem with these two passages if he had realised that, according to Meister Eckhart, things might ‘be-there’ being (paradoxically) ‘nothing’. This is surely a central thesis – maybe the key thesis – in Meister Eckhart‘s neoplatonic or idealistic metaphysics; and it is ultimately a patristic or a distinctively Origenian one.

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APPENDIX Fig. 1 (Sermones et lectiones super Ecclesiastici c. 24,23-31, no. 12) Eckhart’s original Text

‘Corrected’ Text

‘For the First Cause gives everything to all things (Prima enim causa necessario dat omnibus omnia),

=

even to that which is nothing (vel nihilo),

in accordance with Romans 4: “He calls the things that are not just as the things that are”’ (secundum illud Rom. 4: ‘vocat ea quae non sunt, tamquam ea quae sunt’).

For either it gives to all things or it gives to none of them; everything or nothing (aut enim omnibus aut nulli, omnia vel nihil),

=

Fig. 2 (Expositio sancti Evangelii secundum Iohannem, no. 93) Eckhart’s original Text

‘Corrected’ Text

‘God, who is the light and the first cause of all things, gives (whatever He might give) both to all things and to any of them (Deus, lux, prima causa omnium, omnibus et cuilibet omnium aliquid influit, cuilibet et omnibus),

=

even to that which is nothing (vel nihilo).

or He gives nothing (vel nihil).

If it were not so (Si non),

If He gives nothing (Si nihil),

He would not be the cause nor the first cause of all things nor of any of them (iam non est causa nec prima causa omnium).

Ø

=

If He, however, gives anything to any of the existing things, then we have the conclusion which we were looking for’ (Si vero aliquid influit singulis, habeo propositum).

Chrysostom’s Exegesis of Galatians: A Dubious Translation Tool for John Calvin Jeannette KREIJKES, University of Groningen, The Netherlands, and KU Leuven, Belgium1

ABSTRACT At first glance, John Chrysostom seems to play a significant role as a methodological authority in the reformer John Calvin’s interpretation of Scripture – at least, Calvin declares that he considers Chrysostom the best ancient exegete. However, a careful review of the references to Chrysostom in Calvin’s exegetical works results in a confusing picture. Although Calvin sometimes mentions Chrysostom as an ally, he more often disagrees with him. One of the most notable examples of this ambiguity is the way in which Calvin used Chrysostom’s exegesis to translate biblical passages from Greek into Latin. In this matter, Calvin’s disagreements with Chrysostom may appear to be rather audacious, given that Chrysostom was a native speaker of Greek, whereas Calvin had studied the language for only two years. How are we to understand Calvin’s selfconfidence in this matter? Taking Calvin’s references to Chrysostom’s exegesis in his commentary on Galatians 2:11-4 as a starting point, this article intends to analyse more closely Chrysostom’s role as an exegete in Calvin’s translation of New Testament Greek. It particularly aims to assess the factors that prevented Calvin from considering Chrysostom his uncontested linguistic superior.

Introduction One of the most important developments in sixteenth-century church life was a renewed focus on how the Bible should be interpreted, resulting in a huge increase in the writing of commentaries.2 Leading reformers such as Martin Luther (1483-1546) and John Calvin (1509-64), as well as a host of lesser-known exegetes, played a considerable role in shaping sixteenth-century exegesis.

1 The ongoing PhD research, on which this article is based, has received funding from The Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research (NWO, Doctoral Grant for Teachers, grant agreement number 023.004.106). In addition, I am grateful to Dr Raymond A. Blacketer for his useful suggestions and comments on a previous version of this article. 2 Jeff Fisher, A Christoscopic Reading of Scripture: Johannes Oecolampadius on Hebrews (Göttingen, Bristol, 2016), 13-4.

Studia Patristica C, 345-355. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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In their writings, early Christian authors hold a central place.3 Luther, for one, quotes Chrysostom approvingly but also says that the Greek father was ‘only a gossip’.4 Because reception study adds dimension to our understanding of patristic literature, it is unfortunate that little research has been conducted on Calvin’s reception of Chrysostom’s exegesis.5 This article is intended to address this lacuna. Chrysostom is the church father most frequently cited in Calvin’s New Testament commentaries.6 In addition, Calvin regards Chrysostom as the best ancient exegete because of his commitment to the plain sense of Scripture.7 Therefore Chrysostom could be considered an authority on exegetical methodology for Calvin’s biblical interpretations. Although the picture of Chrysostom as an authority for Calvin seems clear, a closer examination of these citations reveals that, in his commentaries, Calvin seldom agrees with him.8 Especially astonishing is Calvin’s critique of Chrysostom’s understanding of the Greek of some New Testament passages, given that Calvin – having studied Greek for only two years – sometimes attaches considerable importance to the fact that Chrysostom was a native speaker.9 Identifying how Calvin adopts Chrysostom’s interpretations sheds more light on the exegetical methods of both authors. 3 J. Fisher, A Christoscopic Reading (2016), 27; Donald Fairbairn, ‘Patristic Exegesis and Theology: the Cart and the Horse’, Westminster Theological Journal 69 (2007), 1-19, 4; W. Ian P. Hazlett, ‘Calvin’s Latin Preface to His Proposed French Edition of Chrysostom’s Homilies: Translation and Commentary’, in James Kirk (ed.), Humanism and Reform: The Church in Europe, England and Scotland, 1400–1643: Essays in Honour of James K. Cameron, Studies in Church History, Subsidia 8 (Oxford, 1991), 129-50, 136-7. 4 M. Luther Tischreden I. Band no. 252, D. Martin Luthers Werke, kritische Gesamtausgabe (Weimar, 1912); trans. T.G. Trappert, Luther’s Works, vol. 54 (Philadelphia, 1967), 33-4; Margaret M. Mitchell, The Heavenly Trumpet: John Chrysostom and the Art of Pauline Interpretation (Tübingen, 2000), 7 n. 26. 5 The PhD research I am currently working on aims to fill this gap. Although some aspects of the exegetical relationship between Chrysostom and Calvin are discussed in overviews of Calvin’s use of the early Christian writings in general, such as William Newton Todd, The Function of the Patristic Writings in the Thought of John Calvin (New York, 1964) or Anthony N.S. Lane, John Calvin: Student of the Church Fathers (Edinburgh, 1999), the only study fully dedicated to Calvin’s appropriation of Chrysostom’s exegesis is John R. Walchenbach, John Calvin as Biblical Commentator: An Investigation into Calvin’s Use of John Chrysostom as an Exegetical Tutor (Eugene, 2010). However, Walchenbach’s research is limited to Calvin’s Commentary on 1Cor. 6 J.R. Walchenbach, John Calvin as Biblical Commentator (2010), 49. 7 Calvin, Praef. in Chry. Hom., COR VI/I, 403-5. 8 Difficult though it is to establish exactly in which cases the references are positive, negative, or general, a quick count shows that approximately 30 % of Calvin’s mentions of Chrysostom are ‘neutral’, 20 % are positive, and 50 % are negative. 9 Calvin, Commentarius in Harmoniam Evangelicam, Luc. 7:35, CO 45, 308; W.N. Todd, The Function of the Patristic Writings (1964), 76; Jeannette Kreijkes, ‘The Praefatio in Chrysostomi Homilias as an Indication that Calvin Read Chrysostom in Greek’, in Herman J. Selderhuis and Arnold Huijgen (eds), Calvinus Pastor Ecclesiae. Papers of the Eleventh International Congress on Calvin Research (Göttingen, 2016), 347-54, 349.

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The exegesis of Galatians 2:11-4 by Chrysostom and Calvin serves as the starting point for a case study on Calvin’s linguistic references to Chrysostom. The central question of this article is: which factors might have prevented Calvin from considering Chrysostom his uncontested linguistic superior?

1. Calvin’s Linguistic References to Chrysostom in his Commentary on Gal. 2:11-4 Gal. 2:11-4 reads as follows: 2:11

When Cephas came to Antioch, I opposed him to his face, because he stood condemned. 2:12For before certain men came from James, he used to eat with the Gentiles. But when they arrived, he began to draw back and separate himself from the Gentiles because he was afraid of those who belonged to the circumcision group. 2:13The other Jews joined him in his hypocrisy, so that by their hypocrisy even Barnabas was led astray. 2:14When I saw that they were not acting in line with the truth of the gospel, I said to Cephas in front of them all, “You are a Jew, yet you live like a Gentile and not like a Jew. How is it, then, that you force Gentiles to follow Jewish customs?10

Verse 11 is the main source of Calvin’s disagreement with Chrysostom’s understanding of the Greek text. Calvin renders this verse as follows: ‘Quum autem venisset Petrus Antiochiam, palam ei restiti, eo quod reprehensione dignus esset’ (‘But when Peter came to Antioch, I resisted him to the face, because he was worthy of blame’).11 The difference of interpretation between Calvin and Chrysostom particularly concerns κατεγνωσμένος, which can be translated as ‘was to be blamed’ or ‘stood condemned.’ Relatively modern translations illustrate the various possible renderings of κατεγνωσμένος. Whereas the NIV renders it ‘When Cephas came to Antioch, I opposed him to his face, because he stood condemned,’ the NKJV, for example, says, ‘Now when Peter12 had come to Antioch, I withstood him to his face, because he was to be blamed.’ Thus, the NKJV translates κατεγνωσμένος in line with Calvin. However, the NIV translation corresponds more closely to the sixteenth-century composite edition of Latin translations of Chrysostom’s works, the 1536 Chevallon edition, which was available to Calvin. This translation reads, ‘Quum autem venisset 10

Translation: NIV. Calvin, In Epist. Ad Gal. Comm. 2:11, COR II/16, 41; trans. T.H.L. Parker, The Epistles of Paul the Apostle to the Galatians, Ephesians, Philippians and Colossians, ed. David W. Torrance and Thomas F. Torrance (Grand Rapids, 1996), 33 (hereafter referred to as ‘trans. Parker’). 12 NA28 reads Κηφᾶς instead of Πέτρος (Textus Receptus); Margaret M. Mitchell, ‘Peter’s “Hypocrisy” and Paul’s: Two “Hypocrites” at the Foundation of Earliest Christianity?’, New Testament Studies 58 (2012), 213-34, 220, notes that, in order to solve the problem of the interpretation of the confrontation between Paul and Peter, Clement of Alexandria (apud Eusebius historia ecclesiastica 1.12.1) is supposed to have stated that ‘Cephas’ was not Peter, but somebody else. 11

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Petrus Antiochiam, in faciem illi restiti, quoniam reprehensus erat’ (‘But when Peter came to Antioch, I resisted him to the face, because he stood condemned’).13 In his commentary on Galatians,14 Chrysostom relates Peter and Paul’s debate in Antioch to two previous meetings in Jerusalem, described in Galatians 1:18 and Galatians 2:1-5. These took place because the Galatians were ‘so quickly removing from Him [God] … unto a different Gospel.’15 Contrary to what Paul had taught the Galatians, the Judaisers claimed that they should observe the Jewish ceremonies, which the apostles in Jerusalem also allowed. Chrysostom explains that the apostles did so ‘not by way of delivering positive doctrine,’ but in compliance with the weakness of the Jewish believers, which Paul, working among the gentiles, did not need to do. Since Paul’s preaching to the Galatians differed from his preaching to others, the Judaisers ‘were falsely accusing him of hypocrisy’ (ὑπόκρισις). They persuaded the Galatians not to obey Paul but instead the apostles, as they were disciples of Christ, whereas Paul was a disciple of the original apostles.16 2. Paul’s First Visit to Jerusalem (Gal. 1:18) According to Chrysostom, Paul mentioned the suddenness of his conversion to convince the Galatians of its divine character. His calling to proclaim the gospel particularly to the gentiles differed from that of the other apostles – and thus his preaching differed as well. Having been taught by God, Paul did not go 13

Divi Ioannis Chrysostomi Archiepiscopi Constantinopolitani Opera, 5 vols. (Paris, 1536), T. IV, fol. 218 voL (hereafter referred to as ‘CHEV.’); see also Chrysostom, Commentarius in Epistolam ad Galatas 2.4 (PG 61, 639); trans. Homilies on Galatians, Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, Thessalonians, Timothy, Titus, and Philemon, LNPF 13, ed. Philip Schaff et al. (Buffalo, 1886-, reprinted Grand Rapids, 1952-1956), 18 (I have changed ‘Cephas’ to ‘Peter’), hereafter referred to as NPNF. The text in Frederick Field (ed.), Sancti Patris Nostri Joannis Chrysostomi Archiepscopi Interpretatio Omnium Epistolarum Paulinarum Per Homilias Facta (Oxford, 1852) T. IV, 40C, is the same as in the PG; the Latin translation in the PG is ‘quoniam reprehensibilis erat’. 14 Although COR II/16, 41-7 traces Calvin’s references to Chrysostom back to Chrysostom’s In Gal. Comm. (PG 61, 639-42) only, his occasional homily on Gal. 2:11-4 (In illud: In faciem ei restiti, PG 51, 371-88) is also extant. It is unclear whether Calvin had access to this homily. A quick search in the Chevallon edition, for example, did not find this sermon. Chrysostom’s homily is less widely known than the commentary he composed afterwards. See Alfons Fürst, Augustins Briefwechsel mit Hieronymus (Münster, 1999), 7; Susan B. Griffith, ‘Apostolic Authority and the “Incident at Antioch”: Chrysostom on Gal. 2:11-4’, SP 96 (2017), 117-26, considers Chrysostom’s explanation of Gal. 2:11-4 more nuanced in his homily than in his commentary. However, the exegesis of the issues on which the present article focuses is quite similar. 15 Chrysostom, In Gal. Comm. 1.5 (PG 61, 620-1); trans. NPNF 1, vol. XIII, 6-7. 16 Id., In Gal. Comm. 1.1 (PG 61, 613); trans. Margaret M. Mitchell, ‘Reading Rhetoric with Patristic Exegetes: John Chrysostom on Galatians’, in A. Yarbro Collins and M. Mitchell (eds), Antiquity and Humanity: Essays in Ancient Religion and Philosophy Presented to Hans Dieter Betz on His 70th Birthday (Tübingen, 2001), 333-55, 349.

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to the apostles in Jerusalem to confer with them, as the deceivers had supposed. However, when the question arose whether the gentile believers had to be circumcised, he went. One of Paul’s goals was to show the imposters that the apostles agreed with him that circumcision was unnecessary.17 Chrysostom considers Paul’s journey a mark of esteem for Peter, and Paul’s stay of fifteen days a sign of ‘friendship and the most earnest affection.’ Thus, Paul anticipated his debate with Peter in Gal. 2:11-4 by showing that it was not caused by enmity.18 3. Paul’s Second Visit to Jerusalem (Gal. 2:1-5) Chrysostom regards Paul’s second visit to Jerusalem as caused by God’s providence. As the Holy Spirit had foreseen the controversy about Paul’s prohibition on circumcision but the apostles’ permission for it, He sent Paul to explain the reasons for his preaching. This explanation resulted in the apostles’ confirmation of it.19 It is striking that Chrysostom continually highlights Paul’s pedagogical methods. He explains that Paul understood that the apostles tolerated the Jewish rites ‘by way of condescension and in the use of a scheme (οἰκονομία)’; saying this would have harmed the weak, who benefited from it.20 Additionally, Paul mentioned that the apostles praised his view on circumcision since stating that they had abolished it would be ‘much too bold, and inconsistent with his own admission.’ However, saying that the apostles acted out of condescension to the Jews ‘would have shaken the very foundation of the scheme’ (οἰκονομία). Thus, Paul spoke indirectly for pedagogical reasons and focused on his main point, the apostles agreed with him, Chrysostom explains.21 4. Paul’s Debate with Peter in Antioch Paul and Peter’s pedagogy also plays an important role in Chrysostom’s interpretation of their debate in Antioch. Chrysostom states that verses 11 and 12 give a naïve reader the impression that Paul blamed Peter for hypocrisy, but that the opposite was the case: ‘we shall discover great wisdom, both of Paul and Peter, concealed herein for the benefit of their hearers.’22 17

Id., In Gal. Comm. 1.8-10 (PG 61, 626-30). Id., In Gal. Comm. 1.11 (PG 61, 631-2); trans. NPNF 1, vol. XIII, 12-3; Homily In Fac. 8 (PG 51, 378). 19 Id., In Gal. Comm. 2.1 (PG 61, 633-5). 20 Id., In Gal. Comm. 2.2 (PG 61, 636); trans. NPNF 1, vol. XIII, 16. 21 Id., In Gal. Comm. 2.3 (PG 61, 637-8); trans. NPNF 1, vol. XIII, 16-7, modified; Homily In Fac. 20 (PG 51, 387-8). 22 Id., In Gal. Comm. 2.4 (PG 61, 640); trans. NPNF 1, vol. XIII, 18; Malcolm Heath, ‘John Chrysostom, Rhetoric and Galatians’, Biblical Interpretation 12 (2004), 369-400, 386. 18

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What happened? In Jerusalem, Peter, like the other apostles, had considered the abolition of circumcision impossible. In Antioch, however, he lived in a similar fashion to the believing gentiles. When some Christians came from Jerusalem to Antioch, he adapted to their practices to prevent them from assuming he had capitulated to Paul. Chrysostom considers the confrontation between Paul and Peter a strategy to convince Peter’s disciples23 and argues: [Peter had] two objects secretly in view, both to avoid offending those Jews, and to give Paul a reasonable pretext for rebuking him. … he, having allowed circumcision when preaching at Jerusalem, changed his course at Antioch … And this would have created no small offence; but in Paul, who was well acquainted with all the facts, his withdrawal would have raised no such suspicion, as knowing the intention with which he acted. Wherefore Paul rebukes, and Peter submits, that when the master is blamed, yet keeps silence, the disciples may more readily come over.24

Chrysostom substantiates his interpretation by asserting: Καὶ τὸ Κατὰ πρόσωπον δὲ ἀντέστην, σχῆμα ἦν (‘And “I resisted him to the face”, was a farce’).25 Peter was not condemned by Paul, but by the believing gentiles, who did not understand the situation. Had their dispute been authentic, Peter and Paul would have talked in private to avoid creating a hindrance to the disciples. Thus, the interpretation of the confrontation as a piece of theatre enables Chrysostom to harmonise the debate in Antioch with the apostles’ approval of Paul’s preaching in Jerusalem, which Chrysostom considers the main topic of this letter.26 5. Calvin’s Disagreement with Chrysostom on Κατεγνωσμένος and Κατὰ Πρόσωπον As mentioned in Section 1, Calvin explicitly disagrees with Chrysostom on the translation of κατεγνωσμένος and that of κατὰ πρόσωπον. About Chrysostom’s interpretation of κατεγνωσμένος, he says: 23 Chrysostom, In Gal. Comm. 2.4-5 (PG 61, 640-1); trans. NPNF 1, vol. XIII, 19; Chrysostom argues that Paul carefully chose his expressions ‘in pursuance of the plan (οἰκονομίας), and not from anger’; see also Homily In Fac. 14 (PG 51, 382-3). 24 Chrysostom, In Gal. Comm. 2.4 (PG 61, 640-1); trans. NPNF 1, vol. XIII, 19; see also Homily In Fac. 16-7 (PG 51, 384-6). 25 Id., In Gal. Comm. 2.5 (PG 61, 641); trans. JHK; NPNF 1, vol. XIII, 19 translates: ‘And the words “I resisted him to the face”, imply a scheme,’ which seems reasonable in this context, but could be questioned. The Latin translations rightly refer more strongly to a play (‘I seemingly resisted him’) than to a scheme. CHEV. T. IV, fol. 219 roC renders, ‘Quod autem dixit, κατὰ πρόσωπον, id est, iuxta faciem: perinde est quasi dixisset, in speciem’. The Latin translation in the PG (61, 641) says, ‘Quod autem dixit, In faciem, figura est, quasi dixisset, In speciem’. Another possibility is to translate σχῆμα as ‘figure’, as discussed by M. Heath, ‘John Chrysostom, Rhetoric’ (2004), 392-4. 26 Chrysostom, In Gal. Comm. 2.5 (PG 61, 641); Homily In Fac. 3 (PG 51, 374-5); M. Heath, ‘John Chrysostom, Rhetoric’ (2004), 387-8, 392.

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The Greek participle signifies ‘blamed’; but I have no doubt that the word was put in place of a noun, for one who deserves a just reproof. Chrysostom’s interpretation that the complaint and accusation had first been raised by others is very weak. It was customary for the Greeks to give to their participles the force of nouns, and everyone must see, that this agrees with this passage.27

According to Calvin, the misinterpretation of κατεγνωσμένος resulted in the ‘inept’ suggestion, that ‘this was a sort of play, pre-arranged and acted by the apostles before the people.’ Calvin considers Peter’s public sin of jeopardising Christian liberty – as he sees it – so serious that he could not imagine that it would not have been publicly corrected. He regards Chrysostom’s exegesis as ‘not supported by the phrase κατὰ πρόσωπον which means that “to the face”, as they say, or “being present”, Peter was chastised and silenced. Chrysostom’s idea that, for the sake of avoiding scandal, they would have talked in private if they had had any differences, is frivolous’.28 Chrysostom, however, had deemed the way in which Calvin would later interpret this passage as ‘literal’ and ‘simple-minded’.29 6. Analysis of the Differences The question for both exegetes is whether Paul’s rebuke of Peter’s ‘hypocrisy’ (ὑπόκρισις)30 is a ‘dissimulation’ (ὑπόκρισις)31 or real. Whereas the play enables Chrysostom to bring Paul’s confrontation with Peter in Antioch in line with the apostles’ approval of Paul’s teaching in Jerusalem,32 Calvin solves this difference by stating that although Peter had agreed with Paul before, he now took an opposing position. That Paul reproved Peter officially, as Calvin sees it, brings Calvin to his practical application: In the exercise of the power granted him by God, this one man reproves Peter in the presence of the whole Church, and Peter obediently submits to correction. The whole debate … was nothing less than the overthrow of the tyrannical primacy, which the Romanists prate was founded on divine right. If they wish to have God as their founder, they must write a new Bible. If they do not wish to have Him as an open opponent, these two chapters of the Holy Scriptures must be wiped out.33 27

Calvin, In Epist. Ad Gal. Comm. 2:11, COR II/16, 44; trans. Parker, 34-5. Id., In Epist. Ad Gal. Comm. 2:11, COR II/16, 44; trans. Parker, 35. 29 Chrysostom, In Gal. Comm. 2.4 (PG 61, 640: Πολλοὶ τῶν ἁπλῶς ἀναγινωσκόντων τουτὶ τὸ ῥητὸν τῆς Ἐπιστολῆς, νομίζουσι τοῦ Πέτρου τὸν Παῦλον κατηγορεῖν ὑπόκρισιν. Chrysostom reacts: ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἔστι ταῦτα, οὐκ ἔστιν, ἄπαγε); M.M. Mitchell, ‘Peter’s “Hypocrisy” and Paul’s’ (2012), 214. 30 Chrysostom, In Gal. Comm. 2.4 (PG 61, 640); trans. NPNF 1, vol. XIII, 18. 31 Id., In Gal. Comm. 2.5 (PG 61, 641: Μὴ θαυμάσῃς, εἰ τὸ πρᾶγμα ὑπόκρισιν καλεῖ); trans. NPNF 1, vol. XIII, 19. 32 See Sections 2-3. 33 Calvin, In Epist. Ad Gal. Comm. 2:11, COR II/16, 42-4; trans. Parker, 34. 28

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Although these distinct viewpoints relate to different translations of κατεγνωσμένος and κατὰ πρόσωπον, it is hard to establish whether they cause the various renderings – as Calvin seems to believe – or are caused by them. The common translation of the periphrastic pluperfect κατεγνωσμένος (participle with an imperfect of εἰμί) is ‘he had been condemned’ to which Chrysostom’s interpretation corresponds. Calvin construes the participle as a predicate adjective, which is also possible.34 The translation of πρόσωπον in κατὰ πρόσωπον, by which Calvin claims that Chrysostom’s view is not substantiated, is ambiguous as well. In antiquity, its meaning had developed from ‘face’ or ‘façade’, via ‘mask’, to ‘the role an actor played’. In the Christian era, it began to denote an ‘individual’ or persona, the original Latin term for ‘mask’. The Vulgate always has persona for the Greek πρόσωπον, but in the New Testament κατὰ πρόσωπον mostly means ‘in the presence of’ or ‘by the mandate of’.35 This might have influenced Calvin’s interpretation that Paul rebuked Peter officially, for he says: ‘as the phrase is; that is, by the right of the apostolic office (persona) that he bore’.36 Calvin knοws that Chrysostom interprets Paul and Peter’s policy in light of an underlying plan (οἰκονομία) only known by them. However, taking 1Cor. 9:20 into consideration (to the Jews Paul became like a Jew, to win the Jews), Calvin argues that this was totally different from what Peter did: ‘Paul accommodated himself to the Jews only so far as was consistent with the doctrine of liberty’.37 Chrysostom reads this passage as if Paul intended to abolish the Jewish ceremonies, but temporarily observed them to win as many people as possible for Christ, which fosters God’s glory. For this purpose, he was even willing to temporarily conceal the truth. Chrysostom considers Paul an exemplary imitator of God’s συγκαταβάσις (‘God’s adaptation of his revelation to the capacity of humans’). Thus, Chrysostom ascribes the inconsistencies of Paul’s teaching to his adaptability.38 In his comments on 1Cor. 9:23, Chrysostom opposes συγκαταβάσις to ὑπόκρισις. The difference between these terms is that συγκαταβάσις brings benefit to others, whereas hypocrisy as such does not. As Paul imitates God’s adaptability, συγκατάβασις,39 Paul and Peter’s play (ὑπόκρισις) in Galatians 2

34

Martinus C. de Boer, Galatians: A Commentary (Louisville, 2011), 131. Michael A. Smith, Human Dignity and the Common Good in the Aristotelian-Thomistic Tradition (Lewiston, 1995), 38-40. 36 Calvin, In Epist. Ad Gal. Comm. 2:11, COR II/16, 43; trans. Parker, 34. 37 Id., In Epist. Ad Gal. Comm. 2:11, COR II/16, 44; trans. Parker, 35. 38 David Rylaarsdam, John Chrysostom on Divine Pedagogy: The Coherence of his Theology and Preaching (Oxford, 2014), 8-9, 158-9, 169-70, 175-7. 39 Chrysostom, In 1Cor. hom. 22.3-4 (PG 61, 184-5) and In Gal. Comm. 1.1 (PG 61, 613), distinguishes συγκατάβασις from ὑπόκρισις. See also D. Rylaarsdam, John Chrysostom on 35

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is in harmony with Chrysostom’s concept of συγκαταβάσις; the ‘hypocrisis’ Peter was accused of is not. The roots of Calvin’s knowledge of the concept of God’s adaptability or accommodation lie in early Christian writings, and in particular in Chrysostom’s work, although Calvin might have used Erasmus’s terminology.40 For Calvin, accommodation is ‘the process by which God reduces or adjusts to human capacities what he wills to reveal’ which is ‘beyond the powers of the mind of man to grasp.’ Although accommodation applies to all kinds of revelations from God, it particularly plays a role in the exegesis of Scripture. Like Chrysostom, Calvin uses the concept of accommodation or adaptability to deal with inconsistencies, as he sees them, in Scripture. God scales down his revelation to meet the limitations of human understanding, and, therefore, some information about God remains hidden. Unlike Chrysostom, according to whom being temporarily deceptive to reveal more when human understanding increases is the inevitable result of temporarily hiding information, Calvin sees concealing information as revealing another lesson. In Calvin’s view, only revealing parts of the truth is not necessarily misleading. For Calvin, deliberately hiding information can even be honest if only the purpose is to teach people the truth.41 Calvin’s reservations about Chrysostom’s exegesis of Gal. 2:11-4 are parallel to Augustine’s objections against Jerome’s interpretation of Paul and Peter’s debate as a dissimulation.42 As their correspondence shows,43 Augustine finds this idea of a useful lie absurd. For him, it is impossible to agree with Jerome’s exegesis of an unreal confrontation as a matter of expediency. Because of his perception of the irreconcilability of truth and falsehood, he believes that a lie in Gal. 2 would undermine the authority of the entire Scripture.44 Defending his position against Augustine’s accusations, Jerome refers to his Divine Pedagogy (2014), 179; Margaret M. Mitchell, ‘“A Variable and Many-sorted Man”: John Chrysostom’s Treatment of Pauline Inconsistency’, JECS 6 (1998), 93-111, 105-7. 40 Arnold Huijgen, Divine Accommodation in John Calvin’s Theology. Analysis and Assessment, (Göttingen, 2011), 388; Arnold Huijgen, ‘Divine Accommodation and Divine Transcendence’, in Herman J. Selderhuis (ed.), Calvinus Sacrarum Literarum Interpres: Papers of the International Congress on Calvin Research, Reformed historical theology 5 (Göttingen, 2008), 119-30, 123. 41 R. Ward Holder, John Calvin and the Grounding of Interpretation: Calvin’s First Commentaries (Leiden, Boston, 2006), 45-50. Examples of inconsistencies are the anthropomorphic and anthropopathic characteristics of God, and the sexual mores of the patriarchs. 42 Jerome, Comm. in Epist. ad Gal. 2:11-4 (PL 26, 406-11). 43 COR II/16, 44 n. 50 mentions the following sources for Jerome and Augustine’s correspondence between 395-405: Jerome: CSEL 34II (no. 68, 72, 75, 81), CSEL 54 (no. 56, 67), and CSEL 55 (no. 102, 105, 112, 115); Augustine: CSEL 34I (no. 28), CSEL 34II (no. 40, 67, 71, 73, 82), and CSEL 55 (no. 101, 104, 110, 116). 44 A. Fürst, Briefwechsel (1999), 51-6, 64-6; see Augustine, Epist. 82.4-7, 21-4 (CSEL 34II, 355-7, 373-7).

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ancestors, such as Origen and Chrysostom, who also regarded Paul and Peter’s confrontation as a play.45 Although Calvin was aware of Chrysostom and Jerome’s interpretation,46 on the one hand, and Augustine’s, on the other, he does not mention Origen. He only refers to Jerome and Chrysostom’s ‘invention’ of a piece of theatre as ‘inept’ and states that their exegesis underestimates the importance of the liberty of the Gospel.47 Calvin explicitly prefers Augustine’s view: ‘Augustine judges more truly in asserting that this was no previously arranged plan, but that Paul opposed the sinful and out-of-place dissimulation of Peter from Christian zeal, in that he saw it would be injurious to the Church.’48 Calvin’s penchant for Augustine’s dogmatic viewpoints, in general, as well as the underlying thought of Calvin’s exegesis that one apostle (or reformer) can stand up to Peter (or his ostensible successor) could have played a decisive role in his interpretation of this debate.

Conclusion Contrary to the assumption that Chrysostom is a methodological authority for Calvin’s exegesis, Calvin’s use of Chrysostom’s exposition of Gal. 2:11-4 does not demonstrate an esteem for Chrysostom’s exegesis. Nor does Calvin seem willing to allow Chrysostom’s exegesis to influence Calvin’s translation of the text, keeping in mind that interpretation and translation are inextricably related. Calvin wants to accept the plain meaning of Scripture whenever possible, but here Chrysostom explicitly states that it would be naïve to read the text literally: Paul is genuinely rebuking Peter for hypocrisy. Thus, in the first place, Chrysostom’s explicit and unapologetic declaration that he is deviating from the plain sense of Scripture would be reason enough for Calvin’s disagreement with Chrysostom. Second, the divergent exegesis of Calvin and Chrysostom is related to the ambiguity of several Greek words and their various potential meanings in the context of this passage. Moreover, dissimilar applications of a similar hermeneutical key, God’s adaptability, as well as Calvin’s esteem for the underlying principle of Augustine’s explanation of this passage, the irreconcilability of truth and falsehood, clearly influenced Calvin’s understanding of the Greek text. 45 Jerome, Epist. 112.4-6 (CSEL 55, 370-3); A. Fürst, Briefwechsel (1999), 5-7, states that Jerome derives his reference to Chrysostom from Chrysostom’s Homily In Fac. 46 Calvin does not seem to have known that Jerome’s interpretation of this passage has changed from a reading in line with Origen to one similar to Augustine’s interpretation, and vice versa, according to the different contexts in which he wrote. See A. Fürst, Briefwechsel (1999), 86. 47 Calvin, In Epist. Ad Gal. Comm. 2:11, 14, COR II/16, 44, 46-7; trans. Parker, 35-6. 48 Id., In Epist. Ad Gal. Comm. 2:11, COR II/16, 44; trans. Parker, 35.

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Finally, Calvin the reformer’s aversion to Romanist tyranny plays a role in his critique of Peter’s behaviour. In Calvin’s context, the fact that Peter erred and deviated from Christian liberty implies that the Pope also was susceptible to error. One can stand up to Peter, or his alleged successor, the Pope. Chrysostom did not have a stake in emphasising Peter’s fallibility. These theological, linguistic, and contextual factors contributed to Calvin’s reservations about Chrysostom’s explanation of the Antioch debate.

Alois Riegl, Henri Marrou, and Walter Benjamin: The Interplay of Modernity and Late Antiquity in Patristic Studies Thomas E. HUNT, Newman University, Birmingham, UK

ABSTRACT Andrea Giardina has suggested that a ‘rhetoric of modernity’ has shaped scholarship on Late Antiquity. This article develops Giardina’s argument by examining the role of modernity in Henri Marrou’s studies in patristics and Alois Riegl’s in art history. Walter Benjamin read both Riegl and Marrou. His reception of their work suggests that the interplay between modernity and late antiquity is more than merely rhetorical. The cultural and aesthetic revolutions that swept through modern Europe provided the tools by which Marrou and Riegl could reimagine the late Roman world. In turn, their work gave Benjamin the means to identify and analyse the culture of modernity. Patristics, refounded by Marrou’s generation after the Second World War, retains the imprint of Benjamin’s modernity.

The first Oxford Patristics conference took place in 1951. In his inaugural address to the delegates, Henri Marrou affirmed the continuing relevance of Patristic studies in the Cold War period.1 Towards the end of his paper he made explicit connections between the world of the Fathers and the twentieth century. Modern culture (la culture moderne), he said, ‘increasingly runs the risk of forgetting humans’ ultimate purpose and of falling into some atrocious barbarity of technology and policing.’2 The Fathers were steeped in classical culture and so, he argued, the study of patristics offered a classical humanism that could counter this nihilism. ‘Although I am sincerely convinced that history never repeats itself, I cannot stop myself thinking of the precedent which establishes for us the beginning of the Middle Ages. For … it is not the first time that an irruption within our West threatens the continuity of the classical tradition, and with it the kernel of Christianity and civilisation itself.’3 The Oxford Conference was a peace project, binding together communities that had been riven by war and authoritarianism. Marrou reminded his audience that the 1 H.-I. Marrou, ‘Introduction: Patristique et humanisme’, in Patristique et humanisme: mélanges (Paris, 1976). 2 Ibid. 32. 3 Ibid. 33.

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Fathers were men of their time who drew on their heritage as they articulated new modes of imagining a broken-down world. The parallels were obvious to him. This comparison, by which the late Roman world is linked to the modern, is not restricted to Marrou, but rather forms part of what Andrea Giardina has dubbed a ‘rhetoric of modernity’ that animates the study of late antiquity and patristics.4 This rhetoric, Giardina argues, encourages readers to approach the distant past in a way that ties it in to modern narratives of progress, transformation and the peaceful accommodation of difference. Giardina’s argument is about the development of late antique studies in Anglo-American scholarship, but, as Marrou’s address indicates, the desire to connect the late Roman world to ours is common. This paper takes Giardina’s identification of a ‘rhetoric of modernity’ and develops it by exploring how the concepts of the ‘modern’ and of the ‘late Roman’ constitute each other. Between 1900 and 1950, work in a variety of disciplines began to identify the fourth and fifth centuries after Christ as something distinct from what had gone before and what came after. This analysis took place in dialogue with wider debates on the nature of culture in the contemporary, ‘modern’ world. Public debates about commodification and aesthetic value came to set the parameters for early academic work on the culture of the late Roman world. The profound changes in European society that characterise the period from 1850 onwards therefore created the conditions for renewed reflection on the end of the Roman Empire. Modernity was necessary to identify late antiquity; late antiquity was necessary to recognise modernity. This mutually constitutive relationship becomes clearer when Marrou’s reflections on patristics and modernity are held in dialogue with the work of Alois Riegl and Walter Benjamin. Riegl and Marrou are generally recognised in historiographical accounts of patristics and late antique studies.5 The work that they produced on the centuries after Constantine was contingent on innovative methodologies. In particular, both Riegl and Marrou drew on late nineteenthcentury debates about aesthetics and cultural production, deploying these rich resources as they analysed their sources. Walter Benjamin, a German-Jewish writer who died fleeing the Gestapo and the Vichy French in 1940, is generally reckoned as a cultural critic of the changes in social and cultural life that took place between 1850 and 1900. Although he does not feature in historiographical treatments of the late Roman world, Benjamin was an avid reader of Riegl and was profoundly influenced by his analysis of the cultural life of the late 4

A. Giardina, ‘Esplosione di tardoantico’, Studi Storici (1999), 157-80. See, for example, Jaś Elsner, ‘The birth of Late Antiquity: Riegl and Strzygowski in 1901’, Art History (2002), 358-79; Arnaldo Marcone, ‘A long Late Antiquity?: Considerations on a controversial periodization’, Journal of Late Antiquity (2008), 4-19; R.A. Markus, ‘Between Marrou and Brown: Transformations of Late Antique Christianity’, in Transformations of Late Antiquity: Essays for Peter Brown (Burlington VT, 2009). 5

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Roman Empire. Benjamin’s knowledge of the late Roman world is on display in his unpublished review of Marrou’s Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique. The methodological innovations of Riegl and Marrou provided the tools to distinguish and analyse late antiquity. Adding Benjamin to this story reveals an unrecognised link between Riegl and Marrou and will produce a more historically nuanced account of why the modern and the late antique remain so closely intertwined. From 1889 onwards, Alois Riegl identified the centuries after Constantine as being a period of time different from what had come before and what came after. Drawing on the work of Jacob Burckhardt, he called this period die Spätantike (or more frequently, the late Roman) and traced its particular artistic sensibilities, heavily influenced by the classical tradition and yet distinct from it.6 In the introduction to his 1901 work Die Spätromische Kunstindustrie, he outlined the new methodological commitments that he deployed to analyse this period. This book, he wrote, was the first of its kind: an investigation of the whole of late Roman art, including architecture, sculpture, epigraphy, crafts, and painting.7 Such a work had not been attempted before because no-one thought the period was worth bothering with and people lacked ‘the desire to get involved with it’.8 He went on to remark that Scholarship takes its direction in the last analysis from the contemporary intellectual atmosphere … [but now] our intellectual development has reached the point where a solution to the question concerning the nature … of the end of antiquity may find general interest and appreciation.9

As he hinted here, Spätromische Kunstindustrie was indebted to changes in Riegl’s wider social and cultural context. It was part of a larger study commissioned by the government of Austria-Hungary to track the history of art and culture within its borders.10 This imperial commission shaped the arguments that Riegl made in the book, for ‘discussion of the nature of late Roman or Early Christian art was consequently a debate, by proxy, over the identity and future of Austria-Hungary’.11 As well as this wider imperial context, the methodology followed by Riegl was also shaped by his engagement with a contemporary revolution in aesthetics. In the 1890s, Viennese artists, inspired by folk art and artefacts from overseas colonies, rebelled against the academic 6 A. Marcone, ‘A long Late Antiquity’ (2008), 11-2; Alois Riegl, Die ägyptischen Textilfunde im k.k. österreich. Museum. Allgemeine Charakteristik und Katalog (Vienna, 1889), XV-XVI. 7 J. Elsner, ‘The birth of Late Antiquity’ (2002), 362-3; Alois Riegl, Die spätrömische KunstIndustrie nach den Funden in Österreich-Ungarn (Vienna, 1901). 8 A. Riegl, Die spätrömische Kunst-Industrie (1901), 6: ‘Aber es fehlte bisher die Lust, sich darein zu versenken.’ 9 Ibid. 6. 10 Ibid. 1. 11 Matthew Rampley, ‘Art History and the Politics of Empire: Rethinking the Vienna School’, Art Bulletin (2009), 446-62, 446.

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realism then dominant and began to experiment with techniques from postimpressionism, Jugendstil and the crafts movement. In one of his essays Riegl identified a melancholy ‘mood’ (Stimmung) that both defined the movement as a whole and distinguished it from what had gone before.12 Produced in Vienna at the turn of the twentieth century, Spätromische Kunstindustrie was written at a time when art was understood to reflect imperial identity and in which an aesthetic revolution had introduced a self-consciously new way of understanding human perception of the world. Riegl’s determination to include crafts and architecture in his study of the late Roman Empire is a reflection of this situation as it unfolded in modern Vienna.13 In the introduction to Spätromische Kunstindustrie, he noted that the late Roman Empire had previously been understood as an era of barbarisation and decline because paintings and sculpture became less realistic. Shadows disappear, for example.14 Riegl rejected this reading and argued that there are universal ‘laws’ (Gesetze) which govern the relationship between a people’s social life and the cultural products they make.15 This affects not only the producer of art but the consumer, and by analysing and comparing these cultural products across different media and functions, it is possible to identify the underlying social or spiritual forces that are shaping that society.16 The art historian ought to analyse the objects produced by a society in order to identify a recurring ‘mood’ (Stimmung) and so to identify the way that people perceived the world.17 Riegl argued that from the fourth century onwards there was a profound transformation in the way people perceived the world. What had appeared to previous generations of historians to be ‘barbarities’ were actually the attempts by late Roman artists and craftspeople to capture a new way of seeing the world using old materials and techniques. What defines the Spätantike is not a decline into barbarism, but a positive struggle towards new modes of imagining the world. Riegl’s study of late Roman artefacts had a lasting impact on Art History but also had a wider influence. In a review written in 1929, Walter Benjamin dubbed Spätromische Kunstindustrie an ‘epoch making’ book and one of the four most important books of German-language scholarship produced in decades.18 Indeed, he goes on, ‘in the last decades, no book on art scholarship has had such a substantial and methodologically fruitful effect’.19 This methodological 12 Diana Reynolds Cordileone, Alois Riegl in Vienna 1875-1905: An Institutional Bibliography (Farnham and Burlington VT, 2014), 208-9. 13 Wolf Liebeschuetz, ‘The Birth of Late Antiquity’, Antiquité Tardive (2004), 253-61, 255. 14 A. Riegl, Die spätrömische Kunst-Industrie (1901), 12-3. 15 Ibid. 2. 16 D.R. Cordileone, Alois Riegl in Vienna (2014), 201-6. 17 Ibid. 209-10. 18 Walter Benjamin, ‘Bücher, die lebendig geblieben sind’, in Tiedemann-Bartels (ed.), Gesammelte Schriften III, 1991 (Frankfurt a. Main, 1972), 169. 19 Ibid. 170.

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inspiration is detectable in Benjamin’s 1928 study on Trauerspiel (German Tragic Drama), but recurs throughout the body of his work.20 In one essay, a discussion of Riegl’s methodology leads Benjamin to make connections between the fragmentation of perception heralded by Dadaism and the advent of cinema.21 In this case, Benjamin draws on Riegl’s articulation of the connection between objects and subjective perception of the world to frame and analyse the novelty of modernism. For Benjamin, then, the late Roman world was the lens through which the modern came into focus. Even when Riegl was not directly cited, his influence is clear, as, for example, in the late essay translated as ‘On Some Motifs in Baudelaire’ (1939). In this work, Benjamin argues that the poetry written by Baudelaire was a product of his experience of the transformations of Parisian society in the period after 1850. The jostling of the crowd, the noise of the streets, the growing importance of the photograph in modern culture, all contribute to what Benjamin called a ‘crisis of perception’.22 Baudelaire’s poetry, wrote Benjamin, was a product of this crisis. Like Riegl’s late antique artists, Baudelaire struggled to adapt existing forms to this new way of seeing the world, writing this revolution in the decadence and barbarity of his verse.23 As Benjamin described it elsewhere in this essay, it was only in the writing of poetry that Baudelaire was ‘able to fathom the full meaning of the breakdown that he, a modern man, was witnessing’.24 Benjamin identified Baudelaire’s poetry as the product of an attempt to render the new world of modernity in old lyric forms. His reading of Riegl provided him with a way to link material artefacts to subjective perception of the world. Drawing on the late Roman past, Benjamin was able to identify the peculiar shifts in politics, society and culture that constituted modernity. To recognise Baudelaire as an envoy of the new world of modernity, Benjamin drew on Riegl’s account of late Roman culture. The methodological innovations that Riegl deployed in his study of late Roman art revealed the fourth and fifth centuries to be periods of artistic innovation rather than barbaric decline. The emergence of die Spätantike as an object of academic study was itself, however, shaped by Riegl’s experience of the aesthetic revolution of modern art. Reading Benjamin reading Riegl reading modernity is reminiscent of that most modern of cultural artefacts, the cinema projector. Two reels, one for late antiquity, one for modernity. Between them, humming, flies the combustible nitrate of the human imagination. 20

Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings, Walter Benjamin: A Critical Life (Cambridge, Massachusetts and London, 2014), 267. 21 Walter Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’, in Arendt (ed.), Illuminations (New York, 2007). 22 Walter Benjamin, ‘On some motifs in Baudelaire’, in Eiland and Jennings (eds), Selected Writings, Volume 4: 1938-1940 (Cambridge, Massachusetts and London, 2006), 338. 23 Ibid. 338. 24 Ibid. 333.

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Benjamin’s interest in the culture of the late Roman Empire is evident in his review of Henri Marrou’s 1938 work Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique. In this work, Marrou argued that fourth-century literary culture had become ossified. Servius’s commentary on Vergil, for example, showed a repeated tendency to break the text down into smaller and smaller fragments. In Marrou’s eyes, such a process betrayed a ‘psychological atomism’, an intellectual culture that prized the part over the whole and the collection of fascinating facts over the search for overarching meaning.25 This focus on the fragment, on aesthetic pleasure, was encapsulated for Marrou in the term ‘decadence’.26 By this word he hoped to evoke in his audience a memory of Verlaine’s sonnet, Langueur, and its play between late Roman decline and the aestheticised indolence of fin de siècle Paris.27 In an earlier work, published pseudonymously in 1934, Marrou had made the connection between the modern world and Augustine even clearer, identifying a crisis in modern France that could only be ameliorated through an Augustinian Christianisation of culture.28 Only in this way, he had argued, could Christianity resist being co-opted into the nihilistic and authoritarian political projects then rising across Europe. This earlier book was part of Marrou’s unfolding reflection on the connection between modern society and Christianity, and it situated Augustine as an exemplar of Christianity engaged in the world.29 In Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique, Marrou presented late Roman culture as obsessed by fragmentation and specialisation, but this was a pattern that he had already identified in his own contemporary world. Benjamin’s review of Marrou’s book was never published, but it gives a good insight into his continuing reflection on late Roman culture. 30 Benjamin approved of Marrou’s use of the term decadence to describe this world, but he chided Marrou for too narrow a view of the imaginative life of the fourth century. He urged Marrou to return to Riegl and to extend his observations on fourth-century literature into a general critique of art.31 If he did so, observed Benjamin, he would come to understand the connections between cultural products and the crises in perception that inspire them. This was an astute 25

Henri-Irénée Marrou, Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique (Paris, 1938), 25-6. Ibid. 90-4. 27 Henri-Irénée Marrou, ‘Retractatio’, in Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique, 1958 (Paris, 1949). 28 H. Davenson, Fondements d’une culture chrétienne (Paris, 1934), 152-3; Jacques Prétovat, ‘Fondements d’une culture chrétienne’, in Yves-Marie Hilaire (ed.), De Renan à Marrou: L’histoire du christianisme et les progrès de la méthode historique (1863-1968) (Villeneuve-d’Ascq, 1999), 126-7. 29 See, for example, his reflections on Maritain’s Art et scholastique in Henri-Irénée Marrou, Carnets posthumes (Paris, 2006), 46, and also Pierre Riché, Henri Irénée Marrou, historien engagé (Paris, 2003), 28-34. 30 Benjamin, ‘Review of Henri-Irénée Marrou, Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique. Paris: E. de Boccard’, in Tiedemann-Bartels (eds), Gesammelte Schriften III, 1991. 31 Ibid. 588. 26

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observation on Benjamin’s part. In the decade following the publication of his book, Marrou heavily revised his understanding of ‘culture’. Already a key methodological tool for this study,32 he had come to take much broader view of the ways that humans’ experience could be encountered in the objects and artefacts they produced.33 Later on in his career, he would remark that his early study of Augustine ‘merely revealed my incompetence as a young barbarian’ who did not understand the art of classical rhetoric.34 In 1949, he republished Saint Augustin, appending to it a ‘Retractatio’. Instead of decadence, he now argued that the Latin West in the fourth and fifth centuries witnessed a new thing, a civilisation that he labelled the Theopolis: City of God.35 In this ‘Retractatio,’ Marrou remarked that the concept of decadence was popularised by the culture and scholarship of the late nineteenth century. Benjamin, so attuned to decadent modernity, had noticed this but his review remained unpublished and his engagement with Marrou unrecognised. Riegl and Marrou are often identified as key waypoints in the development of our modern understanding of patristics and the late antique Roman Empire. The work of both Riegl and Marrou was produced in conscious dialogue with the cultural and aesthetic shifts that they identified emerging in late nineteenthcentury modernity. This is the root of the ‘rhetoric of modernity’ detected by Giardina in histories of late antiquity. By this term Giardina referred to the positive, optimistic way that change was approached by historians, as well as the rejection of decline and catastrophe as categories of analysis. The relationship between late antiquity and the aesthetic revolution that manifested itself in in poetry, pictorial art, crafts and architecture after 1850 allowed Riegl and Marrou to reconceptualise cultural change, seeing the late antique as a distinct period of creative transformation. This was a very modern optimism. The social, political and cultural shifts that constituted modernity made these historians conscious of their own barbarity. Marrou’s Theopolis, and then late antiquity itself, became visible only when the products of the later Roman Empire could be approached as something novel, unknown to these modern barbarians. Speaking to his audience in 1951, Marrou endeavoured to show them how their collective endeavour was, like Augustine’s, an application of an old tradition to a new, ruptured reality. Like Klimt’s tapestries, patristic studies is a modern art, a product of the human imagination, working over form, colour, and fragments of language to explore the ways that human beings experience the world. Benjamin shows us again and again that late antiquity – that City of God, Theopolis – is a city that can stand alongside Baudelaire’s Paris and Klimt’s Vienna, the very definition of a modern metropolis. 32 33 34 35

See H.-I. Marrou, Saint Augustin (1938), VI-XI, 549-62. H.-I. Marrou, Carnets posthumes (2006), 257. Henri-Irénée Marrou, On the Meaning of History (Dublin, 1966), 108. H.-I. Marrou, ‘Retractatio’.

Chrysostom and Chomsky: The Message of Social Justice and Economic Equality in the Twenty-First Century Mark HUGGINS, University of Edinburgh, UK

ABSTRACT Since Chrysostomus Baur’s estimation of John Chrysostom as a moralist par excellence, there has been no serious doubt that this Antiochene father of the Church was more completely dedicated to the improvement of morals and ascetic Christian life than any patristic figure before or after him. Chrysostom’s improvement of morals was significantly centred around the themes of material resources and exploitation of the poor by the rich. However, as strange as it may seem, the same message Chrysostom was preaching concerning social and economic equality is most widely recognised today not in any religious leader, but rather in primarily non-religious or atheist intellectuals such as Noam Chomsky, Howard Zinn and most recently Yanis Varoufakis. All three are famous for their strong emphasis on the material exploitation of the poor by the rich. This article focuses on Homily 78 from Chrysostom’s Commentary on Matthew (Matt. 25:1-30, the Parable of the Bridesmaids) in an attempt to address the following question: in the light of the ongoing debt crises in Europe and the various reasons for this, as well as the solutions proposed, what extra dimensions and depth does the Golden-mouthed orator, perhaps one of the strongest voices in human history on social and economic justice, add to the crises we face today, and in what significant ways do the solutions he offers resemble and differ from those of his modern, non-religious counterparts?

John Chrysostom has long been recognised as one of the strongest voices in history for social justice and economic equality. A prime example of this can be seen in his interpretation of Matthew 25, in which Christ delineates the criteria of his final judgment of humanity: I was hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me a drink; I was a foreigner and you welcomed me in. As we will see, in Chrysostom’s mind these criteria essentially point to each person’s dedication to and exercise of either charity (in the case of the just) or greed (for the unjust). Richard Brändle has highlighted that John calls this passage from Matthew the sweetest passage of all, citing at the same time the high frequency with which Chrysostom mentions this text and engages with it in his writings.1 1 Richard Brändle, Matth. 25, 31-46 im Werk des Johannes Chrysostomos: Ein Beitrag zur Auslegungsgeschichte und zur Erforschung der Ethik der griechischen Kirche um die Wende vom

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Today, Noam Chomsky is one of the strongest, most globally prominent voices for social justice. One characteristic example of his work, among an extensive bibliography, is his book Profit Over People: Neoliberalism and Global Order which, from the title alone, refers the reader to many of the same concepts Chrysostom discusses in interpreting Christ’s judgment of humanity based on charity and greed. Indeed, Chomsky describes some of what he calls the ‘contours of the global order within which the Washington consensus has been forged: such as: large-scale violence undertaken to ensure the “welfare of the world capitalist system”’, and ‘a “culture of terror”’, both of which are interpreted by those in power as ‘a grand victory for freedom and democracy’.2 In this way, Chomsky can serve as a modern-day analogue for Chrysostom: a well-educated, outspoken and rhetorically gifted defender of the rights of all people, especially the poor, weak and defenceless.3 Indeed, Chrysostom himself states in Homily 78 from his Commentary on Matthew: ‘Truly, nothing is more precious to God than living for the collective benefit of all,’ in other words, a life of social justice.4 There is no need to say much here regarding each man’s influence in his own era. The New York Times has referred to Chomsky as possibly the most important intellectual alive, while the Chicago Tribune has called him the most-cited living author.5 At the same time, it is a well known fact that the number of manuscripts transmitting the texts of John Chrysostom far and away outnumber those of any other Greek author known to us today. However, there are certain essential differences between Chrysostom’s and Chomsky’s thought, just as there are between the fourth-century Roman empire and the technologically and economically advanced community of the twenty-first century. Chomsky, as a self-characterised ‘child of the Enlightenment’,6 for whom religion does not play any role, has a very different understanding of the source and role of ethics to that of a father of the Eastern Orthodox Church, such as John Chrysostom. 4. zum 5. Jh. (Tübingen, 1979); id., ‘This Sweetest Passage: Matthew 25:31-46 and Assistance to the Poor in the Homilies of John Chrysostom’, in Susan Holman (ed.), Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society (Grand Rapids, 2008), 127-39. 2 Noam Chomsky, Profit Over People: Neoliberalism and Global Order (New York, 1999), 24-5. 3 Admittedly, there is perhaps a gap in cultural emphasis upon rhetoric between the two societies in question. Nevertheless, Chomsky is one of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries’ premier linguists, and works such as Edward Herman and Noam Chomsky, Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media (London, 2008), among other examples, demonstrate Chomsky’s excellent grasp on the persuasive power of language, and its consequences. 4 In Matth. Hom. LXXVIII Field II.755a: Οὐδὲν γὰρ οὕτως ἐστὶ τῷ θεῷ φίλον, ὡς τὸ κοινωφελῶς ζῆν. All translations from Homilies 78-79 were originally prepared by George Sarraf and myself for the volume John Chrysostom’s Homilies on Matthew for the Writings from the GrecoRoman World series, being edited by W. Mayer, M. Mitchell and J. Kovacs. All translations from other texts are my own, unless otherwise noted. 5 See https://chomsky.info/19990120/ (last visited July 2, 2016). 6 See https://chomsky.info/1990____/ (last visited August 5, 2016).

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While both Chrysostom and Chomsky share many of the same social and economic goals, and many of the same recommendations for reaching those goals, nevertheless their respective approaches are vastly different. So, as we live in the same global community as Chomsky and yet study the writings of Chrysostom and other fathers of the Church like him, it will be useful for us to examine the details of this difference in approach and what they can tell us about ourselves, as we attempt to enter into dialogue with a man and a community separated from us by both time and space.7 There is not space here for an exhaustive analysis either of Chomsky’s view of ethics or even of Chrysostom’s Homilies 78 and 79 on Matthew, but we will examine some of the fundamental points of each. In an interview that he gave discussing religion, and ethics in particular, Chomsky has stated that: If I attribute [moral] principles to a divine creature who I define as ordering me to have those principles, the principles don’t become any more better established. So, that’s a useless step. It’s true that our moral principles are not firmly grounded on unshakeable evidence and argument, but nothing is going to make them any more firmly grounded.8

From Chomsky’s words it is clear that his view of ethics – one, perhaps, not uncommon in our day – is not based upon any theology, but rather upon a firm grasp of common sense.9 This is hardly surprising, considering that Chomsky is a major figure in modern analytic philosophy, which employs a commonsense approach to what are considered objective facts of reality. In other words, it may or may not be proven by syllogism that theft and murder are wrong, but somehow we all have a general understanding that they are and the logic of maintaining a just society seems to support this. These are truisms.10 In this sense, Chomsky can serve as an excellent example of an intelligent, thoughtful 7

This article is in no way meant to diminish or devalue the work or the beliefs of N. Chomsky or anyone else. Chomsky’s thought simply serves as a symbol of logical and systematic contemporary work on ethics and social justice of the highest quality. However, as there are differences between Chrysostom’s society and ours today – and his approach to ethics and others today that are popular – I believe a simple comparison will allow us to appreciate these differences further and to draw nearer to Chrysostom himself when we read and interpret his writings. 8 See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7Q4F5yf2D8 (last visited July 2, 2016). It should be noted that Chomsky does not show any disdain for the concept of religion or for religious believers, as can be seen in an interview he gave to Z Communications, here: https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=f02gcRrdK2I (last visited August 1, 2016). 9 See, characteristically, G.E. Moore’s seminal text of analytic philosophy, A Defense of Common Sense, available here: http://www.ditext.com/moore/common-sense.html (last visited July 16, 2016). 10 For Chomsky’s use of the term ‘truism’ see, for example, What is the Common Good? (https://chomsky.info/20140107/, last visited December 20, 2016); Education is Ignorance (https://chomsky.info/warfare02/, last visited December 20, 2016); Some Elementary Comments on the Rights of Freedom of Expression (https://chomsky.info/19801011/, last visited December 20, 2016).

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and serious researcher making use of the best tools available to him from human nature and science to reach sound conclusions concerning the truth. This is made brilliantly clear in his piercing analysis of the American academic community in his famous essay, The Responsibility of Intellectuals. Once again, from the title alone the reader is reminded of what was arguably John Chrysostom’s primary theme throughout the course of his preaching: it is imperative that we assume personal responsibility for our actions and our words.11 Possibly the most poignant image that Chomsky offers of personal responsibility in this text comes at its close, as he relates the despair of a deathcamp paymaster who is informed that the Russians will execute him. The man asks: ‘Why? What have I done?’ Chomsky takes up his question and applies it to the main topic of his essay, the Vietnam War, stating that: ‘The question “What have I done?” is one that we may well ask ourselves, as we read each day of fresh atrocities in Vietnam – as we create, or mouth, or tolerate the deceptions that will be used to justify the next defense of freedom.’ And elsewhere in his essay he insists that: In no small measure, it is attitudes like this [i.e. the tolerance of lies] that lie behind the butchery in Vietnam, and we had better face up to them with candor, or we will find our government leading us towards a ‘final solution’ in Vietnam, and in the many Vietnams that inevitably lie ahead.12

Chomsky does not refer to a ‘Last Judgment’ akin to that in the passage from Matthew that Chrysostom interprets. Indeed, there is, unsurprisingly, no trace of any true eschatology at all in his cautionary ethical exhortations. As a man who does not discuss whatever falls outside of the category of objective fact, Chomsky limits himself to history. He does not address existence beyond the boundaries of time, such as life after death. It is in the context of his historical analysis in his Responsibility of Intellectuals that he makes observations such as: ‘[The United States of America is] hardly the first power in history to combine material interests, great technological capacity, and an utter disregard for the suffering and misery of the lower orders.’13 Replace ‘The United States of America’ with ‘Rome’ and anyone would say that this statement was made by Chrysostom.14 So, if both Chrysostom and Chomsky express many of the same ethical admonitions, and even use many of the same words to do so, in what 11 See Ad Theodorum Lapsum, SC 117, 2.43; 12.92; Adversus Oppugnatores Vitae Monasticae, PG 47, 350.24; 372.35; Ad Demetrium De Compunctione, PG 47, 407.36; Ad Stagirium A Daemone Vexatum, PG 47, 441.41; De Virginitate, SC 125, 14.50; De Lazaro, PG 48, 980.42; Ad Populum Antiochenum, PG 49, 54.36; Ad Illuminandos Catecheses 1-2, PG 49, 235.36; De Sanctis Martyribus, PG 50, 650.5, etc. 12 Noam Chomsky, The Responsibility of Intellectuals, New York Review of Books (1967), available here: https://chomsky.info/19670223/ (last visited August 5, 2016). 13 N. Chomsky, Responsibility of Intellectuals. 14 See In Matth. Hom. LXXIX, Field II.760e-761a.

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ways do their two approaches to ethics differ? Another way of asking the same question is: As we inhabit the same modern, global community of the twentyfirst century as Chomsky, and yet attempt to enter into dialogue with the ancient texts in which Christian theology was first expressed, what do we understand to be the difference between the concept of social justice and the commitment to noble principles of ethics, on the one hand, and Christian theology on the other? Is there a difference, or is it, perhaps, possible to mistake the one for the other? The answer may seem obvious, but, when it comes to John Chrysostom, this has not always been the case. Chrysostomus Baur proclaimed John to be the ‘moralist par excellence’,15 a father who did not delve into the deeper topics of Christian dogmatic theology, instead remaining at the level of moralistic asceticism. More recently, Anthony Kaldellis has characterised Chrysostom’s thought as: ‘extreme moral idealism’, asserting that John’s desire was to see the whole world be turned into a monastery, subject to the authority of bishops.16 It is true that John was deeply concerned with human behaviour and ethics, but we must be sure to take into account the reasons why John was so concerned with ethics, as well as the ends to which he directed these concerns. Virginia Burrus has highlighted the driving force behind Christian ethics in general in her study, The Sex Lives of Saints: An Erotics of Ancient Hagiography.17 She describes the utterly personal and all-encompassing force of divine eros, as expressed by the Christian faithful through self-restraint. It is not difficult to see how, in the present case, Chrysostom has discerned the expression of such eros through the faithful’s fiscal restraint, and generosity with those in need. Let us now turn to examine this in more detail. We will begin with Homily 78 on Matthew, in which Chrysostom discusses the Parable of the Ten Bridesmaids, with an immediate characterisation of the primary theme of his interpretation and its significance in Christian life, proclaiming that: ‘… the lesson [is] that we cannot be saved unless we take charity seriously and help our neighbour in whatever way we are able.’18 His 15 Chrysostomus Baur, John Chrysostom and his Time, M. Gonzaga Eng. trans. (Belmont, 1988), 298-99, 355, 373. Admittedly, scholarly opinion of Chrysostom’s thought is developing as the years go by. Averil Cameron, The Byzantines (Oxford, 2006), 147 notes that Chrysostom’s enormous corpus was ‘fundamental for later Byzantine theology’, while David Rylaarsdam, John Chrysostom on Divine Pedagogy: The Coherence of his Theology and Preaching (Oxford, 2014) presents an excellent model for discovering and interpreting the many layers of meaning in Chrysostom’s texts. 16 Anthony Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium: The Transformations of Greek Identity and the Reception of the Classical Tradition (Cambridge, 2007), 136: ‘Given … that most Christian preaching encoded an extreme moral idealism, the pragmatic, immoral or indifferent lives of most Christians tended to fall into the category of Hellenism, again according to the visionaries. Ioannes Chrysostomos wished to transform the world into a vast monastery under episcopal authority.’ 17 See Virginia Burrus, The Sex Lives of Saints: An Erotics of Ancient Hagiography (Philadelphia, 2004), 2-18. 18 In Matth. Hom. LXXVIII Field II.750e: … λέγω δὴ τῆς περὶ τὴν ἐλεημοσύνην σπουδῆς, καὶ τοῦ διὰ πάντων, ὧν ἂν δυνώμεθα, τὸν πλησίον ὠφελεῖν, ὡς οὐκ ἐνὸν σωθῆναι ἑτέρως.

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words are extreme and absolute, essentially placing the entire weight of the eternal verdict upon the shoulders of this one virtue: charity, or the quality of being merciful (ἐλεημοσύνη). From this alone, one may be tempted to agree with Baur and Kaldellis’ estimation of John’s thought as primarily ethical in nature. Indeed, if we remove the concept of salvation from Chrysostom’s words, we may truly begin to wonder what the difference is between his view of ethics and Chomsky’s. To do so, however, would be to remove the very context of Chrysostom’s message in its entirety. If we hear John say that charity alone will constitute the cause either for the salvation or condemnation of each person, then we must understand this comment in its proper context, which Gilberte Astruc-Morize, and Georges Florovsky before him,19 has perceptively described as eschatological.20 We saw above that the closest that Chomsky comes to eschatology is to offer severe warnings for the future, whereas for Chrysostom eschatology is the beginning and end of his entire thought process. The eschatological nature of ethics in Chrysostom’s thought is not exclusively limited to the Last Judgment, nor even to time itself. Rather, as Astruc-Morize and Florovsky both discern, it is instead humanity’s creation – and re-creation by means of the Incarnation – that allows for the Last Judgment even to be possible. In other words, the only reason that there will be a Last Judgment, just as the only reason to give to the needy, is the creation of man and woman in the image and likeness of God, and humanity’s re-creation and perfection in Christ. It may sound strange to say, but Chrysostom is not primarily telling his listeners that he loves the poor; he is telling them that he loves Christ. It is not that he loves the poor, and he is a good Christian so he loves God, too. He loves Christ, and sees his image in every person, so he loves all people regardless of who they may be, what they may have done or will do. Christ’s saving work has grounded Christian ethics in the very being, the existence of humanity.21 Ethics no longer begins from what I do, but, rather, from who I am, or to be more precise, who Christ is. In stark contrast to Chomsky’s rational, commonsense deduction of ethics from abstract principles, Chrysostom’s understanding of ethics begins not in his mind but in his relationship with Christ, who is his neighbour, the person next to him, whoever that may be. In this way, for Chrysostom, there is no such thing as ethics outside of the context of Christ. 19 Georges Florovsky, The Patristic Age and Eschatology: An Introduction, in Collected Works, vol. 4. (Belmont, 1975), 63-78 . 20 Gilberte Astruc-Morize, ‘Ethique, liturgie et eschatologie chez saint Jean Chrysostome’, in A.M. Triacca and A. Pistoia (eds), Liturgie, éthique et peuple de Dieu, Conférences Saint Serge, XXXVIIe semaine d’études liturgiques, Paris 26-29 Juin 1990, Bibliotheca «Ephemerides Liturgicae» Subsidia 59 (Roma, 1991), 33-51. 21 See especially John Zizioulas, Being as Communion: Studies in Personhood and the Church (Yonkers, 1985); Georges Florovsky, Τὸ σῶμα τοῦ ζῶντος Χριστοῦ, Ioannis Papadopoulos Gr. trans. (Athens, 1999).

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Chomsky can, obviously, conceive of ethics apart from the existence of God. Chrysostom cannot. As far as John is concerned, if there is no God, then there are no ethics. He illustrates this in Homily 79 by saying: Even if the one asking for food was an enemy, was their suffering not enough to break down and move even the merciless to pity… ? But you did not even do these things for your friends, despite the fact that your friend was your benefactor and indeed your Master himself. But quite often, even when we see dogs go hungry, we are moved to compassion, and if we see some animal suffering, we take pity. But seeing the Master you have no pity?22

He literally identifies the poor with Christ himself. And again he says: … for all of the following reasons, [the] punishment [of the greedy] is deserved: … the grandeur of the recipient, for it was God who was receiving by means of the poor; the great esteem he showed to us, for he saw fit to descend to our level; his right to ask them to give, for he would be receiving what already belongs to him.23

Taking his words into account, I claim that in John Chrysostom’s mind, if Christ did not exist then ethics would not exist; it would be inconceivable. For Chrysostom, without the creation of humanity in the image and likeness of God, and without the re-creation of humanity through the Incarnation and the Resurrection – in short, without Christ, ethics is not only devoid of all meaning, but even more than this, it becomes logically impossible to be conceived of even as a notion.24 Chomsky’s view of ethics, as centered on the rational capabilities of the individual, as opposed to ethics born out of the relationship between Christ and the faithful, provides a counterpoint to the second major theme of Chrysostom’s interpretation of the Last Judgment in Matthew: the (comm)unity of virtue. Chrysostom states this in Homily 78, interpreting the parable of the ten bridesmaids: ‘You had better go to the dealers and buy some [oil] for yourselves.’ And who are the dealers? The poor! And where are they? Here! And this is the time, here, that you should have been searching for them, not at that time, there. Do you see how much business the poor create for us? And if you get rid of them, then you take away our 22 In Matth. Hom. LXXIX, Field II.760d-e: Εἰ γὰρ καὶ ἐχθρὸς ἦν ὁ προσιών, οὐχ ἱκανὰ τὰ πάθη καὶ τὸν ἀνελεῆ κατακλάσαι καὶ ἐπικάμψαι … Ἀλλ᾽ ὑμεῖς οὐδὲ εἰς φίλον ταῦτα ἐποιήσατε, καὶ φίλον, καὶ εὐεργέτην καὶ δεσπότην ὄντα. Καὶ κύνα μὲν ἂν ἴδωμεν πεινῶντα, πολλάκις ἐπικλώμεθα· καὶ θηρίον ἂν θεασώμεθα, ἐπικαπτόμεθα· τὸν δὲ δεσπότην ὁρῶν οὐκ ἐπικάμπτῃ; 23 In Matth. Hom. LXXIX, Field II.759a: Ὥστε πάντα αὐτοὺς ἱκανὰ κολάσαι … τὸ ἀξίωμα τοῦ λαμβάνοντος, θεὸς γὰρ ἦν ὁ διὰ τῶν πτωχῶν λαμβάνων· τὸ ὑπερβάλλον τῆς τιμῆς, ὅτι τοσοῦτον καταβῆναι κατηξίωσε· τὸ δίκαιον τῆς παροχῆς, ἀπὸ γὰρ τῶν ἑαυτοῦ ἐλάμβανεν. 24 This may be what Chrysostom was referring to when he said that the Greeks were not able to reach any sound ethical conclusions: see Adversus Oppugnatores Vitae Monasticae, PG 47, 324.32.

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biggest hope for salvation. And it is for this very reason that we must gather our oil here, so that it may be of use to us there when the time calls us. For that is not the time to gather; this is the time. So, do not spend your money in vain on luxuries and vanities because you will have a great need for oil there.25

Perhaps the most striking aspect of this passage is that, if we simply substitute the word ‘money’ for ‘oil’ and ‘banker’ for ‘poor’, then all of a sudden we find ourselves listening to what could be considered sound financial advice: ‘Go to the dealers and get some money for yourselves! And who are the dealers? The directors of the banks!’ In re-orienting the priorities of human economy, Chrysostom proposes an economy of virtue. This one operates based on money, just like the one we are used to encountering in the banks. The only difference is that money is not the aim here, but charity and willingness to give. In the economy of virtue, we invest our money with the poor in order to increase our gains in charity. We give money in order to learn how to give money more freely, to be more charitable. The significance of the economy of virtue lies in the simple fact of which we are all aware: it is not possible to have an economy that consists of only one person. I cannot have my own economy, or my own money, by definition. It is conceptually impossible, as it is in practice. In the same way, Chrysostom states that I cannot have my own individual virtue, belonging to and generated exclusively by me. In continuing our comparison, Chomsky’s common-sense ethics which, as we saw above, is something I can conceive of and govern all by myself, is radically different in nature from Chrysostom’s view of ethics. John strongly emphasises at both a conceptual and practical level that ethics cannot exist outside of the context of my relationship with another person, that is, the image of Christ. In other words, he tells us that ethics cannot exist, or even be conceived of, outside of a theological context. Just as a one-person economy is a notion incomprehensible for all of us, Chrysostom maintains that the notion of discussing ethics or improving behaviour makes no sense, by definition, outside of participation in the community, or economy, of virtue, which is established, governed and fulfilled by Christ in each and every human being. Thus, we have perceived some of the fundamental differences between the ethical concerns of John Chrysostom and Noam Chomsky, such as: morality as a historical improvement or as the fulfillment of the eschata, prior to and 25 In Matth. Hom. LXXVIII, Field II.752c-d: ‘Πορεύεσθε δὲ πρὸς τοὺς πωλοῦντας, καὶ ἀγοράσατε.’ Καὶ τίνες οἱ πωλοῦντες; Οἱ πένητες. Καὶ ποῦ οὗτοι; Ἐνταῦθα· καὶ τότε ζητῆσαι ἐχρῆν, οὐκ ἐν τῷ καιρῷ ἐκείνῳ. Ὁρᾷς ὁπόση γίνεται ἀπὸ τῶν πενήτων ἡμῖν ἡ πραγματεία; κἂν τούτους ἀνέλῃς, τὴν πολλὴν τῆς σωτηρίας ἡμῶν ἀνεῖλες ἐλπίδα. Διόπερ ἐνταῦθα τὸ ἔλαιον συνάγειν χρή, ἵνα ἐκεῖ χρήσιμον γένηται, ὅταν ὁ καιρὸς ἡμᾶς καλῇ. Οὐ γὰρ ἐκεῖνός ἐστιν ὁ καιρὸς τῆς συλλογῆς, ἀλλ᾽ οὗτος. Μὴ τοίνυν ἀνάλισκε μάτην τὰ ὄντα εἰς τρυφὰς καὶ κενοδοξίας. Πολλοῦ γάρ σοι ἐκεῖ χρεία τοῦ ἐλαίου.

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outside of time; virtue as an individual, rational concept and possession, on the one hand, and a morality that springs naturally from love for the Other person, on the other hand.26 As noted at the beginning of this paper, these differences are primarily theoretical in nature, often producing similar practical results. As inheritors of the intellectual rigour of the Enlightenment, it often makes sense to us to approach ethics from the rational, logical vantage point of common sense, but we must still never forget that Chrysostom’s view of ethics is not based on common sense, but in his own words, upon a madness, an irrationality, illogicality and wildness that surpasses common sense: namely, the human soul’s eros for the person of the incarnate Christ.27

26

See Christos Yannaras, The Freedom of Morality (Yonkers, 1984); John Zizioulas, Communion and Otherness: Further Studies in Personhood and the Church (London, 2006). 27 See II Homilia, Dicta Postquam Reliquiae Martyrum, PG 63, 467: Τί εἴπω καὶ τί λαλήσω; σκιρτῶ καὶ μαίνομαι μανίαν σωφροσύνης βελτίονα· πέτομαι καὶ χορεύω καὶ μετάρσιος φέρομαι καὶ μεθύω λοιπὸν ὑπὸ τῆς ἡδονῆς ταύτης τῆς πνευματικῆς. See also analysis in Constantine Bozinis, ‘Φαίδρος 243e-257b στη ρητορική του Ιωάννου του Χρυσοστόμου’, Θεολογία 77 (2006), 659-95. For eros as madness in Ancient Greek literature, see characteristically Plato, Phaedrus 253c5 and Chrysostom, Adversus Oppugnatores Vitae Monasticae, PG 47, 335.

Introducing the ITSEE Patristic Citations Database Catherine SMITH, University of Birmingham, UK1

ABSTRACT This article introduces the citations database developed by the Institute for Textual Scholarship and Electronic Editing (ITSEE) at the University of Birmingham. The material was collected in order to supply indirect evidence for creating major editions of the New Testament in Greek and Latin: the Novum Testamentum Graecum Editio Critica Maior (ECM) editions of John and the Pauline Epistles, and the Vetus Latina (VL) editions of John and the first four Pauline Epistles. The article describes how the data was gathered and the interface was developed. It also gives details of the team’s collaboration with the Biblindex project. Information is provided about the current contents of the database and how it may be accessed and used by those outside the project.

Patristic citations play an important role in establishing the textual history of the New Testament and as such form an integral part of a critical edition. The Institute for Textual Scholarship and Electronic Editing (ITSEE) citations database was created to provide source material for the critical editions produced within ITSEE, namely the Novum Testamentum Graecum Editio Critica Maior (ECM) editions of John and the Pauline Epistles and the Vetus Latina (VL) editions of John and the first four Pauline Epistles. The database contains citations of these New Testament books found in Greek patristic works from the first six centuries and Latin patristic works from the first eight centuries. The link to our editorial work means that alongside metadata about a citation, such as what verse is cited in what work, the database also stores the text of the biblical citation itself. In this aspect our database differs from the Biblindex project which, while much larger in scope, does not currently provide the text of any citations.2 This paper introduces the current release of the ITSEE 1 The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Union Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2007-2013) under grant agreement no. 283302 (COMPAUL: ‘The Earliest Commentaries on Paul in Greek and Latin as Sources for the Biblical Text’). 2 For more on the scope and search options available in Biblindex see Laurence Mellerin ‘New Ways of Searching with Biblindex, the Outline Index of Biblical Quotations in Early Christian Literature’, in Claire Clivaz, Andrew Gregory and David Hamidović (eds), Digital Humanities in Biblical, Early Jewish and Early Christian Studies (Leiden, 2014), 177-90. Plans are in place to include the biblical text cited and link to the relevant section of the patristic work. This analysis work has started for a limited number of texts and is described in ead., ‘Methodological Issues in

Studia Patristica C, 375-387. © Peeters Publishers, 2020.

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citations database which was largely developed as part of the COMPAUL project.3 The citations available in the database have been collected over several decades under the auspices of successive editorial projects and often in collaboration with other research groups. Although the database itself has existed in several different forms, the details of these are not of particular relevance; however, the journey taken by the data itself is worth documenting. The majority of the Latin citations were entered from a card index made available by the Vetus Latina Institute. The card index predates the establishment of the Institute, having been started in the early 1900s by Joseph Denk, but they share the same motivation: to produce an updated edition of Pierre Sabatier’s 1743 edition of the Old Latin text.4 Members of the institute have expanded and updated the index of citations over the years, which at the time of writing was reported to have around one million entries.5 The card index was digitally photographed in 1999 and these photographs were made available online by subscription in 2002.6 As part of the Vetus Latina Iohannes project, the citations of John in this index were entered into spreadsheets.7 Further spreadsheets were prepared of biblical citations in works by specific authors, in particular Augustine and Hilary of Poitiers, which had been collected directly from the writings of these authors, often relying on scriptural indices in critical editions. These were then cross referenced with the entries from the card index.8 The Greek data for John has a similar history. It has its origins in a card index created as part of the International Greek New Testament Project (IGNTP) by Gordon Fee and others. The data was entered into a spreadsheet by Roderic Mullen and compared with Biblindex, An Online Index of Biblical Quotations in Early Christian Literature’, SP 54 (2013), 11-32, 18-26 and Elysabeth Hue-Gay, Laurence Mellerin and Emmanuelle Morlock, ‘TEI-encoding of Text Reuses in the BIBLINDEX Project’, Journal of Data Mining and Digital Humanities. Special Issue on Computer-Aided Processing of Intertextuality in Ancient Languages (2017). The Biblindex database homepage is http://www.biblindex.mom.fr/. Further details of our collaboration with the Biblindex project are given below. 3 For details of this project, see the note above and www.birmingham.ac.uk/compaul 4 H.A.G. Houghton, ‘The Use of the Latin Fathers for New Testament Textual Criticism’, in Bart D. Ehrman and Michael W. Holmes (eds), The Text of the New Testament in Contemporary Research. Essays on the Status Quaestionis, 2nd ed., NTTSD 42 (Leiden, 2013), 375-405, 385; id., The Latin New Testament: A Guide to its Early History, Texts, and Manuscripts (Oxford, 2016), 116. On Sabatier’s work see id., Latin New Testament (2016), 113-5. 5 http://www.vetus-latina.de/en/institut_vetus_latina/institut.html 6 H.A.G. Houghton, ‘The Use of the Latin Fathers’ (2013), 387. 7 This project was funded by the AHRC from 2005-2010. The researchers were Philip H. Burton, H.A.G Houghton, Jon Balserak and Rosalind F. MacLachlan. They were assisted in some of the editing and data entry tasks by a small team of students. The project data entry guidelines are available online as H.A.G. Houghton, Vetus Latina Iohannes Database Transcription Guidelines 1.0. (2005), http://epapers.bham.ac.uk/2945/. 8 See H.A.G. Houghton ‘Patristic Evidence in the New Edition of the Vetus Latina Iohannes’, SP 54 (2013), 29-85, 70.

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data collected by the Institut für neutestamentliche Textforschung (INTF) in Münster.9 The spreadsheets were first converted into a database in 2007 which was made available online in 2009. The initial plan for the citations database was outlined by Parker in 2008,10 but this still describes a flat spreadsheet-like structure. By the time the data was released online it was using a relational database to provide more information and, crucially, improve the consistency of data entry. As part of the restructuring of the data individual records were created for all of the authors, works and editions referenced by abbreviations in the spreadsheets of citations.11 The Latin data was checked, and where possible expanded with reference to the editions listed in Gryson’s Répertoire Général, which is also the source of all of the abbreviations for the Latin citations data.12 The Greek data was checked against the Clavis Patrum Graecorum (CPG).13 Unlike Latin, there is no single system of abbreviation for Greek authors and works; instead the ECM editors created a system based on Lampe’s Patristic Greek Lexicon.14 The current relational database structure, only slightly different from the original, is shown in Figure 1 and described in more detail below. Inevitably some compromises had to be made in the conversion process from spreadsheet to database. In all cases the cause was a single cell being used to store data which, while perfectly readable to humans, would ideally be separated into discrete fields in a database for ease of searching. For example, the details of the critical edition from which a citation has been supplied are usually given in full in a single cell for the Greek data such as ‘M. Aubineau, SC 187 (Paris, 1972), 206-14’. For Latin these are abbreviated to author and year, for example ‘Migne 1845’, or series abbreviation and volume number such as ‘CC2’ which also occupies a single cell.15 For manuscript variants 9 Gordon D. Fee revised by Roderic L. Mullen ‘The Use of the Greek Fathers for New Testament Textual Criticism’, in B.D. Ehrman and M.W. Holmes (eds), The Text of the New Testament in Contemporary Research, second edition (2013), 351-74, esp. 368. 10 David C. Parker, An Introduction to the New Testament Manuscripts and their Texts (Cambridge, 2008), 115-6. 11 The initial conversion work was completed by Zeth Green and R.F. MacLachlan. 12 Roger Gryson, Répertoire Général des Auteurs Ecclésiastiques Latins de l’Antiquité et du Haut Moyen Âge, Vetus Latina 1/1. 2 vols. (Freiburg, 2007); see also H.A.G. Houghton ‘Patristic Evidence’ (2013), 70. 13 M. Geerard, F. Glorie and J. Noret, Clavis Patrum Graecorum, CC, 5 volumes plus 2 supplementary volumes (Turnhout, 1974-2003). 14 The American and British Committees of the International Greek New Testament Project, The Gospel According to St. Luke, Part 1 (Oxford, 1984), xii-xiii; G.W.H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford, 1961), ix-xliii. The CPG does provide a system of numbers for identifying works but these are not used in the edition to avoid confusion with the numbers used to identify manuscripts. See D.C. Parker An Introduction (2008), 114. 15 H.A.G. Houghton, Transcription Guidelines 1.0. (2005).

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a single cell contains data such as ‘quia numquid] quia nunc quid T1, quid T2’ which indicates that the words quia numquid in the citation text (which in this case is ‘quia numquid me quaeritis occidere?’) are replaced by quia nunc quid in witness T1 and quid in witness T2. Dependencies on other patristic works are also given in shorthand form in a single cell, thus ‘< AU Jo 46.8’ indicates that this particular biblical citation from Julian of Toledo is actually a quotation of Augustine’s Tractates on John. Automatic separation of the data was considered but slight variations in data format and typographical errors posed a risk of ending up with data that was neither human nor machine readable. It was therefore decided to keep the human readable form for each entry in a special legacy data field while at the same time forcing new records to be entered using separate fields. In the course of editing, the legacy data for the Greek has mostly been resolved into the preferred format.16 All of the Pauline citations available in the database were entered as part of the COMPAUL project. Before work began, custom data entry forms were designed so as not to replicate the problems encountered with John. These forms are described in more detail below. The source of the Latin data remained the Vetus Latina card index. The citations were entered into the database by a researcher and a small team of students. The COMPAUL team experimented with using the search functionality in the Brepols Library of Latin Texts to find citations, but a comparison of the first chapter of Galatians showed that better coverage was provided by the card index. A further experiment on the Latin side was the entry of citations from selected Pauline commentaries which included an analysis of both the lemma text and that found in the exegesis.17 As no card index of Pauline citations in Greek patristic works had been prepared by the IGNTP, the initial plan was to work through the epistles searching the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae (TLG) to identify instances of citations.18 This method was followed for Galatians but required an experienced researcher and proved too time consuming to extend to the remaining epistles within the timescale of the project.19 Citations for the remaining epistles were gathered in collaboration with the Biblindex team who kindly provided a spreadsheet of their references for the COMPAUL Project to verify and add text.20 The references 16 This was largely undertaken by Dr Amy Myshrall as part of the International Greek New Testament research project funded by the AHRC from 2010-15, followed by a British Academy/ Leverhulme Small Research Grant in 2014-16. 17 The commentaries studied were those of Ambrosiaster, Rufinus, Pelagius, Jerome, Marius Victorinus and the anonymous Budapest commentary. This work was undertaken by Christina M. Kreinecker and R.F. MacLachlan in conjunction with H.A.G. Houghton. 18 http://stephanus.tlg.uci.edu/ 19 This work was carried out by Susan B. Griffith. 20 We are grateful to L. Mellerin for providing us with this data.

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available through Biblindex have their origins in the Biblia Patristica index of citations begun in 1965 by the Centre for Patristics Analysis and Documentation which had the goal of producing ‘a comprehensive inventory of all biblical quotations and allusions in ancient Christian literature’.21 After work on this project had ended following the publication of the seventh volume in 2000, the published and unpublished data gathered by the team was handed over to Sources Chrétiennes, who made it available online through the Biblindex database.22 The data available through Biblindex, and provided to us, consists of the biblical verse reference, the patristic work and its attributed author and the location of the citation within the work and edition.23 A small team of students were paid to work through the records work by work identifying each reference in the TLG and then entering the biblical text into the database. As the Biblindex references include paraphrases and allusions it was not expected that the text of every citation would be found; however, any references not located by the students were checked by a more experienced researcher before being discounted. The incorporation of the Biblindex data introduced new technical challenges. The main one was the identification of authors and works, because there was no correlation between our identifiers and those used by Biblindex. In some cases it was possible to map the works using the Clavis numbers, but while they are used consistently in the Biblindex data this was not the case in Birmingham’s material. There were also more fundamental problems: sometimes the Birmingham database uses a single Clavis number for a whole series of works where Biblindex uses the Clavis number with subdivisions. This is found particularly in fragmentary works: for example, the Birmingham database records Didymus Caecus, Commentarii in Ecclesiasten under the single Clavis number CPG 2555 but Biblindex has six separate subdivisions of this number. Any works that could not be mapped automatically were handled manually. If it was still not possible to find an existing equivalent, a new record was made in the work and/or author tables using the Biblindex data. These records contain a special flag to indicate that they were automatically created for this integration and will be manually edited in preparing the data for use in the critical editions. To maintain compatibility between our data and that of Biblindex, where works and authors could be mapped to our data the identifiers used in the Biblindex data were added to a new field in the records. This same approach can be used to create compatibility with other databases such as that planned

21

http://biblindex-en.hypotheses.org/22. L. Mellerin, ‘Methodological’ (2013), 11-3. For a more detailed history of the project and its data see also http://biblindex-en.hypotheses.org/22. 23 L. Mellerin, ‘New Ways of Searching with Biblindex’ (2014), 177-90, 177. 22

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by Jennifer Strawbridge.24 A related issue is works whose attribution is contested. In a few cases we attribute a work to one author while Biblindex attributes it to another. This problem is addressed in a similar way by adding a field to the work records which notes links to other possible authors. A further unrelated problem was faced when dealing with Biblindex citations that span multiple verses. Since the patristic evidence in our editions is reported verse by verse, that is also the model we use in the database. Data on chains of citations is collected but is listed in a catena field and is not limited to adjacent verses. To allow for ranges the students entering the citation text were instructed to enter a carriage return between each verse, but when the data was processed the lines of text did not always match the number of verses expected. Where they did match, the citation text was split over the verses in the range. Where they did not match an entry was still made for each verse in the range but the citation text for the whole range was added to each of the entries. A special flag is used in the records of multiple-verse citations to explain the potentially strange data to future editors who can then select the correct portion of the citation text. The current incarnation of the ITSEE citations database is written in Django with a PostgreSQL database used for storage.25 To make it easy for other applications to use the data an API is provided using the Django REST framework.26 The database includes information about authors, works and editions as well as the text of the biblical citations and a few other additional fields such as publication series and online corpus. The database structure centres around the concept of a patristic work, because this proved to be the most stable of the concepts involved: as the VL and IGNTP editions cite the patristic work in the critical apparatus, this gives each work a comparable status to the biblical manuscripts deployed in these editions. Author attribution can change with new research; as discussed already, different authors are sometimes assigned to the same work by different authorities; similarly, new editions continue to appear of individual works. A citation, however, is still a citation of a work regardless of the author to which it is attributed or the edition of the work from which the text comes. There is, of course, a chance that a new edition will change the text of the biblical citation, which is why we record details of the edition used for each citation entered. Figure 1 shows a simplified diagram of the relationships in the database.27 24 Jennifer R. Strawbridge, The Pauline Effect. The Use of the Pauline Epistles by Early Christian Writers, Studies of the Bible and its Reception 5 (Berlin, 2015), 180. While the ITSEE database was being developed Strawbridge’s database was still in the planning stages. It is now available online, see Jennifer Strawbridge, Paul and Patristics Database [30/04/2019]: https://paulandpatristics.web.ox.ac.uk. 25 https://www.djangoproject.com/, https://www.postgresql.org/ 26 http://www.django-rest-framework.org/ 27 This diagram represents the structure defined in the Django project which is then mirrored in the PostgreSQL database underlying it. The term model is used in Django to refer to what would be called a table in a relational database schema. The term model is used in this article.

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Figure 1: A simplified diagram of the database relations

Each rectangle represents a model in the database and each line a relationship between the models, with the diamonds naming the nature of the relationship. The diagram makes no attempt to indicate the cardinality of the relationship, for example whether it is a one-to-many relationship or a many-to-many relationship. An omission that warrants explanation is the relationship between a citation and its corresponding biblical text. There is a separate model in the database that represents a biblical work: while each citation contains a reference to the appropriate entry in that model, there are no models for chapter and verse; these are simply recorded as numbers as they refer to an agreed external system and do not need to be further defined internally.28 The citation database is available online at https://www.birmingham.ac.uk/ itsee-citations-database. The HTML interface to the database allows each of the models identified in Figure 1 to be viewed as a list of records. An example of the list view of the citation table is shown in Figure 2. The page navigation and an option to adjust the number of records per page can be found at the top right. On the left the user can apply a filter to the data on any of the fields that appear in the table. 28 Both the Greek and Latin editions in production at ITSEE will be presented according to the standard Greek versification system despite some disagreement between this and Latin editions. Because of this, the database system also corresponds to the Greek verse divisions. Biblindex has had to take a much more complex approach to this motivated by the desire to let each tradition maintain its own system. The reasons for this and the solutions used are summarised in L. Mellerin, ‘Methodological Issues’ (2013), 15-8.

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Figure 2: A screen shot of the list view of the citation model in the database

Figure 3: A screen shot of a work in the database

The data can also be sorted on each column by clicking on the black arrows in the table header. The column on the far left provides a link to view the more detailed information for that record. The detailed view of each record gives appropriate links to related data. The example of a detailed record of a work in Figure 3 shows a link to the author record on the top line, a link to the edition data a little further down and at the bottom links to each of the citations we

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have from this work including the biblical reference and the text. This data is also available to other applications via an API which returns the data serialised in JSON.29 Data can only be entered and edited by users who are logged into the system and have the correct permissions in the database. To allow more fine-grained control, a project system is also used. Projects typically specify a language and a biblical book but can also be used to restrict users to particular authors and/ or works. When a user is given permissions to add or edit the citation data they are also assigned to the appropriate project or projects. They will not be allowed to enter or edit data unless they have selected the correct project from those they have permission to access. The project settings are used to auto-complete and disable certain fields in the editing form, such as language and biblical book. They can also be used to control which sections of the form and what submission buttons editors see, depending on their category of editor. For example, if users are adding data from a card index rather than a critical edition, they do not need to worry about the sections of the form concerned with recording alternative readings and their manuscript support. The introduction of detailed project settings allows the use of one basic form to add data from multiple different sources without exposing users to aspects of the data irrelevant to them. As described above, our data is entered from a number of different sources, making this an important aspect of the database design. A further advantage of using a custom entry form over a spreadsheet is the use of select boxes for fields such as author and work. This cuts down on typing errors and ensures the data stored is consistent. One of the new features added in the most recent release of the ITSEE citations database is the ability to search the data. Two search options are provided, a quick search and an advanced search. The quick search option allows a search for citations of a particular verse with the option of restricting the results to a specific language. The advanced search option allows the user to search any of the key models in the database such as authors and works, as well as the citations. It also exploits the relations between the models to enable searches for all the citations of a particular work, or all of the citations of a particular author, or even all the citations of a particular edition of a work. With the advanced search, multiple fields can be queried at the same time which allows complex searches to be created. An auto-suggest function is provided for string fields such as abbreviations, full names and titles to help with accuracy. The type of search available depends on the options available for the field selected, with parameters such as equals, starts with or contains. The range of options for searching strings allows complex searching for words and phrases in the citations themselves. For example, searching all of 29 For information about JSON see http://www.json.org/; details of how to access the api can be found here: https://www.birmingham.ac.uk/itsee-citations-database

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Figure 4: A screen shot of the search results for latenter

the citations for the Latin word latenter occurring anywhere in the text of a citation yields the results shown in Figure 4. The results of the search are presented in the same list view shown in Figure 2. The results can be sorted, and links are also given to the full record data. The filter option is not available for the search results, but the query is stored so that the user can return to the completed search form using either the back button or the link in the breadcrumb trail. This enables the user to make modifications without having to recreate the query from scratch. The database currently contains 232,997 citations; of these 72,254 are in Greek and 160,752 in Latin.30 Of the 63,211 citation records supplied by Biblindex the COMPAUL Project was able to locate the text of 40,495 (about 64 per cent). Although our Latin citations are limited to fewer biblical books, the volume of citations is higher for than for Greek as there are more works in Latin from the period of interest and the time period covered for Latin is also two centuries longer. A breakdown of citation volume by book and language is shown in Table 1. Biblical book

Greek Citations

Latin Citations

John

27,433

61,300

Romans

10,522

37,974

1 Corinthians

10,571

34,477

2 Corinthians

4,122

15,312

Galatians

4,324

11,689

Ephesians

2,325

–

30 These figures do not include any Biblindex references for which we have thus far not been able to identify text.

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Philippians

2,802

–

Colossians

2,362

–

1 Thessalonians

948

–

2 Thessalonians

283

–

1 Timothy

2,010

–

2 Timothy

438

–

Titus

227

–

Philemon

189

–

Hebrews

3,689

–

Table 1: A breakdown of citations in the database by language and biblical book

The top ten authors with the most entries in the database for each language are shown in Table 2. The most referenced biblical verses in the database are shown in Table 3. Greek Author

Latin Citations

Author

Citations

Iohannes Chrysostomus

18,502

Augustinus

43,691

Origenes

16,325

Rufinus Aquileiensis

9,099

Didymus Caecus

7,217

Hieronymus

8,379

Cyrillus Alexandrinus

6,317

Ambrosiaster

7,877

Basilius Caesarensis

5,351

Ambrosius

5,836

Theodoretus Cyrrhensis

4,947

Beda Venerabilis

4,445

Gregorius Nyssenus

4,239

Flavius Magnus Aurelius Cassiodorus

3,386

Eusebius Caesariensis

3,935

Hilarius Pictavensis

3,230

Epiphanius Constantiensis

2,890

Pseudo-Augustinus

3,164

Athanasius Alexandrinus

2,778

Fulgentius Ruspensis

2,974

Table 2: The authors with the most citations in the database in each language31

31 The sixth spot in the ranked table is actually taken by all of the works by anonymous authors with 4,537 citations.

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386 Greek Verse

Latin No. Citations

Verse

No. Citations

John 1:1

703

John 1:14

2,097

John 1:14

673

John 1:1

1,699

Philippians 2:7

554

John 1:3

1,619

Galatians 4:26

548

John 14:6

1,041

1Corinthians 1:24

536

1Corinthians 1:24

796

John 1:3

463

John 10:30

674

Colossians 1:15

444

John 1:29

624

John 14:6

421

John 1:9

586

1Corinthians 1:30

387

Galatians 5:17

563

John 14:9

357

Romans 5:5

553

Table 3: The most quoted verses in each language

At present the data available is largely unedited; some entries are duplicates and the citation text does not necessarily represent the most recent critical edition available. As each of our editions is produced the relevant data will be revised and edited. To make it easy for editors to incorporate the citations into critical editions we plan to integrate the database with our editing tools. This will enable editors to see the completed apparatus of all the manuscripts for a verse alongside the citations so they can judge where patristic evidence should be included. As explained at the beginning of this paper, the goal of the database is primarily to provide data for critical editions, both for publication in printed form and for full-text linking within electronic editions. This explains its limited coverage, restricted to certain biblical books, languages and time periods.32 There is no dedicated funding or long-term development plan for the database: instead, the aim of the editors is to make the production of their editions as transparent as possible and ensure that, just as each edition relies on extensive collaborative work by scholars over a number of decades, so other projects and researchers are able to re-use the data gathered for the production of each edition. In making this ongoing ‘work-in-progress’ publically available, it is hoped that not only its raw data, but also features such as the search interface 32

A database of Greek citations of Acts has been prepared independently by the INTF in conjunction with their work on the ECM of this book, and it is expected that this will be extended to the Synoptic Gospels for the planned ECM.

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which presents more fine-grained information about citation patterns and allows the identification of occurrences of individual words or phrases within the biblical text supplied for each citation, make this database a useful addition to existing tools for the study of the use of the New Testament in early Christian writings.

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