Incorruptible Bodies: Christology, Society, and Authority in Late Antiquity 9780520964341

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Incorruptible Bodies

CHRISTIANIT Y IN LATE ANTIQUIT Y THE OFFICIAL B O OK SERIES OF THE NORTH AMERICAN PATRISTICS SO CIET Y Editor Christopher A. Beeley, Yale University Associate Editors Elizabeth A. Clark, Duke University Robin Darling Young, The Catholic University of America International Advisory Board Lewis Ayres, Durham University • John Behr, St Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary, New York • Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony, Hebrew University of Jerusalem • Marie-Odile Boulnois, École Pratique des Hautes Études, Paris • Kimberly D. Bowes, University of Pennsylvania and the American Academy in Rome • Virginia Burrus, Syracuse University • Stephen Davis, Yale University • Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, University of California Santa Barbara • Mark Edwards, University of Oxford • Susanna Elm, University of California Berkeley • Thomas Graumann, Cambridge University • Sidney H. Griffith, Catholic University of America • David G. Hunter, University of Kentucky • Andrew S. Jacobs, Scripps College • Robin M. Jensen, University of Notre Dame • AnneMarie Luijendijk, Princeton University • Christoph Markschies, Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin • Andrew B. McGowan, Berkeley Divinity School at Yale • Claudia Rapp, Universität Wien • Samuel Rubenson, Lunds Universitet • Rita Lizzi Testa, Università degli Studi di Perugia 1. Incorruptible Bodies: Christology, Society, and Authority in Late Antiquity, by Yonatan Moss

Incorruptible Bodies Christology, Society, and Authority in Late Antiquity

Yonatan Moss

UNIVERSIT Y OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu. University of California Press Oakland, California © 2016 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Moss, Yonatan, author. Title: Incorruptible bodies : Christology, society, and authority in late antiquity / Yonatan Moss. Description: Oakland, California : University of California Press, [2016] | “2016 | Series: Christianity in late antiquity ; 1 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2015035769| isbn 9780520289994 (cloth : alk. paper) | isbn 9780520964341 (electronic) Subjects: LCSH: Jesus Christ—Person and offices—History—To 1500. | Jesus Christ—History of doctrines—Early church, ca. 30–600. | Severus, of Antioch, approximately 465–538. | Julianus, Bishop of Halicarnassus, active 6th century. | Church history—Primitive and early church, ca. 30–600. Classification: LCC BT198 .M67 2016 | DDC 273/.6—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015035769 Manufactured in the United States of America 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures Natural, a fiber that contains 30% post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ansi/niso z39.48-1992 (r 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

To the Christians of Iraq and Syria, who currently walk in the valleys of the shadows of death. ̈ ‫ܐܦܢ ܐܗܠܟ‬ .‫ ܐܠ ܐܕܚܠ ܡܢ ܒܝܫܬܐ ܡܛܠ ܕܐܢܬ ܥܡܝ‬.‫ܒܢܚܠܝ ̈ܛܠܠܝ ܡܘܬܐ‬ May you soon see light.

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contents

Acknowledgments List of Abbreviations Introduction: Dissension among the Dissenters

ix xiii 1

1. Holy Flesh: The Christological Debate

21

2. Body Politics: Rethinking the Body of Christ

44

3. The Food of In/corruption: Liturgical Aspects of the Debate

75

4. The Body of the Fathers: Textual Tradition and Exegetical Authority Conclusion: Severus Transformed Notes Bibliography Index

106 141 153 223 241

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acknowled gments

This book is a revised and updated version of my doctoral dissertation, “In Corruption: Severus of Antioch on the Body of Christ,” completed in the Department of Religious Studies at Yale University in 2013. Like the resurrection body in relation to its pre-resurrection kernel, this book, while closely linked to its predecessor, represents, I hope, a more glorious version thereof. I was fortunate to have had superb working environments while laboring on both my dissertation and this book. Yale’s Graduate Program in Ancient Christianity provided ideal conditions, both intellectual and material, for my coursework, research, and writing as the body of my dissertation was coming into existence. I am deeply indebted to my dissertation adviser, Stephen J. Davis, a model scholar, teacher, and human being, who continues to inspire. I am very grateful to Bentley Layton, Harry Attridge, Christopher Beeley, Adela Collins, and Dale Martin for being my primary guides in the study of ancient Christianity. They each also helped with different stages of the dissertation process, as constructive critics, readers, and members of my dissertation committee. Although the links between my own work and Judaic studies were not always self-evident, Steven Fraade, Christine Hayes, and Ivan Marcus, each in their capacity as alternating heads of Yale’s Program in Judaic Studies, granted me generous material support and abundant knowledge over the course of my years in New Haven. I thank Heather Voorhees and Renee Reed, the kind and able administrators of Yale’s Religious Studies Department and Program in Judaic Studies. My special thanks go to Lucas Van Rompay. Ever since agreeing, on relatively short notice, to serve as a reader of my dissertation, he has, on multiple occasions, enhanced my work by generously sharing treasures large and small from the ix

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Acknowledgments

storehouses of his sagacity. I wish also to thank Maren Niehoff and Guy and Sarah Stroumsa for their instruction, advice, and support over the years. During the period in which I worked on transforming the body of my dissertation into this book, I was blessed with paradisiac working conditions in Hebrew University’s Martin Buber Society of Fellows. I thank the Society’s former head, David Shulman, its current head, Ruth HaCohen, and its talented administrators, Yael Baron and Ella Janatovsky, for “tilling and keeping” this wondrous paradise. I also thank my wonderful colleagues at the Martin Buber Society over the past two years for embodying the dream of an ideal academic community. This book benefited greatly from the many constructive comments I received on papers I had the privilege of delivering to the group for the study of Eastern Christianity at Hebrew University’s Institute for Advanced Studies in 2011 and 2012. I owe special thanks to the following members of the group: Brouria BittonAshkelony, Philippe Blaudeau, Alberto Camplani, Oded Irshai, Aryeh Kofsky, Derek Krueger, Sergey Minov, István Perczel, Lorenzo Perrone, Serge Ruzer, and David Satran. The first and last members of this alphabetical list have also been teachers, close friends, and colleagues for over a decade. Thank you for everything, Brouria and David. I am grateful to dear friends and colleagues from New Haven and Jerusalem (even if now many are scattered throughout the world) for their camaraderie and advice (related and unrelated to this book) over the years. My special thanks go to Ruthie Abeliovich, David Berg, Dylan Burns, Elizabeth Davidson, Simcha Gross, Maayan Nidbach, Yoni Pomeranz, Flavia Ruani, Joseph Sanzo, Sharon Weisser, and Ynon Wygoda. I am especially grateful to Flavia Ruani for her advice concerning the transformation of my dissertation into this book and for our wonderful ongoing Syriac collaborations. I thank Christopher Beeley for his involvement in this project at virtually every step along the way: from serving on my prospectus committee to acting as a dissertation reader to inviting me to publish this book in UC Press’s Christianity in Late Antiquity series. I am grateful for the perspicuous comments of the press’s two learned anonymous readers and of its other expert reader from the editorial committee. I thank Maeve Cornell-Taylor, Cindy Fulton, Marian Rogers, and Eric Schmidt, my editors at UC Press, for their efficient and effective work on the manuscript and sage advice on a range of issues. I wish, finally, to thank six people who, while they may have had a less direct impact on this book, have had, and continue to have, the most direct impact on its author. My work on this book would not have been possible were it not for the curiosity, creativity, and love of texts, cultures, and languages instilled in me by my parents, David and Rosalyn Moss. Thank you for everything, Abba and Ema. My work on this book would not have been possible were it not for the love, joy, and meaningful adventure that fill my life with my beloved Saskia and our dear

Acknowledgments

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children, Akiva, Yovel, and Heleni. I am also indebted to Saskia for advice on various aspects of this book. Saskia, Akiva, Yovel, and Heleni, I am deeply grateful to you, and for you. This book is dedicated to the brave and tenacious perpetuators of the various forms of Syriac Christianity in its original homeland, in Syria and Iraq. This book would surely not have been possible were it not for them. ‫תושלבע‬

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abbreviations

ACO CCSG CCSL CCT

CHRC CL

Coll. Avell.

Contra impium gramm.

CPG

Eduard Schwartz, ed. Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum. Berlin and Leipzig: Walter de Gruyter, 1914–71. Corpus Christianorum: Series graeca. Turnhout and Leuven: Brepols, 1977–. Corpus Christianorum: Series latina. Turnhout and Leuven: Brepols, 1953–. Aloys Grillmeier (with Theresia Hainthaler). Christ in Christian Tradition. Trans. John Bowden, Pauline Allen, and John Cawte. 2nd rev. ed. 2 vols. in 4. London: Mowbrays, 1975–96. Church History and Religious Culture Ernest W. Brooks, ed. and trans. Collection of Letters of Severus of Antioch. PO 12 and 14. Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1915, 1920. Otto Guenther, ed. Epistulae imperatorum pontificum aliorum inde ab a. CCCLXVII usque ad a. DLII datae Avellana quae dicitur collectio. 2 vols. Prague and Vienna: F. Tempsky, 1895, 1898. Joseph Lebon, ed. Severi Antiocheni liber contra impium grammaticum. 3 vols. in 6. CSCO 93–94, 101–102, 111–112. Louvain: L. Durbecq, 1952. M. Geerard [and J. Noret], ed. Clavis patrum graecorum. 5 vols. Turnhout: Brepols, 1974–87, 1998, 2003. xiii

xiv

Abbreviations

CSCO Draguet, Julien

DTC HE Hespel, Polémique

Hom. Cath.

JAAR JECS JRS JSNT JTS OC OCP PG PL PO POC Ps.-Zach. Rhet.

RAC ROC SL

Corpus scriptorum christianorum orientalium. Louvain: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1903–. René Draguet. Julien d’Halicarnasse et sa controverse avec Sévère d’Antioche sur l’incorruptibilité du corps du Christ. Louvain: Smeesters, 1924. E. Amann et al., eds. Dictionnaire de théologie catholique. 15 vols. Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1908–50. Historia ecclesiastica [used with reference to various authors] Robert Hespel, ed. and trans. La polémique antijulianiste. 3 vols. in 4. CSCO 244–245, 295–296, 301–302, 318–319. Louvain: Secrétariat du Corpus SCO, 1964–71. Severus of Antioch, Les Homiliae Cathedrales de Sévère d’Antioche. Ed. Maurice Brière, François Graffin, et al. PO 4, 8, 12, 16, 20, 22, 23, 25, 26, 29, 35, 36, 37, 38. Paris: Firmin-Didot; Turnhout: Brepols, 1906–76. Journal of the American Academy of Religion Journal of Early Christian Studies Journal of Roman Studies Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal of Theological Studies Oriens Christianus Orientalia Christiana Periodica J. P. Migne, ed. Patrologia graeca. 161 vols. Paris, 1857–86. J. P. Migne, ed. Patrologia latina. 221 vols. Paris, 1844–64. R. Graffin et al., eds. Patrologia orientalis. Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1903–. Proche-Orient Chrétien E. W. Brooks, ed. Historia ecclesiastica Zachariae Rhetori vulgo adscripta. 2 vols. CSCO 83–84. Paris, 1919–21. Geoffrey Greatrex et al., trans. The Chronicle of Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor: Church and War in Late Antiquity. Translated Texts for Historians 55. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2011. Theodor Klauser et al., eds. Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum. Stuttgart: A. Hiersemann, 1950–. Revue de l’Orient Chrétien Ernest W. Brooks, ed. and trans. The Sixth Book of the Select Letters of Severus of Antioch. 2 vols. in 4. London: Williams and Norgate, 1902–4.

Introduction Dissension among the Dissenters As to the mad dogs who have followed the witless Romanus and the stony Julian we have not a word to say, seeing that, while we talk according to the law in all respects, both in doctrines and in canonical actions, they are absurdly spreading these contrary opinions concerning us. For neither will we for our part by reason of rivalry with those filthy men abandon the middle of the royal road and walk upon the rocks on the other side. severus of antioch, letter to sergius, bishop of cyrrhus, and marion, bishop of sura (sl 5.15, 401–402/356)

There is no clear set of structures, behaviors, events, objects, experiences, words and moments to which body currently refers. Rather, it seems to me, the term conjures up two sharply different groups of phenomena. Sometimes body . . . seems to refer to limit or placement, whether biological or social. That is, it refers to natural, physical structures . . . to environment or locatedness, boundary or definition. . . . Sometimes—on the other hand—it seems to refer precisely to lack of limits, that is, to desire, potentiality, fertility, or sensuality/ sexuality . . ., or to person or identity as malleable representation or construct. caroline bynum, “why all the fuss about the body?”

SEV E RU S O F A N T IO C H A N D T H E SE PA R AT IO N OF THE CHURCHES

Severus served as the imperially appointed patriarch of Antioch for close to six years in the early sixth century (November 512 to September 518). He is perceived by many to be the founding father of the independent anti-Chalcedonian Syriac Orthodox Church.1 One overarching aim of this book is to correct that perception. Although he resolutely opposed the Chalcedonian theology that was advocated by the imperial government during much of his lifetime, I argue that Severus was equally opposed to leaving the imperial ecclesial structures and founding a new anti-Chalcedonian church.2 There were indeed others within anti-Chalcedonian society who promoted 1

2

Introduction

separatism, in word and in deed. Severus’s theological, political, liturgical, and cultural contestations with these separatists form the subject of this book. Severus was born to a pagan family ca. 465 in Sozopolis, Pisidia (in central Asia Minor), and studied rhetoric in Alexandria and law in Beirut.3 Baptized ca. 490, he joined the monastery of Peter the Iberian, an early anti-Chalcedonian leader, located in Maiuma, near Gaza. After receiving priestly ordination from an exiled anti-Chalcedonian bishop,4 Severus set up his own monastery in Maiuma, and began to exert influence as a learned spokesperson for anti-Chalcedonian christology. He spent 508–511 in Constantinople, where, together with Philoxenus of Mabbug and other anti-Chalcedonian bishops, he engineered the ouster of the sitting Chalcedonian patriarchs of Constantinople and Antioch. The following six years, coinciding with the final years of Emperor Anastasius’s life (ruled 491–518), signaled the zenith of anti-Chalcedonian influence in the imperial church. This period ended with the accession of the Chalcedonian emperor Justin in 518, when Severus, together with dozens of other anti-Chalcedonian bishops, were forced to flee to Egypt, an anti-Chalcedonian stronghold. Severus spent almost all of the remaining twenty years of his life in exile in Egypt. The one documented exception was a sojourn in Constantinople in 535– 536, undertaken at Emperor Justinian’s behest for the purpose of conciliation talks. The talks failed, and Justinian declared Severus a heretic whose writings were to be burned, and the hand of anyone caught copying his works amputated.5 As a result, relatively little of his massive body of work survives in the original Greek.6 A considerable portion, however, is available in Syriac translations, many of which were made already during his lifetime.7 The importance of Severus’s writings for the study of the ecclesiastical history of the Roman Empire in the early sixth century is incontestable. The diversity of these writings—hymns, letters, homilies, and theological treatises—to say nothing of their sheer volume, is unparalleled among contemporary Christian authors.8 This state of affairs is due at least in part to the particular vicissitudes of history. Since those who saw themselves as Severus’s heirs ultimately gained dominance in large swathes of the Eastern provinces, many of his writings were preserved while the writings of many of his opponents perished. Nevertheless, it appears that even if the writings of these contemporaries had survived, Severus would emerge, by comparison, as a very prolific author who occupied center stage in all the main controversies of his day. Although Severus was famous for his extended polemical altercations with Chalcedonian theologians, the bulk of his writings actually focuses on questions that arose within his own party.9 These questions ranged from the theological to the practical. The main theological question within the anti-Chalcedonian party that occupied Severus in the last fifteen years of his life and will occupy us throughout this

Introduction

3

book concerned the incorruptibility of the body of Christ. Did Christ’s body become incorruptible only after the crucifixion and resurrection, as Severus thought, or was it incorruptible already from the incarnation, as claimed by Severus’s fellow anti-Chalcedonian Julian of Halicarnassus and his followers? A slew of practical questions had exercised the anti-Chalcedonian communities ever since the imperial council had promulgated its decrees in the mid-fifth century. These questions continued to occupy the movement well into the sixth century, both during Severus’s tenure as patriarch and during his subsequent years in exile. In addition to the theological question raised by Julian of Halicarnassus about the incorruptibility of the body of Christ, three practical questions will be the focus of a major part of this book. These involved the issues related to the rebaptism of Chalcedonian “converts” and reordination of their priests; the inclusion or exclusion of Chalcedonian names in the liturgical diptychs; and the degree to which ecclesial canons of the imperial church needed to be followed in times of persecution. These questions all boiled down to a general concern about the proper attitude to have toward the imperial church. Like the theological debate about the incorruptibility of Christ, this concern was also focused, in a sense, on the body of Christ. In this case, it was Christ’s social, or ecclesial, and liturgical, or eucharistic, bodies, rather than his physical one. But, as I will demonstrate below, these three bodies were intimately related to one another. It is this interconnection between these three bodies of Christ—the physical, the social, and the liturgical—that is the engine that drives this book. It is what enables us, as I will argue, to draw together the various threads of evidence and weave a textured tableau of the anti-Chalcedonian movement in the first third of the sixth century. The imperial church’s promulgation of the Chalcedonian definition of faith had presented the adherents of anti-Chalcedonian christology with a weighty dilemma. Over the course of the preceding two centuries, bishops and emperors, especially in the East, had become enmeshed in an interdependent relationship. Imperial might guaranteed the episcopate administrative authority, and episcopal preaching buttressed the emperor’s legitimacy.10 Beginning with Eusebius of Caesarea’s writings in praise of Constantine, and further developed by bishops and emperors alike over the course of the fourth and fifth centuries, was the ecclesiastico-political philosophy that viewed the Christian empire united under the Christian emperor as the one body of Christ.11 This outlook actually reached its zenith in the wake of the Council of Chalcedon. The henoticist policy of Zeno (ruled 474–475, 476–491) and Anastasius—an attempt at compromise between the Chalcedonian and anti-Chalcedonian positions—and Justinian’s later elusive efforts to achieve ecclesiastical unity, were couched in language that presented the general welfare of the state and imperial sovereignty as dependent on the emperor’s enforcement of a correct definition of faith, equally shared by all churches in the empire.12 It was

4

Introduction

precisely this long-standing ecclesiastico-political attitude that increasing numbers of anti-Chalcedonians were calling into question. Although imperial policy over the course of the preceding seventy years had shifted back and forth between pro-Chalcedonian, anti-Chalcedonian, and the middle-ground, henoticist positions, the severity and comprehensiveness of the pro-Chalcedonian shift in 518 was unprecedented. For the first time dozens of sitting bishops had to forsake their sees.13 The question that the anti-Chalcedonian victims of this sea change in imperial policy now had to ask themselves was how to relate to an emperor who not only endorsed a heretical theology, but also broke with the traditional patronage relations that had inhered for centuries between the emperor and the episcopate. Could the long-standing idea of the church as the symbolic body of Christ still be understood as referring to the empire as a whole and to its head, the emperor? Could an emperor who insisted on episcopal submission to a heretical christology still be considered head of the ecclesial body of Christ? Were Chalcedonians and anti-Chalcedonians indeed still part of the same ecclesial body? Perhaps the followers of Chalcedon, including the emperor himself—in his uncompromising persecution of the faithful—were no longer part of the communal body. Perhaps this meant that the anti-Chalcedonian believers needed to separate from the imperially controlled church. The body of Christ needed rethinking. In order to reconstruct the anti-Chalcedonian conversation on this question we must rely, unfortunately, almost entirely on the sources preserved by just one side of the conversation. Earlier I mentioned the huge disparity between the massive volume of Severus’s oeuvre that has survived and the scanty remains from the pens of his opponents. What does survive from Severus’s opponents is mostly preserved only as embedded in the polemical attacks Severus and his followers make upon it. Given this state of the evidence, historians of the period have been faced with two formidable, and, in a sense, opposite, challenges. On the one hand, one needs to rely on Severus’s writings and other hostile sources in order to reconstruct the theological, political, and liturgical positions of Severus’s opponents. The challenge in this case is to overcome the distorting effects of the foe’s perspective.14 On the other hand, there is also another, perhaps less obvious, but therefore more deceptive, challenge facing historians. This challenge consists in accurately reconstructing Severus’s own positions. In this case, it is the potentially distortive perspective of the friends of Severus, rather than his foes, that must also be borne in mind. The historian needs to make sure not to read the events of later history and the positions of the people who designate themselves as Severus’s successors back onto Severus himself. Thus, as we will see in more detail in chapter 2, certain midsixth-century anti-Chalcedonian authors portray Severus as having given his blessing to a large-scale campaign of ordaining anti-Chalcedonian clergy outside

Introduction

5

of the accepted imperial structures. These later authors might have had reasons of their own for portraying Severus as a supporter of a campaign that signaled the emergence of an independent anti-Chalcedonian church. Writing after Severus’s death at a time when the independent church was already a reality they would have been eager to claim the great anti-Chalcedonian theologian as a founding father of the new church. The question is whether Severus’s own writings confirm this image. To summarize, there are two main methodological challenges involved in the study of what I call the “dissension among the dissenters,” or the series of theological, political and liturgical controversies that rocked the anti-Chalcedonian movement during Severus’s lifetime. On the one hand, any reconstruction of the positions of Severus’s opponents must take into account the potential distortions caused by Severus’s hostile reports about them. On the other hand, the reconstruction of Severus’s own positions must allow for the potential distortions caused by the “friendly” accounts of Severus’s followers, who, living in different historical circumstances, would not have necessarily shared their master’s agenda.15 Whereas an abundance of evidence survives for Severus’s side of the controversy, little independent evidence survives for the other side. Thus, we might expect that the challenge of reconstructing the position of Severus’s opponents, such as Julian, would be harder to overcome than the challenge of reconstructing Severus’s own positions. Nevertheless, the history of research on these questions actually shows the opposite. The position of at least some of Severus’s opponents, especially Julian of Halicarnassus’s theology, has received a more balanced and methodologically sensitive treatment than some of Severus’s own positions, particularly in the realm of politics. In this respect, René Draguet’s 1924 monograph on Julian’s theology was groundbreaking. It was groundbreaking precisely because Draguet was very careful to avoid to the degree possible the distortive effects of Severian polemics.16 He judiciously based his account of Julian’s theology solely on the fragments of the latter’s writings that survive embedded in the works of his opponents. Draguet’s monograph remains unsurpassed as the most comprehensive and balanced study of the christological aspect of the incorruptibility debate between Julian and Severus. My discussion in the following chapter of the theological debate between the two men will, therefore, draw on Draguet’s basic framework. I will highlight some aspects of the debate that, although neglected by Draguet, build on and supplement his findings. When it comes, however, to the political and liturgical sides of the debate, much of previous scholarship has, in my judgment, often displayed less methodological sensitivity in recognizing the distorting effects of partisan accounts. The few studies that have been published over the past sixty years on the creation of the independent anti-Chalcedonian church have mostly taken the reports of post-Severian

6

Introduction

anti-Chalcedonian historians at face value, despite contrary evidence from Severus’s own writings. As I will demonstrate in chapter 2, previous scholars have alternately ignored or reinterpreted evidence from Severus’s texts that is contrary to the picture painted by these post-Severian historians. Severus’s own writings from his patriarchate onward, I will argue, consistently reflect an ecumenical, pro-imperial position. Both during his patriarchate, when Severus enjoyed the benefits of imperial patronage, and during his exile, when he was being actively pursued by the government, Severus saw the church as a unique, Roman, imperial institution. For Severus, the appropriate response to the Chalcedonian persecutory and heretical organization that the imperial church under Justin and Justinian had become was not to secede, but to work for change from within the system. This is reflected in the positions Severus held on various practical controversies regarding the proper attitude toward Chalcedonians as well as in his actual addresses to members of the imperial government, such as Justinian himself. This idea, however, of sponsoring change from within the imperial system was not always Severus’s position. I will show that Severus actually started out, prior to his elevation to the patriarchate, more on the side of the hard-line, separatist wing of his party. As a follower of Peter the Iberian, he initially objected to the mediating, ecumenicist, “henoticist” policy of Emperor Anastasius. But once appointed patriarch of Antioch by that same emperor, Severus changed his tune. From then on, his writings support the ecumenicist approach, even in the face of ongoing opposition from anti-Chalcedonian separatists. During Severus’s almost six years in the patriarchate and even during the first years of the persecution the ecumenicist approach seems to have been predominant within anti-Chalcedonian circles. But as persecution wore on, the balance gradually shifted back toward the separatists. John of Ephesus and other antiChalcedonian authors writing in the generation after Severus’s death portray Severus, under the pressures of persecution, as also having gradually (re)embraced the separatist position. Most modern historians follow this narrative; some even go so far as to argue that Severus was a separatist all along. I believe the evidence of Severus’s own writings supports neither of these claims. From the time that he embraced Anastasius’s henoticist policy, Severus consistently advocated remaining within the imperial church and abiding by its canons, even as persecution mounted from without and opposition grew from within. C H R I ST O L O G Y, E C C L E SIO L O G Y, A N D L I T U R G Y: A “S T E R E O S C O P IC A P P R OAC H”

It is precisely this essential ecclesiological difference between Severus and opponents within his own party that is the key to understanding the series of other

Introduction

7

theological, political, and liturgical controversies that ultimately led to the creation of an independent anti-Chalcedonian church. It is the linchpin that holds together all other aspects of the so-called dissension among the dissenters that is the subject of this book.17 This claim requires justification. Assuming it can be established that, contrary to the opinion of earlier scholars, Severus opposed the separatist elements within his party, why would this difference of opinion on what was essentially an ecclesiological question have ramifications in other areas of dispute within the movement? The reason for this, I submit, is that for contemporaries these questions were all in fact intertwined. They were intertwined both on the theoretical level, in terms of how people thought through these questions, and on the practical level, in terms of the social affiliations that they involved. Thus, our understanding of the ecclesiological question can help inform our understanding of the other realms of debate, and vice versa. We must, therefore, adopt what I will call a “stereoscopic approach” to our examination of this material. As with binocular vision, in which the convergence of two perspectives provides a perception of depth unattainable by one perspective alone, a simultaneous examination of Severus and his opponents through the multiple lenses of theology, ecclesiology, and liturgy grants us a deeper, more focused view of the groups involved in one of the defining events of this period: the creation of an independent anti-Chalcedonian church. My development of this stereoscopic approach was shaped primarily by my reading of the late ancient sources—both Severus’s writings (and the rich patristic heritage he drew on, including, primarily, Cyril of Alexandria) and that of his contemporaries. Yet, my thinking was also informed by the work of several modern scholars who focus on ancient and medieval Christian uses of the body. The rationale for my stereoscopic approach is supported by three passages in Severus’s writings that point to the fact that within both camps of the anti-Chalcedonian movement the different debates about theology, ecclesiology, and liturgy were thought of as interrelated. One’s position on the incorruptibility of the body of Christ was integrally tied to one’s position on ordination outside the imperially based canonical system; to one’s soteriological understanding of the Eucharist; and to one’s position on the rebaptism of Chalcedonian converts. In what follows I will analyze these three passages so as to bring out the links they establish between theology, ecclesiology, and liturgy, and I will dedicate the final section of this introduction to an inquiry as to why these three areas were indeed interrelated. The first passage demonstrates the interrelationship between ecclesiology and christology: it links the debate about the incorruptibility of the body of Christ with a debate about ordinations that did not comply with the imperially sanctioned canonical regulations.

8

Introduction

Writing to the ascetic deaconess Anastasia in the mid-520s from his hiding place in Egypt,18 Severus anxiously reports on the doings of a certain priest named Isaiah:19 I have heard that Isaiah the unlawful, like Dathan and Abiram, has risen against the laws of the priesthood, and has trampled upon everything like a hog, with foul, disorderly, uncanonical feet: and that, having gone to Pamphylia, he has thought fit to whisper lies about me, and to say that in what I wrote about the incorruptibility (lā meth. ablânūtā) of the body of God and our Savior Jesus Christ I preached the faith, saying that the body was corrupted and dissolved (eth. abal weštrī) during the three days’ burial, and certain similar blasphemies which are not plausible, which wound the ears and disturb the souls of those who listen without intelligence: and it is therefore in my mind to send a man there carrying all that has been written by me, in order to establish the truth. If then you also have heard of any similar report that has been whispered there, since some persons have perhaps written and told you, tell me.

Isaiah, a native of Armenia, spearheaded an initiative to create what appears to be a new anti-Chalcedonian church. He had begun his operations already during Severus’s patriarchate.20 But once governmental persecution of the anti-Chalcedonian leadership broke out he intensified his attempts to set up a new clerical hierarchy, independent of the fiercely Chalcedonian imperial church. Together with a fellow priest named Gregory of Pontus, Isaiah set out to ordain clergy at all levels: deacons, priests, bishops, and even archbishops.21 Severus was enraged. Although he shared Isaiah’s anti-Chalcedonian sentiment, and despite the urgent need to rehabilitate the shattered anti-Chalcedonian clerical establishment, Severus would hear nothing of Isaiah’s initiative. According to Severus, such ordinations were in severe violation of canon law. Severus alleged that Isaiah, upon his own admission, had been ordained by only one bishop rather than the canonical three, and he had never been assigned to the bishopric of a specific city, as the canons required.22 Due to these canonical irregularities Isaiah’s ordinations of other clergy were completely worthless. Like Dathan and Abiram, who challenged the authority accorded to Moses and Aaron in the desert,23 Isaiah and Gregory trampled “with foul, disorderly and uncanonical feet” upon the authority of the imperially sanctioned church canons. Considering the historical context of Isaiah and Gregory’s initiative, Severus’s objections are quite extraordinary. This is the 520s; anti-Chalcedonian leadership has been devastated; scores of bishops have been on the run for years, hiding from the imperial forces; their seats have been taken over by Chalcedonian appointees; swathes of the predominantly anti-Chalcedonian provinces of Syria and Asia Minor are subject to unrelenting pressure. As Severus himself knew full well from the constant flow of letters pouring to him from the provinces formerly under his jurisdiction, anti-Chalcedonian priests were increasingly difficult to come by, and

Introduction

9

some pious parishioners had begun to refrain from receiving the sacraments altogether. Given this historical context, Isaiah and Gregory’s ordination project actually made sense. Stranded in Egypt, Severus and the majority of his fellow former bishops could physically no longer conduct ordinations in Syria and Asia Minor. Two nonexiled church leaders come along and take this dangerous task upon their shoulders. Rather than gratefully embracing the initiative as a beacon of hope for the survival of orthodoxy, Severus declares Isaiah a rebel. He avers that Isaiah cannot ordain priests since he had not been assigned to a specific city; but in the current climate why would this have made a difference? As it was, very few anti-Chalcedonian bishops outside of Egypt remained resident in their cities. Were these canonical regulations not legislated by, and intended for, bishops operating within the territorially based imperial church, with its diocesan divisions based on Roman governmental structures? Was the maintenance of these structures still in the best interests of a community oppressed by these very structures? In casting Isaiah and Gregory in the roles of Dathan and Abiram, Severus was ipso facto casting the emperor Justin and his imperial forces in the role of Moses. Unpacking the logic of this surprising claim will be the concern of chapter 2. As for Isaiah’s position, we can only access it, like much of the material covered in this book, through the lines of Severus’s response. It is striking that Isaiah (according to the picture painted by Severus) focuses his reaction not on defending his own ordination campaign but on calumniating Severus’s stance on the “incorruptibility of the body of God.” Seizing on a seemingly recondite theological issue, he accuses Severus of saying that the body of Christ had corrupted and dissolved in the grave during the short period between crucifixion and resurrection. Severus did not consider this a recondite issue at all. He was alarmed by the accusation, quick to deny it, and anxious to prevent its spread. He never claimed, so he says, that Christ’s body was corruptible after death. Only during his lifetime was the body of Christ corruptible. At the same time that Severus was fending off Isaiah’s claims about his stance on Christ’s pre-resurrection body he was engaged in a full-scale controversy on this very question with his former ally, Julian of Halicarnassus. In fact, Julian made the same accusation against Severus about the body of Christ in the grave that Isaiah did.24 The fact that Isaiah invokes Julian’s christological argument as a response to Severus’s ecclesiological claim leads to two conclusions. First, Isaiah of Armenia associated himself with Julian. This could indicate that the dispute between Julian and Severus was not just about christology; it was also about ecclesiology. In other words, we may (though by no means must) deduce from Isaiah’s invocation of Julian’s ideas that the two men were political allies. Julian may have been a supporter of Isaiah’s independent ordination campaign. I will provide more support for this hypothesis later in the book.

10

Introduction

The second conclusion we can draw from this passage is that Isaiah’s christological response to Severus’s ecclesiological claims really makes sense only if there had existed a link in the minds of these men between the physical and social bodies of Christ. One’s view of Christ’s physical body informed one’s view of the church, and vice versa. In the controversies that developed among the opponents of the Council of Chalcedon one’s attitude toward the imperial church’s betrayal of orthodoxy (from the perspective of the anti-Chalcedonians) and the ensuing threat to the continued existence of anti-Chalcedonian church life was symbiotically related to one’s theological understanding of Christ’s embodiment in this world. If this first example demonstrates the link between ecclesiology and theology, our second example concerns the link between liturgy and theology. Toward the beginning of his second full treatise written against Julian, Against Julian’s Additions,25 Severus reveals that Julian and others had been spreading rumors about him:26 Not being able to endure the rebukes of truth, he conspired with certain shabby little men, strangers and others, who, as it is written, “hate me without cause” (Ps. 69:4 and see Jn. 15:25). And he instigated them to disseminate slanderous lies among the faithful and to cry out in the middle of the churches, to write and to declare among the city’s colonnades and in its taverns that we say that the divine body consecrated upon the holy altars and the cup of blessing are the food and drink of corruption (h. bâlā).

According to this report, Julian and members of his camp transferred the controversy about Christ’s physical body to the latter’s liturgical body. Julian’s move here is structurally reminiscent of Isaiah of Armenia’s tack described in the preceding example. Just as Isaiah of Armenia appealed to a christological argument in order to counter Severus’s ecclesiological attacks, so Julian appeals to liturgy in order to discredit Severus’s christology. The logic underlying both cases is that the various “bodies of Christ” and their attendant discourses are interchangeable. As he did with Isaiah’s accusation, so also in this case Severus rushes to deny Julian’s liturgical calumny. He dedicates an entire chapter of his work to refuting it, opening with an anathema on anyone who declares that “the body and the blood of God . . . consecrated on the church altars” is “corruptible, passible, or mortal.”27 Contrary to Julian’s libels, Severus wholeheartedly agreed both that the eucharistic body was incorruptible itself and that it had the power to grant incorruptibility to those who partook in it. To a large degree, Severus had no choice in the matter. This issue had already been debated between Cyril and Nestorius, nearly a century earlier. At the heart of Cyril’s doctrine of the Eucharist was the notion that participation in the Eucharist redeemed believers from their own corruption precisely because the Eucharist itself is incorruptible: “What is subject to corruptibility by nature (to phtheiresthai pephukos) can be vivified only if it is conjoined bodily (suneplakē sōmatikōs) with

Introduction

11

the body of the life by nature that is the only-begotten.”28 Nestorius, according to the reconstruction favored by most scholars, disagreed with exactly this point. He disputed Cyril’s notion that the bread itself, as a material object, had a vivifying effect on those who consumed it.29 Inasmuch as both Severus and Julian saw themselves as loyal followers of Cyril, neither could accept Nestorius’s position. Thus, Severus had no choice but to deny Julian’s accusations and to passionately endorse the incorruptibility of the liturgical body of Christ.30 We will see in chapter 3 that there was actually a kernel of truth in Julian’s accusation. Severus did not in fact view the incorruptibility of the Eucharist in the same way Julian did. But for our present purposes, what is important about this passage is the very fact that Julian carried Severus’s stance on Christ’s physical body over to Christ’s liturgical body. For him, christology and sacramentology dealt with the selfsame body of Christ. Julian’s unstated reliance on this equation provides another validation for our stereoscopic approach to these debates. We must treat the anti-Chalcedonian controversies about doctrines of the church, of Christ and of the Eucharist in concert, rather than in isolation from one another.31 Furthermore, I think we would be justified in cautiously leveraging these indications of interconnectedness to fill in some of the many gaps in our knowledge of the anti-Chalcedonian movement in this period. There will be instances throughout this book where, on the basis of the stereoscopic approach, I will propose to reconstruct the respective positions of Severus and his opponents on issues about which we know less in light of their parallel positions on issues about which we are better informed. This kind of educated guesswork informs our final index of the stereoscopic approach to be discussed in this introduction. So far we have seen how Isaiah, Severus’s ecclesiological opponent, fights him using Julian’s christological argument, and how Julian, Severus’s christological opponent, fights him using a sacramentological argument. In this third case, we have two letters of Severus that strongly imply, but without saying so explicitly, that the argument between him and Julian (and the latter’s followers) was at the same time both christological and ecclesiological.32 Both these letters were probably written sometime in the mid- to late 520s.33 They were each addressed to a group of bishops who, after having managed to stay within the patriarchate of Antioch, had asked Severus a question that had actually arisen many times before: “How is it appropriate to receive those who have been baptized by this heresy that now prevails?”34 Can the baptism that people received at the hands of a Chalcedonian priest qualify if they seek to join the folds of antiChalcedonian orthodoxy?35 Or do such people require a new baptism, or some other ritual, such as a new chrismation, to mark their acceptance of orthodoxy? Severus’s opinion on this matter was resolute. Not only did people in this situation not require rebaptism or rechrismation; it was forbidden to perform such

12

Introduction

rituals. All they needed to do to become one with the anti-Chalcedonian faithful was to anathematize the Council of Chalcedon orally and in writing. It is somewhat surprising that these bishops had any doubts about Severus’s position on this question given that Severus had forcefully fought against “rebaptizers” and “reanointers” already in Antioch. It is in fact clear from the letters that these bishops required more than just anathematization. They demanded a period of penance—apparently quite prolonged—before accepting Chalcedonian converts.36 They seem to have written to Severus with hopes of convincing him of the need for this additional requirement. The latter expressed his discomfort with this position, but allowed the local bishops some degree of flexibility in the matter.37 After speaking at length about the question of rebaptism, toward the end of each of these letters Severus abruptly changes the subject and begins to discuss Julian of Halicarnassus and his doctrine of incorruptibility. In the first letter he writes: Upon this point these things are sufficient for your perfection in Christ. But I beg you also to extend your diligent watchfulness which becomes shepherds to the God-loving archimandrites and devout solitaries, those who are near you, and not allow anyone to disturb those who are more simple, in the matter of the question about the incorruptibility of the body of our Lord and God and Savior Jesus Christ, which was stirred up among us by Julian who wantonly became impious.38

In the second letter Severus writes: As to the mad dogs who have followed the witless Romanus and the stony Julian we have not a word to say, seeing that, while we talk according to the law in all respects, both in doctrines and in canonical actions, they are absurdly spreading these contrary opinions concerning us. For neither will we for our part by reason of rivalry with those filthy men abandon the middle of the royal road and walk upon the rocks on the other side.39

Severus does not explain the connection between Julian and the rebaptism issue. Conceivably, there could have been no connection. But this seems unlikely given the fact that Severus twice makes a point of linking the question of how to receive Chalcedonian converts with a warning against Julian’s theology. It appears that there was indeed a practical, social-historical connection between these two issues. In the second letter, Severus speaks about the followers of Romanus and Julian who spread false rumors about him. We can gather from Severus’s comments that they claimed that Severus, out of a desire to distance himself from them, had maintained positions that were radical in the other extreme, in matters both theological and ecclesiological (“both in doctrines and in canonical actions”). What might these positions have been? The earlier passages we discussed can give us a hint about the theological position. As we saw in those passages, Severus’s

Introduction

13

Julianist opponents spread rumors that he thought the body of Christ rotted in the grave and that he considered the eucharistic body and blood to be the “food and drink of corruption.” Both these claims can qualify as matters of “doctrine”; neither can be called a “canonical action.” What, then, might the rumors in matters of church canon have been? I propose, on the basis of the pattern that has emerged from the other passages discussed so far, that the disagreement between Severus and Julian (and the Julianists) extended to the canonical question that is the subject of these two letters. The Julianists must have held a much more rigorist view than Severus concerning the reception of Chalcedonian heretics. Whether they advocated rebaptism, rechrismation, or a long period of penance, we cannot tell. But the rhetorical flow and wording of these two letters of Severus’s indicate that they held one of these positions and calumniated Severus for holding a more liberal view. Perhaps they accused Severus of holding the radically lenient position of not even requiring formal renunciation; this would explain Severus’s defensive response that he is not one to “abandon the middle of the royal road and walk upon the rocks on the other side.” Thus, the way these letters connect Julian with the question of how to receive Chalcedonian converts provides yet another indication of the overlap between christology, ecclesiology, and liturgy in the Julianist debate, and hence further justification for the stereoscopic approach employed in this book. The one remaining question that needs to be addressed in this introduction is why this would have been the case. Why would these three aspects of Christ’s body have been intertwined for Severus and his contemporaries? It is to this final question that we now turn. C O N T E ST I N G T H E B O DY O F C H R I ST

What did christology, ecclesiology, and liturgy have to do with one another? At one level the answer is simple. These three areas had a common denominator: the body of Christ. Ever since Paul and the deutero-Pauline writings, the Christian community was ubiquitously conceived as “the body of Christ,”40 and ever since Paul and the Gospels, the Eucharist was commonly understood as the “body of Christ.”41 Severus, like virtually any other bishop and ecclesiastical author before and after him, drew extensively on both of these images. A few examples here will suffice. With regard to the social body of Christ, in one of his homilies Severus speaks of the deleterious effects of the Council of Chalcedon on the body of Christ.42 Elsewhere, invoking Paul’s analogy with the different limbs of the body, he calls certain Chalcedonians to task for not acknowledging their place in the Christian community.43 In a letter to a fellow anti-Chalcedonian bishop, drawing on Irenaeus of Lyons,44 Severus also criticizes separatists within his own party for cleaving the body of Christ.45 And lastly, he even applies to the corporate body of Christ the Levitical laws of purity.46

14

Introduction

With regard to the liturgical body Severus declares his belief, shared by all “who are worthy to be among the Christians,” that “the blessed eucharist performed in the holy churches is the body and blood of God” and that “by means of the utterance of the eucharistic invocations the bread turns into the body and the cup into the blood of God, who suffered and rose for our sake.”47 Elsewhere he describes the experience of eucharistic communion with Christ in the most physical terms:48 You see that which is before you on the altar, as [Christ] is seated on the heavenly throne; you approach and receive him, and grasp him in your hands, and embrace him, and cover him with kisses, and bring him to your mouth, and make him enter within you, and you have him entire within you.

This is all clear enough. The question is whether there are direct statements, besides the more circumstantial indications discussed in the previous section, that contemporaries linked their specific theological understandings of the biological, incarnate, body of Christ with their views of ecclesiological and liturgical bodies. Over the course of this book we will explore several more pieces of evidence suggesting that Severus and his opponents within the anti-Chalcedonian party thought about these different bodies of Christ together. But can more explicit indications be found? Searching through the writings of Severus I have not found places where he or his opponents explicitly make such links.49 However, Severus’s close ally in the anti-Chalcedonian cause, Philoxenus of Mabbug, clearly demonstrates that this was indeed the case. Philoxenus dedicates several chapters of his Commentary on the Prologue to John to arguing against opponents on both sides of the Chalcedonian divide who incorrectly interpreted Christ’s “physical” body in light of their understanding of his ecclesial body.50 The mutual links between the physical, social and liturgical bodies of Christ is in fact amply documented in the writings of the theologian who was the absolute authority for all participants in the Chalcedonian debate: Cyril of Alexandria. In his Commentary on John, Cyril seizes on a correlation suggested by John 17:21 between Christ’s relationship to the Father and human participation in the divine: “Even as you, father, are in me, and I in you, that they also may be one in us.” Cyril expands on this correlation and develops it into a full-blown theological theory that triangulates christology, ecclesiology, and liturgy. Arguing against contemporary dualist conceptions of Christ, associated with the Antiochene approach,51 he links his unitive understanding of the incarnation with his corresponding idea of the church, on the one hand, and his conception of the Eucharist, on the other. I cite just an excerpt from his commentary, where one sees his interweaving and overlapping invocations of the various images of the body of Christ:52 The Only-begotten, then, proceeding from the very substance (ousia) of God the Father, and having entirely in his own nature (phusis) him that begat him, became flesh according to the Scripture, blending himself, as it were, with our nature (phusis)

Introduction

15

by an ineffable combination (sunodos) and union (henōsis) with this body, that is, of the earth. . . . In order, then, that we ourselves also may join together, and be blended into unity (henotēs) with God and with each other, although, through the actual difference which exists in each one of us, we have a distinct individuality of soul and body, the Only-begotten has contrived a means which his own due wisdom and the counsel of the Father have sought out. For by one body (sōma), that is, his own, blessing through the mystery of the eucharist those who believe in him, he makes us of the same body (sussōmoi) with himself and with one another. . . . For if “we all partake of the one bread” (1 Cor. 10:17) we are all made one body; for Christ cannot suffer severance. . . . We are all of us of the same body (sussōmoi) with one another in Christ, and not only with one another, but also of course with him who is in us through his flesh.

For Cyril the physical, social, and liturgical bodies of Christ are all intimately interconnected. They are virtually one and the same. What applies to one applies to the other two. This interconnectedness was for him a matter of tacit assumption that did not require any justification or explanation. I propose that just as this was true of the master, so must it have been true of his dedicated disciples. Severus and all the other late fifth- and early sixth-century anti-Chalcedonians, zealous to protect and uphold every word and thought of Cyril, the “king of explaining dogmas” (as Severus calls him),53 would have accepted as matter of fact that any debate about the physical body of Christ was ipso facto also a debate about the liturgical and ecclesiological bodies (and vice versa). For these were all one and the same body, not only in a figurative sense, but in a real, “physical” or “natural” sense. Hence, Cyril’s objection to the dualistic strain he identified in the Antiochene approach: it was precisely the physical union of God and man that made it possible for humankind to become, through participation in communion, “the same body with one another” and with Christ. Just as the incarnation was, in Cyril’s view, a “natural” union between God and man rather than the “synthetic” result of divine inspiration descending upon a man, so also was the communion of Christians effected by joint participation in the Eucharist a “natural union” (phusikē henōsis). Imitating the incarnate body’s union of essentially disparate elements the liturgical body itself is “one in union with Christ” (pros henotēta eis christon), and through joint participation in this liturgical body the community of believers become of the same body (sussōmoi) with Christ himself and with one another.54 In short, the Eucharist, ecclesiology, and christology all explain and justify one another. The above-quoted passage amply demonstrates the deep roots that the stereoscopic perspective on the body of Christ had in the thought of Cyril of Alexandria. I stress this for two reasons. The first reason, discussed in the previous paragraphs, is that Cyril’s precedent provides an explicit demonstration of the stereoscopic perspective that his followers implicitly shared.55 The other reason is in order to provide a corrective for an assumption shared in much of the modern scholarship on Cyril that to my mind is misguided.

16

Introduction

In 1951 Henry Chadwick published an important article titled “Eucharist and Christology in the Nestorian Controversy.” Responding to disputes of earlier scholars as to whether Cyril’s attack on Nestorius was motivated primarily by theological or political differences, Chadwick, correctly, called attention to the no less important liturgical context of the controversy. As demonstrated in the passage quoted above (although Chadwick does not cite it) as well as in numerous other passages throughout Cyril and Nestorius’s writings, the christological dispute between the two men also involved a sharp disagreement about the Eucharist as a means of salvation. Taking this observation about the coexistence of christological and liturgical concerns as their point of departure, more recent scholars have asked themselves another question: Which came first? Was the Nestorian controversy primarily about “a christological question,” in which “the eucharist stood simply to explain something else,”56 or was it actually the case that “the causality [was] flowing in the other direction, from eucharist to christology”?57 The passage from Cyril’s Commentary on John cited above shows, I believe, that this question is simply misguided. The relationship between Eucharist and christology is not “causative,” as these scholars supposed; it is, rather, a correlative relationship, in which the sequential question of “which came first” is irrelevant. Cyril’s views of the Eucharist correlate with his views of the incarnation, as well as with his views of the church, because all three of these “topics” pertain to the selfsame body of Christ. This late ancient way of thinking about the body of Christ is arguably just one expression of the ways cultures use bodies more generally. In an article published some thirty years ago, John Gager attempted to apply Mary Douglas’s anthropological theory to the study of early Christianity.58 Douglas had hypothesized that “the human body is never seen as a body without at the same time being treated as an image of society.”59 Body images and symbols are never chosen arbitrarily. “If they are used to discriminate contended positions, they also express something about the social situation,”60 or, as Gager puts it, “Statements about the body are simultaneously condensed statements about the social order.”61 The DouglasGager theory claimed to allow the historian to “establish relationships between phenomena that had previously seemed unrelated.”62 Yet, like any hypothesis, it tested well when applied to some data sets but failed when applied to others.63 At a certain level, the Douglas-Gager theory is very helpful when it comes to the anti-Chalcedonian disputes that are the subject of this book. The core idea of reading doctrinal positions about the physical body in correlation with positions about the body social is similar to the stereoscopic approach, except that the latter also brings the liturgical body into the methodological mix. But at another level, the Douglas-Gager theory can also serve, by way of example, as a warning against allowing overly rigid conceptions of the body’s symbolic value to skew our appreciation of the diverse applications it has in practice.

Introduction

17

Building upon the correlation they saw between body and society, Douglas and Gager proposed a similar correlation between the soul and the individual. They set up a binary schema onto which they tabulated different early Christian positions on theological issues pertaining to the body: incarnation, resurrection, and asceticism. They linked positions that they thought of as putting more stress on the body to an acceptance of the individual’s role in general society, whether it be Roman imperial society for earlier authors like Paul, or the ecclesiastical establishment for later writers; and they linked positions that they thought of as emphasizing the soul, or the mind, over and against the body, or “materiality,” to the individual’s alienation from established society and rebellion against it. Douglas and Gager thus associated ascetic and other antiestablishment attitudes toward society with more “spiritualized” understandings of the doctrines of incarnation and resurrection.64 This additional correlation between notions of spirit and the alienation of the individual has exposed the Douglas and Gager approach to critiques from different quarters. To begin with, the evidence of certain late ancient Christian authors simply contradicts the hypothesis. Thus, for example, Ambrose of Milan promotes a very spiritual understanding of resurrection, although socially and politically he was clearly a man of the establishment. Jerome, on the other hand, projects almost every bodily characteristic unto heaven, although in character and action he was rebellious toward authority and a hardened ascetic.65 The other main critique leveled against the application of the mind/body dichotomy to the opposition between individual and society is that in many cases we do not have sufficient information to support the claim. Thus, in the case of Antony the Great, for example, Gager would like to see a correlation between Antony’s world-negating asceticism and a presumably more Docetic notion of the incarnation and a more spiritual notion of the resurrection. But, as Gager himself admits, we know very little about Antony’s theology and are therefore actually not in a position to make this claim.66 I take these critiques into account as I apply my stereoscopic approach to the study of the sixth-century material. On the one hand, I do believe that there are stronger grounds for applying it to my chosen corpus (no pun intended) than to some of the material with which Douglas and Gager worked. The correlation between body, society, and liturgy is much more apparent in the Julianist debate, inasmuch as it was explicitly about the body of Christ, and both Christian society and the eucharistic liturgy are also explicitly conceived of as the body of Christ. On the other hand, while it is possible to gain firm knowledge about Severus’s positions in all three of these areas, when it comes to his opponents, we know much less. Our evidence for the opposition comes from hostile sources, most notably Severus himself, and it is only on the basis of hints and circumstantial insinuations that we can postulate links between the christological, ecclesiological,

18

Introduction

and liturgical positions of these different opponents. It is in these cases that critiques of the Douglas-Gager theory must especially be borne in mind. Despite my cautious endorsement of the Douglas-Gager theory, I do not think its explanatory power is fully sufficient for my purposes. Douglas and Gager took a very particular notion of the body for granted: the body represented established society, while the soul represented the individual, who is either in harmony or in tension with that society.67 Yet, as Caroline Bynum has reminded us, the body’s symbolic uses are far more varied than that. Indeed, the body can be used to refer to the limits or definitions set by social, as well as physical, natural, and cultural structures. But at the same time it can also be used to refer to precisely the opposite: to lack of limits, “to desire, potentiality, fertility, . . . to person or identity as malleable representation or construct.”68 This rich duality of the body symbol is, after all, captured precisely in the theological debate between Severus and Julian: Is the body of Christ, which was, as we will see in the following chapter, commensurate in their minds with the original human body, corruptible or incorruptible? Passible or impassible? Limited or limitless? Since the body symbol can take on these radically different significations in different contexts, it should not come as a surprise that in the Julianist debate this is exactly what happens. Although Severus and Julian’s respective positions on the physical, social, and liturgical bodies all neatly correlate, as we would expect in the stereoscopic approach, when it comes to another kind of body, the two men actually advocate opposite positions. After the three chapters on the physical, social, and liturgical bodies of Christ, the final chapter of this book will be dedicated to a different body also amply discussed in the Julianist debate: the textual body of church fathers. As we will see in detail, Severus and Julian each draw extensively from this corpus of writings, even as they construct it in the process. I document how their views of this corpus turn out to be the reverse of their views on the body of Christ: Julian thinks of the textual body of the fathers as a “corruptible,” imperfect corpus, subject to historical change, whereas Severus conceives it as unchanging and “incorruptible.” Before turning to the chapter on the textual body, however, we must first tell our main story of the two competing camps within the anti-Chalcedonian party and how their differences played out in the realms of theology, ecclesiology, and liturgy. Although my stereoscopic approach allows me to see all three of these realms as intimately interrelated, for the purposes of presentation I will need to treat each separately. Naturally enough, in the chapter primarily dedicated to one of the three realms, the other two realms will also be intertwined in the discussion. Given the interrelatedness of the topics, we could really begin anywhere. I have chosen to start with the theological dispute between Severus and Julian because this is the aspect of the debate for which we have the most documentation. Chap-

Introduction

19

ter 2 will address the ecclesiological foundations of the debate. Chapter 3 will deal with liturgy; and chapter 4 will be dedicated to textual-cultural aspects of the debate. In the conclusion I summarize the issues discussed in chapters 1–4 and look ahead to the aftermath of the incorruptibility controversy as it played out in the second half of the sixth century.

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1

Holy Flesh The Christological Debate We can bring the body to whatever state we want through the control of [our] thoughts. tome of julian of halicarnassus

Here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. . . . This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. oscar wilde, the picture of dorian gray

T H E I N C O R RU P T I B I L I T Y D E BAT E B E T W E E N J U L IA N A N D SEV E RU S : A L I T E R A RY SU RV EY

Severus was the sixth-century’s chief articulator of anti-Chalcedonian theology. It is primarily in this capacity that he is remembered by the anti-Chalcedonian and Chalcedonian churches alike. And it is primarily Severus’s treatises directed against Chalcedon and its supporters that have framed much of the scholarship on this “disputatious polemicist.”1 Viewed from this perspective alone, Severus might even appear at times to be a separatist. Yet when we fully take into account the rich evidence of his various writings against opponents within his own party, a different picture emerges. Within some five years of his flight from Antioch,2 Severus became engulfed in the intense theological debate with Julian of Halicarnassus. It appears from the surviving evidence that this one debate commanded more of his energy and attention than any of his previous disputes with the Chalcedonians.3 The debate between Severus and Julian rapidly mushroomed into a full-fledged controversy with distinct groups of followers on each side. From the mid-520s onward, the threat of Julianism, rather than opposition to Chalcedon, appears to have been the central issue occupying Severus, until the end of his life.4 21

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The purpose of the present chapter is to delineate the contours of this debate and to unearth its roots. As we shall see, the differences between Severus and Julian were rather small, or at least that is how they appear from our vantage point. But the parties involved clearly thought the stakes were high. It is our task to try to understand why. Since the discussions both in this chapter and in chapter 4 are centered on the dossier of letters and treatises exchanged between Julian and Severus, I will start out by surveying the stages of the debate and its documents. This will provide the necessary background for my analysis of Severus’s and Julian’s respective positions on the physical body of Christ, which will occupy the central part of this chapter. I will conclude with an exposition of the debate’s roots and stakes. Julian and Severus first met in Constantinople ca. 511.5 Already at that time they disagreed—apparently on quite amicable terms—about the incorruptibility of the body of Christ. Within several years of their flight to Egypt in 518 Julian reopened the question. From the early stages of their correspondence it is clear that Julian was under the impression that Severus was going to agree with him now. Toward the end of the chapter I will offer an explanation for this apparently surprising assumption on Julian’s part. Initially it took some time before the dispute turned severe. Although Severus in fact disagreed with Julian, at first he delayed responding. And when he did eventually respond, he evaded the question. Finally, when Julian began displaying signs of frustration, Severus exploded with rage. From then on, the debate lost all signs of politeness; it devolved into an acrimonious controversy, with neither side showing any willingness to compromise. Based at the Enaton federation of monasteries, some ten miles west of Alexandria, Julian seems to have had more frequent access to the metropolis than Severus, who hid out in the vicinity of Kellia, another network of monastic settlements about sixty miles southeast of the city.6 Given the geographical distance between their respective hideouts, the two men—as far as we can tell—only communicated in writing.7 What do we know about their correspondence? Julian initiated the conversation in a Tome he wrote laying out his view that Christ’s body was physically incorruptible (aphthartos/lā meth. ablânā) already from the incarnation. Probably sometime between mid-522 and mid-523,8 Julian sent the Tome to Severus together with a cover letter (which survives) asking for his opinion. As with all the other writings throughout the debate, this Tome (of which only forty-four fragments survive9) relied heavily on scriptural and patristic citations. Julian concluded the work with eight propositions (which also survive)10 summarizing for easy consumption the main points of his doctrine about the body of Christ. It took almost five months for Severus to write back.11 He politely rejected in general terms Julian’s claims about the incorruptibility (aphtharsia/lā meth. ablânūtā) of the body of Christ. Without going into any detail, he stated that his reading of the fathers had led him to the opposite conclusion. He does not specify what he

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means by this, but his subsequent writings make it abundantly clear: Severus thought that during his life on earth Christ had a corruptible (phthartos/ meth. ablânā) body. Except for being physically unable to sin, Christ’s body was subject to all the same passions and physical weaknesses as other humans. Only after his resurrection did Christ’s body become incorruptible. Alluding to their earlier discussion of the matter in Constantinople, which he considered settled, Severus expressed his surprise that Julian would raise the issue again. He indicated that he had composed a Critique of Julian’s Tome, but for the time being he would refrain from sharing it because of his desire to present a unified anti-Chalcedonian front.12 Severus’s Critique, although not yet sent to Julian, had also called on the former bishop of Halicarnassus not to publish his Tome, again because of Severus’s desire to join forces against their shared enemies, the Chalcedonians.13 Severus had sent his Critique to Alexandria to one of his allies, a priest by the name of Thomas, so that copies might be made.14 Since Julian’s Tome already enjoyed wide circulation15 Severus probably realized that he too would eventually need to publish his response, and he wanted to be well positioned to do so when the time was right.16 Severus’s curt and elusive letter elicited frustration. Julian did not understand why Severus would withhold his Critique of the Tome. But Severus delayed once again, waiting close to a year to write Julian another letter.17 This second letter, while somewhat longer than the first, was equally evasive. Severus avoided so much as a mention of the incorruptibility question. The entire letter was dedicated to a question of hermeneutical methodology: how should one interpret biblical and patristic texts so as to resolve their apparent contradictions?18 At the end of this communication Severus reiterated his desire to avoid theological disagreement. He proposed that they meet in person to discuss the issues and reach a consensus “as coming from the same soul and same mouth,” just as he had done with two other fellow anti-Chalcedonian bishops, Philoxenus of Mabbug and Eleusinius of Sasima,19 while they were still alive.20 Yet Severus’s wish was not fulfilled. Julian somehow got hold of the former’s Critique, which he read with great dismay. Exasperated, he wrote a third letter to the patriarch bitterly complaining about his incivility in accusing him, Julian, an “aged man, close to death,” of heresy.21 This is the last full text that survives in Julian’s name (numerous fragments of his different treatises are embedded in other texts). Apparently, not long thereafter Severus rejoined with a third letter of his own.22 By this point his tone indeed began to lose all pretense of civility.23 Severus’s third letter was much longer than the first two, and, for the first time since the beginning of their written exchange, it delved deep into the christological question.24 As Draguet has pointed out, this letter marks the end of the first phase of the dispute.25 In contents and literary structure it is similar to the Critique of Julian’s Tome, although it is only about one quarter of the Critique’s length.26

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As their correspondence slid into mutual bitter accusations it became clear that theological agreement as well as personal appeasement were now well out of reach.27 Private difference of opinion exploded into public controversy. The two former bishops, who had until then mostly kept their treatises out of circulation, now did everything they could to advertise their respective causes and to convince the public of their positions.28 Severus went ahead and advertised his Critique of Julian’s Tome, strategically appending to it a separate, shorter piece entitled Refutation of the Propositions that briefly disproved each of the eight propositions at the end of Julian’s Tome. Like the propositions in the original Tome, these refutations seem to have been intended as a convenient piece of propaganda, a summary of Severus’s positions easily accessible to the masses.29 And like the main body of the Tome, which it critiques, Severus’s Critique is a sprawling, lengthy work packed with scriptural and patristic passages culled from across five centuries of Christian theological literature. Julian responded by publishing a second edition of his Tome, with several critical additions. Only seven fragments of this work remain. According to Draguet’s judgment, these additions did not change the content of Julian’s doctrine, but were rather meant to clear up certain misunderstandings occasioned by the first edition.30 This textual mode of operation, as we will later see in detail in chapter 4, was characteristic of Julian. He viewed theological texts as evolving products that needed to be updated and corrected in order to reveal their full import. Severus did not share this sentiment. He countered Julian’s Additions with a work of his own entitled Against Julian’s Additions. Its purpose was to unmask the bishop of Halicarnassus’s textual “falsifications.”31 It is in this work that Severus first associates Julian’s doctrine of incorruptibility with two theological labels widely recognized as heretical in contemporary antiChalcedonian circles: Manichaeism and Eutychian phantasiasm.32 According to Manichean belief, as reconstructed by modern scholars, Jesus was a wholly divine figure whose body never experienced human birth, suffering, or death.33 Eutychianism, is named after Eutyches, a mid-fifth-century presbyter and archimandrite of Constantinople who came to be associated with a range of ideas that minimized the human aspects of Christ.34 One idea attached to his name was that the physical body of Jesus was mere appearance (“phantasy”).35 Nothing is known for certain about Eutyches’s followers, if there even existed a group of people in Severus’s day who defined themselves as such. But Severus used the terms “Eutychians” and “Phantasiasts” well before the outbreak of the debate with Julian, to stigmatize his opponents.36 Thus, when he employs this term after the outbreak of the debate it is never quite clear whether he is referring to followers of Julian or to some other group.37 Julian was anxious to shake off any association with Mani and Eutyches and to continue to defend the consistency of his ideas with the writings of the authorita-

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tive church fathers. He dedicated his two final known works to this task. The first of these, probably published soon after Severus’s Against Julian’s Additions, he called an Apology. Not much of this tract survives; but we do have its ten anathemas, which offer a summary portrait of Julian’s doctrine. Probably only after he had published the Apology, Julian published a much longer work, entitled Against Severus’s Blasphemies.38 Since this is Julian’s only work to which, as far as we know, Severus never penned a response, it is more difficult to ascertain its precise nature. It seems to have been divided into at least six, and possibly ten, different “books.”39 Altogether these “books” seem to comprise Julian’s longest work. Draguet identifies no fewer than fifty-five fragments, more than a third of all that remains of Julian’s oeuvre.40 Severus, in turn, responded to Julian’s attempts at self-defense with his Against Julian’s Apology. Apparently written at the same time as his Against Julian’s Additions,41 this work is somewhat shorter than the former. The one manuscript in which it survives complete divides it into thirty-three chapters. The first twentythree are point-by-point refutations of various passages in Julian’s Apology, and the final ten chapters rebut Julian’s ten anathemas.42 The method in both of these works is the same as that practiced in the Critique and in Severus’s second and third letters to Julian: the texts are “packed with patristic testimonies down to the very last word.”43 The patriarch repeatedly attempts to show that patristic tradition is on his side, and the citations that his opponent cites as support he has either misquoted or misunderstood. Although Julian’s final, crowning work, Against Severus’s Blasphemies, was at least partially available to Severus when he was writing his Against Julian’s Apology,44 Severus never got around to refuting it. He must be referring to this work when in a letter, which we cannot date with precision, he apologizes to his allies the bishops Sergius and Marion for delaying his response to Julian’s “last work.”45 This must refer to a work of Julian’s published after Severus wrote his Against Julian’s Apology because in the latter work Severus refers to Julian as being alive,46 and in a letter that is known to predate the above-mentioned letter to Sergius and Marion, Severus refers to Julian as already dead.47 Thus, when Severus wrote that he had not yet responded to Julian’s “last work” he must have been speaking of a time after the publication of both his Against Julian’s Additions and his Against Julian’s Apology. It may be that with Julian gone Severus felt less of a need to respond to him directly. Perhaps this is why the following final two works Severus penned on the subject were not directed against Julian but against his followers.48 The first of these two works, the Apology for the Philalethes, survives only in partially mutilated form, because of the poor state of its sole manuscript.49 This treatise is an interesting testimony to the complexities of contemporary textual culture. Earlier, during his stay in Constantinople (508–511), Severus had encountered a Chalcedonian florilegium of 244 passages from Cyril aimed at proving that

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the Alexandrian father endorsed a two-nature christology. Although this florilegium was probably about thirty years old when it first fell into Severus’s hands, he saw in it a severe threat to the anti-Chalcedonian interpretation of Cyril.50 At the time, he wrote a detailed, passage-by-passage refutation of it, calling his work the Philalethes (Lover of Truth). Some twenty years later, the followers of Julian turned to this Philalethes to prove their doctrine of incorruptibility. Severus wrote his Apology for the Philalethes in response.51 This work thus embodies a complex literary and ideological chain of citation and miscitation: Severus cites the Julianists, who (mis)cite Severus, who, in turn, has cited the Chalcedonian author of the florilegium, who had, in his turn, (mis)cited Cyril.52 Severus does not name the disciples of Julian against whom he directs his Apology for the Philalethes. But the final treatise that he is known to have written is addressed to one particular follower of Julian’s by the name of Felicissimus. Nothing is known about Felicissimus beyond the few times his name is mentioned in the fragments that survive from Severus’s work against him.53 Against Felicissimus appears to have been a very large work, spanning at least fifteen books (logoi/ mimrē), from which I have been able to track down some thirty-six individual Greek and Syriac fragments.54 In one of the fragments Severus, in addressing Felicissimus, remarks that “it is good to reply to you because you are close.”55 This might be taken to mean that Felicissimus, like Julian before him, was also living in Egypt in Severus’s vicinity. The three dozen surviving fragments of Against Felicissimus give the impression that this work was similar in content and style to the other works in the Julian-Severus dossier: it discusses christological definitions,56 human nature,57 the protological condition (i.e., the state of humanity before Adam and Eve’s fall),58 the eucharistic liturgy,59 biblical interpretation,60 and patristic criticism.61 Several fragments attack Felicissimus for misinterpreting and misquoting the writings of the church fathers, and, at least in one case, for fabricating a “patristic” testimony from whole cloth.62 The fact that Severus saw the need to write such a lengthy refutation of an otherwise unknown disciple of Julian’s is a testament to the popularity of Julian’s ideas and to the grave threat that Severus perceived in them. As far as Julian’s popularity is concerned, it must be stressed that from its very inception this debate was not a private one. Although these bishops were in exile and in hiding, they were not acting in isolation from the world. There are numerous indications throughout their dossier that both men had an extensive network of partisans and supporters, some of whom were physically present at their sides and others who acted as agents from afar. Early in the debate Severus signs off his second letter to Julian by inquiring after the health of “the community of the brethren (ah. ūtā) who are with you” just as “the community of the brethren who are with me inquire after your health.”63 As the two lead players go on to perform their roles, their supporting actors are crucial at every step of the drama. We have seen how Severus initially sent his

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Critique to be copied out by his ally the priest Thomas in Alexandria;64 as it turns out, Julian also had an ally, another priest by the name of Thomas, who also performed scribal duties for him in the big city.65 On several occasions Severus attributes the lead role, in the dissemination and promotion of their leader’s ideas to Julian’s partisans, rather than to Julian himself.66 Other times, when attacking Julian, Severus frequently speaks of him and “members of his entourage.”67 For his part, Julian speaks in the third person plural rather than the singular when attacking Severus: his attacks are directed against the collective that Severus represents.68 This was not just a controversy between men; it was a clash between movements.69 Severus’s letters from the late 520s and 530s show just how preoccupied he was with the Julianist movement, as he observed with trepidation its spread in Egypt and throughout the Christian East.70 The death of Patriarch Timothy of Alexandria in 535 led to bitter competition between the Severian and Julianist parties, each vying to replace him with the candidate of their choice. The populace and the monastic orders, especially in Lower Egypt, appear to have been largely in favor of the Julianist candidate, the monk Gaianus. Gaianus was successfully installed as a rival patriarch to the Severian candidate, the deacon Theodosius. After several months the latter eventually prevailed, but only thanks to the help of imperial troops, who expelled Gaianus.71 The subsequent history of the Julianist movement and its competition with its Severian rivals are topics that lie outside the scope of this study. Because sources have survived almost exclusively from the Severian side, reconstructing this history is a complicated task.72 Through the synthetic use of the available sources and, in several cases, a degree of historical speculation, scholars have taken some significant steps toward accomplishing this task.73 The picture that emerges is of an “overwhelmingly popular” movement that posed an ongoing, long-standing threat to its Severian rival.74 As in the earlier stages of the debate, so too during these subsequent stages, the differences were far from being solely academic. The theological differences were enmeshed in a web of social, political, liturgical, and cultural debates. In summary, Severus and Julian exchanged six letters altogether. Julian’s three letters to Severus are the only complete texts of his that are extant. Some 150 fragments survive from Julian’s treatises: his Tome (together with the Additions), the Apology, and a work entitled Against Severus’s Blasphemies. Besides his three letters to Julian, Severus penned three works against him, which survive in their entirety: the Critique of Julian’s Tome, Against Julian’s Additions, and Against Julian’s Apology. Severus also wrote two treatises against Julian’s followers. Against certain unnamed Julianist acolytes’ attempt to prove Severus’s Julianist leanings on the basis of his work entitled Philalethes, Severus wrote the Apology for the Philalethes. This work survives almost in its entirety. In addition, there are about thirty-six extant fragments from Severus’s much longer work, Against Felicissimus. All of

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these works are characterized by an intense preoccupation with the patristic heritage. Julian and Severus were equally committed to anchoring their ideas in proof texts from earlier ecclesiastical writers, reinterpreting passages that seemed to contradict their views. Having surveyed the stages of the debate between Julian and Severus, and the documents they produced, we are now in a better position to analyze the core differences between them. The following two sections are dedicated to Severus and Julian’s respective views on the body of Christ. Inasmuch as they developed these views in polemical dialogue, their ideas cannot be presented in isolation from one another. Over the course of my discussion of Severus I will constantly have recourse to Julian, and vice versa. Once I have sketched out the main differences between them, I will propose an explanation for these differences, aided by the “stereoscopic approach” described in the introduction.

SEV E RU S O N T H E B O DY O F C H R I S T

Julian’s second letter to Severus nicely encapsulates the two main themes of their controversy. The first theme relates to the fundamental paradox inherent in the contemporary understanding of Christ as God in human form. Pointing out a contradiction between two passages from the writings of Cyril of Alexandria, Julian remarks:75 I do not think that something may be said to be at once both corruptible and incorruptible. Even if we confess that he who cured us all by virtue of his bruises was passible (h. âšūšā), nevertheless [we also confess] him to be above suffering. And although we [confess him to be] mortal, nevertheless we confess that he has trampled upon death, and that he has given, by his death, life to mortals.

Julian cuts to the heart of the conundrum that had been puzzling theologians for over a century. How could the incarnated Christ possess the full power of divinity needed to redeem humankind, but at the same time redeem humankind by becoming fully human? In his second letter Julian does not indicate his solution to the conundrum. However, we can reconstruct his solution with a high degree of confidence on the basis of fragments from his accompanying Tome. His solution is a radical one, predicated on several critical redefinitions of previously accepted categories of theological thinking. Before examining his solution, however, I must first briefly present the second main theme raised in his letter. This theme concerns the proper interpretation of the patristic corpus. Julian points to an apparent contradiction between two statements by Cyril of Alexandria. At one point in his treatise On the Orthodox Faith (De recta fide) to Emperor Theodosius II, Cyril states that no “corruption (phtora) could ever be able to take hold of the flesh (sarx)” of Christ.76 This would seem to indicate that there was

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never a point at which Christ’s flesh was subject to corruption. However, just a few lines later, he states that it was a miracle that such “a body naturally susceptible to corruption (sōma . . . to tēi phusei phtharton) was raised.”77 This appears to affirm that Christ’s body was indeed subject to corruption. Julian inquires: “What meaning (tar῾ītā) might demonstrate that Cyril is not contradicting himself?”78 In other words, how might Cyril’s two statements be explained in such a manner as to resolve this apparent contradiction between them? Close readings of the church fathers, especially Cyril of Alexandria, Athanasius, Gregory of Nazianzus, and John Chrysostom, lay at the heart of the debate between Severus and Julian. The ongoing exchange of letters and treatises between them virtually constituted a running commentary on the writings of these fathers and over a dozen others.79 The subject of Severus and Julian’s debate may have been the body of Christ, but its domain was patristic literature. Unlike these earlier patristic writers, who, for the most part, based their own claims on scripture and abstract philosophical argumentation, Severus and Julian, in keeping with the general Christian intellectual culture of their times, anchor their claims almost entirely in the fathers. How did Severus and Julian bring the writings of the fathers to bear on the question of how to define the relation between the divine and the human elements in Jesus? How could the incarnate Christ be said to be at the same time both fully human and fully divine? If Jesus redeems humanity through his full assumption of human nature,80 does this mean that he assumed the corrupt aspects of human nature? Would this not pose a contradiction to his divine nature? And if he did not assume human nature’s corruption, how could he be said to be fully human? According to Aristotle, corruption (phthora) is nothing more than a form of change (alloiōsis), and all natural bodies are subject to change.81 Following this logic, if Christ’s body was a natural body like our own—and not just “a body from heaven”—then it must be subject to change and corruption. Although never explicitly invoking Aristotle by name, Severus articulates the same assumptions.82 All creatures, he declares, are, by the very fact of their “createdness,” subject to change. God alone is uncreated, and therefore solely immutable.83 Severus quotes statements from Cyril’s Commentary on John establishing that humanity is, by definition, “rational and mortal” and that everything created is corruptible.84 In the interest of maintaining Christ’s full and “real” incarnation,85 he pursues these assumptions to their logical conclusion: Christ’s body was subject to change and was, therefore, corruptible.86 This position was not only philosophically satisfying. It also seemed to accord with the synoptic picture of Jesus, as well as with key statements by more recent theologians whose authority was uncontested by Severus and Julian alike. As proof for the idea that Jesus’s body changed over time, Severus elicited the Lucan descriptions of the growth of the young Jesus, as explained by John Chrysostom, Cyril,

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and other fifth-century bishops.87 As proof for the idea that Jesus’s body was corruptible, Severus pointed to the various Gospel accounts of Jesus’s hunger, thirst, fatigue, and, of course, sufferings on the cross—also as explained by the same theologians.88 Jesus’s body, like all other things of nature, also suffered from wear and tear. Had this not been the case, it would, by definition—to invoke a phrase of John Chrysostom’s repeatedly cited by Severus—not have been a body at all.89 Severus buttressed his case with a wide range of patristic proof texts, but he was especially drawn to works distinctly aimed at those who disputed the full humanity of Christ: Athanasius’s treatise against Apollinarius of Laodicea, Gregory Nazianzus’s letters to Cledonius (also against Apollinarianism), John Chrysostom’s homily against the Manicheans and Marcionites, and John of Jerusalem’s baptismal confession, which was directly aimed at a contemporary form of Docetism.90 Severus also found a convenient anchor for his notion of the complete commensurability of Jesus’s body with ours in Hebrews 4:15: “For we have not a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.” Severus interpreted this to mean that with the sole exception of his sinlessness, Christ suffered from all the bodily weaknesses that all humans suffer from.91 Thus, Severus could base his view that Christ’s pre-resurrection body was corruptible on a wide range of biblical and patristic sources. There were, however, other aspects within the tradition that posed challenges to his view. He diffused these challenges by introducing what I will be calling “exegetical distinctions” into the problematic texts. In chapter 4, I will examine several of these cases and how they related to Severus’s construction of patristic authority. For now one example will suffice to demonstrate what I mean by Severus’s “exegetical distinctions.” One biblical text that seemed to run against Severus’s view was Acts 2:14–41, Peter’s speech at Pentecost. In the course of his speech, Peter offers a proof for Jesus’s resurrection from Psalm 16:10: “For you will not abandon my soul to the nether world, nor will you allow your holy one to see corruption (diaphthora).” Peter reasons that since David, the traditional author of the psalm, is known to have died and to be buried, this verse must refer to someone else—to Jesus.92 In interpreting this verse, Julian had asserted that the dia prefix in the verse’s critical word diaphthora indicated that the word meant “corruptibility” (meth. ablânūtā), or the state leading to corruption (phthora/h. bâlā), rather than corruption itself.93 He attributes this semantic distinction to what he calls “outside sources.” If the verse states that there was no corruptibility in Jesus—not even the potential for, or beginning of, corruption—Julian concludes that there must have been no actual or full corruption in his body.94 Severus dismisses this argument. He claims ignorance vis-à-vis Julian’s “outside” sources, but says that he does know that Cyril, who was very skilled in

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“inside” and “outside” knowledge alike, made no distinction between phthora and diaphthora.95 Nevertheless, Severus himself goes on to admit that his study of the biblical usage of these two words does indicate that there is a difference between the terms, but it is not the difference that Julian claimed. Rather than connecting, as Julian did, the dia prefix to a vehicular notion (i.e., the state leading to corruption, as opposed to corruption itself), Severus reads it perfectively, as indicating a completed action. Diaphthora for him is an utter and complete instantiation of phthora. The latter signifies bodily death in the simple sense of the dissolution of the body’s component parts. Diaphthora, by contrast, refers to the utter annihilation associated with the complete separation from God. Using this distinction, he is able to interpret the verses from Acts 2 differently from Julian. Severus interprets diaphthora as a more complete form of phthora. Exemption from the former therefore does not imply exemption from the latter. During its short time in the grave Jesus’s body did not suffer diaphthora in the sense of utter annihilation and separation from God, but it did begin to suffer phthora, in the sense of regular bodily dissolution.96 Why this was anathema to Julian is the subject to which I now turn.

J U L IA N O N T H E B O DY O F C H R I S T

The foundation of Severus’s outlook was, as we saw, his acceptance of the widespread Aristotelian assumption that all natural bodies are subject to change, and therefore, to corruption. It was precisely this assumption that Julian disputed. The corruption to which bodies seem universally subject, is, in fact, according to Julian, a contemporary aberration—a sickness—that arose only after Adam and Eve’s disobedience. Corruption was not, and is not, the body’s natural state. Before the primordial couple’s transgression, death and corruption were actually not part of the natural order. Julian writes:97 Let us not state that before the transgression of the commandment death and corruption existed naturally, because God did not make death, as it is written. It was only outside of nature (lbar men kyânā), due to sin, that it entered into us, after the transgression.

The current state brought about by the original transgression is thus “outside of nature.” Nature was created healthy. Bodily decay and mortality are a sickness to which matter is now, only temporarily, liable.98 This claim was a stroke of brilliance on Julian’s part. Whereas theologians had long approached the problem of the coexistence of the divine and human natures in Christ with a static, Aristotelian definition of human nature, Julian sought to solve the problem by simply rejecting this definition.99 The gulf between the human and the divine diminishes if both are essentially incorruptible by their true, original natures. The purpose of Christ’s

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incarnation, according to this schema, was to renew humanity, to bring us back to our original state. Christ did this by “preserving for nature, in his flesh, that which had become diseased in us due to irrationality.”100 In doing so he demonstrated “nature as healthy, without the admixture of corruption.”101 Seizing on the Pauline notion that Christ, the second Adam, came to redeem humanity from the sin of the first Adam,102 Julian identified both the underlying similarity and the determinative difference between Adam and Christ with regard to the key issue of corruptibility. What Adam and Christ had in common was that neither was born as the result of a sexual act, and therefore neither was subject to the law of corruption. Adam was formed out of the earth, and Christ was conceived through the annunciation. But whereas Adam’s disobedience introduced sex and corruption into the world, Christ’s obedience restored the promise of humanity’s original, incorruptible condition.103 Fundamental to Julian’s entire theological system was his identification of sexuality with corruption. Regular human bodies are physically corrupt because they are brought into existence by what Julian calls “sensual movements” (zaw῾ē râyūgtânē)104—that is, physical passion, something that Julian considers to be morally corrupt.105 Conversely, the bodies of Adam, Eve, and Christ, which did not come into being through sex, did not participate in physical corruption.106 Theirs was the authentic, “healthy” human nature. All other bodies, produced by sex, are corrupt and diseased deviations from that authentic condition. Severus strongly disagreed. In his view the original nature of Adam, Eve, and humanity in general was susceptible to corruption. Like all other aspects of the material world, human bodies were initially created to change over time and ultimately to succumb to decay and death. What Adam and Eve lost in their original transgression was not actual bodily incorruptibility but the potential to achieve it by an act of divine grace.107 Thus, it quickly became clear that the argument was protological (related to humanity’s original state) as much as it was christological. The differences between Julian and Severus about the body of Christ stemmed from divergent conceptions of humanity before the fall. Severus believed prelapsarian human nature was essentially corruptible in the sense that bodies were created passible and susceptible to hunger, thirst, fatigue, and physical pain. It is these “passions” that Severus, following the usage of Basil of Caesarea, calls “natural accidents” (sumptōmata phusika/gedšē kyânâyē),108 and elsewhere calls “irreproachable passions” (h. ašē lā ‘dīlē, h. ašē lā mes. t. ah. īnē),109 or simply “natural and necessary passions” (h. ašē kyânâyē wa῾rīs. yē).110 According to this protological outlook, the body was originally corruptible, but its corruptible state did not stem from a moral failing, for God had created it in that manner. Adam’s transgression was in the realm of the spirit; it did not have a direct effect on the body. Severus drew a fundamental distinction between these

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two realms. The spiritual transgression had no effect on the nature of the body. What the transgression did do, as noted above, was rob the body of the grace of immortality, which had been promised as a gift, conditional upon Adam and Eve’s obedience.111 Procreation through sex, however, did not come about as the result of the primordial sin. Sexuality was already part of the original human condition.112 That this primordial sin somehow managed to change the constitution of the body itself, infecting it with corruption, is, argues Severus, a Manichean idea.113 Julian, conversely, believed that the body was created incorruptible. Originally human bodies were meant to be like the bodies of angels, with a beginning in time, but with no end.114 Before Adam’s transgression neither death nor corruption was part of human nature.115 In contradistinction to Severus, Julian established a direct, symbiotic link between moral, or spiritual, behavior and the physical condition of the body. Through Adam’s disobedience all future bodies brought about by sexual procreation were infected with the disease of corruption—both physical and ethical.116 Sexuality is the cardinal manifestation of that corruption, but so are all other bodily needs and changes. To claim otherwise, argued Julian, is a form of dyophysite heresy. Dyophysites insisted on separating Christ’s natures precisely because they assumed that corruptibility was part and parcel of human nature. In their minds, Christ’s incorruptible divinity had to be separate from his corruptible humanity.117 Some scholars have sought to view this protological dispute in relation to the doctrine of “original sin.”118 At first blush this is understandable enough. The quandary of original sin, which has exercised theological minds in the Latin West since the late fourth century, shares much of the same vocabulary with the dispute between Severus and Julian: Adam and Eve’s fall, sexuality, corruption, and the body’s inheritance of sin. Julian’s views have been associated with the Augustinian position that as a result of the fall sin is transmitted through concupiscence and hence infects humanity with a moral, and mortal, “stain.” The views of Severus, on the other hand, have been described in terms associated with Julian of Eclanum, and other so-called Pelagian opponents of Augustine on the question of original sin—namely, that the notion of hereditary sin constituted a form of Manichaeism, an attack on free will, and an invalidation of marriage.119 Despite these apparent similarities, it is important to recognize the gulf that separated Julian’s worldview from Augustine’s. In fact, as I seek to show in the following section, the question of original sin, as it was posed in the West, actually had little to do with Severus and Julian’s debate. Julian’s utterly non-Augustinian approach to sin and corruption is in fact the key to understanding both the ideological roots of his position and its long-standing and widespread popular appeal. However, before explaining this, I must first introduce one more important element of Julian’s thought: the respective roles played by volition and compulsion in determining the condition of the body.

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Earlier I discussed Severus’s recruitment of portrayals of Jesus’s growth and sufferings in the Gospels alongside patristic texts stressing Jesus’s humanity. Despite polemical attempts on the part of Severus and his successors to label Julian a “Docetist” and a “Phantasiast,”120 the latter acknowledged Christ’s full humanity and the reality of his sufferings.121 Thus Julian could not fairly be called a Docetist. But if Julian admitted that Christ truly suffered, how could he say that his body was incorruptible? Julian’s solution was to say that Christ voluntarily (s. ebyânâ’īt) accepted upon himself the conditions of bodily passibility and mortality. His body truly did suffer hunger, thirst, and fatigue, but this did not happen out of natural necessity. It happened by will.122 Thus, Julian did not disagree with Severus about the “fact” of Jesus’s sufferings. His disagreement was about the explanation of this fact. Whereas Severus was of the opinion that Jesus’s body suffered by the physical necessity of its being a body, Julian believed that Jesus’s body did not suffer by necessity; it only suffered because Jesus voluntarily took suffering upon it. Julian compared the subjection of Jesus’s body to suffering to the subjection to fire of the burning bush of Exodus 3. Just as the burning bush remained incombustible even as it was engulfed in flames, so Jesus’s body remained incorruptible even as it underwent pain. Indeed, it was precisely the voluntary nature of its sufferings that demonstrated the fundamental incorruptibility of the body of Christ.123 According to Julian’s understanding, only those born of sexual concupiscence have flesh that is necessarily subject to the bodily compulsions of hunger, thirst, and fatigue.124 But since Jesus was not born of sexual concupiscence his flesh was exempt from these compulsions.125 For Julian, physical corruption is, by its very definition, the result of moral corruption. Conversely, moral culpability is necessarily tied to physical decay. Corruptibility is a barometer of the symbiotic connection between spirit and body.126 Thus, if, as both Julian and Severus agreed on the basis of Hebrews 4:15, Jesus was without sin, his body, according to Julian’s understanding, needed to be without corruption. To speak of a voluntary acceptance of “corruption” was in his mind a contradiction in terms. Corruption was, by Julian’s definition, a matter of compulsion. It is important to note, however, that Julian limited the link between necessity and one’s bodily condition to corruptibility alone. When it came to passibility and mortality, Julian did not think that they were inherently linked to one’s spiritual and ethical behavior. Unlike corruptiblity, which, by definition, was a matter of necessity, passibility and mortality could be accepted voluntarily. As a result, Julian agreed to call Jesus’s body passible, but not corruptible.127 In order to prove the incorruptibility of Jesus’s flesh Julian pointed to a series of patristic texts that referred to it as “worshipful” and “holy.”128 He could even cite some texts that expressly referred to Christ’s body as “incorruptible”: Cyril interpreted Moses’s instruction to make the ark of the covenant of wood “not subject to

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decay”129 as a symbol of Christ’s incorruptible body;130 and elsewhere Cyril spoke of Christ’s flesh as transcending death and corruption.131 Severus had his own ways of explaining these apparently pro-Julian texts. He interpreted some of the passages as referring to Christ’s body after the resurrection and others as referring to Christ’s incorruptible behavior, rather than to his incorruptible flesh. Thus, the passage that Julian had cited from Cyril describing Christ’s flesh as transcending death and corruption referred, according to Severus, only to its transformation after the resurrection.132 Other Cyrilline passages that explicitly speak of the incorruptibility of Christ’s body from the time of the incarnation are reinterpreted by Severus as referring only to Christ’s sinlessness, and not to a supposed impassibility and immortality. This is how he understands the meaning of the phrase “holy flesh,” so often used by Cyril.133 These distinctions were not, however, explicitly made in the patristic texts under discussion. Julian interpreted the expressions “holy flesh,” “worshipful flesh,” and “incorruptible flesh” as referring to the body of Jesus itself, as it was in this world. Moreover, according to Julian, it was precisely the incorruptibility inherent in the body of Christ that promised humanity the gift of incorruptibility. The incarnation of Jesus in an incorruptible body brought humanity back to its original, prelapsarian state, free from spiritual and bodily corruption alike.134 In summary, Julian made three central, interlocking claims that may be aligned with three different branches of theology. In the realm of protology, Julian argued that the bodies of Adam and Eve were made incorruptible. As a result of the fall they sank into corruptibility, which they and all subsequent generations transmit to the bodies of their offspring through the corruptive act of sexual procreation. In the realm of christology, Julian maintained that Jesus’s body, inasmuch as its conception did not involve sex, was incorruptible already from the incarnation. Incorruptibility meant for Julian that Jesus’s body was not naturally, or necessarily, subjected to the passions of the flesh such as hunger, thirst, and fatigue. Julian understood that Jesus voluntarily took these passions upon himself, and thus he really did suffer. Finally, in the realm of soteriology, Julian claimed that the salvation of humanity consists in the restoration of our incorruptibility made possible through Jesus’s own bodily incorruptibility from the incarnation. Severus disagreed with each of these claims. On the protological front he argued that Adam and Eve were actually created corruptible, although they enjoyed the grace of incorruptibility. When they lost this grace, they remained corruptible. On the christological front, Severus maintained that from birth to death Jesus’s body was corruptible; it attained incorruptibility only upon resurrection. The virginal conception did not spare Jesus’s body from “blameless passions” such as hunger and fatigue, because these passions have nothing to do with moral failing: they are merely a part of the natural human condition. As far as moral failing was concerned, Jesus was indeed “incorruptible”: he could not sin. When it

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came to soteriology, Severus agreed with Julian that salvation consists in the attainment of incorruptibility. But he disagreed on two cardinal points. First, he thought that incorruptibility was not the restoration of an actual condition that had been lost to humanity; it was rather the attainment of a state that humanity had only had the potential to reach prior to the fall. Second, whereas Julian viewed Christ’s incarnation as the enabler of human incorruptibility, Severus identified resurrection as the locus of salvation. He argued that Julian’s system rendered Jesus’s death and resurrection superfluous.135 This might all seem excessively abstruse. There is a very fine difference between Severus’s view—that Adam was created corruptible, but enjoyed the grace of incorruptibility, which he then lost—and Julian’s view—that Adam was created incorruptible, but then fell into corruptibility. Similarly, the difference between saying, with Severus, that Christ’s body was corruptible by virtue of the Logos allowing it to be subjected to natural passions, and saying, with Julian, that it voluntarily assumed these same passions, could be seen as overly subtle.136 Indeed all the explicit points of disagreement between the two men hinged on a series of rather minute distinctions. As we saw earlier, they each needed to develop these distinctions in order to neutralize challenges posed by sources within their shared biblical and patristic tradition. In claiming that Adam and Eve had corruptible bodies, Severus had to reckon with testimonies from Athanasius, Cyril, and others indicating their bodies were incorruptible. Conversely, in claiming that Jesus’s body was incorruptible, Julian had to cope with biblical passages and patristic testimonies indicating that Jesus suffered. As a result both men came up with a series of casuistic distinctions. Even the most experienced historians of theology have been puzzled by the apparent abstruseness of Julian and Severus’s debate. Patrick Gray rightly points out that the debate was about an essentially theoretical question, since both Severus and Julian agreed that Jesus did in fact experience pain, and the point of difference between them was only whether he did so by will or by nature. This leads Gray to characterize the debate as “most arid and unpleasant” with an “air of unreality about it.”137 Similarly, Hiéromoine Élisée has noted that the debate can easily come across as “a caricature of the proverbial ‘byzantine quarrel,’ as subtle as it is pointless, good for nothing but occupying the minds of idle theologians.”138 Motivated by their desire to rescue the debate from these perceived pits of obscurity, Gray and Élisée have each in their own way attempted to explain what the “real” motivation behind the debate might have been. Gray argues that underlying the christological quarrel between Severus and Julian was popular piety and beliefs about the Eucharist. Julian, according to Gray’s reading, considered the notion that the body of Christ was theoretically corruptible to be a threat to faith in the Eucharist as “participation in the body and blood of Christ [as] the food and drink of incorruption.”139 In the introduction I touched upon Gray’s view about the

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interplay between christology and eucharistic beliefs with regard to Cyril and Nestorius, and I will return to a discussion of his view on Severus and Julian in chapter 3. Élisée, on the other hand, argues that the question of original sin (which, in line with the Eastern Greek tradition, he calls “the sin of nature”) lay at the heart of the christological controversy. He associates Julian’s views with Augustine of Hippo: both believed that corruption was at once the breeding ground and the consequence of Adam and Eve’s original transgression.140 The inherited consequences of this transgression have infected all people down through the generations, regardless of their own actions. Both Julian and Augustine often cite Psalm 51:5 (“in sin my mother has conceived me”) as support for the idea that physical corruption is transmitted in a quasi-genetic manner through the concupiscence that is the condition of all conceptions.141 Élisée identifies, correctly in my view, a fundamental difference in anthropological perspective as the determining factor in the dispute between Severus and Julian. The latter, like Augustine before him, views the realms of the body and spirit as indissolubly interlinked. Thus, Adam’s sin of moral disobedience has an ongoing effect on the physical body, as does the spiritual state of concupiscence involved in every sexual union. Moral and physical corruptibility are two sides of the same coin.142 Severus, on the other hand, disassociated body from spirit. Adam’s moral transgression did not lead to a fundamental change in the natural condition of the body, which was corruptible before the fall and remained so after it.143 While I identify with Élisée’s attempt to expose the underlying anthropological differences that might explain the christological dispute between Severus and Julian, I think his invocation of original sin and the comparison he draws with Augustine actually obstruct us from correctly understanding Julian’s thought. Fundamental to Augustine’s notion of original sin was the idea that only through the medium of divine grace—something beyond human control and agency—is there any hope for salvation of soul and body.144 Like Julian, Augustine saw a direct link between the behavior of the soul and the body’s condition: “The corruption of the body (corruptio corporis), which weighs down the soul, is not the cause but the punishment of the first sin; and it was not the corruptible flesh (caro corruptibilis) that made the soul sinful, but the sinful soul (anima peccatrix) that made the flesh corruptible.”145 But unlike Julian, Augustine saw the soul’s agency in this respect as moving only in one direction: it was capable only of dragging the body lower into sin; it could not elevate it, of its own accord, back to the good. Ever since the fall, the human soul lost its independent ability to act righteously. It is, in Augustine’s eyes, morally impotent.146 It is only thanks to the interference of divine grace that salvation is possible, and even then human effort plays no more than a subordinate role. Augustine strongly defended this view even in the face of challenges from committed monks that it rendered their ascetic efforts pointless.147

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This anthropological outlook could not be farther from Julian’s. The bishop of Halicarnassus, as I now seek to show, was motivated by precisely the same ascetic impulse shared by Augustine’s challengers. Rather than reflecting Augustine’s deeply pessimistic view of a thoroughly fallen human nature, I will argue, Julian’s thought was informed by an optimistic, “activist” attitude that was deeply invested in the role of individual human agency in the restoration of incorruptibility. This was the difference that was really at stake in the protological and christological disagreements between Julian and Severus, and this was what underlay their divergent ecclesiological perspectives as well.

STA K I N G OU T T H E D I F F E R E N C E S

Julian, as we saw, understood there to be a symbiotic link between bodily and spiritual corruption. One has no existence without the other. Thus, he wrote in his Tome:148 If, however, they think that Cyril’s statement (he who is among the saints)—that after the resurrection our Lord from then on possessed an incorruptible body—implies that prior to the resurrection it [his body] was corruptible, let them also say that it was in sin!149

This argument makes sense only if one assumes, as Julian did, that bodily corruption is directly linked to spiritual, or moral, corruption. Unwilling to recognize any distinction between these two realms, he accuses those who maintain Christ’s corruptibility of advocating sexual debauchery.150 Julian believed that one’s spiritual state had an actual effect on one’s body. If the spirit is morally corrupt, the body will be physically corrupt as well; but if the spirit eschews corruption, the body can also eschew it. Conversely, a corrupt body is the indication of a corrupt soul. Julian conceived of the human body, much like the portrait of Dorian Gray, as an accurate physical reflection of the workings of the inner soul. What is true of humanity also had to be true of Christ. If Christ’s soul was sinless, in other words, entirely unaffected by passion, so too must Christ’s body have been entirely free from corruption. Julian anchors this idea in the following anathema attributed to Gregory Thaumaturgus (but in fact an Apollinarian forgery):151 He was sinless not only in soul, but also in the administration of the flesh (bdubâra dbabsar), as Gregory stated: “Unchanging in spirit and incorruptible in flesh.”

The unification of soul and body, furthermore, constituted for Julian the very definition of the incarnation. Commenting on the work entitled Kata Meros Pistis (A Detailed Exposition of Faith), which is another Apollinarian forgery attributed to Gregory Thaumaturgus, he glosses the text’s reference to the Word being “joined with the flesh” to mean that soul and body were joined together:152

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The Word of God gave himself over to human flesh and he humanly received conjoinment (kūnâšā) with it, according to human likeness. The conjoinment he speaks of is the joining of soul and body, and he professes [their] inseparable union. When, after the fulfillment of the mystery announced by the law and the prophets (for Christ is the fulfillment of the law)—in other words, after the union—the divinity annulled the passibility of the flesh. From that time on, passibility could not be said to belong to flesh that had been united with impassibility, nor could it defy by force the power of [the divine] nature. For the union of flesh with the Word is the fulfillment of the mystery itself.

The original passage in Kata Meros Pistis speaks of the Word’s joining with the flesh but says nothing about the “conjoinment” of soul and body.153 This is Julian’s addition. He supposed, because of his anthropological assumption about the body-soul connection, that the unification of flesh and the Word must, by definition, entail a joining of body and soul. It is precisely this anthropological assumption that Severus attacks as being ridiculous from a philosophical perspective. He quotes the above-mentioned passage from Julian and immediately counters:154 Who among those who are very knowledgeable in the practice of philosophy would not laugh at the obscurity of these statements?

Severus does not indicate which philosophical school he thought was at odds with Julian’s anthropological understanding. Certain strains of ancient philosophy actually had an ascetic orientation similar to what seems to have motivated Julian’s anthropology (a point I will return to in a moment).155 Nevertheless, even the ascetically minded philosophers would not have embraced Julian’s idea that the flesh of the morally perfect person attains a state of impassibility. For, although there was disagreement among the different schools as to whether or not the soul was material, and thus was, in some sense, capable of suffering,156 no philosopher made the reverse claim with reference to the body: that it was capable of impassibility. Flesh is passible by its very definition. Although certain philosophers conceded that in some sense the body could affect the soul, none of them would have agreed with Julian that the reverse was true: that one could transform the body through the control of one’s soul.157 But this is precisely what Julian claimed. An eighth-century manuscript preserves an anti-Julianist text of unknown date,158 cast in the form of a dialogue between Julian and an “orthodox” interlocutor.159 In Draguet’s judgment, this dialogue offers an accurate, dispassionate presentation of Julian’s views.160 In the course of this dialogue the following exchange can be found:161 Julian: Is a body without a soul mobile and rational? Or immobile and irrational? Orthodox: It is immobile and irrational.

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Julian: Through union with the soul does it become mobile and rational? Yes or no? Orthodox: It is not mobile and rational on its own, just as an instrument only [operates] through the musician; also the body [operates] only by the soul and through it. Julian: Thus, is the body both rational and irrational? Both mobile and immobile? Orthodox: On its own it is neither mobile nor rational; but through union with the soul it is [both]. Julian: Therefore, through the union, and not outside of the union, it [i.e., the body] became naturally immortal. Orthodox: Indeed now also, since it is in union with the soul, and not outside such union, it is naturally immortal, according to your position. Julian: By origin and creation, yes; but by sanction, no.

Julian is presented here as arguing that when the soul is united with the body it imbues the latter with all its qualities. Not only does it cause the body to move, as it moves, and to think, as it thinks, but it also imbues the body with its immortality. The fact that in practice the body is currently mortal is only a temporarily imposed sanction. By “origin and creation” the body was meant to be immortal. This position confirms Julian’s protological and anthropological outlook, as we have seen it attested so far. Yet the symbiotic connection that Julian believed existed between soul and body is perhaps no better attested than in the following short fragment from his Tome, overlooked in previous treatments of the Julianist debate:162 We can bring the body to whatever state we want through the control (met῾ašnânūtā) of [our] thoughts (h. ūšâbē).

Julian stresses the viability of human agency. Because soul and body are intimately connected, it is the individual’s responsibility to control one’s spirit so as to change the condition of one’s body. Despite the fall and the corruptibility that ensued, it is within humanity’s power to return to its natural state—to reclaim incorruptibility. Thus, in the debate between Augustine and his Pelagian-inspired monastic opponents, Julian would not have taken the side of Augustine but the side of his opponents. Unlike Augustine, who believed that humanity was morally impotent, Julian was confident in people’s ability to restore their prelapsarian state.163 It is no coincidence that Julian comes out on the ascetic side of the debate. His vocabulary is ascetic through and through. The language of “controlling” one’s thoughts that he uses here is commonplace in contemporary asceticism.164 The symbiotic relationship between physical and spiritual corruption that we have seen repeatedly played out in Julian is also attested in other monastic texts of late antiquity.165 It dates back to at least as early as Athanasius’s foundational ascetic text, The Life of Antony, written in the mid-fourth century. Athanasius presents the

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archetypal monk as having attained, through arduous, lifelong ascetic practice, an incorruptible body.166 By doing so, Antony was able to exist in the “natural state” (en tōi kata phusin).167 This long-standing ascetic emphasis on the attainment of bodily incorruptibility through the exercise of spiritual effort likely provided a general background for Julian’s approach. There was, however, a more specific context that probably also played a significant role. Aryeh Kofsky has pointed to terminological parallels between Julian’s protological system and the protological outlook of the Asceticon of Abba Isaiah, the principal theologian of the influential fifth-century monastic school of Gaza.168 Abba Isaiah urged his audience to “take control of all our (bodily) members until they are established in the natural state (en tōi kata phusin).”169 Kofsky has argued that undergirding Julian’s emphasis on incorruptibility was Abba Isaiah’s ascetic ideal calling for a return to humanity’s prelapsarian nature through the repression of one’s carnal desires in imitation of Christ’s perfect nature.170 The resonance of Julian’s ideas with ascetic audiences can also help explain the ongoing popularity of his outlook even outside anti-Chalcedonian circles. Thus, the ardent Chalcedonian Cyril of Scythopolis, writing in the 550s about the holy men of Palestine, ascribes to them qualities of resplendent beauty and vigor in life and incorruptibility (aphtharsia) in death.171 He censures Severus for proclaiming “one corruptible nature (phusin phthartēn) of Christ.”172 When pressed for precise theological definitions, Cyril of Scythopolis would not have endorsed Julian’s antiChalcedonianism, but it is telling that in a hagiographical text he seems to assume that calling Christ corruptible is an offense to ascetic ears.173 Severus’s anthropological outlook, by contrast, reflects commonplace philosophical, rather than ascetic, assumptions. The body was created corruptible. Corruptibility, subjection to passions, and mortality are what define it as a body fundamentally distinct from the soul. Just as Adam and Eve were not responsible for their bodies’ corruptibility, so are contemporary men and women unable to make their bodies incorruptible. This is a gift that will be granted only upon the bodily resurrection, just as the body of Jesus himself attained incorruptibility only at the time of its resurrection. Severus’s anthropological scheme assigns human agency a far more limited role than Julian’s. People are neither expected nor indeed able to redeem their bodies through their own efforts.174 So far we have discussed only the theological aspect of the debate between Severus and Julian. The next chapter will be dedicated to another facet of the debate—ecclesiology. As I indicated in the introduction, these aspects are intimately related. Theology and ecclesiology are best understood in light of one another. How was Severus and Julian’s disagreement about the physical body of Christ related to their parallel disagreement about the social body of Christ? The underlying difference about human agency exposed in the present chapter provides the key to answering this question.

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Viewed from the stereoscopic perspective, Julian’s anthropological views translate into the following ecclesiological position on the social body of Christ. The church, according to Julian and his fellow separatists, is an incorruptible body in its very essence. Since heretical members are corruptive forces, they must be kept outside the bounds of the incorruptible church. As with the physical body, where Julian understood human agency as responsible both for corruption and for the restoration of incorruption, so also with the social body—the maintenance of its incorruptibility lies in human hands. Bishops and priests must enforce strict social boundaries between the true believers and the heretics—between anti-Chalcedonians and Chalcedonians. Just as Julian made no distinction between the pre- and post-resurrection bodies in his christology, so also in his ecclesiology he recognized no distinction between the ideal, pure body of the church and the actual state of its members. Severus, by contrast, was more concerned about the unity of the social body of Christ, even at the expense of its purity. Just as his christology recognized, in essence, two bodies of Christ—one before and one after resurrection—so did his ecclesiology. What did this mean in practice? On the one hand there is the ideal body of Christ, corresponding to its incorruptible, post-resurrection state; but, on the other hand there is also the “real,” or historical, body of Christ, which allows for corruption to exist in its midst. The historical body aspires to the ideal state of incorruption, but even when unable to attain this ideal, even if corruptible, it still remains the body of Christ. Severus, in contrast to Julian, demands that the antiChalcedonian clergy do everything in their power to maximize the inclusion of that body’s members. We will see in the following chapter what this meant in practice. Before concluding this chapter, however, we must answer the question raised at its outset. If Julian and Severus had already debated about the incorruptibility of Christ when they were both in Constantinople in 511, why now, over ten years later, would Julian think to open the question again? What made him think Severus might have changed his opinion on this theological issue? In light of the correlation I am proposing between theology and ecclesiology, perhaps Julian thought that Severus might have changed his mind as a result of the sea change that had occurred in the anti-Chalcedonian’s community’s political circumstances. In 511, under the friendly, henoticist emperor Anastasius, the anti-Chalcedonians were in the ascendant, on the verge of assuming more positions of power than they ever had before.175 Now under the hostile emperor Justin, the prospects of incorporation within the imperial church seemed more distant than ever. In light of these dramatic political changes, Julian reopened the incorruptibility debate with his former ally. Since the incorruptibility of the body of Christ was a political, as well as a theological, question, perhaps the new facts on the ground would have led Severus to reconsider his position on the matter. As it turned out, Julian was mis-

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taken: Severus’s opinion remained unchanged. Over the course of their correspondence, the two erstwhile allies turned into bitter enemies, and divisions within the anti-Chalcedonian party about the proper attitude to the imperial church deepened. A closer examination of these divisions, their roots, and their significance will be undertaken in the next chapter.

2

Body Politics Rethinking the Body of Christ They [i.e., the anti-Chalcedonian separatists] did their best to inflame others also among those who were more than ordinarily weak, like those who said, “We have no part in David, neither inheritance in the son of Jesse,” (1 Kgs 12:16) and divided Israel into two . . . and for a long time they disturbed the church, although they gradually melted away, and as the book of Acts says “were scattered and came to naught,” (Acts 5:36) like the rebellious band and seditious flock of Theudas and of Judas the Galilean. severus of antioch, letter to photius and andrew (sl 1.60, 203/182–183)

At a given moment, the religious tradition exists as a repertoire of symbols: why choose to employ some rather than others? And what determines the timing of the choice? janet l. nelson, “society, theodicy, and the origins of medieval heresy”

PAT R IA R C H SEV E RU S : SE PA R AT I S T O R E C UM E N IC I S T ?

By the second half of the sixth century it was clear that a new church was in the making.1 Ever since John of Tella’s first independent ordination campaign in the 520s,2 and especially by the time Jacob Baradaeus expanded the latter’s initiative with ever greater levels of organization and scope in the 540s and 550s,3 the antiChalcedonians in the Roman East had had the beginnings of their own church.4 These maverick wandering bishops ordained hundreds, if not thousands,5 of faithful anti-Chalcedonian priests and bishops under the noses of the imperially appointed Chalcedonian establishment.6 Theirs was one sustained, prolonged act of contravention of the venerable canons of the imperial church. But this was of no matter, because the imperial church no longer concerned them. The heretical beliefs and persecutory actions of its Chalcedonian leaders had deprived the present imperial church of any claim to legitimacy. The future was now in the 44

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hands of the anti-Chalcedonian faithful. The very nature of the church, the understanding of how the church’s leaders shepherd its members to salvation, had to change. The familiar institutions of geographically based hierarchy and age-old traditional canons were no longer available. The purely sedentary clerical establishment had to be replaced with a more mobile hierarchy; new canons had to be written; and, perhaps most importantly, a new, “Eucharist-based ecclesiology” gradually came to replace the entrenched model of “Empire-based ecclesiology.”7 That this was the end of the story is clear enough. The question is how this end came about. Recent studies by Volker Menze and Nathanael Andrade have focused on the early and decisive role played by John of Tella and his biographers in the creation of this new church and its self-presentation as such.8 But other scholars have traced the roots of this ecclesiological earthquake to none other than Severus of Antioch. Among those who peg responsibility on Severus, there have been two main trends in scholarship. One trend is to argue that Severus had always maintained a separatist view. Even while sitting on the cathedral seat of Antioch, Severus was running from the empire. According to this theory, Severus took full advantage of his imperially backed position as patriarch of Antioch in order not only to promulgate anti-Chalcedonian orthodoxy, but also, paradoxically enough, to develop a “theory of a church separated from and independent of the support and legitimation of the secular, yet often divinized, authority of the emperor.”9 Another trend portrays the development of Severus’s views as a more ambivalent matter. According to this position, Severus was an imperial ecumenicist at heart, but the strains of persecution gradually convinced him of the necessity of founding a new church. Over the course of his years in exile, he went from being an opponent of separatism to its enthusiastic supporter.10 As an alternative to both these views, I would like to argue that at least from the time of his appointment as patriarch, Severus was and remained a staunch supporter of imperial ecclesiology.11 Although he never veered from his harsh antagonism to Chalcedonian theology, this did not translate into a separatist ecclesiology. On the contrary, throughout the persecution and exile of the last twenty years of his life, Severus retained his ecumenicism even in the face of popular currents that consistently advocated secession from the imperial church.12 That during his patriarchate Severus referred to Emperor Anastasius as a “pious king” and a “god-loving emperor,” praising him for collaborating with the episcopate in the administration of the churches, should come as no surprise.13 What might sound more surprising, but entirely in keeping with the ecumenicist approach of his patriarchal years, is that even toward the end of his life, when addressing Emperor Justinian, Severus was still using the same rhetoric:14 Christ, God over all things, grant you power over your enemies, with the perfect peace and harmony of the churches, that you may be crowned with this as well. . . .

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Body Politics May the only Trinity, for that is our God, preserve your orthodoxy many years, keeping the dominion of the commonwealth of the Romans in peace, and may he bring every nation of Romans and barbarians into subjection to you, and grant to the holy churches by your means perfect concord in sound faith; and may he reckon you worthy to receive a crown in the kingdom of heaven.

It is by virtue of the emperor that the grand network of churches under his dominion can attain “perfect concord in sound faith.” Echoing centuries-old, traditional Byzantine political philosophy, Severus maintains that political peace and ecclesial harmony are codependent. These are not the words of a secessionist from the imperial church, but those of a traditionalist who seeks and hopes for the system to change from within. It is hard to imagine that the man who penned this passage could be identified with “[a] rejection of the imperial ideology as well as [a] conviction that the true church must exist separately from the empire.”15 In some sense, it might be all too tempting to label Severus a schismatic. This was precisely what some contemporaries, or near contemporaries, on both sides of the Chalcedonian divide did.16 As a matter of fact, the community that called Severus their leader did actually end up separating from the imperial church. But this was not how Severus thought of himself. There are no indications that once he assumed the throne of Antioch Severus ever thought of himself as belonging to an ecclesial body that was different from the geographically based, canonically enforced imperial church. There are, however, plenty of indications to the contrary. I will cite two examples from Severus’s writings. Using the body imagery underlying this book, these examples offer us a window into Severus’s understanding of the ecclesial body of Christ. The first example comes from the very first homily Severus delivered in the Antioch cathedral on the day of his consecration to the patriarchate. This homily must have struck a chord with the Antiochene audience: due to popular demand (or to the fact that there was too much noise the first time!), he had to deliver it again two days later.17 The bulk of this homily, like many others by Severus, is dedicated to vehement anti-Chalcedonian polemic. The transition in this inaugural address from the topical issue of Severus’s new position as patriarch of Antioch to anti-Chalcedonian diatribe is swift and unsubtle. The homily begins with praise for the church of Antioch. Severus applies to its cathedral Jacob’s exclamation in Genesis—“This is the house of God and this is the gate of heaven” (Gen. 28:17). He reads the famous Petrine promise of Matthew 16:18 as referring to the church of Antioch, said to have been founded by Peter, and he commends the city as the first place where the name “Christians” was given.18 But Severus moves rapidly through these praises. Not long after beginning, he abruptly turns to a darker chapter in Antioch’s history. This city, he says, has been troubled by the heresiarchs Theodore, Diodore, and Nestorius, and it has been

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tossed about by the storm originating at the Council of Chalcedon. Most of the rest of the homily rails against “the new Jews” who gathered at Chalcedon and their two-nature definition of Christ.19 At the height of his tirade against the council, Severus pinpoints the particular nature of its threat:20 This synod . . . if it provided a remedy, in a fashion, for the wicked heresy of Eutyches, it introduced from then on into the church the soul-destroying madness of Nestorius. And in trying to heal evil by evil, as the saying goes, it [the synod] became the cause of a great sickness—rather than of health—for the body of Christ, which is the church.

Severus acknowledges that the Council of Chalcedon provided a remedy to the extreme one-nature theology of Eutyches, but he accuses it of accomplishing this by introducing the equally extreme two-nature theology of Nestorius.21 Adopting the widespread Pauline image of the church as the body of Christ, Severus envisages the council’s effects on that body in medical terms.22 Chalcedon tried to heal the Eutychian disease with a dose of Nestorianism, but the supposed remedy backfired, provoking greater sickness in the body of Christ. What is striking about Severus’s remark here is that in combating the validity of the council he admits its power to affect the church. Nestorius preached his theology and developed a following several decades before the Council of Chalcedon, but it was only at the moment that Nestorius’s teachings had been ratified in an imperially sanctioned church council that they officially “entered into the church.” For Severus, the imperially sanctioned church was the sole body of Christ, to which he himself also belonged. He does not lay the blame for Chalcedon on an external agent nor does he abdicate engagement with the problem by limiting its pernicious effects to a particular individual or community within the church. Had he done so, the cure would have entailed the isolation and removal of the offending element. Severus portrays the entire body of Christ as succumbing to sickness. By implication it can only be cured holistically. Only the complete conversion of the church from Chalcedonianism to anti-Chalcedonianism would heal the body of Christ. Since it is not only one limb that ails, but the entire body, the localized amputation of the offending elements would not provide a cure.23 This anti-Chalcedonian stance toward Chalcedon may be contrasted with the pro-Chalcedonian position that the Roman popes Felix III and Gelasius had championed a few decades earlier in the context of the Acacian schism. Although a Chalcedonian sympathizer himself, Acacius, patriarch of Constantinople, had upheld the henoticist policy of emperors Zeno and Anastasius. The idea of this policy was to unite the proponents and opponents of Chalcedon by stressing their shared theological basis and skirting the issue of Chalcedon altogether. Popes Felix and Gelasius viewed this avoidance as an affront to the memory of Chalcedon.

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Mirroring Severus’s portrayal of Chalcedon as a Nestorian victory, Felix and Gelasius depicted the Henotikon as a Eutychian victory. One of several Roman councils that Felix convened to anathematize Acacius cast the issue in the following terms:24 We have decided that inasmuch as he perniciously gapes at the members of Christ and throughout the cities and the provinces he scatters the one Catholic church away from the faith, Acacius is not to be counted among the holy bishops or even among the Christians. For how could it be that rending the tunic of Christ, something which even the crucifiers of Christ did not dare to do, he would be counted among the number of the faithful? Therefore, everything being appropriate to us in the fear of God, we have considered the matter and taken care that the serpent—the heresy of the so-oft stamped out Eutychian pestilence, of which Acacius is the defender and patron—not destroy, like a cancer, the members of Christ. We now anathematize him as a putrid limb cut off from the body of the church, bearing in mind (sententia memorata) and following the dominical saying: “If your eye or foot offend you cut them off and cast them from you” [Matt. 18:8].

Felix and his council imagine their opponent’s effects on the body of the church in different terms from Severus. The latter conceived of Chalcedon as a general disease that had already affected the body of Christ as a whole. As newly appointed patriarch of Antioch, he saw himself as both required and able to cure an already ailing body. Felix, on the other hand, views Acacius as just one limb of the body, which although threatening to spread and infect other limbs can still be prevented from doing so by isolating it and cutting it off from the rest of the body. It was his role, as bishop of Rome, to insist at all costs on the separation of Acacius from the body of Christ. This difference between Felix’s localized conception and Severus’s more “systemic” conception of heresy’s effect on the church entails a fundamental difference in ecclesiology. Felix believed that in order to remain the true body of Christ the church as a whole must remain immune from the slightest corruption. Attempts at unification, rapprochement, and compromise with the anti-Chalcedonian camp such as those of the Chalcedonian Acacius were anathema and needed to be nipped in the bud. Acacius himself was dealt with in the harshest terms. The body of Christ that was even tangentially tainted with heresy was no longer the body of Christ. For the anti-Chalcedonian Severus, on the other hand, the church could be thought of as suffering a degree of sickness, of corruption, even as it remained the body of Christ. Treatment of such a sickness was not a matter of cutting off limbs from the body, but of maintaining its integrity by curing it as a whole. Indeed, as long as he was still in power Severus used imperial ecclesiology to his own advantage. As might be expected, he called on it to bludgeon the Chalcedonian clergy who broke off communion with him, their patriarch, just as they

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later used it against him when the roles were reversed. Writing of the Chalcedonian bishops of Syria II, who had not only broken communion, but also were so bold as to serve him a writ of deposition, Severus makes the following accusation:25 [They are] madly excited against the holy canons and church discipline and against our pious king . . . if such offences were to be left without reproof, the ordinances of the Spirit would be trampled upon, and any man who is a hearer would rise in opposition to those whose lot it has fallen to be heads of the churches: and, as in the case censured by the divine Paul, disorder would prevail, and the foot would say, “because I am not the hand I am not of the body” [1 Cor 12:15], and the ear, “because I am not the eye I am not of the body” [ibid., 16], and each of the limbs would renounce its proper place.

Again, invoking Pauline corporate imagery, Severus critiques his opponents for not respecting the given social order. For Severus, disobedience to church discipline, to imperial authority, to the “ordinances of the Spirit,” and to patriarchal authority are all linked. This rhetoric is characteristic of Byzantine political theology that had been typical of Eastern bishops ever since Eusebius of Caesarea. Severus’s decidedly imperial ecclesiology had two implications that bear spelling out. The first implication, which emerges from Severus’s inaugural homily, was that decisions made in the ecumenical councils affected the church body as a whole. The second implication, demonstrated by the letter about the Chalcedonian bishops of Syria II, was that hierarchical relationships exist among the limbs of this body—namely, its network of individual churches. These relationships were established and regulated by the church canons. Devotion to the “pious emperor” who stood at the head of this body was no mere matter of rhetoric or convention. This was the very keystone of the entire ideology.26 Very much unlike the “Eucharist-based” ecclesiology later developed by John of Tella and Jacob Baradaeus and the other anti-Chalcedonian separatists, Severus’s ecclesiology was decidedly “empire-based.” As fiercely as Severus had combated what he viewed as Chalcedonian heresy, there are no indications that he viewed the devotees of Chalcedon as belonging to a different church than he. Chalcedonians and anti-Chalcedonians alike were part of the same body of Christ. We would expect Severus to adhere to the traditional imperial ecclesiology while still in power. The question is whether he maintained this ideology even once he was deprived of this power, or did he then shift, even if only “gradually and reluctantly,” to a separatist ideology?27 Was there a point at which Severus abandoned his earlier views and came to recognize the need to start a new church, separate from the heretical imperial church? There were definitely elements within his party that took this approach. Could they turn to Severus for support and leadership?

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The purpose of this chapter is to show that in fact Severus did not change his ideology, even as circumstances changed around him and even as sections within his party clamored for a different approach. I will demonstrate this by examining Severus’s stances on three questions that rippled through the anti-Chalcedonian community both during his time in Antioch and after it in his years of exile. These three questions were at their core ecclesiological. They hinged on the central issue identified in the introduction: To what degree do the church canons, legislated by bishops operating within the imperial system, apply to a group that feels disenfranchised by that system? Should one adhere at all costs to these canons and to the imperial framework authorizing them? Or, in the face of persecution by the imperial government, should one develop another, better model of authority, such as the “charismatic” model? The first question was whether charismatic authority could override the canonical requirement of three bishops for the consecration of a new bishop. If, because of persecution, fewer than three bishops could be found, could a special dispensation received through divine communication relax this regulation?28 The second question was whether in times of persecution exceptions could be made to the canonical prohibition against ordaining priests outside their diocese. Normally, canon law required that the local bishop or patriarch approve all ordinations performed in the area under his jurisdiction.29 Could this canon be relaxed in situations where the local bishop was a heretic and thus would not, by definition, approve the ordinations of his theological competitors? The third question pertained to the reception of heretics. Does a Chalcedonian layperson who seeks to “convert” to anti-Chalcedonian orthodoxy need to be rebaptized, or be marked by some other ritual signifying his transition? What about the case of the Chalceonian priest who seeks to “convert”? If he wants to serve as an anti-Chalcedonian priest, does he need to be reordained? There were those within anti-Chalcedonian society who held positions reflecting a separatist ecclesiology in each of these cases: they thought that the divine charisma of anti-Chalcedonian holy men could suspend the need for the canonical three bishops; that the pressures of persecution could cancel the need for adherence to the geographically based hierarchies of the imperial church; and, lastly, that those who wanted to join the true church needed to repeat at least some aspect of their baptism, either the baptism itself or at least the chrismation in which the priest calls down the Holy Spirit upon the believer. The surviving evidence associates different names with each of these positions. John Rufus argued for the power of charismatic authority to suspend canonical regulations. Isaiah of Armenia, Gregory of Pontus, and John of Tella advocated, each in his own way, the relaxation of canonical regulations in the ordination of new priests. And earlier on, in the generation immediately after the Council of Chalcedon, a certain Cassian demanded the rebaptism of Chalcedonian converts, and his contemporary Theodotus of Joppa demanded their rechrismation.

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In what follows each of these three questions will be examined from both sides of the debate: from the side of those who advocated separatism and from Severus’s pro-imperialist, ecumenicist side. J O H N RU F U S A N D H I S “C HA R I SM AT IC ” C OA L I T IO N : A N T I - C HA L C E D O N IA N SE PA R AT I SM

Like Severus, John Rufus (or John of Beth Ruphina) began his career as a priest at the monastery of Peter the Iberian at Maiuma near Gaza. He is thought to have become the spiritual leader of the anti-Chalcedonian party in Palestine after Peter’s death in 491.30 Born in the province of Arabia, John, also like Severus, studied law in Beirut before becoming a monk and moving to Antioch, where he was ordained priest by its anti-Chalcedonian patriarch Peter the Fuller, ca. 475.31 When the Chalcedonian patriarch Calendion came to power some four years later, Rufus fled Antioch to join the monastic circle of Peter the Iberian gathered between Gaza and Maiuma. At some point thereafter he may have been made bishop of Maiuma.32 John Rufus’s most famous work, the Plerophories (Reassurances), is a collection of dreams, visions, and anecdotes aimed at demonstrating God’s condemnation of the Council of Chalcedon. Internal evidence indicates that it was probably composed during Severus’s patriarchate.33 Nevertheless, the events and names it mentions are almost all located within the periods prior to the death of Timothy Aelurus in 477 and soon after the elevation of Peter Mongus to the patriarchate of Alexandria in 482.34 Thus, Rufus located the heyday of anti-Chalcedonianism in the first generation following Chalcedon. He considered Peter Mongus’s henoticist, ecumenical approach a betrayal of the separatist ideals of “pure” anti-Chalcedonianism.35 He had the same opinion of the leadership of Severus and his colleagues. Although writing during the patriarchate of Severus, at the height of anti-Chalcedonian power, Rufus considered this power corrupt and irrelevant, since it accommodated Emperor Anastasius’s henoticist policy.36 Besides the above-mentioned Plerophories attributed to Rufus, there are two other works that modern scholarship has assigned to his pen: a Life of Peter the Iberian and the Commemoration of the Death of Theodosius.37 The latter text concerns the anti-Chalcedonian ascetic leader who consecrated Peter the Iberian during his short tenure as patriarch of Jerusalem in 452–453. A careful reading of these two works reveals the same separatist orientation evinced in the Plerophories. This orientation is illustrated well by a comparison between the Life of Peter the Iberian’s account of the consecration of Timothy Aelurus, the towering anti-Chalcedonian patriarch of Alexandria, and Severus’s account of the same event. Such a comparison demonstrates the difference between Severus and Rufus’s respective views of what may be called canonical versus charismatic models of authority.38

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Severus’s account arises in the context of an important letter he wrote soon after going into exile: it was directed against Isaiah of Armenia and Gregory of Pontus’s separatist initiative to establish a new, independent clerical hierarchy.39 Isaiah and Gregory set out to ordain clergy at all levels: deacons, priests, bishops, and even archbishops. Apparently, because of the revolutionary nature of their endeavor, they were not able to recruit the canonically required three bishops for their consecrations of new bishops. According to Severus’s report, Isaiah and Gregory cited the precedent of Timothy Aelurus’s consecration in order to dispute the relevance of this canonical requirement in times of persecution. Severus contests the veracity of this precedent, claiming instead that Timothy was ordained by the canonical three, rather than two, bishops.40 John Rufus’s report supports Isaiah and Gregory’s version. Rufus expressly maintains that only two bishops were present at Timothy’s consecration. As the following side-by-side presentation of the two accounts makes clear, Rufus and Severus are clearly telling two variations of the same story. An analysis of the discrepancies in individual points of detail between the two tellings shows that each account is aware of the underlying claim of the rival position. A consideration of the differences, however, leads me to the conclusion that at least in their current forms Severus’s version is an adaptation of Rufus’s account (or of a parallel account stemming from some other “two-bishop” source) rather than the reverse. The main discrepancies are emphasized below.41 John Rufus, Life of Peter the Iberian 91 At that time the blessed Peter left Oxyrhynchus [and] returned to Alexandria, or rather, it was God who led him there for [the act of] divine providence about to take place for the consolation of the believing people and for the reformation and establishment of the orthodox faith. . . . Multitudes of holy monks assembled, not only those in the city but also those near it, in . . . the holy monasteries, with all the believing and zealous people of the city of Alexandria. They had [as] their head and chief the blessed ascetic and great prophet Longinus, the father of the monks, [who was] inspired and provided for them according to the will of God for this [purpose]. They all reached an agreement to

Severus, SL 2.3 . . . the devout old men and Egyptian monks to whom I was speaking added that the advocate of Isaiah’s deception who promised them the archbishopric of Egypt used to say that the holy Timothy also, the archbishop of the city of the Alexandrians, was ordained by two bishops only, not by three according to the canon. And it has been shown clearly that Peter also the bishop, he of saintly memory, the apostolic man, who came from Iberia, our

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send men who were suited for the task. By force [and] without his foreknowledge nor his being at all aware [of it] beforehand, they took from the desert the holy Timothy, that famous confessor and true martyr, who already had been honored with the dignity of the priesthood. . . . They brought him to the city, to the church called Kaisarion, where the whole city assembled as one, so to say, together with the women and the children. Together with the holy monks they made haste to perform his ordination and to raise him up as high priest, preacher, and fighter for the fear of God. Only one of the orthodox bishops was found, namely Eusebius of Pelusium, since others who had been persecuted and were hidden did not dare to let themselves be seen. When it was made known to the people by the will of God that our blessed Peter was there in hiding, the people ran and came at once to the place where the blessed one was dwelling. Lifting him up by force and carrying him on their shoulders, they brought him to the Kaisarion, where a crowd of people was, being determined to act according to the ancient laws and customs during times of persecution. The blessed one had been assured (plerūpūrtânā) by God beforehand that this was his will, as he has secretly revealed many times to his beloved friends. Together with the other bishop he performed the ordination of Archbishop Timothy, while the grace of God was near at that time and was effecting everything. While all were exuberant because of the joy and exultation of such hope, the blessed Peter managed to get out of sight, passing through the midst of the people. He went and hid himself, [or rather] the Lord who

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father, was present there, and held the gospel over Timothy’s sacred head, and made up the number of three bishops: he having been brought by force to the church by the orthodox people, and dragged from the very bed on which he was still lying as being an old and infirm man. But, while he was being carried along by violence, he in an ineffable manner heard a voice from heaven commanding him not to flee from the sacred service. Whence also he gladly and with much assurance (plerūpūria) assisted in the ordination. Afterwards, when the institution had been thus legally completed, the whole synod of the God-loving bishops of the Egyptian administrative district after these things acknowledged and considered the saintly Timothy as archbishop. And again, when he was returning after exile to Alexander’s city, all the bishops of the other districts made union with him through the Encyclical letter and proclaimed him archbishop.

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had revealed him now concealed him. All along he had feared to commit an act such as this one. Just as the apostle Philip, who after baptizing the eunuch of Candace immediately disappeared, the blessed one fled each time from the honor and the glory of people because it prevented him from the undistracted quiet that was dear to him and from undisturbed converse with God, even though his goal was not permitted to come to fulfillment as was his desire. For at the ordination of the great high priest Timothy by the decree and good will of God, through the election, diligence, and vote of the people of the Alexandrians and of the holy and cross-bearing monks, unspeakable joy and exultation took hold of the souls of all of them, while the people kept a feast and were merry.

There is an obvious difference in the respective literary contexts of these accounts. Rufus’s report appears in his biography of a saint, while Severus’s treatment occurs in the course of a letter critiquing a current political initiative. Nevertheless, both accounts stem from the same overarching concern: to demonstrate that the foundational anti-Chalcedonian event of Timothy’s consecration by Peter was done according to correct procedure and can therefore serve as a paradigm for all future consecrations. While Rufus maintained that the persecution allowed for a two-bishop consecration, Severus insisted that the canonical regulation for three bishops must not be relaxed even under extreme circumstances. Furthermore, both authors construct their accounts in explicit contrast with the opposing view. This is how I understand Rufus’s reference to the “ancient laws and customs during times of persecution” that God had secretly revealed beforehand “to his beloved friends” and that he reassured Peter were his will. Although aware that the public canons require three bishops, Rufus identifies the charismatic authority of God’s “beloved friends” who receive personal communications outside and above the control of the regular structures of church hierarchy and legislation. This charismatic model of authority is central to Rufus’s entire literary enterprise. All of the Plerophories are predicated on the valuation of dreams, prophecies, and miracles above other forms of authority. Rufus even invokes here the very same language of “reassurance” that he repeatedly uses throughout the

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Plerophories, and, indeed, emphasizes in its very title. Just as the Plerophories are a string of “reassurances” from God himself, Peter is portrayed here as being reassured (plerūpūrtânā) by God that he may participate in a consecration with just one other bishop present. Besides explicitly rejecting the appeal to the consecration of Timothy on the part of those who claim only two bishops are required, Severus’s version of the story alters Rufus’s account so as to demonstrate implicitly that the three-bishop requirement must not be compromised. That Severus’s account is written as a response to Rufus’s account rather than the reverse is proven by the historical difficulties and logical inconsistencies in Severus’s version. These can only be interpreted as the result of Severus’s attempt to rewrite an already extant story. To begin with, Rufus starts off by depicting Peter as having recently returned from Oxyrhynchus to Alexandria. He explains Peter’s ambivalence about participating in the ordination of Timothy as stemming from his desire to avoid the distractions the spectacle of a public consecration would entail. God assures Peter beforehand that, nevertheless, he should assist in this consecration because the “time of persecution” necessitated that he and one other bishop consecrate Timothy. Rufus names the other bishop as Eusebius of Pelusium, making clear that no other bishops were to be found because they had all gone into hiding for fear of persecution. Although it is Peter and Eusebius who perform the actual consecration, the main people behind the whole initiative are monks and pious laypeople, led by a monastic prophet named Longinus. Severus’s account differs from Rufus’s in all of these details. Unlike Rufus’s Peter, who is fit enough to travel from Oxyrhynchus to Alexandria (a ten-day river journey), Severus’s Peter is old, infirm, and bedridden. Historically, Rufus’s account makes more sense, since at the time of Timothy’s consecration (457) Peter was in his forties—not an old man.42 Furthermore, the depiction of Peter as elderly is contradicted by another detail within the story. Like Rufus, who portrays Peter as being instructed by God not to avoid the consecration, Severus also explains that Peter “heard a voice from heaven commanding him not to flee from the sacred service.” If Peter was indeed the infirm and bedridden man that Severus claims he was, how would it have been possible for him to flee? Moreover, even if in Severus’s account Peter had been physically able to escape, the question arises why he would want to flee in the first place. Rufus attributes Peter’s ambivalence to hesitations about the canonical propriety of a two-bishop ordination combined with an ascetic reluctance to get involved in communal activities. Severus, however, can use neither of these reasons. He cannot speak of a twobishop ordination, because the whole premise of his account is that it was a threebishop ordination. He cannot speak of ascetic reluctance on Peter’s part, because, as I shall presently show in more detail, he wishes to paint Timothy’s consecration with purely episcopal, rather than monastic, brushstrokes. Whereas in Rufus,

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divine reassurance comes in response to Peter’s hesitation, in Severus it comes out of the blue. According to Severus, the crowd had to seize Peter not because he was ambivalent about the ordination, but simply because he was sick in bed. This does not explain, however, why, once seized, he needed to receive divine reassurance. Given the contrast between the essentially coherent flow of Rufus’s account and the historical and logical problems inherent in Severus’s story, it stands to reason that Severus’s version is a reworking of Rufus’s narrative, or of some other, similar account, either oral or written, circulating at the time. Unable to retain the reason that Rufus gives for the fact that Peter was in hiding, Severus keeps the detail but changes the rationale. But this act of redaction, as we saw, creates new problems for which Severus provides no solution.43 Another major indication of the overarching difference in outlook between the two authors is that whereas Rufus paints the episode in monastic and lay colors, Severus paints it in episcopal hues. Rufus describes the entire initiative as the work of the “holy monks” and the “zealous people” of Alexandria, led by “the blessed ascetic and great prophet Longinus, the father of the monks.” Consistent with the same worldview he advocates in the Plerophories, Rufus puts charismatic, divinely inspired, ascetic holy men at the center of anti-Chalcedonian society. God is directly involved in every stage of the story: he inspires Longinus, he reassures Peter, and he both reveals Peter to the people and then conceals him from them. Rufus also stresses the lay elements within the story. These people, including women and children, join forces with the monks in carrying Peter to the consecration. It is with the people’s merry feasts and celebrations that the episode ends. Severus, by contrast, says nothing about Longinus, any other monks, or monasteries. Peter’s ascetic character is glossed over. Severus makes one mention of “the orthodox people” as having dragged Peter from his bed, but provides no further details about this popular element. For Severus, it is the law-abiding bishops who occupy center stage. Three bishops perform the ordination, as required by canon. Rather than cap off the narrative with the celebrations of the people, Severus concludes it with the ratification of Timothy’s consecration by bishops in Egypt and other provinces of the Roman Christian world. Nevertheless, Severus does speak of a voice from heaven, which Peter heard “in an ineffable manner,” commanding him not to flee the consecration. He uses the relatively rare Greek word plerophoria (reassurance) to describe Peter’s reaction to this heavenly voice. Perhaps Severus’s usage of plerophoria is meant as an intentional nod to Rufus.44 By describing Peter’s experience of the voice as “ineffable” Severus somewhat downplays the supernatural aspect of the revelation. Rufus’s “revelation” was not verbally communicated, but rather experienced internally. Enveloping this element of the story within a narrative that stresses the episcopal nature of the event, Severus neutralizes the charismatic, ascetic, and populist character of Rufus’s account.45

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To summarize, our comparison of Rufus’s and Severus’s respective tellings of the consecration of Timothy Aelurus—a foundational event in anti-Chalcedonian collective memory—has offered us a window into the two ecclesiastico-political approaches that competed for dominance within anti-Chalcedonian society. John Rufus locates the community’s principal locus of authority in its charismatic leaders: monks, ascetics, and prophets whom the people enthusiastically embrace because of their unmediated connection with God. It is this unmediated connection that allows the community to break with the traditional authority of the imperially appointed bishops and the canon law they control. By contrast, the traditional authority structure is exactly what Severus advocates. For him, authority does not reside in heavenly voices but in the legal tradition and in the bishops who both protect and are protected by that legal tradition. Neither of these models is monolithic. Rufus recognizes the importance of bishops and some form of orderly procedure. After all, the entire story revolves around the consecration of an archbishop at the hands of two other bishops. Yet Rufus makes sure to subordinate these elements within the overarching context of charisma-based authority. Conversely, Severus acknowledges the effect of charismatic revelation, but he situates it within a narrative grounded in episcopal authority. In hindsight, the separatist position of Rufus, Isaiah, and Gregory might appear more appropriate for the persecuted anti-Chalcedonian dissenters. Oppressed as they were by the Chalcedonian establishment, why would the anti-Chalcedonians wish to defend the imperially based power structures? Sure enough, within a couple of generations the anti-Chalcedonian leadership universally recognized the need to bend traditional canon laws in order to facilitate the creation of a new church, independent of the Roman imperial episcopal system. It is important to remember, however, that at the time Severus wrote his letter against Isaiah and Gregory, imperial persecution was still a relatively recent development. Just a couple years earlier the roles were reversed: the anti-Chalcedonians enjoyed governmental support, and it was the Chalcedonians who felt the pressures of persecution. Under Emperor Anastasius, Severus and other anti-Chalcedonian leaders occupied a large majority of the episcopacies in the Eastern provinces.46 Severus could point to these past successes as a pattern for a more hopeful future.47 Nevertheless, Rufus, Isaiah, and Gregory would not have been convinced by these past successes for the simple reason that they probably did not view them as successes at all. In order for Severus and the other anti-Chalcedonian leaders to attain their imperially sanctioned episcopacies Anastasius demanded that they endorse the henoticist policy put in place by his predecessor Zeno in 482. Rufus, continuing the legacy of his venerated mentor, Peter the Iberian, strongly opposed the Henoticon. Also an acolyte of Peter, Severus too had initially been an opponent. But in the months leading up to the anti-Chalcedonian takeover in 512 he came around to accepting it. As a result, Rufus and his separatist supporters viewed

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him as a sellout.48 But Severus turned his newfound ecumenism into a staunch ideology. Even once his short-lived tenure as sitting patriarch was over, Severus did not abandon his commitment to the imperial system. He continued for the following twenty years of his life to hope and advocate for imperial policy to swing back again in his favor. While Severus advocated strict adherence to the canonical three-bishop requirement, Rufus, Isaiah, and Gregory maintained that when this interfered with the task of bolstering the anti-Chalcedonian episcopacy it could be relaxed. We have seen that Rufus anchored this notion in charismatic authority. Divine revelation overrides humanly legislated canons. What about Isaiah and Gregory? Did they also appeal to charismatic proofs in order to solidify their authority? We know very little about Gregory, but Isaiah, of whom there are more traces in the historical record, did precisely this.49 According to Severus, Isaiah passed himself off as a miracle worker. Fasting for forty days in imitation of Christ, he attempted to perform feats of resurrection.50 It appears, therefore, that both Rufus and Isaiah were part of a larger initiative to push for anti-Chalcedonian separatism in the name of charismatic authority. Can we identify any other members of this “charismatic coalition”? As it turns out, there is some evidence that Julian of Halicarnassus was aligned with the group. In his work Against Julian’s Additions, Severus accuses Julian of turning to dreams as proof texts after despairing of finding support in the scriptures and the fathers:51 News has reached me—although I am located far away—that enfeebled by the refutation by means of the divinely inspired scriptures and by the selected men who are initiators into its mysteries, you sought refuge in the deluding visions of dreams. You hired an Ephesian, a simpleton by the name of Menander, to go around and take pains to confirm your evil opinion, and to lead the simple folks astray with the narration of his dream.

Severus goes on to point out that it was apt that Julian, advocate of a doctrine that Severus labeled “Phantasiast,” should turn to such “fantastical” sources of authority.52 Julian’s stance (according to Severus) that Jesus did not suffer in reality corresponded to his reliance on immaterial dreams. Thus, once again, we witness Severus’s critique of charismatic manifestations as sources of authority.53 The evidence available from the time of Severus and Julian make no mention of Julian’s position on the three-bishop requirement. But a text from the second half of the sixth century reports that Julian’s followers allowed their new bishops to be consecrated by one bishop alone.54 There is reason to believe, therefore, that Julian and his followers belonged to the same coalition of anti-Chalcedonian charismatic separatists as John Rufus and Isaiah of Armenia. The roots of this coalition were deep. As we saw in the case of the consecration of Timothy Aelurus, the charismatic separatists could point to Peter the Iberian

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and his anti-Chalcedonian monastic circle as their ideological predecessors.55 Severus had a hard time proving otherwise. The fundamental tension between the charismatic and canonical models of authority as well as Severus’s uphill battle to reinterpret Peter the Iberian as a supporter of the latter rather than the former model is borne out elsewhere in his writings.56 So far we have dealt with the first ecclesiastical question debated by Severus and the separatist members of his party. The next question was also about the degree to which the extant canons regulating ordination were relevant in times of persecution. Canon law forbade bishops to ordain priests outside their own diocese without the permission of the local bishop. Could this canon be relaxed in cases where the local diocese was controlled by a Chalcedonian, who would refuse to grant the needed permission? This was the situation John, bishop of Tella, faced in the 520s when he initiated the large-scale ordination campaign that would constitute the basis for the new anti-Chalcedonian church. Ordaining numerous priests against the desires of their bishops, John’s initiative was one massive act of canonical transgression. Unlike John Rufus, Isaiah, and Julian, John of Tella did not consider himself an opponent of Severus. He explicitly aligned himself with Severus against Julian. On Severus’s request, John, together with a group of anti-Chalcedonian bishops residing in the patriarchate of Antioch, circulated a letter warning the anti-Chalcedonian monks of the dangers of the Julianist heresy.57 Likewise, in his canons John explicitly anathematizes “all the heresies condemned since the time of the apostles” until the time of Severus, including “the Tome of Julian of Halicarnassus.” He commands the faithful not to have fellowship with Julian’s followers.58 Does this mean that Severus approved of his extracanonical ordinations? Subsequent sources, to be discussed below, say that he did. But was this indeed the case? Nowhere in his writings does Severus state that he endorsed John’s ordinations; but he also never states that he condemned them. An examination of Severus’s attitudes to the question of extracanonical ordinations in other contexts shows that he was strongly against the idea. Thus, if he did indeed endorse John’s campaign, it would have been in sharp contradiction to the position attested throughout his writings. Let us now examine this position in some detail. J O H N O F T E L L A’ S E X T R AC A N O N IC A L O R D I NAT IO N C A M PA IG N

Severus, as I hope to have demonstrated, perceived the Chalcedonian faith and its adherents as a grave threat to the church, but it was an internal threat that had to be dealt with from inside the system. Viewed from the perspective of the latter half of the sixth century, by the end of which a separate anti-Chalcedonian church was already a fait accompli, the lead-up to the separation of the churches might appear inevitable. In hindsight, Severus’s desire to remain part of the imperial church and

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to convert it to anti-Chalcedonianism could appear naive. However, given the fact noted above that over the course of Severus’s own lifetime the imperial court vacillated in the degree of its affiliation with Chalcedon, his position was perfectly reasonable.59 Thus, rather than defy the emperor by breaking the rules of the game and seceding from the imperial church, the approach was to wait out the pressure.60 In the meantime Severus was concerned with demonstrating a united, nonseditious and nonfactitious front. Consider, for example, the words he writes to a group of fellow exiled Syrian bishops living in Alexandria:61 For a time of persecution more particularly invites us to be more than ordinarily mild, and to gather together the scattered limbs of the church and to block the exits of unreasonable schisms.

Maintaining a reputation for the community that was not threatening to governmental order increased the community’s chances of regaining the favor of the imperial court.62 The last thing Severus wanted to do in this situation was to lend his support to an independent ordination campaign. This would have been especially true in the case of John of Tella. For it appears that Emperor Justinian had explicitly asked him, and the other anti-Chalcedonian bishops who held talks with him, to desist from ordinations outside of their ambits.63 John and his fellow bishops boldly refused. But Severus would have had good reasons to comply. As we saw at the beginning of this chapter, he considered Justinian the instrument for the achievement of “perfect concord in sound faith” among the churches. Both the political rebelliousness inherent in independent ordinations and the problems they posed to established canon law make it unlikely that Severus would have supported them. What was the precise canonical problem with John of Tella’s ordinations? Regulations regarding the issue of itinerant ordinations date back to the canons of the Council of Constantinople of 381.64 They state that one bishop may not perform ordinations in another bishop’s area of jurisdiction.65 In an early letter, written before his rise to the patriarchate, Severus lays out his interpretation of this rule, which is corroborated by other canonical sources.66 Everything Severus wrote after that is, as far as I can discern, consistent with this earlier interpretation:67 The canon that forbids a bishop to perform an ordination in provinces or parishes which do not belong to him comes into play in cases where he forces himself upon other men’s countries in a disorderly fashion and without an invitation from anyone, not when he is persuaded to ordain by the bishop of the country or city and by the orthodox clergymen, especially in time of persecution.

Even during times of persecution a bishop seeking to ordain priests in the diocese of another bishop must receive permission from him. Persecution did not allow for this requirement to be waived.68 Consistent with this early interpretation,

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Severus later insisted that Eastern monks in exile in Egypt must receive ordination at the hands of local Egyptian bishops rather than at the hands of their own archimandrites who were not in exile with them:69 You must also have no vain hesitation about ordinations: but that both your religiousness and the other religious archimandrites of the holy cloisters that have been banished from Palestine . . . must after probation present your own brethren to the Godloving bishops in Egypt, in order that they may ordain presbyters and deacons for you.

Since Timothy III, Alexandria’s patriarch at the time, was unwilling to abdicate his territorial authority to the Eastern exiles in his midst, no one but the Egyptian bishops under his jurisdiction could perform ordinations—even of foreigners— on Egyptian soil. Consistent with this notion, ordinations taking place within the province of Antioch remained under the jurisdiction of Severus, even after his exile (since antiChalcedonians still considered him the canonical patriarch of Antioch). In his capacity of patriarch he could grant bishops the authority to ordain priests outside their own dioceses—as long as they operated within Severus’s province and with his permission. It is within this context that we are to understand the following letter, which Severus wrote from exile to the archimandrite of the Monastery of Mar Bassus concerning the ordination of priests. The Monastery of Mar Bassus is located in present-day Batabu, about thirty kilometers south of Chalcis, and thus within the province of Antioch (i.e., Syria I). Severus instructs the archimandrite as follows:70 Know therefore that in times of persecution anyone so ever of the God-loving bishops who is of the same confession and the same communion with us in everything may properly supply the need of any among the orthodox who is in need. On this principle I have written to the saintly Sergius bishop of Cyrrhus, and to the saintly Marion bishop of the fortress called Sura to satisfy your need: and under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit to apply their sacred hand, and impart to those that are in need the gift that was given them from above, about which Jesus Himself the giver of the Spirit cries in the Gospels, “Freely ye have received, freely give” [Matt. 10:8].

With no anti-Chalcedonian bishops still remaining within the province of Antioch, Severus, in his capacity as the province’s patriarch, agreed to authorize Sergius and Marion, bishops of cities in the neighboring province of Euphratesia, to perform the required ordinations.71 This was not, however, a very practical solution, and, in any case, it appears only to have applied to priests ordained within Severus’s own province. There is no evidence of his having extended this solution to other provinces. In another letter written from his exile, Severus makes it clear that he was aware of the toll these canonical regulations were taking on the communities of the antiChalcedonian faithful; nevertheless, flexibility was out of the question:72

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Canon law does not require a bishop for the ordination of deaconesses. But when it comes to the ordination of priests and deacons there is no getting around the need for a bishop, even though, as Severus acknowledges, this regulation did indeed create a real crisis in the current circumstances. To sum up, Severus strongly resisted all calls to separate from the imperial, now heavily Chalcedonian, church. Despite having officially embraced heresy, it was still the one and only legitimate church—the body of Christ, of which both Chalcedonians and anti-Chalcedonians were limbs. Even in the face of mounting pressures, Severus strongly objected to all forms of independent ordinations outside of the traditional canonical system controlled by the one divinely sanctioned church. Precisely at the time that Severus was writing these letters against extracanonical consecrations, John of Tella was ordaining large numbers of priests and deacons on both sides of the Roman border with Persia. Needless to say, he did so without the permission of the local Chalcedonian bishops.73 John circulated his own written canons, many of which focused on the proper administration of the Eucharist, to clerics presiding over village congregations.74 Recent studies by Volker Menze and Nathanael Andrade have convincingly demonstrated how it was John of Tella’s work that sparked the development of a separate anti-Chalcedonian church. The process gained real momentum a generation later, with the activity of one of the numerous priests ordained by John of Tella, Jacob Baradaeus, the man after whom the Jacobite church later came to be named.75 John and Jacob helped usher the fledgling church away from the territorially based ecclesiological model and into what Menze terms a “Eucharist-based ecclesiology” that was not location-bound. Andrade further shows how John’s biographer Elias, writing at the time of Jacob Baradaeus, cast John of Tella’s work as formative in the creation of an ideological alternative to the imperial church.76 All the evidence from Severus’s own writings indicates that he would have been strongly opposed to John’s actions. Severus was still perfectly content with staying within the imperial body that John was so actively trying to get out of. If this overarching ecclesiological difference that I am proposing is correct, it can also help illuminate an interesting difference in the two men’s respective literary careers.

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Unlike John, whose main output consisted of ecclesial legislation, Severus, although a master of many genres (letters, homilies, treatises, hymns), wrote no canons. Presumably, Severus neither saw the need to write new canons nor considered himself authorized to do so on his own initiative, since church canons were normally legislated in council. But John, inasmuch as he was setting up a new ecclesial system, both had the need for new canons and deemed himself authoritative enough to meet that need. If, as I am claiming, Severus was indeed opposed to John’s ordination project, what is the source of the idea current in modern scholarship that he supported it?77 This idea comes primarily from John of Tella’s two biographers: Elias, who wrote in the 540s, and John of Ephesus, who wrote in the 560s.78 An examination of these accounts, however, reveals certain ambiguities that seem to suggest that there was more to the story than it might first seem. At the beginning of his account of John’s ordinations, Elias briefly mentions that “Severus, the bishops and the archbishops who were fleeing to distant places” provided letters to John authorizing his ordination campaign.79 Later in the story, however, Elias narrates an encounter between John and a group of Chalcedonian bishops:80 The [Chalcedonian] bishops . . . gathered around him and said to him: “What canon law allows you to do the thing you are doing?” He said to them: “When there is a state of confusion such as this, the church does not observe the exactitude of the canons.”

Rather than claiming as he did before that John operated according to the canons because he received dimissorial letters from Severus and the other bishops, here Elias portrays John as waiving canonical requirements altogether. Thus there is a tension between Elias’s two references to the canonicity of John’s ordination project. John of Ephesus’s narrative also betrays ambiguity on this question, but it plays out in a different manner. Unlike Elias, who presents the matter of the dimissorial letters briefly and in passing, John of Ephesus dramatizes it. According to his account, the anti-Chalcedonian bishops initially refused to allow independent ordinations, out of their fear of fanning the flame of persecution against them. It was only after John took it upon himself to conduct the ordinations on his own that they consented. John of Ephesus recounts:81 The bishops rejoiced at this and said: “It is better that one of us only should be known by this in the affair, and not all of us; and take also authority and license from ourselves; and we will refer this by letter to our saintly father the patriarch [i.e., Severus], and he will issue a mandate to us, that it shall be permitted to give a hand to all expelled men who come to you from all parts.”

Rather than portray the initial reluctance of the bishops to grant John permission to ordain (as well as their subsequent agreement to do so) as a matter of canonical

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principle, John of Ephesus paints the bishops as a pack of cowards. In doing so, he is able to create a stark contrast with the heroism of John of Tella. The incongruities of Elias’s story and the overdramatized, schematic quality of John of Ephesus’s version of the supposed mandate that Severus and the other bishops gave John of Tella, coupled with all the evidence to the contrary from Severus’s own writings, make me reluctant to accept these accounts at face value.82 Instead of reading Elias’s and John of Ephesus’ reports about Severus’s authorization of John’s campaigns as something that Severus actually did, I propose that we read them as reflections of what Elias and John wished Severus had done.83 Writing at a time when the separation of the anti-Chalcedonian church was already looking more real than ever, these authors touched up Severus’s legacy in light of these new developments. Until now we have considered various aspects of the divergence between Severus and other elements within the anti-Chalcedonian camp about the applicability in times of persecution of the canons that regulate ordinations. I argued on the basis of Severus’s writings that he opposed the contravention of these canons precisely because he believed that the anti-Chalcedonians must remain within the structure of the imperial church. He valued the unity of the social body of Christ above the doctrinal purity of all its elements. Turning now to the third, and final, ecclesiastical debate of this chapter, we find that Severus carried this valuation of unity above purity to a new level. An examination of his positions on the question of how to receive “converts” from Chalcedonianism shows that in this case Severus actually broke with the earlier tradition of the canons. Earlier custom, as we will see, was, on the whole, quite rigorist in its requirements from previously baptized or ordained converts. Severus controverted this earlier tradition in the name of his ideal of unity with the Chalcedonians (despite his harsh theological disagreement with them). In what follows I will first scrutinize the evidence of earlier tradition on the question of how to receive a heretic. Then I will examine Severus’s extremely lenient position on this question, and how he justified his deviation from earlier tradition for the sake of maintaining the essential unity of the body of Christ. HOW T O R E C E I V E A H E R E T IC : V I EWS F R OM B E F O R E A N D A F T E R C HA L C E D O N

Upon being elevated to the patriarchate in November 512, Severus was quick to take advantage of his new situation. A general synod that he convened in Antioch in the spring of 513 demanded both the acceptance of the Henotikon and the renunciation of Chalcedon as a condition for reception into the imperially backed patriarchate of Antioch. This was followed up by a general council in Tyre, which probably took place in 514, along the same lines.84

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Despite the continued adherence to Chalcedon of a large portion of the Eastern population, especially in Palestine and Syria II, the imperial volte-face began to have its effect. Throngs of laypeople and clergy sought to join the ranks of the antiChalcedonians.85 This new situation confronted the anti-Chalcedonian leadership with the weighty question of deciding on what terms to accept these former heretics into their orthodox faith. Were baptisms and clerical ordinations performed by Chalcedonian priests and bishops to be considered valid? Was the sacramental act of a heretic to be considered efficacious, or did people who had been baptized and ordained by Chalcedonians need to be rebaptized and reordained in order to join anti-Chalcedonian orthodoxy? In letters written both during his tenure in Antioch and after it, Severus energetically argued against rebaptism and reordination, but his position was controversial. Since it was Severus’s opinion that ultimately carried the day, we have no sources written from the perspective of the advocates of rebaptism and reordination. In order to appreciate their position we must take stock of the canonical precedents that they could have turned to for support. An examination of the earlier evidence shows that in this case it was actually Severus who broke with tradition. As will presently become clear, most sources prior to Severus’s time required either rebaptism or rechrismation for converts from other forms of “heretical” Christianity. The first critical engagement with the question of rebaptism in the early church occurred in the wake of the Decian persecution in the middle of the third century. Led by Cyprian of Carthage, a council of over 250 African bishops reached the conclusion that baptisms administered by clergymen considered heretical or schismatic were invalid and thus had to be done over again. “How can someone,” in Cyprian’s words, “who is himself unclean, and with whom the Holy Spirit does not dwell, cleanse and sanctify the water?”86 The African ruling soon became a subject of international debate. Stephen of Rome strongly objected to rebaptism, arguing that the baptismal waters had a certain effect of their own that was due to the holy names the priest invoked upon them, regardless of his moral character or dogmatic beliefs.87 In the West, the debate resurged during the Donatist controversy. The Donatists staunchly upheld Cyprian’s rigorism, while their opponents, like Optatus of Milevis and Augustine in the late fourth and early fifth centuries, sided with the Roman rejection of rebaptism. As long as the formula of baptism that included an invocation of the Trinity was pronounced at the time of the first baptism there was no need for a second baptism, no matter what the beliefs or moral standing of the officiant. The Council of Arles of 314 offered a practical procedure for determining whether there was need for rebaptism. Canon 9 of the council ruled that a person who had been baptized by heretics was to be questioned on the creed used at his baptism. If the creed he reported indicated that he was baptized in the name of the

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Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit he need not receive a second baptism, only the laying on of hands.88 Outside the Donatist church in North Africa the Western churches increasingly came to adopt the Roman view over and against Cyprian’s insistence on the relevance of the identity of the baptizer to the validity of the baptism. Turning eastward, however, we see that Cyprian’s underlying concern, even if not usually linked to his name, maintained its grip through the fourth century and beyond. Canon 19 of the Council of Nicaea stipulated that followers of Paul of Samosata, the Antiochene bishop deposed in the winter of 268/269 for his adoptionist views of Christ, needed to be rebaptized and their priests reordained.89 The debate with Paul, much like the Arian debate of Nicaea, hinged on defining the precise relationship between the Father and the Son. There is no evidence to suggest that Paul denied the very existence of the persons of the Trinity or that he or his followers advocated a baptism that did not invoke the Trinity. It is clear therefore that Canon 19 of Nicaea disqualified Paulianist baptisms because it disputed the value that Paul attached to the words “Father” and “Son” uttered at baptism. Athanasius elaborates on this point in speaking of Arian baptism. If baptism is in the name of the Father and the Son, and the Arians do not confess the true Father and the true Son, the rite they administer is meaningless. In order for the act to achieve its ritual effect it must be accompanied by right faith. Although the Arians and other heretics, such as the followers of Paul of Samosata, “say the names (ta onomata legontes),” they do not understand them correctly, and therefore the water they administer is unprofitable (alusiteles).90 Athanasius does not draw practical conclusions from his disqualification of Arian baptism, although his argument does point in the direction of requiring rebaptism for anyone who had been baptized by an Arian. Basil of Caesarea, Athanasius’s younger contemporary, offers a practical ruling.91 He distinguishes schismatics, who have left the church over matters of discipline (as determined by him), from heretics, whom he considers outside of the church. Schismatics are to be readmitted without a second baptism, but heretics require rebaptism. Basil classifies Valentinians, Marcionites, Phrygians ( = Montanists) and Manicheans as heretics, and Novatianists as schismatics.92 Toward the end of his analysis, Basil turns to another group: the Encratites, of whose status he is unsure.93 He concludes the discussion with the following statement:94 In any case, let it be enjoined that those who come to us with that baptism be anointed—in the presence of the faithful of course—and only on these terms approach the mysteries.

Even if baptism is not to be repeated, Basil demands that the reception of the Encratites be marked by chrismation, a rite that immediately followed baptism and was understood as ushering in the gifts of the Holy Spirit.95 Two sources from

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the late fourth and early fifth centuries shed light on why rechrismation was required even when rebaptism was not. On the Trinity, written in late fourth-century Alexandria, stipulates that converts from all heresies must be anointed.96 The reason given is that prior to joining the church these heretics had no access to the chrism, since it is only the bishop who can “perfect the chrism with grace from above.”97 Unlike baptism, which can be performed by a priest, chrism requires direct episcopal participation. This last position is reiterated in an interesting document dating from the 420s.98 Because of its subsequent incorporation into Byzantine canon law, this document can be said to reflect the official position of the imperial church on the question of rebaptism. It speaks of two types of converts: (1) heretics who were not previously baptized in the name of the Trinity, and thus require baptism; (2) heretics who were previously baptized in the name of the Trinity, and thus do not need to be rebaptized, but do need to provide a written anathematization of their heresy and to receive rechrismation. To sum up the evidence about attitudes toward the reception of heretics prior to Chalcedon, we have seen that while Western sources increasingly accepted the Roman position rejecting rebaptism, the Eastern sources demonstrate a more receptive attitude toward the notion of rebaptizing at least certain heretics. We saw indications in Basil and more explicit statements in On the Trinity and in a document from the 420s that there had developed a custom of anointing with the chrism even those heretics who were not rebaptized. Adopting categories J. Patout Burns used in his analysis of the rebaptism controversy between Cyprian of Carthage and Stephen of Rome, we may say that while in the West unity was increasingly preferred over purity, the custom of chrismation shows that in the East purity still maintained a strong grip.99 With this background in mind we can appreciate the different responses that developed within the anti-Chalcedonian community toward the reception of Chalcedonians. With the outbreak of the Chalcedonian controversy in the 450s, communal identities began to form around attitudes toward the council. Advocates and opponents each decreed the others heretical. The question leaders of the respective groups had to ask themselves was just how heretical they considered one another to be. Did adherence to one side of the debate define a communal identity exclusive of the other side? Among anti-Chalcedonians, this question came up “at the beginning, immediately after the synod at Chalcedon had been held.”100 On Severus’s telling, the initial response was that penitent Chalcedonians who wished to cross over to the antiChalcedonian camp indeed required chrismation at the very least. Some also demanded rebaptism and, for clergy, reordination.101 We do not know much about the position that required rebaptism, but Severus mentions a certain disciple of Abba Romanus, named Cassian, who stipulated that Chalcedonians be rebaptized, and who had a popular following.102

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The position that required chrism, rather than baptism, as a condition for the acceptance of Chalcedonians is better documented. Severus and the sixth-century historians link it to Theodotus, bishop of Joppa in Palestine.103 In light of the evidence surveyed above, Theodotus’s demand for the chrismation of penitent Chalcedonians appears in line with the common ecclesiastical treatment of penitent heretics. The demand for chrismation was a boundary marker. It marked Chalcedonians as a heretical community outside the confines of anti-Chalcedonian orthodoxy. This position, however, largely came to be rejected by the anti-Chalcedonian establishment. Timothy Aelurus, for example, required from laypeople converting from Chalcedonianism only to anathematize the council and the Tome of Leo. Converts from among the clergy were to perform penance for a year and then be reinstated in their former clerical positions.104 By the time two generations had passed, the camp of “reanointers” was considered a separate sect with questions arising among their opponents within the anti-Chalcedonian party about whether their baptisms and ordinations needed to be redone.105 Theodotus had been active in Palestine in the years immediately following Chalcedon, but Severus still considered his movement to be a threat in Antioch in the second decade of the sixth century. He refers to the contemporary followers of Theodotus as “the self-created religion of the reanointers” and speaks of a treatise they composed during his patriarchate “consisting of uncanonical prepositions.”106 Their treatise does not survive, but from Severus’s responses we can gain an idea of what some of its claims were. As noted earlier, the practice of reanointment enjoyed good support in the earlier sources, and Severus’s sometimes convoluted attempts to make a case to the contrary testify to this. Before moving on to examine Severus’s arguments against the “reanointers” and “rebaptizers,” a final word is in order about the social background of these groups. As noted earlier, Severus links the foundation of these groups with individuals intimately connected to the very same monastic school of Gaza that was his own initial introduction to the ascetic life. Is it mere coincidence that both these more rigorist movements—namely, the “reanointers” and “rebaptizers”—sprang from the same social and ideological background? It must be remembered that numerically the “school of Gaza” was small. At the death of Peter the Iberian the community, according to John Rufus, counted no more than thirty monks.107 Might the fact that the two advocates of the more exclusionist position, Theodotus and Cassian, both came from the same circle indicate that there was something there that led to this kind of thinking? Perhaps already the first-generation leaders of the monastic school of Gaza, such as Peter the Iberian, Theodosius of Jerusalem, and Abba Romanus, held similar views. We have no direct indication one way or the other, but it does seem striking that Severus, who spent the formative years of his Christian instruction in the

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monasteries of Peter and of Romanus, never invokes the legacy of these masters to counter the rigorist opinions of their students.108 The notion, however, that previous generations at the Gaza monasteries held to a more rigorist anti-Chalcedonian position receives support from Severus’s discussion of another matter of ecclesiological import: the inclusion of Chalcedonian names in the diptychs. I will discuss this question in more detail in the following chapter, but for our present purpose I point out that Severus, who opposes the wholesale exclusion of Chalcedonian names from the diptychs, reluctantly admits that the practice he opposes was precisely the practice of the Gaza monasteries that were once his home: For, if we are about to require strictness like our strictness which we observed when we were living in seclusion in monasteries, we shall not suffer presbyters or archimandrites, or anyone else who has communicated109 with the synod of Chalcedon, to be named. But, if we have regard to the complete conjunction and unity of the churches, which extends to many countries and churches, it is not easy suddenly to observe or think of any such rule.110

In light of this testimony for the exclusionary nature of the diptychs in the antiChalcedonian monasteries of Gaza it seems likely that Theodotus’s and Cassian’s rigorist stances on the acceptance of Chalcedonian converts were also more reflective of the tradition of those monasteries than was Severus’s lenient position. Severus knew his history. He was aware that Cyprian required rebaptism and that the fourth-century councils of Nicaea and Laodicea required rebaptism for some heretical groups and rechrismation for others.111 He realized that much of canonical precedent was against him. Given this fact, how did he justify his nontraditional, lenient stance on the reception of Chalcedonian converts?

SEV E RU S’ S C A SE AG A I N ST R E C H R I SM AT IO N : U N I T Y V E R SU S P U R I T Y

Rather than attempting to claim that Theodotus’s position had absolutely no basis in earlier tradition, Severus launched a two-pronged attack on rechrismation. On the one hand, he contested the relevance of sources within the tradition that threatened his position. On the other hand, he sought to recruit other sources that might bolster his own position. On the defensive front, Severus contrasts Cyprian’s blanket requirement for rebaptism to the Council of Laodicea’s differential legislation that required rebaptism for some and rechrismation for others. He argues that the Council of Laodicea is canonically binding by force of its being a collective council, whereas Cyprian represented no more than his own, individual opinion on this matter.112 As for the Council of Laodicea’s precedent of requiring either rebaptism or rechrismation,

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Severus recognizes the binding force of its ruling not in the particulars but in the principle that converts from different heresies must be treated differently. Just as the Council of Laodicea distinguished between the followers of Paul of Samosata who needed to be baptized and the Novatianists who needed to be chrismated, so Severus distinguishes these former two groups from the Nestorians and the Chalcedonians, who require nothing more than formal renunciation.113 Severus rationalizes his rejection of the historical precedents put forward by his opponents by arguing for a more general principle: “We do not have recourse to the conclusions that were adopted and introduced by the men of earlier days with reference to other heresies, but we decide that each conclusion has its own validity in the case of those with reference to whom it was introduced.”114 In other words, canon law is historically determined. Different laws pertain to different movements at different times and in different places. What was true for the Novatianists of Cyprian’s third-century North Africa was not true for the Novatianists at the time the fourth-century bishops gathered at Nicaea. And what the councils of Nicaea and Laodicea decided with reference to the followers of Paul of Samosata did not pertain to the Nestorians and Chalcedonians of the fifth century. Changing times required different measures for combating different heresies. In some places, Severus explicitly admits that canon law is an evolving historical product. The “strictness and stern method” of “the men of early days,” like Cyprian, were, with the passage of time, rejected in favor of a more lenient approach.115 Besides viewing history as effecting the production of canon law, Severus also argued that rhetoric plays a similar role. One of the claims made in favor of the rebaptism of Chalcedonians had been that an episcopal assembly had labeled them Paulianists—that is, followers of Paul of Samosata—whom all agreed required rebaptism.116 Underlying this claim is a literalist approach to canon law. Since the assembly referred to Chalcedonians as Paulianists, all the legal strictures that apply to Paulianiasts apply to them. Severus, however, disputes this assumption: “It is in fact a custom of the fathers to trace heresies to the roots from which they sprang by way of reducing them to something shameful.”117 In other words, canon law is embedded in rhetoric just as much as it is embedded in history. The labeling of Chalcedonians as Paulianists is a rhetorical device. Severus insists that it carries polemical, not pragmatic weight, just as references to Arianism as idolatry and Sabellianism as Judaism do not mean that one should receive converts from these heresies as gentiles or Jews, who had never been initiated.118 Severus’s argument for the contingence of canon law on history and rhetoric was not self-evident. This argument was clearly not shared by his opponents, but it also comes as a surprise given Severus’s own position in other genres of ecclesiastical literature. Turning from the realm of legal discourse to the realm of theological disputation, we find Severus arguing—at least at a certain point in his career— against the very same notions of historical and rhetorical contingence we see him

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championing in the realm of legal discourse.119 The final chapter of this book will be dedicated to a discussion of Severus’s ahistorical approach to theology, an approach he cast in opposition to Julian, who allowed room for a degree of historical and rhetorical contingence. Severus further anchored his understanding of the contingent nature of canon law in biblical and patristic proof texts. Relying on a homily of John Chrysostom’s in praise of the apostle Paul, Severus invokes Paul’s constantly shifting positions on Jewish law as a model for the flexibility he advocates in matters of church discipline. Just as Paul expediently adopted different positions to suit different situations and different audiences, so church leaders should be—and were—ready to adopt varying positions toward converts from heresy depending on the circumstances.120 There is no contradiction between Paul’s own circumcision of Timothy, on the one hand, and his statement to the Galatians denying the profit of Christ to those who are circumcised, on the other hand.121 The former was a special, practical expedient adopted with the local Jews in mind; the latter was a general principle, rhetorically meant to dissuade the Galatians from turning to the observances of Judaism. Speaking both of Paul and of contemporary church law, Severus summarizes: “These things are rather matters of politic administration, and not inconsistent.”122 The centerpiece of Severus’s case for canonical leniency is a letter from Theophilus of Alexandria (385–412) to Flavian of Antioch (381–404).123 The original context of this letter was the resolution of the Melitian schism, which had been raging in Antioch in the late fourth century.124 Flavian had maintained that the episcopal consecration of Evagrius, his rival for the patriarchate, had been canonically invalid. After some going back and forth Theophilus of Alexandria came down on the side of Flavian. But the question was how to treat the priests ordained by Evagrius. Did they need to be reordained? Theophilus argued that they did not. For him, unity of the church outweighed strict adherence to its canons. Theophilus quotes the precedent of Ambrose, who, like Paul, became “to those not under the law as not under the law,” and accepted the ordinations of his predecessor in the episcopate of Milan, although the latter was considered an Arian.125 Severus approvingly quotes Theophilus’s description of Ambrose and other bishops of his day, which served as a model for his own behavior:126 [They] checked things difficult to cure, and did not disturb the whole body (pagrā) of the church . . . and they received many others in the East who had not been ordained by the orthodox, lest, if these remained outside, the heresy of the Arians should strike root, and the flocks perish, and the greater portion of the body (gūšmā) of the nations be lost. In this way they treated both those of Palestine and Phoenice and many others; properly relaxing the strict rules of ordination for the sake of the salvation of the nations, so that after these things the universal concord might remain firm and unshaken.

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Theophilus valued inclusivity, ecumenical concord, and the sheer numbers of congregants over doctrinal purity and strict adherence to canonical procedure. The threat to “the whole body of the church” lay not in the inclusion of compromised members but precisely in their exclusion. Theophilus’s ruling served as a powerful example for Severus. Unity with the imperial church stood for him above all other ecclesiological considerations. If earlier in this chapter we saw how Severus insisted on strict adherence to canonical law when this served the purpose of unity, here we observe how he forsakes canonical precedent when it threatens ecclesial unity. His positions on the three different questions discussed in this chapter reflect a consistent view of the social body of Christ: unity overrides purity. For Theodotus, for his followers, and for the ecclesiastical tradition upon which they drew, the doctrinal and disciplinary purity of the body of Christ outweighed its unity. What sense was there to unity with corrupt members? Theodotus and others who demanded rebaptism or rechrismation thought that a corruptible body, by its very definition, could not be considered the body of Christ. Severus and the elements of the tradition upon which he relied challenged this assumption. Contrary to Theodotus, Severus thought the body of Christ could indeed allow the inclusion of less than pure members in its midst. Although performed by heretics, Chalcedonian baptisms and ordinations were valid, since the social body of Christ can in fact support a degree of corruptibility.127 How did Severus meet the challenge of arguing for unity with a heretical and oppressive church? A close reading of his rhetoric against the separatist reanointers reveals a clever manipulation of biblical motifs to make his case. In a letter composed around 520 from his exile in Egypt, which is featured as the first epigraph to this chapter,128 Severus compares the separatists to two groups in Israel’s history: the followers of Jeroboam who rebelled against Solomon’s son Rehoboam and were the first to secede from the Davidic monarchy to form the independent, northern Israelite kingdom; and the followers of the messianic pretenders Theudas and Judas the Galilean, who led short-lived revolts against Rome. Severus’s choice of these two biblical allusions is illuminating. Not only do both cases involve ill-conceived rebellions, but they both involve rebellions against oppressive rulers, where the grounds for rebellion, while perhaps not justifiable, are at least understandable. The biblical account depicts Rehoboam as having willfully abandoned the advice of his elders to deal well with his people, and as declaring to the people that he would tyrannically oppress them (1 Kings 12:1–14). This is what spurred Jeroboam and his followers to wonder what part they had in the lot of David—namely, the kingdom of David’s grandson Rehoboam. Moreover, elsewhere in the canon Rehoboam is portrayed not only as a tyrant but also as one who forsook the law of God (2 Chron. 12:1). Severus’s application of this biblical episode to the separation of fifth- and sixth-century anti-Chalcedonians from the imperial church (as well as from ele-

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ments within the anti-Chalcedonian leadership that sought unity with that church) casts the separatists in the role of Jeroboam and the imperial church and its antiChalcedonian allies in the role of Rehoboam. The lesson is clear. Even if the emperor is a Chalcedonian heretic persecuting the anti-Chalcedonian orthodox, one may not leave his church, for it is equivalent to the House of David. The northern Israelites who seceded from the tyrannical Rehoboam were eventually expelled by the Assyrians, and they disappeared from historical memory. But it was the House of David that ultimately produced Jesus, even with such wicked tyrants as Rehoboam in the lineage.129 The imperial church, by virtue of its inheritance of Jesus’s apostolic church, is the present-day House of David. A similar message is conveyed by the allusion to the rebellions of Theudas and Judas the Galilean. The Pharisaic teacher Gamaliel dissuades the Jewish priests from harming the apostles. He advises inaction against the followers of Jesus, for if it is an undertaking of God it is not to be opposed, and if it is an undertaking of man it will fail of its own accord, as Theudas and Judas did. As in the case of Jeroboam, Theudas and Judas rebelled against a tyrannical oppressor: Rome. But here the message is slightly more complex. The import of Gamaliel’s words is that unlike the rebellion of Theudas and Judas, which failed abruptly, the message of Jesus, if it is an undertaking of God, will ultimately succeed in overpowering Rome. From the perspective of a post-Constantinian ecclesiastical writer like Severus this is precisely what happened. The Roman Empire had become the church of Christ.130 Once again the lesson is clear. It is futile to disturb the imperial church, as these separatists have done, since any such attempt to go against this divinely ordained church—even if at present it is heretical or oppressive—is destined to “come to naught.”131 Severus’s position on the social body of Christ neatly corresponds to his position on Christ’s physical body. In both, he welcomed the existence of corruptibility. What about Severus’s opponents? We saw that there is some evidence that Julian, the father of the doctrine of incorruptibility, was aligned with the anti-Chalcedonian separatists. For them the body of Christ—whether conceived socially or physically—must remain free of corruption. It is, as we saw in the previous chapter, the direct responsibility of the church leaders to maintain that body’s incorruptibility. While there is no evidence that Julian was involved in the debate about how to receive Chalcedonian converts, this debate offers confirmation for the link between the social and physical bodies of Christ from another direction. In the course of his attack on Theodotus’s position on rechrismation, Severus addresses what he perceives to be the christological difference between him and Theodotus.132 Letters written during and after his episcopacy ascribe to Theodotus the denial of the consubstantiality of Jesus’s flesh with ours.133 Severus attributes to Theodotus the notion that it was the Logos alone that took upon itself the passion on the cross.

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This disassociation of Christ’s flesh from humanity entailed a conception of the physical body of Christ as incorruptible. In other words, Severus paints a christological profile of Theodotus to fit his ecclesiological one. Just as Theodotus refused to allow the entrance of any corrupt members into the social body of Christ before they were re-marked by the ritual act of chrismation as incorrupt members, so Theodotus refused to acknowledge the presence of any element of corruption within his theological conception of the physical body of Christ. Severus, on the other hand, held that Jesus’s body, during his lifetime, was corruptible. Here too, christology correlated with ecclesiology. Severus’s insistence on allowing corrupt members into the social body of Christ without requiring a new baptism or chrismation (and thus validating their original baptisms and chrismations at the hands of other corrupt members) mirrors his insistence on the consubstantiality of Jesus’s flesh with ours. In order to be fully consubstantial with our bodies, the body of Christ needs to have been physically corruptible, mortal, and passible. Just as Severus insists, in the name of unity with the mainstream imperial church, on maximizing inclusivity for the doctrinally corrupt members of the social body of Christ, so he insists, in the name of Christ’s full humanity, on the essential corruptibility of his physical body. Here we see the relatively straightforward correlation between christology and ecclesiology in the debate over the validity of Chalcedonian baptism, chrismation, and ordination. Yet, when we turn to liturgy and the question of the diptychs— another ecclesiologically related dispute Severus was involved in—a somewhat more complex and nuanced type of correlation emerges. The way this dispute was tied to eucharistic theology and practice is the subject of the next chapter.

3

The Food of In/corruption Liturgical Aspects of the Debate And he instigated them to disseminate slanderous lies among the faithful and to cry out in the middle of the churches, to write and to declare among the city’s colonnades and in its taverns that we say that the divine body consecrated upon the holy altars and the cup of blessing are the food and drink of corruption. severus of antioch, against the additions of julian, chap. 2 (hespel, polémique 2.1:6/5)

Ritual is more complex than the mere communication of meanings and values; it is a set of activities that construct particular types of meanings and values in specific ways. Hence, rather than ritual as a vehicle for the expression of authority, practice theorists tend to explore how ritual is a vehicle for the construction of relationships of authority and submission. Most practice theories also share a number of assumptions that follow from this basic orientation. First, they attempt to see ritual as part of a historical process in which past patterns are reproduced but also reinterpreted and transformed. catherine m. bell, ritual: perspectives and dimensions

T H E E U C HA R I ST A N D T H E D I P T YC H S

The previous chapter was dedicated to the debates Severus had with the separatist elements within the anti-Chalcedonian party about the social body of Christ. I argued, in line with the “stereoscopic approach” advocated throughout this book, that these debates were intimately correlated with the contemporary theological dispute about the physical body of Christ. The question whether Christ’s physical body, while he walked the earth, was corruptible or incorruptible hinged, as we saw, on anthropological differences about soul-body relations and about the role of human agency in the attainment of bodily incorruptibility. Julian’s side in this argument was that bodily incorruptibility was a state that humans initially possessed, and that, through ascetic practice, they now could and 75

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should regain: “We can bring our bodies to whatever state we want through the control of our thoughts.”1 This theological position correlated with a similar position in matters of ecclesiology. Just as the individual person can, and must, use his spiritual power to bring his own body to a state of incorruptibility, so must the leaders of the church use their spiritual authority to ensure that the social body of Christ—the church—remains incorruptible. This meant that all corruptive elements—that is, Chalcedonian heretics—must be kept out. Since the imperial church was controlled by Chalcedonians, there was no choice but to break away from it and to start a new church where anti-Chalcedonian priests and bishops could exercise full agency. Severus, on the other hand, argued that the human body was by its very nature corruptible. It was not within the power of the individual’s soul to bring his body to a state of incorruptibility. Only God had the power to grant this gift, as an act of grace. This theological position of Severus’s correlated with his ecclesiological stance: the anti-Chalcedonian spiritual leadership was not expected to maintain the social body of Christ as incorruptible. It was natural, and therefore, to some degree acceptable, for the universal church to envelope Chalcedonian heretical elements within it. Severus ardently hoped that the imperial church would embrace anti-Chalcedonian theology, and he even exercised political power in order to attain this goal. Yet Severus thought there was a limit to the agency that the episcopal leadership had in keeping the church free of Chalcedonian corruption. Maintaining unity with the age-old, venerated institution of the imperial church through adherence to its traditional canons, however, was something that lay within a degree of episcopal control, and this was, as we saw, what he advocated. As pointed out in the introduction, the correlation between christology and ecclesiology made sense, since the debates in both these realms concerned the body of Christ: the physical and the social bodies. Yet, as I also pointed out, there was a third “body of Christ” that played into the equation: the liturgical body. Jesus himself, according to the traditional understanding, instituted the eucharistic bread, as his very own body.2 It stands to reason that the same correlation we witnessed between the social and physical bodies of Christ would extend to debates about his liturgical body as well.3 The surviving evidence does indeed provide traces of this correlation. Yet, as with the ecclesiological aspects discussed in the previous chapter, here too our knowledge of Severus’s side of the debate is far more extensive than our knowledge of Julian’s side. Given the state of the evidence, I will reconstruct Julian’s liturgical positions on the basis of the clues we have at our disposal and by way of contrast with the more accessible evidence from Severus. The writings of Severus allow us to discern two main areas of debate concerning the administration of the Eucharist. The first issue was mentioned briefly in the introduction and is alluded to in the quote from Severus that serves as an epigraph to this chapter. According to Severus, Julian had instigated a false rumor about him,

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claiming that Severus believed that “the divine body consecrated upon the holy altars and the cup of blessing are the food and drink of corruption (h. bâlā).” Julian’s surviving texts provide no hints of this claim; but in light of Severus’s urgent need to combat it there is little reason to doubt that Julian, or his followers, really did make it. Severus certainly hastens to deny it, and in order to distance himself from this position, he declares an anathema upon those who state that the body and blood of Christ consecrated on the church altars is corruptible, passible, or mortal.4 Was Julian’s charge against him completely baseless? Were Julian and Severus actually in full agreement when it came to their understanding of the Eucharist? The first part of this chapter will be dedicated to proving, through a close reading of Severus’s writings, that there was actually some truth to Julian’s charge: there was indeed a fundamental difference between the two bishops’ understandings of the Eucharist—a difference that correlated with their respective christological and ecclesiological stances discussed earlier. The second part of the chapter will explore how this difference played out in another area of liturgical debate between Severus and his more separatist-inclined opponents. This was the question of the inclusion or exclusion of Chalcedonians within the so-called diptychs, the lists of names of deceased bishops recited in conjunction with the eucharistic celebration. We will see how Severus, in contrast both to earlier church custom and to the practice of most of his colleagues, advocated maximal retention of Chalcedonian names within the diptychs. He justifies this position with a series of arguments that deploy the full range of images of the body of Christ we have been discussing throughout this book: the physical, or christological; the social, or ecclesiological; and the liturgical, or eucharistic, bodies. Viewed through stereoscopic lenses, Severus’s convergent invocations of these three different aspects of the body of Christ can provide us with a clear view of his overarching outlook and its specific ramifications in these three areas. In assessing the various stances Severus and his opponents take on the Eucharist, I have found helpful Catherine Bell’s understanding of ritual as “practice.” According to Bell, ritual can serve as a vehicle for the construction and inscription of authority and power. Through historical processes of “ritualization,” earlier patterns are transformed as much as they are reproduced.5 The listing and recitation of names in the context of the eucharistic celebrations was one such ritualized means of constructing the reciting community’s identity. Control of the list in terms of decisions about the retention, addition, or deletion of names was a powerful vehicle for the bishop to exercise his authority over his community by shaping their ideological commitments. The changes that he chose to make, or not to make, to the lists that had been passed down to him determined the nature of his relationship to the past and to the community he oversaw. It was for this reason that the diptychs played an instrumental role in contestations over the anti-Chalcedonians’ relationship with Chalcedonians and the imperial church.6

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Bell’s perspective is also helpful when it comes to Julian’s claim that Severus viewed the Eucharist as “the food of corruption.” In contrast to other ritual theorists who “have defined ritual activity as first and foremost the reenactment of historical or mythical precedents,” Bell insists that one must pay equal attention to the “group’s constant reinterpretation of what constitutes these precedents and the community’s relationship to them.”7 Severus and Julian offered two different interpretations of their shared ritualized action of communion. As “authorities defined as the sole guardians of the past and the experts on ritual,” Severus’s and Julian’s pronouncements carried weight in their communities.8 Their interpretations need to be analyzed as expressions of ritualization as “a creative act of production, a strategic reproduction of the past in such a way as to maximize its domination of the present.”9 In other words, the two exiled anti-Chalcedonian bishops’ respective understandings of the Eucharist are to be viewed as alternative responses to their shared contemporary reality.

SEV E RU S’ S T H E O L O G Y O F T H E E U C HA R I ST

Although, because of its public nature, Severus dedicates frequent attention to baptismal theology, he is far more reticent when it comes to the mysteries of the Eucharist.10 As a result, little scholarly attention has been given to Severus’s eucharistic theology.11 Let us approach this question by first evaluating the charge raised by Julian: did Severus in fact believe the consecrated elements were corruptible? Severus was asked precisely this question by the Antiochene presbyter Victor. The latter, if he is to be identified with the presbyter of the same name mentioned in two other of Severus’s letters, served as Severus’s messenger during and after his patriarchate.12 The introduction to the citation from Severus’s response to Victor reads as follows:13 Of the holy Severus, from the letter to the presbyter Victor, because someone when reading with the same Victor in the book of the same patriarch said to him that it is not proper to say that the bread which is consecrated upon the holy altars, which is the body of Emmanuel, is impassible and immortal, and is a giver of impassibility and immortality to those who partake of it, though even he himself said and confessed that the bread which has been perfected (eštamli)14 is the body, but not impassible because it is broken and divided.

Victor, apparently disturbed by the claim that his associate had made, inquires about it with the master. Severus reassures Victor that the consecrated bread is truly “the body of him who rose,” and therefore is clearly impassible and immortal. This is, he explains, a package deal, as it were: if you accept that the host is God’s body (pagrā dalâhā), you must accept that it is impassible and immortal. Nevertheless, the same Christ who allows his body to be bread also allows it, by way of a

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special dispensation, to be cut and divided. Otherwise the Eucharist, which “bestows (mšaken) impassibility and immortality on us,” would have been “impossible for us to partake of.” Thus, Severus insists here that the Eucharist is immortal and impassible. Similarly, in Against Julian’s Additions he asserts that, despite Julian’s allegation to the contrary, the eucharistic bread is not the “food of corruption.”15 Yet here, in response to Victor, Severus subtly introduces a critical distinction:16 For the bread that is consecrated (metkahan) on the holy tables and mystically perfected (meštamlē) is itself truly the body, the body of him in whose name it was in fact perfected (eštamli), that is of him who voluntarily died and rose for our sakes. But, if it is the body of him who rose, it is plain that it is impassible and immortal.

Severus accepts that the eucharistic body is impassible and immortal, but only inasmuch as it corresponds to Christ’s post-resurrection physical body. This is precisely in line with his christological position in the debate with Julian. All along Severus had recognized the impassibility, immortality, and incorruptibility of Christ’s body after the resurrection; the only disagreement with Julian was about the pre-resurrection body. Inasmuch as the sacramental body corresponds to Christ’s post-resurrection physical body, it can bestow, as Severus says, impassibility and immortality upon those who partake in it. According to this logic, however, if the eucharistic body, or certain aspects of it, were judged to correspond to Christ’s body prior to the resurrection, it would indeed not be considered impassible or immortal. Severus nowhere explicitly speaks of the Eucharist as corresponding to the preresurrection body. But he may be said to imply this correspondence in his position on the diptychs to be discussed below. I will argue that it is in light of a dual understanding of the eucharistic celebration—corresponding to his dual understanding of Christ’s physical body in which there was room for both corruptible (pre-resurrection) and incorruptible (post-resurrection) aspects—that Severus’s statements on the diptychs are best understood. Nevertheless, when it came to his explicit statements concerning the eucharistic body, Severus consistently imagined it and its redemptive impact upon humans in terms of Christ’s post-resurrection body. Thus, in a hymn on the ascension Severus invokes a traditional image of Christ as the burning coal from Isaiah 6:6–7 to say the following about the salvific effects of communion:17 For the suprasensual (metyad῾ânītā) coal, the Word who became incarnate without variation, whom the seraph hardly dares to approach by means of tongs, as Isaiah said (Is. 6:6–7), you, a man, hold in the palms of your hands, him who cleanses your lips when eaten by you, who brightly enlightens the depths of your mind. O the wonder! He who after the resurrection from among the dead said to Mary: “Touch me not, for I have not yet ascended to my father” (Jn. 20:17), which also he was about to

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The Food of In/corruption do; now that he has ascended—and now behold!—sits upon the throne of glory, by means of the communion of the sacrament he is spiritually mingled with our bodies.

In the commission scene of Isaiah 6 the prophet relates that a seraph flew to him, holding a live coal that had been taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. The seraph touched the prophet’s mouth with the coal and said: “Now that this has touched your lips your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out.” Cyril of Alexandria often used the image of the glowing coal to conceptualize the christological interaction between body and Logos.18 According to his interpretation of the verses in Isaiah, it is when this coal, namely, the correct understanding of Christ, touches the believer’s mouth—in other words, when one confesses Christ in this manner—that one’s sin is blotted out. Severus repeatedly draws on this christological interpretive tradition.19 Alongside Cyril’s christological interpretation of Isaiah 6:6–7 there also developed a Syriac tradition of sacramental interpretation. Ephrem offers an early and vibrant expression of this tradition. He invokes Isaiah’s coal of fire to envision both Christ’s incarnate existence and the Eucharist.20 It is the eucharistic interpretation of Isaiah’s glowing coal that Severus recruits in the hymn cited above. Yet unlike Ephrem, who connects the consecrated host to Jesus’s earthly body, Severus makes a point in saying that it is—paradoxically enough—only Christ’s post-resurrection and post-ascension body that you are able “to hold in the palms of your hands.”21 Judging from the evidence provided by the fragments of Severus’s final antiJulianist treatise, Against Felicissimus, it appears that the question of whether the Eucharist corresponded to the pre- or post-resurrection body remained controversial. The seventh-century florilegium that preserves three fragments from book 7, chapter 1 of that work classifies them under the following heading: “How Christ gave his body to his disciples after the resurrection.”22 For the authors of that florilegium this was still a point that needed to be proven. Given that Severus acknowledged the symbiotic connection between the physical and liturgical bodies of Christ, and given that he accepted the Cyrilline understanding of the Eucharist as the bread of incorruption, Severus needed to make sure to interpret all mentions of the Eucharist’s incorruptibility as references to Christ’s post-resurrection body. Thus, in the first of the above-mentioned passages in Against Felicissimus Severus writes as follows:23 For Jesus Christ, our Lord and God, initiated for us the service of the priesthood, and he laid down the foundation for the communion of the Eucharist (nsībūtā drâzē).24 He passed on (ašlem) the commemoration of his death and resurrection so that it might be fulfilled (neštamlē).25 He commemorated those things which had not yet happened (but were about to happen soon) as events which had already occurred. He established [this commemoration] upon the cup and bread of the blessed Eucharist. Thus, that very thing which was given to the apostles and that which we receive are

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one and the same, and this very thing is the body and the blood. For he who voluntarily died and rose for our sake is the giver of immortality and impassibility.

Through participation in the commemoration of Jesus’s death and resurrection the partakers in the Eucharist are granted the gift of immortality and impassibility. Commemoration of the incarnation could not have provided these gifts, because, in Severus’s view, Jesus’s body did not itself become immortal and impassible until after its death and resurrection. Yet it was the pre-resurrection Jesus who established the eucharistic commemoration of his death and resurrection, in anticipation of their future occurrence. Severus interprets this proleptic design of the eucharistic institution as replicated also in its liturgical observance. Just as Christ commemorated the immortality and impassibility of his own body before those conditions actually were manifested in it, so does the eucharistic celebration in the churches grant a gift of future immortality and impassibility to the communicants, rather than rendering their bodies immediately immortal and impassible.26 Furthermore, while in the long run the Eucharist will grant immortality and impassibility to the bodies of its partakers, in the present moment the experience is purely spiritual; it is not of the body. This is made clear by the following passage:27 For we all confess in unison, we who are worthy to be among the Christians, that the blessed Eucharist performed in the holy churches is the body and blood of God, which fills us with the Spirit. It fills us through partaking in the divine communion and in spiritual delight. It is not with our senses that we see these consecrated things; but we believe that by means of the utterance of the eucharistic invocations the bread turns into the body and the cup into the blood of God (who suffered and rose for our sake), and, as I said, into the spiritual communion.

Thus, Severus’s understanding of the liturgical body can be seen to correlate with his view of the christological body: viewed from our present sensory perspective, the liturgical body, like Christ’s incarnate body, is a thing of this world, no different from any other material thing. But viewed from a future, spiritual perspective, the liturgical body is incorruptible, just like Christ’s soul and like his post-resurrection body. Later in this chapter, I will argue that this dual perspective, attested in the correlation between liturgy and christology extended to Severus’s ecclesiological views as well. But first we must consider what Julian’s position on these questions might have been. J U L IA N ’ S T H E O L O G Y O F T H E E U C HA R I ST: A R E C O N ST RU C T IO N

There is no direct documentation of Julian’s views on the liturgy. They can only be guessed at by way of contrast with Severus. The fact that the latter repeatedly

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returns to rearticulate his own position would seem to indicate that he and Julian did not agree on these matters. If Julian’s liturgical position correlated with his christological and ecclesiological positions to the degree that Severus’s does, we may offer the following reconstruction of what his liturgical stance might have been. Just as he made no distinction in the christological realm between Christ’s pre- and post-resurrection bodies, so, we may propose, Julian did not distinguish between the spiritual and the material aspects of the eucharistic body, nor did he distinguish between the communicants’ present and future experiences of the salvific effects of that body. Adopting a distinction commonly used in the study of the New Testament, we may say that whereas Severus viewed the Eucharist as bestowing a “futurist” or “unrealized” incorruption, Julian saw it as an expression of “realized incorruption.”28 Just as Julian belonged to the separatist party that advocated taking active measures to maintain the social body of Christ as incorruptible, and just as he viewed Christ’s physical body as perpetually free from corruption, so, I propose, did he view Christ’s liturgical body as truly incorruptible on both the physical and spiritual levels, with the power to grant immediate incorruptibility to its worthy partakers. Although there are no explicit statements of Julian’s to back up this proposal, it is possible to find several circumstantial confirmations. In addition to the charge that Julian purportedly made against Severus concerning the corruptibility of the Eucharist (discussed above), we have another confirmation in chapter 15 of Against Julian’s Apology. Severus dedicated this chapter to two tasks.29 The first was to refute Julian’s position on Jesus’s miracles.30 Julian had claimed that Jesus performed miracles through an extension of his incorruptibility and impassibility to the material world. The two examples he gives are the curing of the hemorrhaging woman through contact with Jesus’s garments,31 and the multiplication of the loaves.32 The garments were able to remove sufferings and the loaves were able to multiply beyond their material limitations because Jesus imbued them with the incorruptible force that was naturally part of his own body.33 The first task of Severus’s chapter was to refute Julian’s position. The second task was to offer “a short account (taš‘ītā z‘ūrtā) of the holy communion in the mysteries.”34 The bulk of the chapter focuses on the first task. Severus counters that neither the body of Christ itself nor some corporeal power that flowed from it performed these miracles. Instead Jesus’s divinity was their unmediated agent. The same God who created heaven, earth, and life itself is capable of altering nature at will. To do so, he had no need of using the “power” of his body, however immortal and impassible it may have been.35 The ability to perform miracles is “spiritual” rather than corporeal, and thus, argues Severus, it can be passed on to others. The apostles also performed cures via contact with their garments:36 but we do not say therefore that the apostles’ bodies and garments were impassible and immortal! What the apos-

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tles received from Christ was the spiritual gift of performing miracles. This gift had no bearing on the essential nature of their bodies.37 After discussing this matter for six full pages in Hespel’s edition, Severus shifts topic to the second task of this chapter—a treatment of communion. He first quotes Julian’s words:38 “The multiplication of loaves with such great provision signals nothing other than the power (h. aylā) of impassibility within sufferings of the Lord’s body.” Then Severus offers the following response:39 When, however, the Word incarnate at the supper of the mystery, first inaugurated this great mystery he took one loaf (h. ad gârs. ā) and, handing it over to his disciples, he blessed it and gave it to them, in the name of his death and resurrection, and said: “This is my body which is given for you for the forgiveness of sins.”40 This [loaf] which we also eat, impassible and immortal, which is full of total incorruptibility, fills us with its selfsame blessing and beginning of divine grace (t. aybūtā) and power (h. aylā) and the state which will ultimately come to be in us as the result of the resurrection.

Following these words, Severus goes on to cite a short passage from Cyril’s Commentary on John41 as a proof text, and within a few lines the chapter ends. The account Severus offers of the “holy communion in the mysteries,” is very short indeed, which raises the question of how it relates to the much longer exposition on miracles that came before it. Since the arrangement of contents in Severus’s Against Julian’s Apology was presumably dictated, to a large degree, by the original arrangement of Julian’s Apology, we could answer this question if we had access to the latter work. Since we do not, we must hypothesize an argument that Julian might have made that would accord with Severus’s juxtaposition of Jesus’s miracles with the Eucharist. The eucharistic position I proposed for Julian above fits the bill. In contrast to Severus’s theory of “futurist incorruption,” Julian, I hypothesized, argued for “realized incorruption.” In keeping with a christology that made no distinction between Christ’s pre- and post-resurrection bodies and in keeping with an anthropology that minimized the distance between soul or spirit and body, Julian viewed the Eucharist, the very body of Christ, as granting physical incorruption to the very bodies of its partakers. Within this context the appeal to Jesus’s miracles actually makes a lot of sense, especially given Julian’s specific understanding of these miracles. Just as Julian understood the miracles as happening as the result of regular, corruptible bodies (the hemorrhaging woman; the loaves) coming into contact with Jesus’s incorruptible body (or his garments), so he understood, in the exact same manner, the salvific effects of the Eucharist: regular, corruptible Christian bodies attained incorruptibility through their contact with the liturgical manifestation of Jesus’s incorruptible body. What was true of the eucharistic body must have been true of the physical body and vice versa, for these were, according to the assumption accepted by both Severus and Julian, one and the same body.

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Severus responded to this argument by insisting that Jesus performed miracles not through the incorruptible qualities of his body (for his incarnate body was corruptible), but through his divine, spiritual power. The Eucharist, on the other hand, corresponded to Jesus’s post-resurrection body, which was indeed incorruptible. This is why Severus has no qualms calling the host “impassible and immortal, . . . full with total incorruptibility.” He too accepted its incorruptible nature. Nevertheless, precisely because it corresponded to Christ’s post-resurrection body, the incorruptibility it granted would be manifested in its partakers only when they themselves were resurrected. This is why Severus makes a point in using only future-oriented language to speak of the blessings imparted by the Eucharist; he stresses that its blessings are promises for the future: “It fills us with its selfsame blessing and beginning of divine grace and power and the state which will ultimately (‘tīdā) come to be in us as the result of the resurrection.”42 This is in line with the proleptic language Severus used to speak of the Eucharist in the passages from Against Felicissimus quoted above. Thus, Severus objects to Julian’s identification of the physical, “incarnation” body with the liturgical body. Indeed he challenges the link between these two realms. A careful reading of Severus’s transition from his discussion of Jesus’s miracles to his discussion of the Eucharist demonstrates this point. It will be recalled that Severus ends the first, longer part of the chapter with a citation from Julian’s account of the multiplication of the loaves, and then he immediately continues: “When, however (dēn), the Word incarnate at the supper of the mystery first inaugurated this great mystery he took one loaf (h. ad gârs. ā).”43 Severus is drawing a contrast here between Jesus’s possession of many loaves in the miracle of multiplication and Jesus’s act involving one loaf in the institution of the Eucharist. Whereas the former is a pre-resurrection event, the latter proleptically points to our participation after the resurrection. This rhetorical contrast is reinforced by the usage of the word “loaf ” (gârs. ā) in both instances. This was the word normally used (beginning in the Gospel accounts) to refer to the pieces of bread in the miracle of the multiplication. But when referring to the bread of the Eucharist, both the Gospel accounts and Severus himself employ the word “bread” (lah. mā).44 His choice of the term “loaf ” to speak of the Eucharist in this context should therefore be interpreted as a conscious attempt to draw a sharp contrast—one that Julian refused to draw—between the case of the many loaves and the case of the one loaf.45 While the eucharistic theology I am ascribing to Julian has seemed scandalous to certain modern sensibilities,46 it is important to remember that this way of thinking about the Eucharist and its tangible effects was commonplace in late antiquity, attested at least since Gregory of Nyssa in the late fourth century.47 Gregory says that the “immortal body” of the host, by being in the body that receives it, completely changes (metepoiēsen) the latter into its own nature (pros tēn heautou

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phusin).”48 By means of the Eucharist, Christ “disseminates himself in all believers through that flesh, whose substance (sustasis) comes from bread and wine, blending himself into the bodies of the believers, so that man, by this union with the immortal, may also be a sharer in incorruption (aphtharsia).”49 John Chrysostom and Cyril of Alexandria further develop the theme, each in a different direction. They both inherit Gregory’s emphasis on the physical transformation the Eucharist performs on the bodies of its partakers. But whereas Chrysostom prefers to speak of a moral transformation that protects the body from sin and thereby prepares it for its future resurrection and incorruption,50 Cyril appears to intensify the material effects that ingestion of the host has on the body in this world. Thus, Cyril draws the same practical conclusions from the correlation of the liturgical and incarnational bodies I have hypothesized for Julian. Because these two bodies of Christ are essentially one and the same, we can compare their activities. Both impact the other bodies they come into contact with, in similar ways. Cyril links the healings that Christ performed with his incarnated body to the salvific effects of his liturgical body. Both stem from the same corporeal power:51 And since the flesh of the savior has become life-giving . . . when we taste it, then we have life in ourselves, we too are united to it, as it [is united] to the indwelling Word. . . . And verily when he was raising the little daughter of the chief of the synagogue saying, “Maid, arise,” he laid hold of her hand . . . giving life through the touch of his holy flesh. . . . And if by the touch alone of his holy flesh, he gives life to that which is corrupt (to ephtharmenon), how shall we not profit yet more richly by the life-giving blessing when we also taste it? For it will surely transform into its own good, namely, immortality, those who partake of it. . . . Even though we are corruptible (phthartoi) through the nature of our flesh, yet forsaking our own infirmity by the mingling of life, we are “trans-elemented” (anastoixeioumetha) to its property, that is, life.

Cyril’s eucharistic approach seems very much in line with the theory I have ascribed to Julian. The effects of Christ’s liturgical body on the one who ingests it are as real, as immediate and as fundamental as the effects of Christ’s physical body on the bodies of those who benefited from his miracles. To employ the terms I introduced earlier: for Cyril and Julian, the eucharistic body provides “realized,” rather than “futuristic,” incorruption. Severus, by contrast, could have turned to Chrysostom for support for his futuristic orientation. He does not, however, as far as I know, do so in the available documents. Perhaps this was out of deference to Cyril, but Severus might also have sensed that Chrysostom’s position was reflective of a broader “Antiochene” approach both to the Eucharist in particular and to overarching soteriological questions more generally.52 In brief, it is clear that the controversy between Severus and Julian extended to the realm of eucharistic theory. What exactly the differences between them were is less clear. Julian’s fragments unfortunately leave no traces of the question, and the

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evidence from Severus, while extant, is relatively meager. I have proposed, on the basis of a close reading of this meager evidence, to reconstruct the difference as follows: Severus, in line with his christological and ecclesiological positions, believed that the Eucharist—like Christ’s other bodies—was both incorruptible and corruptible. It was incorruptible inasmuch as it was spiritually transformed into Christ’s risen body in the liturgical institution. In this capacity it provided the gift, or promise, of future incorruption to the bodies of the believers who partook of it. On the other hand, the eucharistic loaf, inasmuch as it was still a thing of this world—seen with the eyes, broken up and divided with the hands, and eaten with the mouth—was also a thing of corruption. Julian, by contrast, believed, in line with his christological and proposed ecclesiological notions, that the eucharistic body was, like Christ’s other bodies, solely incorruptible. Like Christ’s physical body that performed miracles through its contact with regular bodies of this world, Christ’s liturgical body is able to transmit bodily incorruption—realized in this world—to those who ingest it. This difference in eucharistic theology has left clear traces later in the Julianist debate. The Neo-Chalcedonian monk Anastasius of Sinai, writing in the seventh century, presents a curious dialogue between a Gaianite follower of Julian and an “orthodox” representative. The debate between them begins with the orthodox spokesperson refuting the Gaianite’s belief that the body of Christ is incorruptible by conducting an experiment. “Bring to us,” says the orthodox representative, “the host of your church, considered by you to be orthodox.” He proposes to store some of “this holy body and blood of Christ” in a vessel. Then, he says:53 Within a few days if it does not become corrupt, or change or become altered, it will be clear that you confess Christ correctly, that from the very outset of the union he was incorruptible in every way. If, however, it does become corrupt or altered, you will need to admit one of the following: that what you receive is not the true body of Christ, but a type—or mere bread; or that due to your bad faith you have not called down the Holy Spirit upon it; or that the body of Christ was corruptible before the resurrection inasmuch as it is was sacrificed, made to die, wounded, divided up, and eaten. For an incorrupt nature cannot be cut, wounded on its side and hands, divided up, made to die, be eaten, and touched and held; such only is the incorruptible nature of angels and souls.

Anastasius does not allow the Gaianite to respond to this challenge. He presents him as changing the subject to a discussion about proof texts from the fathers. Later theologians, from the Middle Ages down to modern times, have tried to come up with a response to this empirical challenge.54 For our purposes what is interesting is that, at least in Anastasius’s mind, the inner logic of the two christological positions necessitated the respective sacramentological positions he assigns to each side. The advocate of consistent christological incorruptibility could not

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avoid the conclusion that the Eucharist itself must be incorruptible. But the position that recognized a corruptible stage in the life of Christ could recruit that to explain the visible corruption that the liturgical body undergoes. It will be recalled that in the previous two chapters I identified the role of human agency as an underlying difference between the two parties. Julian stressed its importance both in the bodily vulnerability that ensued from the fall and in the restoration of the prelapsarian, incorruptible bodily state. I argued, on the basis of Julian’s association with the separatist wing of the anti-Chalcedonian resistance, that differing opinions about the role of agency were also what lay at the foundation of the political controversy between separatists and ecumenicists. The separatists stressed the importance of human agency for the situation of the church and the prospects of personal salvation. If the church is corrupted by heresy, one must take the active, revolutionary step of leaving it. The ecumenicists, on the other hand, believed that remaining within the accepted age-old ecclesial structures was actually the correct path to salvation. Even if aspects of the church were corrupt, one did not have the right, or the ability, to leave it. This essentially conservative outlook sanctified the existing institutions. They were divinely ordained; human agency was of use only for changing them from within, not for overthrowing them. When it came to the Eucharist, it appears that there were also disagreements about the role of human agency. An issue that comes up in several of Severus’s letters written from exile55 concerns the consecration of the Eucharist by morally suspect, or otherwise inadequate, priests. The fugitive patriarch would receive requests from fellow anti-Chalcedonian believers—who often belonged to the upper classes56—to send them hosts consecrated by him. They did not trust the character of their local priests. Apparently, until they received these long-distance deliveries of the eucharistic elements they would abstain from communion altogether.57 Severus strongly disapproved of this custom. He wanted people to continue to receive communion from their local clergy, even if the priests in question were in fact corrupt. He explains that the transformation of the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ is actually not dependent on the priest who utters the words of invocation. It is, in Severus’s view, Christ himself who changes the elements, using the officiant’s words as his vehicle. To this effect, he writes:58 When the faith is one, the holy communion (šawtâpūtā qadīštā) also assuredly is one, not something different and diverse, even if one of the offering priests has a heavenly and high character, and the other a degraded and low one. It is not the man who offers the sacrifice, but Christ completes (gâmar) it through (byad) the words uttered by the offerer and changes the bread into flesh, and cup into blood, by the power, inspiration and grace of his Holy Spirit.

The point of communion is social unity. Just as the physical body of Christ is one, so must his social body, the church, be one. Thus, abstinence from communion

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with a priest out of concern for his moral purity defeats the purpose of communion in the first place. As we saw on the ecclesiological front in the previous chapter, unity for Severus outweighed purity. His method of allaying purist anxieties in both cases is the same. Purity is less of a concern because the individuals who are thought to corrupt it have a lower level of agency in the situation than might be supposed. Although the priest utters the words of institution, it is not he, through his own agency, who effects the transformation of the elements. This is done by Christ himself, who uses the officiant’s words as his instrument. This position reflects Severus’s overall eucharistic theology and the anthropological and philosophical assumptions underpinning his thought. At the various junctures of the divine and the human, of the spiritual and the material, of the soul and the body, of the future and the present, Severus, in contrast to opponents within his own party, grants agency, activity, and priority to each of the first members of these pairs over and against the second. Christ performed miracles with his divinity, not with his body; eucharistic communion is fundamentally a spiritual, not a material, matter, whose real meaning will become manifest in the future; the unity of the church is guaranteed by Christ and is therefore something that ultimately transcends the power and actions of individuals within the world. Precisely because of the more dichotomous relationship Severus saw between the two elements within each of these pairs, he was able to stress the priority of one over the other, without denying the coexistence of both. It amounted to a curious but pragmatic blend of a perfect ideal and a flawed reality. Julian, on the other hand, consistently sought to collapse these dichotomies. Divine and human, spiritual and material, soul and body, future and present, were all illusionary divisions. Perfect idealism and flawed reality could not coexist. Everything possible had to be done in order to transform flawed reality into the perfect ideal. This difference between the two camps is nowhere better demonstrated than in relation to the question of the diptychs. T H E D I P T YC H S

One of the most concrete and publicly available opportunities for the construction and inscription of authority and group identity in the late ancient church was the ritual of the diptychs.59 This ritual, strategically located at the heart of the eucharistic service, involved the recitation of a list of names of living and dead personages— mostly, but not exclusively, bishops—considered influential and authoritative to the community.60 Control of the list fell to the local bishop, but because of the political importance of the names listed in the diptych, community members and bishops from other locations also frequently tried to exert their influence on its makeup. Liturgical scholars have attempted to provide evolutionary histories of the diptychs, their place in the service, and the mechanisms of name recitation. Robert Taft

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has offered a four-type taxonomy of the diptychs: hierarchical diptychs, communion diptychs, confessional diptychs, and mixed diptychs.61 He draws a chronological, evolutionary line between these four types, placing hierarchical diptychs at the earliest stage of development and each subsequent type at a later historical stage. However, the nature of the material would seem to argue against this taxonomic, evolutionary approach.62 A dearth of surviving late ancient specimens of actual diptych lists and the geographically scattered and diverse evidence for the practice in literary sources conspire to render the task of reconstructing the early development of the diptychs extremely difficult, if not impossible. In the following discussion I will seek to sidestep these liturgical-historical questions and focus only on what we can learn from the evidence about the political role of the diptychs—how bishops used their control of the contents of the lists to forge political alliances with other bishops and to enforce the social identities of their own communities. In other words, rather than trying to figure out exactly what was included in and excluded from the diptychs, I will seek to understand how the very idea of having a ritual regulating inclusion and exclusion functioned politically. In fact, virtually all our earliest evidence for the names of bishops in the diptychs, stemming from the fifth and first half of the sixth centuries, is embedded in markedly political contexts. Already in this period the diptychs were “confessional” in the sense that they recorded not only the individual community’s own succession of local bishops but also a select number of “foreign” bishops who were of particular value to the community. The diptychs are repeatedly mentioned when questions arise as to the identity of the names—both local and foreign—to be included in them. Evidence shows that in this period confessional diptychs were in use both in the large patriarchal sees of Constantinople, Alexandria, and Antioch and in the smaller, local bishoprics.63 Thus, to cite an example from the early fifth century, Atticus of Constantinople corresponded with Cyril of Alexandria about the possibility of reinstating John Chrysostom—the deposed, but subsequently rehabilitated, patriarch of Constantinople—into the diptychs of Antioch, Constantinople, and Alexandria.64 This indicates that each of these patriarchates commemorated the names of the living and deceased patriarchs of the other patriarchates.65 Communion between the influential patriarchates was expressed through the mutual recitation of the names of one another’s leaders. Close to forty years later, in the spring of 451, Leo of Rome urged Anatolius of Constantinople to remove the names of Dioscorus of Alexandria, Juvenal of Jerusalem, and Eustathius of Berytus from the diptychs of Constantinople because of their roles in the Second Council of Ephesus (449 CE). “For it is impious and incongruous,” writes Leo, “that those who persecute the innocent Catholics should be mixed in indiscriminately with the names of the saints.”66 Some seventy years later, after Leo of Rome’s own name had been removed from the diptychs of

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Constantinople under the reign of Anastasius, the throngs gathered in Constantinople upon Emperor Justin’s accession demanded that Leo’s name be reentered into the diptychs, alongside the names of Cyril of Alexandria and the four ecumenical church councils.67 Thus, it is clear that already in the fifth century the leading patriarchs and their congregations understood the diptych in the most “confessional” of terms. The makeup of its list of bishops—local and foreign, dead and alive—served as the community’s confessional identification card. The confessional function of the diptychs was not limited to the great patriarchates. In a letter probably written in the early 520s, Philoxenus of Mabbug describes how when he acceded to the episcopacy of Mabbug in 485 he erased the names of several famous figures associated with the Nestorian movement. These included local bishops such as Alexander of Mabbug and bishops from other communities not necessarily even within Mabbug’s metropolitan jurisdiction: Diodore of Tarsus, Theodore of Mopsuestia, Andrew of Samosata, and Ibas of Edessa.68 Philoxenus’s testimony shows that just like the diptychs of the major patriarchates, the diptychs of smaller communities were conceived in confessional terms. This was true both before and after Philoxenus’s intervention. Philoxenus had erased certain local and foreign names in order to discourage Nestorian sympathies within his community; but those names were there to begin with because one of Philoxenus’s predecessors had decided to include them precisely in order to foster such sympathies. Philoxenus and his unknown Chalcedonian predecessor both used the diptychs in the same way: to define their community’s theological identity. The testimony to the common liturgical practice that Philoxenus offers about his own practices and those of his predecessors is corroborated by other reports. We have records of the complaints that lower clergymen of Apamea with Chalcedonian sympathies had leveled against Peter, who was bishop during the antiChalcedonian ascendancy. In a letter to the bishops of other cities of Syria II (of which Apamea was the metropolitan see) the disgruntled clerics of Apamea complain that Peter, “the so-called leader of our city,”69 had anathematized their holy fathers and removed their names from the diptychs. In place of these names Peter had dedicated the names of Dioscorus of Alexandria, Timothy Aelurus, and others on wall inscriptions in the churches.70 From a report of a petition the same clergymen filed before the governor of the province it emerges that Peter had removed the names of all the metropolitans of Apamea from Domnus to Isaac—in other words, all bishops in the city’s past who had associated with the Chalcedonian cause.71 As noted at the outset, it is not possible, given the diverse and haphazard nature of the sources, to determine the precise makeup of the diptychs. But what we can learn from all the evidence adduced above is the one underlying principle that dictated their composition. Names were added and removed according to political

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and theological alliances. We have seen plenty of sources prior to Severus—and there are plenty more—that demonstrate that bishops had no qualms about tailoring the diptychs to fit their own theological figures. It seems to have been a universal practice. I have not been able to find any source prior to Severus that takes issue with this practice. It is against this background that we must understand Severus’s position on the diptychs. In the course of my discussion of rebaptism in the previous chapter I cited Severus’s description of the diptych customs he followed when he was a young man, living in the monasteries of Peter the Iberian. At that time he adhered to the same practice we saw commonly accepted, on both sides of the Chalcedonian divide, throughout the Eastern churches of the fifth century. When in the position to do so, Severus excluded from the diptychs the names of all Chalcedonians, just as his associates Philoxenus and Peter of Apamea had done, and just as his Chalcedonian opponents did to him and to other anti-Chalcedonians.72 Later in life, however, once he had become patriarch of Antioch, Severus espoused a new position—new both for him personally, but also, as far as the available evidence shows, for the church at large. Several of the other anti-Chalcedonian bishops in the patriarchate of Antioch, most notably Musonius of Meloe and Solon of Seleucia, participated in an initiative to expunge the diptychs of all Chalcedonian names.73 But Severus forcefully opposed this initiative. He argued that with the exception of bishops who had actually signed the acts of Chalcedon, the names of all other Chalcedonian clerics should not be deleted.74 In several letters Severus defends his position on pragmatic grounds.75 Erasing the names of Chalcedonian figures popular in their communities at a time when anti-Chalcedonian ascendancy was still a recent and tenuous achievement would do more harm than good. It could alienate communities from the anti-Chalcedonian cause and impair attempts at achieving unity across the churches of the empire.76 As he did with regard to the rebaptism question, Severus presents his position on the diptych question as a matter of prioritizing the peace and unity of the churches over the “strictness” and “precision” of the canons.77 Although acknowledging that his position on the diptychs deviated from strict canonical procedure, Severus strove to support his innovative views with a battery of proofs from tradition, while casting the views of his opponents as unorthodox aberrations from the patristic past. Indeed, modern scholars writing on the question of the diptychs appear convinced by Severus’s rhetoric here. They present Severus’s resistance to purely “confessional” diptychs in line with the tradition of Cyril of Alexandria and the general custom of the church, and they portray Musonius and Solon’s insistence on purely confessional diptychs as “radical.”78 Nevertheless, a close examination of the proof texts Severus offers for his approach to the diptychs shows that most of them do not indeed prove his point, and in some cases they actually prove precisely the opposite case.

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I count six individual arguments that Severus provides from the patristic past for his position that one need not insist on the removal of Chalcedonian names (except signatories of the council itself) from the diptychs. I will review the arguments and point out the problems involved in each of them. The first three are arguments from silence. Severus recruits various cases in fourth-and-fifth-century church history in which members of the orthodox party (from Severus’s perspective) prevailed over or reached some kind of compromise with their erstwhile rivals without stipulating the removal of any names from the other party’s diptychs. The participants in the Council of Constantinople in 381 affirmed the decisions of “the 318 fathers” of the Council of Nicaea (325)—this, despite the fact that in the aftermath of Nicaea many of its original signatories went on to participate in other councils, like Sardica (343) and Ariminum and Seleucia (both 359), that rejected aspects of the Nicene Creed. Nevertheless, Severus argues, when the participants of the Council of Constantinople (381) affirmed the creed of the 318 fathers of Nicaea they engaged in no “vain talk or superfluous inquiry about names.”79 Similarly, after Cyril of Alexandria reached a union of peace with the Eastern bishops who had initially backed Nestorius, we find no mention of demands to erase from the diptychs the names of Nestorius’s recalcitrant supporters. Likewise Timothy Aelurus communicated by encyclical letter with the henoticist bishops Peter (the Fuller) of Antioch, Paul of Ephesus, and Anastasius of Jerusalem without demanding the excision of names of committed Chalcedonians from their diptychs.80 In light of the history of the diptychs reviewed earlier, Severus’s argument from the silence of the fourth-century sources proves untenable. All the evidence available for fourth-century practices indicates that at that time the diptychs had not yet taken on the official and fixed form that they would have in the fifth and sixth centuries. Given the ad hoc nature of the diptychs in this earlier period we should not expect there to have been debates about which names to include in them. It was not only the participants of the Council of Constantinople in 381 who did not demand the exclusion of names from the diptychs. Judging from the available evidence, no one in this period made such demands, since the diptychs were simply not yet conceived in the same “confessional” terms as they would be in the fifth century.81 As for Severus’s arguments from the silence of the fifth-century sources, these appear to carry more weight. Given that in other cases Cyril does express his opinions on the inclusion of certain names in the diptychs we might have expected him to voice his concern about the inclusion of the names in the context of the union of peace with the Eastern bishops. Nevertheless, as with any argument from silence, this claim is of limited force. Just as we might have expected to hear of Cyril’s rejection of Nestorian names had he been so inclined, we would likewise

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expect to hear of his willingness to retain the names had that been his position. Had such proof been extant, surely Severus would have been quick to cite it.82 The same holds true for Severus’s argument from Timothy’s silence. It is true that there is no record of him demanding the erasure of Chalcedonian names from the diptychs of the communities with whose henoticist bishops he entered into communion. But the reverse is also true: we have no record of Timothy having defended the retention of these names. Again, had such a record existed, Severus would have provided it. It is precisely because of the weaknesses involved in these arguments from silence that Severus attempts to provide three explicit proofs from Cyril, the paragon of orthodoxy.83 However, all three of these proofs are problematic, with two of them proving precisely the opposite of what Severus would like to deduce from them. The balance of evidence from Cyril reveals that he advocated the removal of names from the diptychs rather than their retention. In order to read the evidence from Cyril in support of his own stance, Severus resorted to a series of counterintuitive hermeneutical strategies that betray the novelty of his position. The most blatant case in point is provided in the following passage. In a letter to Soteric, bishop of Caesarea in Cappadocia, dated to 516, Severus writes:84 Though Eusebius Pamphili contended for the disease of Arius, both in speech and in act, the members of the church of Caesarea mentioned his name, until the holy Cyril passed by when he was hastening to the city of the Ephesians, and had his name removed. What shall we then say? That throughout the time during which the name of Eusebius stood in the sacred tablets it perturbed the oblation of men who held right opinions? What?

Severus is our only source for this report about Cyril having removed Eusebius’s name from the diptychs of Caesarea in Palestine.85 He must have borrowed it from some earlier source that is no longer extant, because he would have had no reason to fabricate such a report, as it proves exactly the opposite of the case he is trying to argue. Indeed it seems likely that Severus’s citation of the report is meant more as a defense in the face of an opponent who had already cited it against him than as an argument in Severus’s favor. Cyril’s action in this account is in line with the more traditional exclusionary position advocated by Severus’s rivals Musonius and Solon. Severus attempts to preempt the threat that the report presents to his inclusionary position by appealing to the situation before Cyril’s intervention rather than to the intervention itself. He argues that the fact that Cyril removed the name of Eusebius testifies that the local community of Caesarea did not consider it problematic to retain his name. But this is precisely the pattern followed in most controversies about names in the diptychs. Rarely does the community itself advocate for the removal of the names of its local bishops from its diptychs.86 Despite his attempt to rhetorically disarm

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this piece of evidence against him, Severus’s citation of the report about Cyril blows up in his face. Severus continues the same letter to Soteric by providing another citation from Cyril.87 He calls on a letter Cyril wrote to Proclus of Constantinople (434–446) following the Council of Ephesus in which he advised against an initiative raised at that time in Constantinople to anathematize Theodore of Mopsuestia and his books.88 Severus brings up the issue again in another letter, writing: For the holy Cyril also, after he had written a derisive book against Theodore and Diodore, the teachers of the impiety of Nestorius, . . . sent a message by letter to Proclus of saintly memory bishop of Constantinople not to remove the name of such men from the sacred diptychs, because those of the East clung to the memory of this man.

A comparison between the text of Cyril’s letter to Proclus—as it has come down to us—and Severus’s presentation of it shows, once again, important discrepancies that weaken Severus’s case. Volker Menze has taken note of the fact that Cyril speaks only of Theodore, saying nothing of Diodore. Severus turns Cyril’s specific words about Theodore into a general rule about the removal of “the name of such men from the sacred diptychs.”89 More importantly, however, a comparison with the text of Cyril’s letter reveals that Cyril was actually not speaking about the diptychs at all. He only addresses the question of the anathematization (anathematizein) and condemnation (katakrinein) of Theodore, not the removal of his name from the diptychs.90 Logically it makes sense to distinguish between anathematization and removal from the diptychs. It is the difference between explicit condemnation and the condemnation implied by the absence of approbation. In light of the evidence discussed earlier indicating the uneven distribution of diptych practices in Cyril’s day, it appears most likely that Cyril did not address the issue of the removal of Theodore’s name from the Constantinopolitan diptychs simply because it was not inscribed there to begin with. But even if Theodore’s name was included in the diptychs one could imagine Cyril supporting the erasure of his name but objecting to its explicit condemnation. One might feel uncomfortable invoking the name of a heretic in the eucharistic liturgy, but advise, for pragmatic reasons, against the active condemnation of that name. In fact, Severus himself shows that anathematization is not equal to exclusion from the diptychs. In his inaugural homily Severus condemned Theodore of Mopsuestia in no uncertain terms.91 Yet this did not prevent him from arguing against those who demanded the removal of Theodore’s name from the diptychs.92 Thus, once again, Cyril is shown to provide no proof for Severus’s inclusionary position on the diptychs. As with the question of rebaptism/rechrismation, it was Severus who was the innovator, and his rivals who were more in line with what we know of common practice.

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The final “proof text” Severus cites from Cyril involves the latter’s position on the inclusion of the name of John Chrysostom in the diptychs. Like the preceding cases, this case also proves, upon examination, more helpful to the cause of Severus’s opponents than to his own. Earlier we observed the correspondence between Cyril and Atticus of Constantinople about the reinstatement of Chrysostom’s name as an early instance of the “politicization” of the diptychs. As a result of the machinations of Theophilus of Alexandria, Chrysostom had been deposed in 404 CE. Consequently, he was removed from the diptychs of Constantinople and other cities. Following his death, however, pressures mounted, both from his bereaved followers within Constantinople and from Alexandria’s rival patriarchates Rome and Antioch, to reinstate Chrysostom’s name and episcopal title. This created a difficult situation for Chrysostom’s successors Arascius and Atticus, since the reinstatement of his episcopal title would imply that they were unlawful usurpers. Atticus, it will be recalled, eventually bowed to popular pressure and reinstated John’s name. In a letter to Cyril of Alexandria, he argued that social harmony and peace outweighed precise strictness.93 Cyril would hear nothing of this. Defending the actions of his uncle and predecessor Theophilus, Cyril vehemently urged Atticus to remove Chrysostom from the diptychs again.94 Encountering the evidence of this correspondence between Cyril and Atticus on the question of the diptychs, Severus needed to explain why he was taking Atticus’s side rather than Cyril’s. As in the earlier cases we have been discussing, Severus copes with the challenge by artfully admitting the problem while attempting at the same time to provide a solution. He writes:95 I forbear to mention also the celebrated case of the holy John who was bishop of Constantinople. Since you read church histories, you know that he incurred deprivation; but because of his reputation for right teaching and in order that those in the royal city96 who were in separation on account of the mention of his name might be reconciled to the body of the church, the holy Cyril waived the point, being apostolically minded in this matter also, and not seeking his own but that which belongs to Christ Jesus,97 and setting the benefit of ecclesiastical union and reconciliation (h. dâyūtā wnaqīpūtā ‘idtânâytā) against all subtle words and precision (qat. īnūt meltā wh. atītūtā),98 and that though in letters he often contended for canonical precision (h. atītūtā hây qânūnâytā).

Severus sets up a contrast between ecclesiastical union and reconciliation, on the one hand, and subtle words and strict procedure, on the other hand. He admits that Cyril professes the opposite view, but he contends that the latter subsequently changed his mind, advocating for Chrysostom’s reinclusion in the diptychs. Nevertheless, we have no explicit record of Cyril ever having changed his mind on this matter.99 Cyril’s own writings, as noted, reflect only his exclusionary position.

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This is corroborated by the fifth-century ecclesiastical histories.100 What does seem likely, however, is that over the course of time, as the original tensions between Chrysostom and Cyril faded from memory, and both men attained equal status within a widely recognized canon of church fathers, there would have been a keen interest to harmonize the differences between them.101 According to medieval legend, a vision caused Cyril to change his mind. In the vision Chrysostom came to Cyril in the company of the heavenly hosts and threatened to expel him from his episcopal palace.102 Modern historians are in disagreement as to whether Cyril did indeed change his mind.103 No one, however, to the best of my knowledge, has taken note of this passage in Severus, which appears to be the earliest known source to make this claim.104 In light of the foregoing discussion, we can appreciate that Severus had a vested ideological interest in telling the history as he does. Without suggesting that priority necessarily indicates origin, I cautiously propose that Severus played a role in the propagation of the subsequently widely accepted idea that Cyril abandoned his initial rejection of John Chrysostom’s name from the diptychs by placing considerations of political unity above strict canonical procedure. In order to describe the inclusionary stance he attributes to Cyril, Severus interestingly employs much of the same vocabulary that Atticus used in order to defend his position to Cyril. Atticus states that he is motivated not by a desire to mutilate the canons of the fathers but by his inclination toward the harmony of the people (tōn laōn homonoia); he places “universal peace” (oikoumenē eirēnē) before “the precise subtlety of words” (akribēs leptologia). It was a matter of “honoring peace before precision (akribeia).”105 In his characterization of Cyril’s position, Severus uses, as we saw, much of the same language. He writes that Cyril set union and reconciliation (h. dâyūtā wnaqīpūtā) against subtle words and precision (qat. īnūt meltā wh. atītūtā). The opposition between these two couplets, especially the second one, is similar to the opposition Atticus set up between harmony and peace, on the one hand, and the precise subtlety of words (akribēs leptologia), on the other hand. In fact, Severus’s phrase qat. īnūt meltā wh. atītūtā is probably the direct Syriac equivalent of akribēs leptologia. Elsewhere, Severus extols “universal harmony” (šalmūtā gawânâytā) above the “subtlety of words” (qat. īnūt meltā) in a manner that is strikingly similar to Atticus’s ranking of “universal peace” (oikoumenē eirēnē)” above the “subtlety of words” (leptologia).106 Thus, although Severus tries to father his inclusionary approach onto Cyril of Alexandria, in practice he molded this approach on the vocabulary of Atticus, Cyril’s rival on the question of the diptychs. What motivated Severus to advocate for the inclusionary position against his opponents within the anti-Chalcedonian episcopacy and in the face of the contrary evidence from earlier tradition? As we saw was the case with the question of rebaptism and rechrismation, the question of the diptychs also boiled down to the

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dilemma that existed within the anti-Chalcedonian community between the conflicting pulls of purity and unity in the social body of Christ. In the same letter quoted above in the context of Chrysostom’s name in the diptychs, Severus presents the dilemma in clear terms. Severus had written the letter to a group of his followers—Syrian bishops who had fled to Egypt in the face of Chalcedonian persecution. They had assembled to determine the status of Paul, formerly bishop of Olba in Isauria. Paul initially had joined the party of Musonius of Meloe, who, as we saw above, had demanded the purification of the diptychs of all Chalcedonian names. He then repented of his association with Musonius and now wanted to return to be considered a bishop by the Severian party.107 The council of exiled Syrian bishops had to decide whether to readmit him, but had difficulties reaching a decision because they sharply disagreed among themselves. Severus sums up the dilemma that divided the assembly in the following words:108 Therefore I bestow all praise upon the whole of your God-loving synod, seeing it both examined the demands of preciseness (hâlēn dh. atītūtā), and at the same time also considered the suggestions of a benevolent mind. In fact, both those who desired strict procedure (hây dh. atītūtā) did so because they took account of preserving an appearance worthy of confidence and suited to the church, and equally also those who inclined to mild measures were not of this opinion because they had anything else at heart than to bring about a bond of peace (esârā dšaynā) and to gather together those who were dispersed.

Having evenhandedly presented both sides of the debate—namely, those who “desired strict procedure” versus those who wished “to bring about a bond of peace”—Severus proceeds to unequivocally come down in favor of one side. He praises the council for hashing out their differences, just as the apostles had done:109 However, in such cases as these that plan must be followed which gathers together the limbs (hadâmē) of the church and has clemency as an additional advocate, and the example of the fathers who were thus minded in similar cases, and thus provided for what lay before them. Do not therefore think to yourselves that you did anything unreasonable in discussing this matter with one another (it is not right or proper for us to say that you were divided). Did this not also happen among the apostles?

Unity, for Severus, as we saw also in the previous chapter, outweighed purity. The sheer inclusion of “limbs of the church” was more important than special requirements concerning the soundness of these limbs. Severus explicitly states that unity for him does not mean the same as consensus. He balks at saying that the Syrian bishops were actually divided, since in his ideal vision unity is tantamount to unanimity.110 Nevertheless, he is comfortable enough to acknowledge the presence of division and disagreement in the real world of church governance.

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In light of Severus’s dualist eucharistic ideology discussed in the first part of this chapter, we may say also with regard to the liturgical-ecclesiological question of the diptychs that Severus’s position incorporated both an “ideal church” and a “real church.” Unanimity reigns supreme in the ideal church, but difference of opinion characterizes the real church. Both the ideal and the real churches are, for Severus, the one body of Christ. Unity and maximal inclusion are of prime importance. These are the considerations that determine the proper course of action in ecclesiological matters: “That plan must be followed which gathers together the limbs of the church.” The notion of the two manifestations of the social-liturgical body of Christ— the ideal and the real—implicitly emerges in another rhetorical angle Severus uses to tackle the problem of the diptychs. In three different letters written during his patriarchate, Severus applies the Levitical purity laws to the social body of Christ in the context of discussing the inclusion of questionable names in the diptychs. In one of the letters,111 he begins by citing Cyril’s objection to the anathematization of Theodore of Mopsuestia, which, as we saw, he interprets as an objection to the removal of the latter’s name from the diptychs. Having taken this position, Severus must fend off the claim that the retention of that heretic’s name might pollute the eucharistic oblation at which the diptychs are recited: When again the same holy Cyril of saintly memory wrote to the holy Proclus bishop of Constantinople at that time to spare the name of Theodore of Mopsuestia, who was the putrid source of the hateful and putrid tenets of Nestorius, in order not to give an opportunity to those who wished to disturb the church, shall we think that thereby some pollution and stain of heresy was inflicted on the oblation of the orthodox? By no means. If we search into this, there is no time at which we shall see the church to be pure (dakyā). It is already well known that such things have not nor ever will cause any injury (sūgpânā) to the whole fullness (mūlâyā) of the body of Christ (gūšmā damšīh. ā).

Severus rejects the possibility that heretical names might contaminate the Eucharist by saying that if this were the case there would be no time at which the church was not contaminated. But what kind of a claim is this? This is another case of “specific denial,” which we have witnessed elsewhere in Severus’s writings.112 Severus rushes to deny the logical conclusion of his position without offering any reason for his denial besides the shocking consequences of not denying it. It appears that in order to circumvent this problem Severus once again makes a distinction between the real church and the ideal church. In the real church heretical names have always been recited in the diptychs. Viewed from this perspective, the heretical names do indeed contaminate the church at a local level. But at another level, at the level of the ideal church, that which Severus calls “the whole fullness of the body of Christ,” the church as a whole remains pure.

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Severus goes on to develop this difference using a distinction found in the biblical laws of purity. Leviticus 11 gives a list of impure creatures. These creatures may not be eaten, and virtually whatever comes into contact with their carcasses is rendered impure. As an exception to this rule, Leviticus 11:34–35 makes a distinction between a case in which the impure carcass comes into contact with liquids in a small vessel and a case in which it comes into contact with large bodies of water, such as springs and cisterns. Only the former case renders the water impure. Large bodies of water, on the other hand, are not made impure by contact with the carcass of an impure creature. Severus applies this distinction to the effects of the recitation of “impure” names in the diptychs: In fact in Leviticus we find something like this written, where it is dealing with the pollution that is caused to anything by a dead body, as follows: “And all food that you shall eat on which water shall come, and there fall upon it any of these dead things, it is pollution; and every drink that ye shall drink in any vessel is polluted. However, of springs of water and of pools and of cisterns of water they shall be pure.” What then is it that is made known to us by this? That, when certain men who are by themselves, in a church for instance or in one city, or in monasteries perhaps, make mention of the names of those who are under suspicion and of dead men, like the similarly small amount of water contained in a vessel they are polluted by the mention, as if something dead were falling; but, when churches of many provinces and of dioceses are held in one bond of faith, and resemble fair fountains and pools and cisterns of water, the dead thing which has the property of polluting if it fall cannot injure; for it is swamped by the flow, and by the abundance of many streams. I have said these things in order to show from the God-inspired scripture, and from the bishops, the pastors, the upholders of right reason, that in such matters observance of every point is endless, and that mention of this kind does no injury (msagep) to the fair body of the church (gūšmā šapīrā d‘i(d)tā).

Just as the carcass of an impure animal transmits its impurity to water in a small vessel, so does the recitation of the names of heretics in the diptychs potentially defile the eucharistic offering of the orthodox. If, however, a large number of orthodox churches recite the same names in their diptychs the abundance of their orthodox faith has the power to counteract the polluting effects of the names, just as large cisterns and pools of water are not polluted by contact with an impure carcass. For Severus the heretical names are indeed “impure.” But, as we have seen repeatedly throughout this and the previous chapters, considerations of unity outweigh those of purity. In this case it is the unity of multiple churches under the banner of one faith that overrides the impurity of heretical names. Severus and his fellow anti-Chalcedonian opponents—Musonius, Solon, Isaiah, Gregory, and others—agreed that the ideal church, the true body of Christ, was one in which all its members subscribed to the anti-Chalcedonian faith. But faith is not a publicly observable, verifiable phenomenon. As bishops claiming positions

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of authority within society, both Severus and his opponents required tangible ways of either assessing or creating the anti-Chalcedonian faith of their congregants. Severus’s opponents, in line with earlier ecclesiastical custom, considered certain ritual practices the ultimate means by which anti-Chalcedonian identity was created and maintained. The orthodoxy of the eucharistic offering was guaranteed by the exclusive presence of anti-Chalcedonian names in the diptychs; the orthodoxy of individual congregants and clergy was guaranteed by their reception of baptism, or at least chrismation, at the hands of an anti-Chalcedonian priest. According to this understanding, Chalcedonian newcomers could not be considered part of the body of Christ prior to undergoing some physical ritual that marked them as members. Severus, on the other hand, did not require any such physical act of demarcation. For him, all that was needed was a verbal confession of the anti-Chalcedonian faith and an anathematization of Chalcedon. We have seen in the case of the rebaptism controversy that Severus insisted on verbal confession alone,113 strongly opposing any form of ritual demarcation for converts who had been baptized or ordained by Chalcedonian priests. In a letter that makes essentially the same argument as the last letter we reviewed, Severus articulates a similar position in the diptych controversy:114 If a man separates from many on the ground that they are infected with heresy, or that they communicate with those who are infected, let him with all his power maintain abstention from the dead body, and not mention even the name of those who are under suspicion and not genuine, lest it fall and pollute the purity of the communion. But, if the holding of the orthodox faith, and an anathema of every heresy reigns in the churches, and whole countries and provinces, and populous churches, confess one unadulterated confession, then names which are thought to pollute are inundated by the multitude of streams. It is good that no particle of a dead body should be introduced even into a large quantity of water; but if perchance it in fact happens to be introduced, it is cleansed by the quantity of streams, and swamped by the quantity of cleansing.

Unlike rebaptism and rechrismation, which Severus objected to on principle, when it came to heretical names in the diptychs, he preferred for them not to be included to begin with. Once included, however, he argued that the orthodox faith of the churches rendered them innocuous. This faith manifests itself solely in the verbal declarations of the churches. As long as there is widespread “holding of the orthodox faith, and an anathema of every heresy . . . and [the sharing in] one unadulterated confession” the heretical names cannot defile the church as a whole. But why would this be the case? If the church is really defined by its orthodoxy, how is this orthodoxy not adversely affected when it includes unorthodox members? Once again, I think that the logic of Severus’s position makes sense only if we postulate an underlying distinction between a real and an ideal church. For Severus

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the real church does not necessarily conform to the ideal one. The power of the ideal church is derived from large numbers of communicants and from their overall unity. These—not particular ritual practices—grant the “ideal” church the ability to cancel out the “impure” effects of heretical elements within the “real” church. With this logic in mind, Severus did all that was in his power to increase the number of communicants in the anti-Chalcedonian community, even at the cost of waiving the demand for strict canonical procedure. After all, church unity and demographic magnitude contributed more to the attainment of the “ideal church” than did customary canonical procedure.115 For Severus’s opponents, on the other hand, the real must conform to the ideal. No number of churches or level of unity among them can wash away polluting elements. Heretical names in the diptychs, communicants baptized and chrismated, and priests ordained by Chalcedonian bishops injure the body of Christ. It is in the hands of the orthodox bishop, as custodian of this body, to maintain its soundness by removing such injurious threats: deleting heretical names and granting new, “real” baptism and/or chrismation to converts from Chalcedonianism. T H E ST E R E O S C O P IC A P P R OAC H I N AC T IO N

In the previous two chapters I have sought to understand the ecclesiological—and therefore political—dilemma that the anti-Chalcedonian bishops faced, first under Anastasius, and then with added poignancy, once persecution began. Since Chalcedon was heresy, even if large segments of the Eastern Christian population (to say nothing of the West) swore by it, the question was whether Chalcedonians and anti-Chalcedonians were at any level considered to belong to the same church. Severus’s answer was yes. The Chalcedonians were, at a very basic level, part of the same church as Severus and his followers. Unity with converts from Chalcedonianism and the sheer number of churches professing the orthodox faith overrode questions about whether the church itself suffered contamination as a result. Others within the anti-Chalcedonian community viewed the Chalcedonians—their rituals, their names, and their persons—as anything but part of the church. There was no sense in seeking unity with them, since their presence would do nothing but corrupt, contaminate, and defile the one and only true church. Because of the uneven survival rates of evidence from the two parties to this debate, we know much less about Severus’s adversaries than about Severus himself. We are not in a position to determine how much overlap there might have been among these different adversaries on the various ecclesiological issues under discussion. Did the followers of Theodotus and Cassian, who required rechrismation, also demand, as did Solon and Musonius, erasure of names from the diptychs? Conversely, did Solon and Musonius also advocate rechrismation? What was the stance of each of these bishops toward Gregory and Isaiah’s, and later John

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of Tella’s, independent ordination initiatives? And where did Gregory and Isaiah stand on the issues of rechrismation and the diptychs? In addition to asking to what degree these different ecclesiological issues were interrelated in the minds of Severus’s different opponents, we might also ask whether these men had any christological or sacramentological ideas in common, which they might have shared against Severus. Although our knowledge of the ideologies and sociologies of these bishops and their followers is woefully limited, and the little information we have is transmitted by hostile reporters, we do have several hints indicating that these different issues were interconnected in the minds of contemporaries. In a letter concerning Musonius of Meloe’s wholesale diptych purification policy, Severus attributes the following reactions to popular opinion:116 Everyone thereupon shrank from this burdensome and endless statute, and thenceforward they talked to one another and said: “We are progressing by degrees; we shall soon be required to be rebaptized and re-ordained as it is said.”

Thus in the popular imagination, at least according to Severus’s portrayal of it, the demand for strictly anti-Chalcedonian diptychs operated according to the same logic as the demand for rebaptism and reordination. Both stances on these two ecclesiological issues reflect an exclusivist sense of group identity, and perhaps also a “realized” understanding of the effects of the Eucharist—a worldview, in short, that emphasizes confessional purity over unity with other Christians. We have two indications, discussed earlier in the book, that this exclusivist ecclesiological position might have been linked to specific christological positions condemned by Severus. We saw how Isaiah, at the height of the controversy between Julian and Severus, accused the latter of professing that the body of Christ decomposed in the grave.117 Since this was an accusation that Julian also frequently made against Severus, it is not unreasonable to suggest that there was some kind of social and political affiliation between Julian and Isaiah, although we can only speculate about its precise character. We have seen the connection between exclusionary diptychs and demands for rebaptism/rechrismation, and we have seen the connection between independent ordination initiatives and the incorruptible view on the body of Christ. Toward the end of chapter 2 we saw yet another bridge between separatist ecclesiology and incorruptible christology in the person of Theodotus of Joppa. Theodotus advocated for the rechrismation of Chalcedonian converts, and he believed, according to Severus’s telling, that Christ’s flesh was not consubstantial with ours.118 Incorruptible views of the physical and liturgical body of Christ correlated with exclusivist stances on ecclesiological questions pertaining to the social body of Christ. Just as the physical and liturgical bodies of Christ brooked no corruption, so the social body of Christ must not be allowed to receive any heretical elements

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into its midst, for if it contracted any such corruption it would, by definition, no longer remain the body of Christ. Theodotus of Joppa, Musonius of Meloe, and Isaiah of Armenia each strove in different ways to maintain the body of Christ pure and free of corruption. I propose that Julian of Halicarnassus, who was the spokesperson par excellence for incorruptible christology, as well as the most audible voice for the opposition to Severus that has survived, should be understood in the context of these men’s efforts on the ecclesiological and sacramentological planes.119 As an alternative to the purely incorruptible christology, sacramentology, and ecclesiology proposed by this coalition of opponents, Severus developed opinions that reflected a blend of both incorruptibility and corruptibility. On the christological level, Severus makes a distinction between Christ’s body before and after crucifixion and resurrection. While on earth Christ’s body was corruptible, but once it was crucified and resurrected it attained to incorruptibility. On the sacramentological level, Severus made a distinction between the Eucharist as it is perceived in the present, by our senses, and the Eucharist’s spiritual and futuristic dimensions. The former aspect is corruptible, while the latter aspect is incorruptible in itself and passes on future incorruptibility to its partakers. Finally, on the ecclesiological level, he combated Chalcedonian baptism and ordinations as corruptions of the faith, but acknowledged that once performed they were valid; he asserted that at a local and practical level the inclusion of Chalcedonian names in the diptychs adversely affected the eucharistic offering, but recommended against their removal. Severus’s motivation for these apparently contradictory positions was pragmatic. Inasmuch as he considered Chalcedonians to be part of the same ecumenical, imperial church to which he also saw himself as belonging, he sought to draw them near to the anti-Chalcedonian cause by minimizing the obstacles in the way of their inclusion. Nevertheless, Severus required a theological justification for this pragmatic position. I propose that the theological justification he developed for this social question mirrored his positions on Christ’s physical and liturgical bodies. The social body of Christ, like his physical and liturgical bodies, was, for Severus, both corruptible and incorruptible. The “real” body of Christ, the body of actual practice—of mixed diptychs and of Chalcedodian converts—was not pure. In fact, of this body it may be said that “there is no time at which we shall see the church to be pure.”120 But this body was “allowed” to be corrupted and still to be considered the true body of Christ, since at the same time there was also an “ideal” body of Christ, which Severus in one place calls “the fullness of the body of Christ.”121 This ideal body could never be touched by impurity: it never has been nor will be adversely affected by heretical names, baptisms, and ordinations. As a result of his particular ecclesiological blend between a “real” body of Christ that allows for corruption, and an “ideal” body that, by definition, can never be

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corrupted, Severus vehemently opposed the separatist initiatives of his antiChalcedonian colleagues. If the body of Christ is not affected by mixed diptychs and Chalcedonian baptisms, any attempt to break away from it, to set up a new hierarchy, even if dogmatically orthodox, was a form of secession from the divinely ordained imperial church, a blow to the unity of the Christian communal body. Such a “stereoscopic” examination of Severus through these triple lenses of christology, sacramentology, and ecclesiology can further help us elucidate otherwise difficult passages in his work. One such passage serves as a fitting conclusion to this chapter, since it showcases several of the issues discussed over the course of the book so far: the overlap between the physical and social bodies of Christ and the degree to which each is to be considered corruptible or incorruptible.122 In the final section of his lengthy Critique of Julian’s Tome, Severus challenges one of the latter’s proofs from the gospel. Julian had deduced from the pericope in Luke 8:43–48 about the hemorrhaging woman cured by touching the fringe of Jesus’s garment that Jesus’s incorruptibility was not limited to his body alone. Rather, it extended even to his clothes.123 Severus rejects this proposition as unfounded, claiming that it is not documented anywhere in the Bible or in the fathers. He continues:124 Indeed, John the evangelist wrote with reference to his seamless tunic woven of one piece from top to bottom125 that the Romans who crucified him did not rend it, rather they cast lots for it. As for the other garments, they parted them among themselves, thus accomplishing the prophecy announced in advance as if it emanated from the character of Christ: “They parted my garments among themselves and they cast lots for my tunic.”126 Now this tunic allegorically designates the fissureless concord of the church, which is the body of Christ our savior, and so to speak, [the church is also] his cloak and his garment, according to what Paul said to the Ephesians: “We are the members of his body,”127 and [this is so] since similarly each one of us is said to wear his body like a garment, according to what Job also wisely announced somewhere to God of the universe: “You clothed me with skin and flesh and wove me together with bones and nerves.”128

Severus expresses himself somewhat obliquely in this passage, but his message becomes clear once we read it through stereoscopic lenses. John 23, echoing Psalm 21, speaks of two types of garments that the crucifying soldiers removed from Jesus. They retained his tunic whole and cast lots for it, while the rest of his garments they tore up and divided among the four of them. Based on the clothing metaphors Job uses for the body, Severus understands the images of Jesus’s two types of clothes as referring to the body.129 Then, drawing on the Pauline trope of the social body of Christ, he interprets the two types of clothes as two aspects of the church. On the one hand, there is the whole, seamless tunic, which is the fissureless concord of the church. This, I argue, is equivalent to the incorruptible, ideal aspects

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of both the physical and social bodies of Christ. On the other hand, there are the individual garments that suffer from fissure and division. Nevertheless, they too are the body of Christ. These torn garments are the historical aspects of the church as it exists in the world. They are the multiple, individual, and corruptible members who comprise the church, whether they be Chalcedonians, “reanointers,” diptych exclusivists, or, indeed, Severus and his followers. As Severus and Julian each articulated their views on the different manifestations of the body of Christ, they were at the same time also developing divergent views on a completely different body. This was what we may call “the body of the fathers”—the emerging corpus of exegetical, theological, and epistolary texts written by a select group of ecclesial authors whom Severus and Julian alike recognized as authoritative. One’s attitude toward this emerging textual corpus determined how one read and deployed its constituent members. The next chapter will establish the two bishops’ respective attitudes to this patristic body, based on their usage of the familiar categories of corruption and incorruption, and change and perfection. We will further examine the implications of these attitudes for their positions on the body of Christ in its various manifestations.

4

The Body of the Fathers Textual Tradition and Exegetical Authority Everyone in the great, Christ-loving Alexandria, recognized that the letter I wrote to him was in fact mine. It was, as one would say, packed with patristic testimonies, down to the very last word, this being my preferred mode of procedure when composing a written inquiry or when a matter of dogma is at stake. severus of antioch, against julian’s additions, chap. 2 (hespel, polémique 2.1:5–6/4)

I look forward to the day when courses and monographs will exist in both comparative exegesis and comparative theology, comparing not so much conclusions as strategies through which the exegete seeks to interpret and translate his received tradition to his contemporaries. jonathan z. smith, imagining religion: from babylon to jonestown

T H E T E X T UA L B O DY O F T H E PAT R I ST IC PA ST

Toward the end of Severus’s last work addressed to Julian, Against Julian’s Apology, written when their debate had long lost any trace of politeness,1 Severus paints the following picture of his opponent’s textual practices:2 You supplicate and entreat certain rabble-rousers and others who, wearing the monastic habit like sheep’s clothing, adopt the custom of going around town inflicting the same harm as the wicked harm you inflict, inasmuch as they bring to you, as some gift, amputated testimonies and words severed from—as from a dead body (gūšmā mītā)—the texts healthily and perfectly composed by the holy fathers.3 And in their mercy they have pity on you as on someone in need and by their actions they enrich your wickedness—which is great already. You, like them, had the impudence against God to draft, without examination, texts compiled by others, just like those who, for the sake of profit, mold idols of foreign gods out of clay. It is to such people that Wisdom attributes the words: “I have calculated that it is necessary for us to gain profit even from wicked actions.”4 106

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This starkly polemical passage reveals that the “discursive fight”5 between Julian and Severus was not just about human and divine bodies, nor just about political, social, and liturgical bodies. It was also about how to construct a textual body. The textual body in question was an emerging corpus of writings by ecclesiastical teachers and leaders, men who came to be known as “the fathers of the church.” This “body of the fathers”—like any other body—had a history. The beginning of this history was still quite recent in Severus’s and Julian’s day. The appeal to the writings of postbiblical Christian authors—and especially to a set corpus of such authors—as sources of theological authority was something that had not really begun to develop before the fifth century. Earlier Christian authors had focused their debates on biblical interpretation and independent philosophical argumentation without explicit recourse to the works of their predecessors.6 Only in the fourth century did some authors gradually begin to turn to the writings of their precursors as sources of authority. Over the course of the first half of the fifth century this practice gained momentum, peaking around the Council of Chalcedon in the middle of the century.7 It was, however, as Patrick Gray has shown, only in the post-Chalcedonian era that patristic argumentation, symbolized by its characteristic literary genre, the florilegium, became the centerpiece of Christian textual culture.8 It is only in this period that we can first speak of a more or less defined “body of the fathers”: a corpus of writings by authoritative authors upon which all theological discussion is founded.9 This cultural transition did not play out without objections. A fifth-century trial provides an interesting early case of resistance to the elevation of the authority of the “fathers” to a level previously accorded only to scripture.10 The acts of the first session of the Council of Chalcedon incorporate reports of a trial held in Constantinople in 448 for the archimandrite Eutyches.11 When presented with patristic texts contradicting his position, Eutyches declared that “if it happened that our fathers have erred or gone astray in certain expressions, this, I for my part, would neither criticize nor embrace, but examine only the divine scriptures on such questions as being more reliable (bebaioteras).”12 Eutyches acknowledged that the fathers could make mistakes, but at the same time he refused to criticize them. While he definitely sought to prove that his own theological position was in line with that of his predecessors, he did not feel a need to completely harmonize all of their statements with the beliefs he derived from his one source of ultimate authority, the Bible. What is interesting about Eutyches’s prioritization of the Bible’s absolute authority over the fathers is that this was actually the more traditional view. It was more in line with what the “fathers” themselves taught. However, by the time Eutyches made this argument, on the eve of the Council of Chalcedon, the traditional view was beginning to lose ground. To Eutyches’s opponents, patristic authority shared a footing with biblical authority. Just as the biblical authors, understood to have

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been guided by the Holy Spirit, could never be said to have “gone astray,” so too were the fathers now thought to be divinely inspired and therefore correct and unswerving in everything they wrote. Patrick Gray views the Second Council of Constantinople (553 CE) as the date by which this process of the “canonization of the patristic past” reached its completion.13 By that time the traditional, more contingent view of patristic authority championed by the likes of Eutyches had completely receded in the face of the newer, absolute view. Severus and Julian flourished in the final generation leading up to the completion of this cultural process. As their writings make abundantly clear, both men had thoroughly internalized the new paradigm. Their theological argument centered on how to interpret correctly a wide range of patristic passages. Indeed, in their time the traditional understanding of the patristic past that Eutyches had still clung to in the mid-fifth century was by and large defunct. Both Severus and Julian would have considered language that described the fathers as “going astray” anathema. Neither would have entertained the idea of rejecting certain statements of the fathers because they were deemed to be at odds with scripture. By definition, every statement of the fathers had to be correct and perfectly in line with the biblical witness.14 Nevertheless, a close reading of Severus and Julian’s debate reveals that while there was much in their understandings of the patristic past about which they agreed, there still existed marked differences in perspective. In the passage with which we began this chapter and in other passages to be discussed below, Severus criticizes Julian’s mode of representing the fathers. He takes issue with the ways in which Julian collects patristic testimonies from a range of different sources and weaves them together to create one, coherent textual body. In addition, alongside their disagreements about the proper mode of writing the patristic past, Severus and Julian disagree also about how to read it, differing on the particular hermeneutical techniques suitable to the interpretation of the fathers. The disagreements between Severus and Julian were therefore not only about particular questions of theology; they were also about how to do theology in the first place. It was a question of how to conceive of and deploy the emerging patristic canon. Perhaps unlike other late ancient “canon debates,” theirs was not so much about what to include in the canon of authoritative sources, as how to use the sources in an already agreed-upon canon.15 Yet, as Jonathan Z. Smith has argued, it is precisely these differences in “strategies through which the exegete seeks to interpret and translate his received tradition to his contemporaries” that provide a “suggestive base for a redescription of canon” rather than the selection process through which the received tradition came to be “canonized.”16 The aim of this chapter is to provide this kind of description of the respective methodological strategies through which Severus and Julian attempted to “translate [the] received tradition to [their] contemporaries.”

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My argument is that, like their other corporal debates, Severus and Julian’s debate about the textual corpus also ultimately boiled down to a difference over whether it was incorruptible or subject to a degree of corruptibility. When it came to this textual body, the two men’s opinions were the reverse of their positions on the bodies of Christ. Severus is the one whose rhetoric and exegetical practices indicate that he viewed the textual body of the fathers as perfect, unchanging, and essentially incorruptible; while it was Julian who seems to have held the view that, although perfect in the ideal, in reality this body was not immune from many of the ravages of corruption and change characteristic of any textual corpus. Toward the end of the chapter I will attempt to explain why they each held the positions that they did, but it should be stated here that their apparent “reversal” of positions when it came to the textual body should not surprise us. These were two completely different bodies. The stereoscopic approach as applied to the various aspects of the body of Christ is irrelevant when it comes to this other body of the fathers. Severus, in fact, repeatedly critiques Julian’s textual project, using the same corruption vocabulary he himself uses to describe the body of Christ, without seeing any irony in this overlap.17 Similarly, Severus quite unself-consciously uses the same language of perfection to represent both his own understanding of the patristic corpus18 and his adversary’s conception of the body of Christ before the resurrection.19 In attempting to reconstruct the methodological debate between Julian and Severus we are faced with our own methodological challenge, one that is not dissimilar to those we encountered when we tried to reconstruct other aspects of their interaction. While Severus’s position is amply represented in his lengthy writings, Julian’s position can be reconstructed only on the basis of the citations his opponents have preserved from his works and, to a lesser degree, from his opponents’ polemically veiled representations of him. In what follows I begin by using the passage from Severus quoted at the outset of this chapter in order to unpack how he constructed the differences between Julian’s and his own treatments of their joint patristic past. Then, using fragments of Julian’s own writings, I evaluate to what degree Severus’s characterization of the difference between them is justified. Behind the veils of hyperbolic polemic there were in fact real points of difference in hermeneutical methodology between the two men. Julian, harking back to earlier patristic hermeneutics, admitted a degree of historical development and change in theological expression, while Severus actively pushed the post-Chalcedonian valorization of the patristic past to new heights, vehemently denying even the slightest degree of variation within the perfect corpus of the fathers. Severus, however, did not always advocate this radically idealized view of the patristic past. Some of his earlier texts, from the period before the Julianist controversy, demonstrate a willingness to admit a degree of historical contingence in

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the writings of his predecessors. The final part of this chapter will be dedicated to explaining Severus’s shift in hermeneutical methodology, and to the larger difference between him and Julian in their attitudes to the patristic corpus. I will ground these different attitudes in the shifting contest for authority within the anti-Chalcedonian community. SEV E RU S W R I T I N G T H E FAT H E R S

In the passage quoted at the beginning of this chapter Severus levels three accusations against his opponent’s textual method. First, he portrays him as mutilating to the point of “killing” an otherwise perfect and healthy corpus through the act of selectively citing snippets of individual texts. This procedure turns the citations into “amputated testimonies and words severed from—as from a dead body—the texts healthily and perfectly composed by the holy fathers.”20 Second, he portrays Julian’s literary activity as collaborative and derivative. Rather than acting alone, Julian is aided by “research assistants” of a sort, “certain rabble-rousers and others who, wearing the monastic habit like sheep’s clothing,” provide him with textual snippets on the basis of which he composes “without examination, texts compiled by others.” Finally, attributing to Julian the greedy calculations of the wicked idolmaker in Wisdom of Solomon 15:12, Severus compares Julian’s literary creations to the fashioning of clay “idols of foreign gods” for the sake of profit. Severus’s representation of Julian’s textual methods is a specimen of overblown polemical invective, drawing on themes found in earlier heresiographical literature.21 It teaches us less about Julian than about the images Severus would like to project of Julian, and, by way of contrast, of himself. At various points throughout his writings Severus differentiates each element of the portrait he paints of Julian from his own method of textualizing the fathers. As opposed to the procedure he attributes to Julian of selectively citing short snippets from the fathers, Severus portrays his own citations as holistic quotations that accurately reflect their original contexts.22 He repeatedly seeks to prove that Julian’s patristic testimonies, once cited in their full contexts, do not support the arguments Julian claims they do.23 Furthermore, Severus takes this notion of his own “full-bodied” citations from the fathers to the extreme. He presents his own mode of writing the fathers as one that consists of nothing but patristic texts, thereby attempting to efface his own authorial personality altogether:24 I mentioned the established and well-known teachings of the truth, without writing anything of my own—not even one word. Rather, I stated to him the bare words of the orthodox teachers. Therefore, he need not to have observed the person of the writer, but to have regarded the fathers themselves as if they were present and to have lent an ear to them speaking.

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Whereas Julian (according to Severus’s account) selectively embeds patristic citations in his text in order to support his own arguments, Severus presents the texts he writes as comprised only of citations from the fathers and nothing—not even one word—of his own.25 Julian’s text, by implication, is contaminated by his own heretical authorial presence, rendering dead the perfect body of the fathers. Conversely, Severus’s text, devoid of his own authorial personality, brings that body to life as a speaking agent. The reality of Severus’s own textual productions is different from the image he projects of them. In practice, Severus’s authorial personality is very much present in his writings. Just like Julian, he also selectively chooses what texts to cite from the fathers, how much of them to cite, how to arrange them, and how to interpret them. Nevertheless, the idealized images that the two bishops present of their respective modes of writing testify to how they each sought to use textual production to gain authority over their (still mostly joint) anti-Chalcedonian community. Both men agreed on the authoritative and fully binding status of the fathers. They differed in their understandings of the nature of the fathers’ own theological activity, in their hermeneutical stances toward the fathers’ textual record, and in their respective self-presentations in relation to the fathers. Julian, I will argue, accepted the historical situatedness of theological activity. He accepted that the fathers’ modes of thinking and expression could change and develop over time. He also assumed that the body of patristic writings was exposed to the same risks of corruption—both inadvertent and deliberate—involved in the textual transmission of any body of writings. Julian’s attitude to theological activity was tentative and pragmatic. What has survived of his writings reveals a man who views dialogue, textual emendation, and shifts in opinion as integral parts of the theological enterprise. Severus, on the other hand, casts the patristic corpus as completely immune to the ravages of change, disagreement, and corruption. He seeks, as I will show, to maintain this idealized picture of the fathers by resolving contradictions whenever they appear and by doing so without recourse to notions of historical context or rhetorical situation. Unlike Julian, who explicitly inserts his own authorial personality into his engagements with the fathers, making judgments and expressing his own tentative opinions, Severus seeks to assimilate his personality to that of the fathers: as if it is not he who speaks in his texts, but solely the fathers he quotes.26 Nevertheless, even while obscuring his authorial voice, Severus was seeking to assert it all the same. Soon after the passage quoted above, in which he claims that his writings do not contain anything of his own, “not even one word,” Severus proclaims, in the passage that serves as an epigraph to this chapter:27 Everyone in the great, Christ-loving Alexandria, recognized that the letter which I wrote to him was in fact mine. It was, as one would say, packed with patristic

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The Body of the Fathers testimonies, down to the very last word, this being my preferred mode of procedure when composing a written inquiry or when a matter of dogma is at stake.

Just as in the earlier passage Severus described himself as not having written anything of his own, “not even one word,” so too here, employing the same hyperbolic figure, Severus emphasizes that his writings are “packed with patristic testimonies, down to the very last word.” In this passage, however, Severus chooses to portray the absence of authorial intervention as the mark of his own exclusive authorship of the text. It is, ironically enough, precisely the fact that the text in question is “packed with patristic testimonies down to the very last word” that bears witness to its authorship by Severus. This assertion might appear paradoxical, but if the question of authorship is understood within the context of the contest over authority, it makes sense. Severus operated within a culture that venerated tradition and shunned originality, valorizing the authority of the past over the authors of the present. He realized that the road to authority lay in the relinquishment of authorship. But at the same time he also realized that completely severing all authorial ties to his textual pastiche of fathers would mean that he could not claim those fathers’ authority for himself. Had he composed an anonymous or a pseudonymous text, he could not have used it to exert political authority in his own name. As an exiled bishop and active community leader he could not afford to relinquish this authority. Thus he opted for a clever compromise: he associated the maximum possible authority of the fathers with his own text by portraying his own personal, authorial voice as a “conspicuous absence.” At the same time he claimed this very mode of operation as his own authorial innovation and thus indirectly inserted himself back into the text. Although such a concentrated and articulated appeal to one’s theological forebears became the norm in later generations, in Severus’s day it was still a relative novelty; something that Severus could in fact confidently assert was his own idiosyncratic trademark.28 Later we will examine in more detail Severus’s role in this shift in theological discourse. So far we have discussed Severus’s first characterization of Julian’s textual method and his contrastive characterization of his own textual mode: whereas Julian cited amputated scraps of text, Severus cited full-bodied ones. Severus’s second characterization, it will be recalled, portrays Julian’s literary activity as collaborative and derivative. According to Severus, Julian receives his patristic snippets from colleagues, composing, “without examination, texts compiled by others.”29 As with the first characterization, here too Severus offers at various points throughout his works an alternative vision, a contrastive reading, of his own mode of textual production. Unlike Julian, whose citations from the fathers are determined either by the selections he had found in florilegia made by others,30 or

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by his own faulty memory,31 Severus culls his patristic teachings from full-length books,32 which he personally assembles33 only after careful textual research.34 It is on the basis of his pretension to a comprehensive knowledge of the fathers that Severus can also make arguments ex silentio from the patristic corpus. He refutes several of Julian’s claims simply on the basis that he has never seen any of the fathers make the same argument.35 In contrast to Julian’s purported dependence on textual and personal intermediaries, both florilegia and “research assistants,” Severus portrays his own textual relationship with the fathers as unmediated. As with the first contrast he set up between Julian and himself with regard to the question of citing fragments versus citing entire texts, this contrast, too, between Julian’s dependence on intermediaries and his own independence results in the valorization of Severus’s authority both as writer and as interpreter of patristic texts. Severus’s bid for authority continues in the third and final accusation he levels against Julian. He compares Julian’s textual activity to the molding of idols out of clay, and attributes to him the sentiments of the idol-maker described in Wisdom of Solomon 15. In its full context Wisdom 15 contrasts the followers of God, “the sum of righteousness” whose “power is the root of immortality,” with those who are led astray by “the sterile labor of painters” and who are excited “to lust for the unbreathing form of a dead image.”36 Echoing well-known scriptural passages that mock the making and worship of idols,37 the text then goes on to ridicule the maker of clay figurines who “vies with goldsmiths and silversmiths . . . considering it high honor to fashion counterfeits,” but whose “life is more ignoble than clay” because “he knew not the one who fashioned him . . . and breathed into him a vital spirit.”38 Instead the clay-worker “counts our existence a game and our life a holiday bargain fair, for one must earn a living, he says, from whatever source, however foul,” without acknowledging that “being mortal, he makes a lifeless thing with his lawless hands.”39 In applying Wisdom’s images of the clay idol and its maker to Julian and his textual creation, Severus implies that Julian’s work is both ethically reprehensible and practically useless. Just as the idol-maker attempts to fool his customers into thinking that the lifelike image he has created is indeed a living, divine image, so Julian fools his readers into thinking that the patristic mélange he has composed has the same divine inspiration and authority as the original writings of the fathers. Like a piece of clay, however, Julian’s textual body is awkwardly constructed and lifeless.40 As with the other tropes in Severus’s accusation against Julian, once again we find him portraying his own textual practices as a reverse image of his portrayal of Julian. As opposed to the latter’s work, which corrupts and debases the divinely inspired body of patristic writings, Severus’s own textual project is said to preserve and enhance the divine status of that body. Already in his writings from before the debate with Julian, Severus stressed that the words of the fathers were divinely

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inspired.41 In the texts against Julian, he continues to employ much of the same language,42 carrying the notion of the fathers’ divine inspiration to its full logical conclusion. If the writings of the fathers are divinely inspired just as scripture is, so must they be accorded the same status as scripture.43 Both are equally authoritative sources in the determination of theological truth.44 Severus applies to the writings of the fathers the idea, traditionally associated with scriptures, that not only is everything contained within the canon true, but also all truth is contained within the canon. Any statement that cannot be found in the canon is, by definition, false.45 The Holy Spirit informed the fathers of every generation what to say and what not to say in order to combat the heresies of their day.46 Severus did not initiate the canonization of the patristic past. Rather, he radicalized a process that had already been under way for several generations. Since so much of Severus’s own writing comprises citations from earlier sources, his engagement in the process of patrification often manifests itself in his subtle, but meaningful, transformations of these sources. This is nowhere more apparent than in his treatment of passages by his predecessors pertaining to the very issue of how to construct the patristic past. Thus, for example, Severus cites an encomiastic passage on Cyril by Dioscorus, Cyril’s successor to the throne of Alexandria:47 Our wise and venerable father was a universal teacher. He wrote in an orthodox manner and without reproach like no other man, not only because he was a gifted wordsmith—for nature had also granted him this glory, along with everything else, from his youth—but also because, enriched with a divine gift, he has explained, to the degree possible, the mystery of the incarnation of the only-begotten Son of God. And there is nothing by him (wlā īt medem men dhaw48) that does not surpass all admiration—whether it be a treatise, or a letter, or an eloquent narrative; whether it be a common homily, or chapters, or anathemas—all are lucid and precise, clearly possessing intelligence and following in the footsteps of divine words,49 such that we may robustly declare with regard to them: “Whoever is wise let him understand these things, and whoever is prudent let him know them, because the ways of the Lord are straight, and the upright walk in them, but the wicked stumble in them.”50

Although this passage praises Cyril’s writings in glowing terms, it is important to recognize the limits of its claims. Dioscorus extols Cyril’s gifted rhetorical abilities in a wide range of literary genres, but he does not grant absolute authority to his particular words. Although Dioscorus states that it is thanks to a divine gift that Cyril was able to elucidate the mysteries of the incarnation, he does not maintain that Cyril received direct divine inspiration. Cyril’s writings are distinct from “divine words.” The former “follow in the footsteps of the divine words,” but they are not the divine words themselves. Severus first cites this passage in its entirety, and then, in the course of his discussion, he proceeds to rewrite part of it. He attacks Julian, writing:51

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You say you follow Dioscorus who has declared as a canon (a(y)k dabkânūnā emar) that every individual word of his [i.e., Cyril’s] (kul aydā dhī meltā dhaw) is decreed to be equated with the ways of the Lord, which are upright and which can lead even the wayward to lawful orthodoxy.

In this paraphrase, Severus invests both Dioscorus and Cyril with more authority than the original passage had done. He grants Dioscorus’s statements about Cyril’s writings the character of “canon” and “decree,” and he transforms Dioscorus’s subordination of Cyril’s works to “the ways of the Lord” into an equation. But, perhaps most significantly, Severus transforms Dioscorus’s original statement referring to every genre of Cyril’s writings (treatise, letter, homily, etc.) into a statement about every word of his (kul aydā dhī meltā dhaw). Dioscorus himself had written that “there is nothing by him [i.e., Cyril] (wlā īt medem men dhaw) that does not surpass all admiration,” while immediately going on to specify that he meant by that all the genres in which Cyril wrote. Yet Severus rewrites this statement to refer not to the types of texts Cyril wrote but to each individual word of his, and rather than saying that they surpass all admiration he says that they themselves are the ways of the Lord. Thus, Severus jumped onto the patrification bandwagon that was already under way before his time, and he drove it further. Already Dioscorus clearly held Cyril in very high regard, extolling the range of his literary output. But Severus, by reworking this passage from Dioscorus, pushes the patrification of both Cyril and Dioscorus to a new level. He invests Cyril’s every word with divine authority by (mis)citing Dioscorus as the authoritative source for this idea. In this subtle rewriting of Dioscorus’s words, Severus is essentially asserting that whatever authority earlier generations might have needs to be bestowed upon them by their successors. Cyril is only authoritative because Dioscorus has decreed this to be the case. In Severus’s words, Dioscorus literarily canonizes Cyril.52 But just as this was true of Dioscorus, so is it equally true of Severus himself. It is only thanks to Severus’s willful (mis)reading of Dioscorus that both Dioscorus and Cyril are endowed with an even greater degree of authority over Severus and his generation. There is, of course, a degree of paradox in this situation. The more venerated a tradition is, the more likely it is to be reread and rewritten in nontraditional ways. This seemingly paradoxical aspect of highly traditional textual culture is observable also in other historical contexts.53 To put it in the somatic terms employed earlier in this chapter: the more incorruptible and unchanging Severus would like to portray the patristic corpus (which is, in reality, subject to change and corruption just like any other body of texts), the more he will need to reinterpret and rewrite that corpus in order for it to fit his ideal. In the case of his rewriting of Dioscorus we see an example of one strategy by which Severus achieved this goal. Later in this chapter, once we have presented

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Julian’s view of the patristic body, we will examine another strategy Severus employed toward this end. Just as Severus acknowledges that Cyril’s patristic authority was predicated on Dioscorus’s bestowal of that authority on him, so does Severus argue that the same is true of his own position. He casts himself as a continuator of the patristic tradition, and therefore, by his own definition, as the contemporary interpreter of that tradition. In one instance, after valorizing the fathers of every generation as conduits of divine inspiration, and stressing the need to follow their every word, he concludes with the following statement:54 It is therefore truthfully a matter of importance, and of great importance for our generation, especially since we are included in the order of the teachers (t. aksā dmalpânē), to examine and to state clearly and without falsification those things that were cultivated and discussed by them.

The preservation and interpretation of patristic tradition lie in the hands of its most recent representatives.55 Obedience to the fathers is, by definition, obedience to Severus.56 By casting himself in this position Severus is able to lay claim to the same divine authority he grants the fathers. In fact, on some occasions Severus presents himself as nothing less than the representative of God and the embodiment of truth.57 Severus and Julian operated within a culture whose primary mode of theological writing consisted in drawing proof texts from a broad corpus of predecessors and stringing them together in order to create a meaningful, persuasive, and authoritative textual body. Inasmuch as the author of this textual body considers himself to be the latest link in the chain of divinely inspired fathers (even while he might demurely claim this is not the case), he imagines his own textual activity along the lines of divine creation. Just as God can form living beings out of preexistent material and endow them with perfect, harmoniously coordinated bodies, so can the divinely inspired, patristic author do the same. By artfully assembling the texts of his predecessors he creates a multifaceted, harmonious body, free of all editorial corruption.58 This stands in stark contrast to the portrait Severus paints of Julian’s textual production. Whereas Severus’s texts are divine and full-bodied, Julian’s are dismembered and idolatrous. Like a clay idol, which, although having a semblance of vitality, is in fact nothing more than a corruptible, inanimate imitation of a live body, Julian’s treatises, while appearing to be legitimate, divinely inspired theological tracts within the patristic tradition, are in fact nothing more than corrupt, patchwork imitations of true theology.59 Until now we have dealt with Severus’s portrayals of his and Julian’s respective modes of rewriting the fathers. We will return later to Severus’s perspective on the differences between how he and Julian read the fathers (as much as the notions of rewriting and reading can be separated). First, however, we must turn to the evi-

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dence from Julian, as it emerges from both his textual practices and his explicit, programmatic statements. J U L IA N W R I T I N G T H E FAT H E R S

Severus, as we have seen, portrays Julian as being overly selective in his usage of sources, too dependent on the aid of others, and the equivalent of a corrupt idolmaker. As far as the first accusation goes, we have seen that inasmuch as both men participated equally in a culture of textual bricolage, the same charge could have been leveled against Severus. Indeed, in one place, Julian, according to Severus’s report, did just that:60 He accuses me, saying that I truncated the words of St Cyril which come before the testimony; he cites in . . . his obscure treatise, the very many words of the teacher that precede the testimony, thinking that through this sheer abundance he could disturb and confuse the minds of his audience.

Both Severus and Julian accuse each other of not citing patristic passages in their full context. When it comes to the extent of their citations, however, there is no actual difference between their respective approaches. Similarly, Severus’s comparison of Julian’s writing practices to idol-making is obviously only an expression of Severus’s own polemic, rather than reflecting any practical difference between them. When it comes, however, to Severus’s second accusation—namely, that in his textual activities Julian relied on the efforts of others—ample corroboration can be found in Julian’s own statements. Already in the opening sentence of his first letter to Severus,61 and throughout the rest of their correspondence, Julian repeatedly portrays his theological activity as being in conversation with others. It was in response to citations certain individuals had made from Cyril’s writings that Julian first broached the subject of Christ’s incorruptibility with Severus. And indeed, the very fact that Julian submissively sought Severus’s advice on the matter is a testament to his collaborative approach to theology.62 Julian’s collaborative attitude contrasts with Severus’s more isolationist approach. The latter repeatedly emphasizes that he operates alone. He works with books, not with people.63 Because of his exile he is not even able to rely on the help of scribes. He must produce everything on his own.64 Much to Julian’s consternation, Severus is reluctant to enter into a written debate with him.65 He fears that the subtleties of dialectical reasoning will lead to misunderstandings and derail the discussion into unnecessary controversy. For this reason he delays writing a response to Julian, does not publish the response once he writes it, and begs, for the sake of unity, to await the opportunity to discuss the matter in person.66 Severus is straightforward about his reasons for this:67

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For Severus, difference of opinion was contrary to theological truth and a threat to political unity. When such differences arose they had to be ironed out orally and they could not be committed to writing, lest they leak out to the public. Posterity must know only the unified, harmonized side of theology. Julian, on the other hand, considered disagreement part and parcel of the theological enterprise. There was no “shame” in conducting theological arguments in writing, for through this medium each side would try to convince the other with the hopes of ultimately hashing out an agreement.68 The two men’s respective ways of writing theology reflected a fundamental difference of opinion over the essence of the theological process. Severus demanded that any “embodied” piece of theology—that is, any piece of theological writing (as opposed to oral discussion)—must be perfect: harmonious, unified, and unchangeable. Julian, on the other hand, viewed theological writing, like theological conversation, as more of a perfectible process. His end goal was the same as Severus’s: ultimately, theology should aspire to the same harmony and unity that Severus demanded of each and every piece of theological writing, but Julian perceived such unity more as an ultimate goal to be achieved through a gradual process of give-and-take. For Julian, theology “embodied” in writing was still a form of conversation. Julian’s “perfectible” notion of writing theology comes through also in his philological approach to the patristic corpus. In his first letter to Severus, Julian addresses three patristic testimonies that the advocates of Jesus’s bodily corruptibility had adduced in support of their case: two from Cyril and one from a homily of Severus.69 Julian cites the testimonies, explains the conclusions his opponents drew from them, and proposes alternative explanations of his own. His interpretation of the citation from Severus offers a telling indication of his approach to the patristic corpus and of the lengths to which he was willing to take it. The advocates of Christ’s corruptibility cited the following sentences from Severus’s 67th Cathedral Homily, on the Virgin Mary:70 The body of our Lord was not at all subjected to the corruption from sin (h. bâlā dmen h. t. ītā). But it was receptive to that which is from death and burial (dhaw dēn dmen mawtā waqbūrtā mqablânā). It was through this that he destroyed death.

This elliptical passage bears unpacking. What it says is that although Christ’s body was not subject to the form of corruption that comes from sin, it was subject to the

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form of corruption that comes from death and burial. It was in that body that Christ ended up destroying death by means of his own death and resurrection. The upshot of this statement, as far as the incorruptibility controversy is concerned, is that Christ’s incarnated body was subject to the corruption that results in death and burial. This directly contradicts Julian’s idea that although Christ voluntarily submitted himself to death and burial, his body was essentially incorruptible. But Julian has a solution:71 This is, I think, an erroneous transcription (saklūtā dmen ktībtā); it should actually be stated in the following manner: not that he was receptive to that which is from death and burial (haw dmen mawtā waqbūrtā), but rather that (he was receptive) to death and burial themselves (dīleh dmawtā wdaqbūrâtā).

Julian rereads Severus’s text to suit his own position. Rather than reading that Christ’s body was receptive to the corruption “from death and burial,” Julian reads the text as saying that Christ’s body was receptive to “death and burial themselves.” He justifies this move by supposing (“I think”) that an error had crept into the text in the process of its transmission. Julian offers no concrete textual evidence for this claim; he does not even pretend that there is a manuscript with the reading he advocates. He merely postulates that this must be the correct reading. Making this claim in a letter to Severus with reference to one of the latter’s own homilies involved no small degree of presumption. It is not entirely clear, however, that Julian indeed knew that the homily was by Severus. He nowhere signals this in his letter, and the text may be understood as implying that he thought that this homily, like the two other testimonies he quotes in the letter, was by Cyril.72 In any case, whether he knew this text was by Severus or thought it was by Cyril, the claim itself is remarkable. Faced with a passage challenging his own theological position, Julian could have chosen from a variety of possible responses: he could have changed his opinion; he could have reinterpreted the text to suit his own opinion; or he could have disputed on various grounds the validity or authority of the text. What he chose to do was to rewrite the text. He justifies this decision by appealing to the familiar reality of textual culture prior to the invention of printing, in which the people charged with the preservation and transmission of texts—scribes, patrons, interpreters, translators, and couriers—had as much say in the determination of the content of these texts as their authors did.73 Julian’s move with regard to the fathers is reminiscent of the common late ancient rationale for the allegorical interpretation of the Bible. Origen and likeminded interpreters viewed the various “bumps and gaps” that arose from more “literal” readings of the Bible as incentives for allegorical interpretation. The resulting allegorical readings, in turn, served to further destabilize the “literal” readings.74 Similarly, the essential corruptibility of the process of textual transmission provided Julian with an incentive for challenging the commonly accepted textual

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state of any given patristic work.75 Appealing to a widely recognized aspect of textual transmission, Julian applied his method with far-reaching results. Any text could be potentially rewritten so as to agree with the ideas one supposed it should agree with. There is irony in this: it is precisely the critic’s attempt to remove the text’s cumulative corruptions and to restore it to its original condition that leads him to introduce more “corruption” and to distance the text even further from its “original” condition.76 Yet the “perfectible” understanding of the theological enterprise that I have ascribed to Julian might serve to attenuate the irony. According to this view, the evolving reception of a text could actually improve on its “original” contents. For Severus, however, with his “perfectionist” view of theology, this approach was off-limits. The original form of the text was its purest, and any change introduced into it thereafter was, by definition, a corruption. Severus, as a rule, avoided textual emendation as a technique for neutralizing hermeneutically challenging passages.77 As an alternative to this approach he relied on the technique of interpretive distinctions. This allowed him to read the text as saying something other than it appeared to be saying, without actually having to rewrite it. We will examine Severus’s approach in more detail later; here I would like to highlight the contrast with Julian by analyzing their respective treatments of one patristic passage. The entirety of Severus’s Apology for the Philalethes is dedicated to refuting claims made by the followers of Julian that certain passages of Severus’s anti-Chalcedonian work, the Philalethes, support Julian’s stance on incorruptibility. Severus’s statement in chapter 143 of the work offers one example:78 For while they [i.e., the Chalcedonians] deem and even dare to declare that the flesh of the Lord is corruptible—seeing that St Cyril says that it was corruptible by nature, for it was from the Virgin Mary, who is consubstantial with us, nevertheless it is incorruptible and it is not in any way subservient to corruption, on account of its union with the Word, which is by nature incorruptible.

This statement from Severus’s early work would seem to provide clear support for Julian’s claim that from the moment of the incarnation Jesus’s body was incorruptible. The older Severus, however, must account for this youthful text in light of his later views. Rather than emending the text on the basis of a claim he could have made that his text had been intentionally corrupted, Severus chooses to take another route. Following a lengthy quotation of the entire chapter, he flatly declares that “the entire chapter and the apology dedicated to it concern the time of resurrection.”79 Although chapter 143 of the Philalethes appears to be dealing with the body of Christ from the very moment of the incarnation, speaking of the “union with the Word,” which is normally thought of as occurring then, the older Severus insists that his text must be read differently. It all refers only to the post-resurrection

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body of Christ. Rather than changing the wording of the text itself, as Julian might have done, Severus introduces a new interpretive distinction into the text. Julian’s and Severus’s respective hermeneutical approaches do not normally confront each other directly. These approaches are recruited only in cases where an earlier text is perceived to pose a challenge. Given the theological disagreement between the two men, passages that one of them considers to be a challenge, the other normally considers to be a proof text. Julian applies his “perfectible” approach to texts that might seem to be more in line with Severus’s theological positions, and Severus applies his “perfectionist” approach to texts that appear to be more in line with Julian’s theology. The following case, however, provides a rare instance of a direct confrontation between the two hermeneutical approaches. It concerns a passage from the work known as Kata Meros Pistis (A Detailed Exposition of Faith) attributed to the thirdcentury “holy man” Gregory Thaumaturgus. Already in late antiquity it was suspected that the work was an Apollinarian forgery, and this suspicion has been universally confirmed by modern scholarship.80 The work contains the following statement:81 For God, having been incarnated in human flesh (sarx/besrā), possesses his own, pure activity, inasmuch as the mind (nous/hawnā) is unvanquished by the passions of the soul and the body.

The language of this passage seems to imply that even after he became incarnated in a body, Christ retained his divine mind (nous). It was passages like this that induced certain Chalcedonian critics (and their latter-day scholarly followers) to brand this text as the work of Apollinarius of Laodicea. It was Apollinarius who maintained that although incarnated in a human body, Christ possessed the divine Logos in place of a rational human mind. Eager to defend Kata Meros Pistis as the genuine work of Gregory Thaumaturgus and to retain it within the corpus of recognized patristic writings, both Julian and Severus felt the need to respond to the Chalcedonian critiques. Their respective solutions reflect their essential difference in hermeneutical approach. Employing the same method we witnessed above, here too Julian meets the challenge by emending the text. He proposes removing the words “the mind” from the statement “the mind is unvanquished by the passions of the soul and the body.” Julian thus collapses the contrast in the original sentence between flesh and passions, on the one hand, and “pure activity” and “the mind,” on the other hand.82 In Julian’s emended version the sentence is made out to read as follows:83 For when God became incarnated in human flesh he possessed his own, pure activity, inasmuch as it is unvanquished by the passions of the soul and the body.

According to this reading, God’s “own, pure activity” can be understood as affecting the “human flesh,” rendering it “unvanquished by the passions of the soul and

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the body.” Thus, by omitting the single word “mind” (nous/hawnā) Julian is able to kill two birds with one stone. On the one hand, he neutralizes the Chalcedonian claim that the text expresses an Apollinarian agenda: it no longer contrasts human flesh and a divine mind, since it is not speaking of the mind at all. On the other hand, he can now recruit this very passage as a proof text for his own christology. It can now be read as saying that Christ’s flesh was not affected by the passions of the body and the soul. Severus, as we might expect, was outraged by this move.84 Although cognizant of the Chalcedonian claims of Apollinarian forgery, he objected to countering them with more forgery. The text thought to be written by Gregory Thaumaturgus must be allowed to stand as it is; it could only be cleared of the accusations of Apollinarianism through the methods of reinterpretation. Although the text speaks of human flesh (sarx/besrā) and mind (nous/hawnā) alongside one another, it should not be interpreted as conjoining the two in the same physical person of Jesus. Rather, according to the interpretive distinction proposed by Severus, when speaking of “the mind” this passage is not referring to it in the normal sense of “a component of personhood,” but rather as a synonym for the Logos. Thus, the text should not be read as saying that alongside human flesh the Logos replaced the mind. It is merely speaking of two different aspects of God the Son: Jesus’s human person (consisting of both flesh and mind), on the one hand; and the divine Logos, which Gregory here calls in an abstract way “Mind,” on the other hand. Severus proceeds to find support in two texts by Gregory Nazianzus that call the Logos “Mind,” without particular reference to the physical person of Jesus.85 To sum up, Severus and Julian employed very different methods in their respective interpretations of patristic texts. When faced with a hermeneutical challenge, either in the form of contradictions within the sources, or in the form of sources that contradicted his own positions, Severus’s preferred mode of operation was reinterpretation. Although the text might appear to be saying one thing, Severus would offer a casuistic distinction that enabled it to mean something else. Julian, on the other hand, sought to resolve hermeneutical challenges by revision. He defends this approach by appealing to the generally acknowledged flawedness of textual transmission. Severus conceived of the textual body of the fathers as divinely inspired and unchanging. Any blemish appearing on this perfect body is only an illusion, which the interpreter must dispel. Julian, conversely, had a perfectible view of the patristic body. Although he believed the patristic authors to be divinely inspired, he acknowledged that in reality the process of textual transmission was subject to change. The body’s blemishes are real but not permanent. It was the contemporary theologian’s role to help realize the body’s potential for perfection by removing its blemishes.

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Julian, however, did not just advocate for the revision of patristic texts. He also showed receptiveness to the idea that patristic thought itself could change over time. It is to this subject that we now turn. J U L IA N R E A D I N G T H E FAT H E R S

During the long-standing Chalcedonian debate of late antiquity, no single church father’s legacy was more hotly contested than Cyril of Alexandria’s. Both sides claimed Cyril as their own.86 This state of affairs was made possible by the fact that over the course of his career Cyril does indeed seem to have changed his mind, or at least his mode of expression.87 In his earliest writings, aimed against Arians and Synousiasts (extreme Apollinarians), Cyril invoked two-nature terminology.88 Then, in texts written in the context leading up to the Council of Ephesus in 431, he asserted one nature in Christ, explicitly denying two natures.89 But in the context of his reconciliation with the Eastern churches, which culminated in 433, Cyril spoke once again of the union of two natures in Christ.90 Already in his own day there was some confusion as to what Cyril’s true opinion was.91 Cyril himself addresses this apparent contradiction. In a series of letters written in the course of the 430s he explains that Christ unifies within himself the divine and human natures, such as an ordinary man unifies within himself the two natures of soul and body. But just as the soul and body of man are distinct only on the level of mental conception, whereas in practice they both belong to one man, so are the two natures of Christ distinct only on the level of mental conception, while in practice Christ is one.92 As for his earlier statements about the one nature of Christ, Cyril explains these as intentional exaggerations designed to provide a dramatic counterpoint to Nestorius’s notion of two separate natures in Christ.93 Cyril resolves the apparent contradictions within his work not as a pious exegete of inherited tradition but as a man anxious to defend the consistency of his own thought. Julian of Halicarnassus, writing a century later, revered Cyril as a church father. Nevertheless, he approaches Cyril’s apparent shift of opinion in the same manner as Cyril himself did:94 I did not agree to speak after the Union of the properties of activities and natures. Also in this I have followed the intention of the blessed Cyril. For it is he who heals his own writing (māsē lmaktbânūtā) on this matter and states that these things come under the denotation of “nature” only by means of the subtlety of thought and the imaginations of the mind.

Julian alludes to Cyril’s second letter to Succensus,95 written to clarify his position to his allies. It is for this reason that Julian describes Cyril’s activity as a form of literary “healing.” Writing to his old colleagues from the Nestorian controversy, Cyril “heals” the terms he had used in his reconciliation with the opposing party.

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I will soon focus my attention on the history of the application of this medical metaphor to textual interpretation, but first let us take a step back to appreciate the broader import of Julian’s statement. Julian claims he is following Cyril’s authoritative precedent in accepting the historical situatedness and rhetorical embeddedness of theological expression. Cyril could write one way when countering Nestorius, another way when reconciling with John of Antioch, and yet another way when addressing his traditional allies. Differing historical circumstances can serve to resolve apparent theological contradictions. Severus, however, found this hermeneutical stance unacceptable. He lambastes Julian for implying that Cyril might have changed his mind: He who wrote in every place in agreement with himself, imparting by means of these very same teachings the orthodox doctrine—how could you slander him as one who has made a mistake (askel) in one place and has then corrected his mistake (tares. lsaklūtā) in another place and in another writing?96

Severus’s notion of the fathers of the church as divinely inspired conduits of orthodoxy precluded any possibility of historical change or development in their writings. Explanations based on a text’s particular circumstances of composition, the author’s intended audience, or his specific rhetorical needs were off-limits. It was Julian, however, rather than Severus, who was in this case in line with their shared patristic tradition. In his attempt to defend the integrity of the tradition, Severus broke with a well-established exegetical practice among the fathers. Cyril, as we just saw, explained differences in his writings by distinguishing among different addressees. We find the fourth-century authors Basil and Athanasius engaging in similar exegetical practices. Basil interprets certain statements by Gregory Thaumaturgus in light of their particular historical and rhetorical contexts. He makes a distinction between dogmatic and controversial settings, and he “grants” Gregory the rhetorical license to address different audiences in different ways.97 Athanasius uses the same methods to resolve contradictions in the writings of Dionysius, his third-century predecessor on the throne of Alexandria. In one text Dionysius had written that the Son was made, and in another that the Son is coeternal with the Father. Athanasius resolves the contradiction by positing different contexts for the different texts. Dionysius, according to Athanasius, “was led to write as he did by the occasion and the person (kairos kai prosōpon) concerned.” He was “a wise teacher whose practice it is to arrange and deliver his lessons with reference to the characters of his pupils, until he has brought them to the way of perfection.”98 Different historical circumstances produce different theological emphases.99 Thomas Graumann has traced the roots of this exegetical method to Greek rhetorical education.100 Grammar students were taught to explain various aspects

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of literary texts by identifying a work’s overarching purpose. More advanced students of rhetorical declamation were taught to tailor their speeches to specific audiences and occasions. It stands to reason that the technique for resolving textual contradictions regularly practiced by these fathers was derived from the common rhetorical education that they, as writers of good Greek, would have received.101 Julian’s indebtedness to this rhetorically informed exegetical approach is demonstrated by the particular terminology he uses to articulate it. Julian writes that Cyril “healed his own writings.” While Severus is scandalized by this language, since it implies that Cyril’s earlier writing contained a mistake that had to be remedied, Julian could have pointed to the venerable precedent of Athanasius, who speaks of his predecessor Dionysius in the same terms. Referring to a letter Dionysius had written to a certain Ammonius, which Arian devotees had seized upon as support for their theology, Athanasius writes:102 But if, after he had written his letter to Ammonius and fallen under suspicion, he made his defense, healing (therapeuōn) what he had previously said—apologizing but not changing his mind—it must be evident that he wrote the suspected passages in a qualified sense (kat’ oikonomian). But what is written or done in such a sense (kat’ oikonomian) men have no business to construe maliciously, or wrest each one to a meaning of his own. For even a physician frequently, in accordance with his knowledge and only with the view of health in mind, applies to the wounds he has to deal with remedies which to some seem unsuitable. In like manner it is the practice of a wise teacher to arrange and deliver his lessons with reference to the characters of his pupils, until he has brought them over to the way of perfection.

According to Athanasius, Dionysius’s letter to Ammonius could admittedly be understood in a certain sense, which might appear to emphasize the differences between God the Father and Christ, and, as such, appeal to the Arians. But, as Athanasius goes on to explain, Dionysius intentionally formulated the letter in those terms because he needed to warn Ammonius about the Sabellian position, which Dionysius deemed heretical for the opposite reason, inasmuch as it excessively blurred the distinction between Christ and the Father. The end result, however, was that the letter to Ammonius left the impression that Dionysius had thought that the Son was of a different order than the Father. Dionysius’s subsequent writings were dedicated to healing this impression by speaking of the Son as coeternal with the Father and by indicating that the earlier letter was written within a specific historical context, with attention to a specific audience. Like a physician who judiciously applies particular, often seemingly unsuitable, remedies in accordance with the varying characters of his patients, the theologian sagaciously formulates his ideas, sometimes in apparently surprising ways, with reference to the particular needs of his audience.

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Julian’s usage of the same medical metaphor with reference to the shifts in Cyril likely draws on Athanasius’s example.103 Moreover, both men were drawing, consciously or not, on a longer Greek interpretive tradition that construed interpretation in medical terms. Homeric commentators from the Hellenistic and early Roman periods referred to their interpretations of Homeric myths as a healing of those myths (therapeia muthōn).104 Origen embraced this metaphor in casting his textual work on the Old Testament as aimed at “curing” (iasasthai) the disagreements among its multiple witnesses,105 even while other Christian authors ridiculed the interpreters of Homer for thinking that their allegories could “heal” the pagan myths.106 Athanasius’s usage of the medical metaphor to describe the therapeutic effects that Dionysius’s writings had on his audiences also recapitulates a stock image of the Greco-Roman rhetorical tradition that compares the ideal speech-giver and politician to the physician who tailors his treatments to the specific needs of his patients.107 Christian authors regularly invoked this metaphor in their discussions of the Pauline notion of adaptability.108 Speaking of interpretation as a form of “healing” is a corporal metaphor. It implies that the text as it stands prior to its correct interpretation is “sick.” The end result may be a “healthy” text; but in order to reach this result, one must acknowledge that texts, like natural bodies, are not inherently perfect; some are susceptible to corruption over time; others are imperfect from the start. As with the earlier specimens of Julian’s approach to textual interpretation, here too we have the manifestation of a view of the patristic heritage as perfectible rather than already perfect. SEV E RU S R E A D I N G T H E FAT H E R S

Severus, as we have seen, did not take this route. He held a dehistoricized view of the fathers, and to him Julian’s more traditional rhetorical-historical approach was anathema. The patristic corpus for Severus was inherently perfect; it could not be allowed to develop over time. As an alternative to the rhetorical-historical approach that distinguishes between different historical situations and audiences, Severus developed what I have called the “casuistic” approach that offers contentbased distinctions. His anti-Julianist dossier showcases this approach. Some patristic texts appear to say that the body of Christ was corruptible, thus supporting Severus’s opinion. Other patristic texts appear to say that the body of Christ was incorruptible, thus offering support for Julian’s opinion. If, as Severus assumes, all the fathers always spoke in one voice, the apparently contradictory passages must refer to distinct applications. Severus reads some apparently pro-Julian passages in the fathers as referring not to the incarnate Christ but to the pre-incarnate Logos.109 He reads

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other pro-Julian passages as referring to Christ’s body, but only after its resurrection from the dead.110 He reads still other passages as referring not to bodily incorruptibility but to moral incorruptibility.111 Such distinctions undergird Severus’s interpretation of the fathers and indeed his whole theological system.112 They lie at the heart of his disagreement with Julian, to whom he writes: Thus, even when chastised, you do not prefer silence, and you do not learn to distinguish the times [in the life of Christ] and to understand the meaning of the term “incorruptibility” and what it implies, and [to understand] that the body of Christ was always holy and sinless, but [it was] impassible and incorruptible [only] from the time of the resurrection. . . . Since you do not understand the subtlety (qat. īnūtā) of the wisdom of the teachers concerning the lessons of the faith you also do not distinguish the times [in the life of Christ].113

For Severus subtlety is the name of the game. Only through subtle, content-based distinctions—rather than appeals to historical context and rhetorical situation— may one resolve the apparent contradictions in the patristic corpus.114 Julian, however, adamantly denies such wholesale application of Severus’s “distinctions.” He writes: Speaking of a distinction (pūršânā) between two different [kinds of] corruption with reference to the Lord or of [a distinction] between destruction and sin—divine scripture does not accept [this], inasmuch as it teaches that sin is the source of all corruption. And Cyril also rejects [this], saying that “sin is the root [of corruption].”115

Julian anchors his hermeneutical approach in traditional precedents—in Cyril in particular. Could Severus, an acknowledged expert on the writings of Cyril of Alexandria, not have known about the cases where Cyril explicitly appealed to the rhetorical-historical arguments that Julian refers to? Severus voices his shock at the very idea that Cyril should express himself one way in one case and another way in another case. Yet, could he not have been aware both of the fact of Cyril’s varying modes of christological expression and of his reflexive statements concerning this fact? An examination of Severus’s earlier writings, prior to the controversy with Julian, demonstrates that he was indeed well aware of these facts. In these writings Severus, like Julian, repeatedly appealed to rhetorical-historical arguments, explicitly drawing on medical metaphors, in order to resolve contradictions in texts by Cyril and other fathers. One place where Severus gives voice to this perspective is in the Ad Nephalium (which survives only in fragments). Upon arriving in Constantinople in 508 CE, Severus, who had established a name for himself as one of the principal leaders of the opposition to Chalcedon, wrote major refutations of two recent Neo-Chalcedonian collections of testimonies from the fathers. One of these collections was authored by a certain Nephalius, an Alexandrian monk and theologian, and “a

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born agitator,”116 who had betrayed his originally anti-Chalcedonian beliefs to become an avid Neo-Chalcedonian. Nephalius’s Apology for the Synod of Chalcedon117 sought to read passages from the fathers, and especially from Cyril, as witnesses of Chalcedon’s two-nature christology. Severus composed two addresses in response to Nephalius, attempting to explain the passages he had cited in line with one-nature christology. The first address, of which only isolated fragments survive, contains the following passage:118 Furthermore, do not tell me that some of the fathers used the term “two natures.” For, even if we concede that they used the term, they did not do so in the way that you do. For in St. Cyril’s time, when the churches were in the grip of the sickness of Nestorius’s vain words, this expression was rejected wholesale in order to provide a remedy for the sickness. Therefore, the words of other fathers, even if such should be found—and I say this by way of concession—cannot be shown to contradict the cure (âsyūtā) that Cyril concocted for the sickness that had arisen. Furthermore, I say this even with reference to the words of Cyril himself that he had expressed at an earlier time. For if in order to hold back a pestilent disease from some city some excellent physician were to prohibit drinking the water one could not come forward and say to him: “But our forefathers’ physicians allowed them to drink the water and even you yourself did not prohibit us to drink the water last year!” For the physician would justly say to him: “Fool! How is it that you do not see the disease causing harm to drinkers of the water? Do you wish instead to treat a destructive condition on the basis of a healthy life?!”

This passage enthusiastically employs the rhetorical-historical approach. The fact that Cyril used two-nature expressions before the rise of Nestorius should not be taken to imply that he sanctioned similar usages after the appearance of Nestorius. Just as the skilled physician may allow the consumption of water in certain conditions and prohibit it in others, so does the theologian gauge the appropriateness of theological expression according to the given historical circumstances. He may endorse a certain expression in one situation and reject it in another. Later in his address, Severus invokes the same notion of historical contextualization in order to explain language of the Nicene fathers that subsequent advocates of two-nature christology had cited as proof for their views: “When the fathers were contending against the impurity of Arius they were justly praised119 for often speaking about the incarnation ‘in thick terms’ (‘abyâ’īt), since at that time there had not yet arisen even one question about this.”120 Resolving contradictions and clearing away embarrassments by appealing to the idea that the fathers expressed themselves “in thick terms” is something that Severus did frequently in the Philalethes, the other main work he wrote during his stay in Constantinople. Indeed, the single longest chapter in the book, dedicated to explaining Cyril’s usage of the two-nature formula and his apparent endorsement of “double predication” in his letter to John of Antioch, is founded on precisely this idea:121

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When they made this confession, he [i.e., Cyril] accepted, without risk, the thickly (‘abyâ’īt) expressed words that were in the writ of reconciliation like the words of blabbering children, so that by blabbering like them he might elevate them to cultivated words. . . . We learn from what Cyril himself wrote that he was aware of having used condescension in the thickness (‘abyūtā) of his words, for the reasons we stated above. For he defended those who received his wise cure.

Cyril considered “two-nature” language too “thick”—that is, misleading and imprecise—for the expression of the mysteries of the incarnation. Since, however, two-nature language was important to the Eastern opponents he was trying to reconcile, he condescended to use it in order to gradually draw them to accept the more adequate “one-nature” formulations. As the young Severus explains, Cyril condescended to adopt the formula “Following the union of the two natures there formed a single nature” by way of a honey-coated medication for his opponents’ theological error. The words “Following the union of the two natures” were the “honey” that could help the Easterners stomach the palliative “single-nature” formula.122 Severus’s employment of this explanation was yet another manifestation of the rhetorical-historical hermeneutical approach encountered repeatedly in the works of the fourth- and fifth-century patristic writers, in Severus’s earlier writings, and in Julian. As one final endorsement for this hermeneutical approach, Severus cites, toward the end of this lengthy chapter in the Philalethes, a passage from John Chrysostom’s Fifth Homily in Praise of Paul (5.6–7). The passage is a paean to Pauline adaptability, cast in the familiar medical metaphors:123 Thus also Paul, in imitation of his Lord, was known at one time as a Jew, and at another time as one not under the law. For in fact sometimes he would observe the law and sometimes he would disregard it. . . . And even if these behaviors were contradictory, the thought and the intention from which they stemmed were very much in agreement and in harmony with one another. For he only sought one thing: the salvation of those who hear and see him. . . . It was not only in the things that he did but also in the things that he wrote that he was variable and many-sorted. It was not that he changed his mind, nor that he became different. Rather he remained constantly the same, performing each of the above-mentioned actions with regard to the circumstances at hand. . . . Praise and laud him on account of these things. For when you see a physician at one time cauterizing and at another time feeding, now using iron and now bandages, and at other times he withholds food and drink . . . you would not censure his variability . . . rather, on the contrary, you praise him for his skill in treatments that to us appear contradictory and harmful.

Severus converts this paean to Pauline adaptability into a manifesto of the rhetorical-historical approach to patristic interpretation. Chrysostom praised Paul for adapting his actions and words to the needs of his audience like the physician who

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adapts his cures to the needs of his patient. Severus praises Cyril for acting both like Paul and like the skilled physician in molding his theological language according to the background of his correspondents and the requirements of the situation.124 In light of this early endorsement of the rhetorical-historical approach, it comes as something of a surprise that Severus subsequently censures Julian for articulating the same ideas. In doing so Severus was departing both from patristic tradition and from his own practice. He does not offer any reasons for this shift, nor does he even acknowledge it. What is clear, however, is that Severus’s new perfectionist, ahistorical view of the fathers was quickly adopted after Severus as the norm of theological discussion—on both sides of the Chalcedonian divide.125 An irony of this new development was that Neo-Chalcedonian theologians, either unwilling to admit Severus’s role in initiating the shift or not cognizant of it, latched onto only his earlier writings, criticizing Severus for admitting inconsistencies in Cyril’s thought. In doing so, they recapitulated much of the same critique that Severus had leveled against Julian. Thus, Leontius of Jerusalem, probably writing while Severus was still alive,126 presents him as a man who was “consistent only in his own inconsistency.”127 He ridicules Severus’s application of the rhetorical-historical approach to explain the inconsistencies in Cyril,128 and he critically cites an otherwise undocumented proSeverian source praising Severus as one who “cured (iasato) with his holy writings whatever of Cyril’s was unsound and contradictory, covering, like some loyal son, his progenitor’s shame with fitting garments.”129 Similarly, Anastasius of Sinai, writing in the seventh century, completely ignores the rich patristic tradition of employment of the rhetorical-historical approach and attributes its “legislation” to Severus:130 A refutation of the vain and impious exposition and legislation (nomothesia) of Severus, from that which he set forth in his treatise against Nephalius and others, saying: “Against heresies, or diseases that rear their ugly heads, one must prepare theological medications,” he continues, “Thus, if a certain physician forbids drinking water, in order to ward off a pestilent disease, one may not say to him: ‘But, our previous physicians did not forbid drinking water!’” He continues, “The physician’s response will be heard immediately: ‘You gaping fool! You see that the disease is spreading and you wish for the disease to be treated according to the regulations that apply to a healthy life?’”131 Such are the things that the illustrious Severus legislated (nomothetein).

Anastasius proceeds to cite a passage from Basil to prove that this approach is a direct threat to the unity of faith: “For if one is to subscribe now to one faith and now to another, and to shift according to the occasion, then the declaration is false

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of him who said: ‘One Lord, one faith.’”132 Nevertheless, it was the same Basil, as we have seen, who employed the rhetorical-historical approach both to resolve contradictions in the writings of Gregory Thaumaturgus and to critique certain inconsistencies in the writings of Dionysius of Alexandria. Anastasius, however, chooses to ignore this aspect of the fourth- and fifth-century heritage, just as he chooses to ignore Severus’s innovative role in moving away from it in his later work. Instead, Anastasius homes in on Severus’s occasional and isolated appeals to rhetoricalhistorical arguments and makes him—paradoxically enough—the inventor of the entire approach. He concludes:133 The father [i.e., Basil], although living many years before Severus, set forth these words as if prophetically, for the purpose of the disgrace and abrogation of Severus’s legislation (nomothesia).

Severus was in fact responsible for a new “legislation”134 in theological culture, but it was precisely the reverse of the one Anastasius attributes to him. Having followed common practice by appealing to the traditional rhetorical-historical approach in his earlier writings, Severus had actually shifted course, as we saw, in his polemic against Julian. He takes Julian to task for following the same traditional approach and advocates a new hermeneutical paradigm by interpreting patristic texts according to ahistorical, content-based, casuistic distinctions. Later, by the time of Leontius and Anastasius, this new model would become so completely assimilated into general theological culture that the story of its origins was forgotten.135 Severus remains silent about the source and motivation for this dramatic shift in his approach to the fathers. What might have brought it about? Was it a sharp transformation that happened all at once or was it more the result of a gradual process? The evidence we have examined for the rhetorical-historical approach dates to the period leading up to Severus’s rise to the patriarchate, and the evidence we have seen for the casuistic approach dates from his debate with Julian, which began several years after his banishment. What about the intervening years? Contra impium grammaticum, completed very soon after the exile to Egypt,136 relies on the rhetorical-historical approach on several occasions.137 Similarly, letters written in the context of the rebaptism and rechrismation controversies—dated before, during, and immediately after Severus’s years in Antioch—engage in historicizing arguments. These letters, which we touched upon in chapter 2, are dedicated to neutralizing the patristic proof texts adduced in favor of either rebaptism or rechrismation for converts from Chalcedonianism. Severus argues that these patristic sources are to be understood in the context of the particular rhetorical and historical circumstances in which they were originally articulated, circumstances that are irrelevant to contemporary Chalcedonian converts: “We do not have recourse to the conclusions

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adopted and introduced by the men of earlier days with reference to other heresies, but we decide that each conclusion has its own validity in the case of those with reference to whom it was introduced.”138 Severus not only neutralized the relevance of this evidence by arguing for the historical and rhetorical contingence of canon law, but in some places he even went so far as to give categorical precedence to later rulings over earlier ones: “For in ecclesiastical regulations enactments carefully made at a later time in the churches yield in no way to those of an ancient date.”139 At first blush, it would seem, based on this evidence, that during his episcopacy and in the few years immediately following it, Severus had developed the rhetorical-historical approach even beyond the bounds he had advocated in Ad Nephalium and the Philalethes. Given this trajectory, it might appear all the more surprising that within a few years, in his controversy with Julian, Severus would completely reverse course and object to all notions of development and historical context in the interpretation of the fathers. Yet we must remember that all this historicizing evidence belongs to a specific realm of patristic interpretation: canon law. Indeed, in the passage just quoted, Severus explicitly stipulates that he is speaking about “ecclesiastical regulations.” It is quite possible that at a certain point Severus accepted the validity of the rhetorical-historical approach to issues of ecclesiastical discipline but limited it to that realm alone. When it came to the interpretation of patristic theology, rhetorical and historical considerations were off-limits.140 Be this as it may, it is noteworthy that precisely in the realm of canon law we find Severus developing the rhetorical-historical hermeneutical approach to its greatest extremes. This would seem to concur with the somewhat obscure legal terminology that Anastasius, in the passage discussed above, used to indict Severus for his hermeneutical innovations in the interpretation of the fathers. Although he does not invoke any instances of Severus’s historicizing approach to canon law, it is interesting that Anastasius configures Severus’s historicizing approach to theology in legal terms. In a certain sense it is actually quite surprising to find Severus’s hermeneutical approach most informed by history and rhetoric precisely in a legal context, for at least as far as contemporary Roman law was concerned, the dominant hermeneutical approach, as I shall presently show, was markedly ahistorical. In fact, contemporary Roman legal interpretation was characterized by its employment of casuistic, content-based exegetical distinctions of the kind that Severus uses in his interpretation of patristic theology. Thus, although Severus does not indeed apply the hermeneutical orientation of Roman legal interpretation to his interpretation of canon law, there is reason to believe that Roman legal interpretation provided a model for Severus’s dramatic shift in his approach to patristic, theological interpretation. Having completed the five-year course of studies at Beirut’s famous law school, Severus would have gained intimate knowledge of Roman jurisprudence. His

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friend and biographer Zachariah Scholasticus relates that prior to his baptism Severus was enamored with Roman law. During this period Severus dedicated himself to legal studies Monday through Friday, and it was only over the weekends that he first began to study the writings of the church fathers. By the time he completed the program Severus had composed and left for posterity a work of comparative Roman legal interpretation.141 According to another biographer, also a contemporary of Severus, the latter was elected a professor (antecessor) at the Beirut academy.142 René Roux, in his study of Severus’s Cathedral Homilies, has argued for the importance of the juridical way of thinking for Severus’s theology, and, in particular, in the development of the latter’s concept of orthodoxy.143 In what follows I would like to extend Roux’s insight to the realm of patristic hermeneutics. I propose that the legal training of his youth might have had a hand in the older Severus’s development of the casuistic approach to the interpretation of patristic theology. No copies survive of the legal treatise Zachariah Scholasticus says Severus authored, but we may postulate that it involved the same kind of exegetical methodology of “interpretive distinctions” that Severus introduced into his exegesis of the fathers later in his career.144 This type of casuistic scholasticism was characteristic of late ancient Roman jurisprudence in general and of the course of studies at the Beirut law school in particular. Beirut’s fourth-year students were known as lytae, since it was in that year that one became an expert in the solution of problems of legal interpretation.145 But, in fact, one did not have to wait until the fourth year of law school to learn how to harmonize contradictory laws. The harmonization of leges contrariae was taught to students already at the stage of their rhetorical education.146 The same subtlety— qat. īnūtā—that Severus advocates in the interpretation of the fathers was considered a prerequisite for teachers and exegetes of the law.147 The Theodosian Code requires law professors to exhibit an interpretandi subtilitas, and it is this same exegetical subtlety that Justinian declares needs to be applied in order to resolve any apparent contradictions in his Digest of Roman law:148 As for any contradiction occurring in this book, none such has any claim to a place in it, nor will any be found, if one considers with subtle intelligence (suptili animo) the grounds of diversity (diversitatis rationes); some special differential feature will be discovered, however obscure, which does away with the imputation of inconsistency, puts a different complexion on the matter and keeps it outside the limits of discrepancy.

Written just a generation after Severus’s graduation from the Beirut law school, this passage captures the methodological assumptions and exegetical procedures that would have imbued Severus’s legal studies.149 This jurisprudential approach

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denies all possibility of development and contradiction within the canon, and it is markedly ahistorical. The canon is viewed as a flat surface, without perspective or background.150 All categories employed in the interpretation of the text must be drawn from within the text’s subject matter rather than from the circumstances of its composition and transmission. Fritz Schulz, the mid-twentieth-century master of Roman jurisprudence, describes this as the “classical approach” to law, which he distinguishes from the “historical approach,” as follows: Both classicist and historian concentrate on the past. The historian seeks to recover past relations, to see and depict the past as it once actually was, in its historical conditions and its relative imperfection. The classicist seeks a standard; from some historical phenomenon, which he claims to have been a culminating achievement, he strives to derive a canon or norm for the present day. His constant tendency is therefore to rejuvenate the classical model and adapt it to the present day.151

Schulz’s description of the legal classicism Severus imbibed in his formative years can equally be applied to the theological classicism he articulated in his mature years. Unlike his more historically minded predecessors—theologians such as Athanasius, Basil, and Cyril, and, indeed, the young Severus himself—the elder Severus viewed the work of theology as centered on a canon of authoritative, postbiblical sources. Unlike his predecessors (who, ironically, were the very authors whom Severus canonized), Severus allowed no place for “historical conditions” and “relative imperfection” in his interpretation of the past.152

OV E R C OM I N G E X I L E

In the course of this chapter we have seen that underlying the debate between Severus and Julian about the physical, social, and liturgical body of Christ was another debate about the textual body of the fathers. Since their theological discussion centered on a canon of authoritative patristic texts, the question that presented itself was how one must engage with these texts. Although Severus and Julian seem to have agreed on the contours of the patristic corpus, they differed on what constituted the proper methodology for interpreting it. How must one cite from the fathers and incorporate them into one’s argument? How are patristic texts to be interpreted in light of one another? Can there be disagreements within the patristic corpus? Are the fathers allowed to change their minds? Can the tradition of textual transmission be trusted to have preserved the texts in their original forms? We have seen how these methodological questions were variously addressed by Severus and Julian in the course of their theological debate. To summarize the underlying difference between their respective approaches, we may say that Severus viewed the patristic corpus as a perfect, “incorruptible” body, whereas Julian viewed it as perfectible, rather than perfect. Although Julian

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thought of it as perfect in the ideal, he recognized that in reality, it was not free from the ravages of “corruption.” In keeping with this difference, Julian applied the tools of textual criticism and historical and rhetorical contextualization in his interpretation of the fathers, but Severus strongly opposed both.153 In order to resolve contradictions and other textual difficulties Severus relied solely on casuistic, content-based distinctions that did not entail textual emendation and historical contextualization. We saw, furthermore, that Julian’s approach was more in line with the methodological leanings both of earlier patristic tradition and of Severus’s own work from before the controversy with Julian. We saw how Severus’s new position, as articulated in his writings against Julian, quickly became the norm of theological discussion on both sides of the Chalcedonian divide. If Julian’s approach was indeed more in line with earlier patristic tradition, and if Severus himself initially accepted it as well, two questions naturally arise. Why did Severus change his view of the patristic past from “perfectible” to “perfectionist”? Once Severus did change his view, why did his new position become so popular, so quickly, at the expense of the earlier position represented by Julian? Given the perfectionism of Severus’s view, we should not expect him to discuss, or even to admit, the shift in his position. In the absence of explicit pronouncements on the matter, I propose my own somewhat speculative answer. Perhaps we should view the sea change in the social and political circumstances of the antiChalcedonian community as the historical context for this shift in intellectual culture. I suggest that Severus’s perfectionist presentation of the fathers was a way of coping with his community’s grave political crisis.154 He sought to overcome the new loss of authority by postulating an idealized image of the patristic past. This image of the past could only be maintained through knowledge of the corpus of the fathers and the ability to subtly resolve its apparent contradictions. Severus’s possession of the requisite knowledge and exegetical capabilities buttressed his authority at a time when he no longer had full access to episcopal power. My argument here follows much the same logic as the claim I made in the previous chapters. I reasoned that it was not a matter of chance that Severus and Julian’s debate broke out when and where it did. The debate about the physical body of Christ reflected the radically new social and political circumstances in which the anti-Chalcedonian leadership found itself following Emperor Justin’s new policies. Prior to Justin’s rise, opponents of Chalcedon could still entertain realistic hopes of regaining control of the imperial church. With Justin’s initiation of fullscale persecution against them for the first time, the anti-Chalcedonians’ entire relationship with the imperial church was thrown into question. How was the social body of Christ to be conceived? Could it allow for corrupt, heretical members within it? This social dilemma, as we saw, correlated with the christological

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question about the physical body of Christ arising at the same time. It was precisely the men most affected by the new social reality who were trying to think through the question of Christ’s corruptibility. Julian’s doctrine of incorruptibility was embraced by those who advocated institutional secession from the imperial church. Just as Christ’s physical body was unconditionally perfect, so it was necessary that the social body of Christ, the church, remain uncontaminated by association with heresy. By contrast, Severus’s position that the body of Christ was essentially corruptible corresponded to his objections to secession. He insisted on submitting to the institutional structures of the imperial church, even as he strove to alter its theology from within. The imperial church was still the universal body of Christ—heretical warts and all. These two christological-cum-ecclesiological positions were, in essence, two divergent responses to exile. Julian sought to recover the political authority he had lost by supporting the establishment of new episcopal structures independent of the imperial power responsible for his exile. Severus, perhaps still cherishing the hope of one day reclaiming his former political authority, made his ideological peace with temporarily withholding bids on such authority. Does this mean that Severus abdicated claims to authority altogether? I propose that it was precisely in response to his deferral on claims to political-ecclesiastical authority that Severus initiated his revolution in patristic interpretation. Unlike Julian—whose response to exile was to develop a theory of a perfect social body, which would enable him to regain his lost political authority— Severus’s response was to develop a theory of a perfect textual corpus, which would enable him to replace political authority with an alternative kind of intellectual authority.155 Julian and his associates demanded a new church, which only they, as orthodox bishops untainted by Chalcedonian heresy, could lead. Severus opposed breaking with the established ecclesiastical structures. In lieu of that he projected a new ideal of theological perfection onto the textual past, which only he, as a qualified and authoritative patristic scholar, could emulate and maintain. He maintained this perfection by introducing subtle interpretive distinctions into parts of the patristic corpus that seemed less than perfect at first glance. These distinctions were not self-evident. They do not necessarily arise from a straightforward reading of the text, even if Severus would like his readers to believe they do, as he claims in the following passage:156 It is no surprise if we learn that the term “incorruptibility,” although singular, has a multiplicity of meanings, designating at one time “sinlessness”; at another time “impassibility” and “immortality.”

If one patristic source stated that Jesus’s body was incorruptible, and another said it was corruptible, Severus restores harmony by introducing an interpretive distinction between the two that allows it to be both corruptible and incorruptible at

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the same time: it is incorruptible in terms of sin, but corruptible in terms of passions and mortality. The ability to devise these distinctions and to manipulate them correctly is not something that comes with a cursory reading of the texts. The task demands great expertise, something that Severus lays claim to:157 This is what we must have in view, namely, reading the inspired words of the holy fathers in their fullness, and retaining with precision both the signification of the terms and the context (zabnā) in which they are introduced;158 and we learn the particular force of each given word precisely from the manner in which those who use the words use them—whether it is a matter of incorruptibility or sinlessness or impassibility or immortality. We cannot, however, accept and understand anything in a facile manner and without examination based only on a cursory reading of the texts.

Using a concrete example, Severus proceeds to illustrate his point that “we learn the particular force (h. aylā) of each given word precisely from the manner in which those who use the words use them.”159 He cites the following lines from Gregory Nazianzus’s Funeral Oration for Basil the Great, stating that only a vainglorious mind would deduce from these lines that Gregory thought Christ, in the flesh, was above suffering:160 What, therefore, is more marvelous than seeing a God crucified, aye, even with robbers, and scoffed at by passersby, he who is not seized by—and is indeed above—suffering.

Since the passage, in its most straightforward sense, does indeed seem to be saying what Severus declares that it does not say, Severus introduces an interpretive distinction:161 It is with reference to Christ as God before the worlds that he [Gregory] stated that he is “not seized by—and is indeed above—suffering.” But inasmuch as the latter became a man, he voluntarily underwent both suffering and death in flesh which was naturally fit to suffer.

Thus Gregory cannot be said to be of the opinion that Christ in the flesh was above suffering, for his statement to that effect does not indeed refer to Christ in the flesh, but to the pre-incarnate Christ. An examination of the passage in context, however, shows that Gregory is in fact referring to the incarnate Jesus rather than to the pre-incarnate Christ.162 Severus seeks, therefore, to back up his interpretive distinction with another passage, from one of Gregory’s earlier orations that speaks of “the new Adam for our sakes and God passible against sin.”163 This latter passage can indeed be read as supporting Severus’s position in a more straightforward manner, especially

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considering its immediate context, which is completely different from the context of Gregory’s Funeral Oration for Basil.164 Thus, Gregory’s two orations appear to contradict each other on this point. Indeed, some modern theological historians discern distinct stages in the overall development of Gregory’s christological thought on precisely this question of Christ’s suffering.165 Perhaps we can offer a historical explanation for the discrepancy between the two orations. Maybe the earlier Theological Oration singles out passibility because at that stage of his thinking Gregory still maintained more of a dualistic christology that would seek to stress the humanity of Jesus, whereas his later Funeral Oration, with its language of impassibility, reflects his subsequently developed, more unitive christology. Whether or not we choose to adopt this historical explanation, the tensions between different parts of Gregory’s corpus, as within the corpus of any other patristic author, are apparent.166 Yet, as we have seen, beginning in his writings against Julian, Severus insists that such tensions must be resolved by recourse to his own interpretive distinctions. Although Severus maintains that one can deduce these distinctions “from the context in which they are introduced,” we have seen that, in fact, they owe just as much—if not more—to the interpreter’s own context. Thus, for Severus, the interpretation of patristic texts is an expression of authority. The result of this (as we saw at the very beginning of this chapter) is that any form of cooperation with others in interpretation is seen as a deficiency in one’s exegetical and theological authority. Conversely (as we have also seen earlier in this chapter), the interpreter who can boast of an expert command of the patristic corpus and who can claim to rely exclusively on its texts achieves equal footing with the fathers themselves. The fathers and their loyal, authoritative interpreters stand united in one front against their shared detractors:167 It is therefore appropriate that the Phantasiasts confront also the Philalethes with the writings that I addressed to Julian, since they [i.e., those writings of mine] shoot arrows, like all the other writings of the saints, against their Phantasism. . . . We, who are always in conformity with ourselves, seem [to the Phantasiasts] to be imperfect for being educated in the perfect teachings of the fathers, glorifying in having them as our teachers, without ignorantly extracting any doctrine from our own thoughts.

Severus paints himself as one who adheres solely to the teachings of the fathers and as one who emulates the ideal image he projects on them of avoidance of all contradiction. Consequently, he also allocates to his own writings the same level of authority and effectiveness in combating heresy that he sees in their writings.168 I have proposed that the loss of political authority resulting from his exile may have contributed to Severus’s articulation of this perfectionist view of the fathers and, by extension, of himself. Insisting on the high degree of expertise needed to safeguard the perfection of the patristic body even in the face of apparent evidence

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to the contrary, he sought to replace the political authority he lost to exile with the intellectual and hermeneutical authority for which he was still widely respected. The desired textual perfection of the patristic corpus could only be maintained by a wide-ranging and subtle knowledge of that corpus. Interpretive distinctions were a tool that could only be wielded by the most skilled practitioner. No man fit that bill better than Severus of Antioch.169

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Conclusion Severus Transformed In addition to these things, there was no impediment to his [i.e., Severus’s] expansive dishonesty. For although he dared to anathematize the holy Council of Chalcedon on every single detail, as it were, he was in communion with it, inasmuch as the bishops subordinated to him had [the names of] many of those congregated at that same holy Council of Chalcedon in their sacred diptychs. libellus of the monks to menas of constantinople (aco 3.41)

But the inhabitants of this city [ = Alexandria] were strongly attached to the incorruptibility dogma, and followed the teaching of our fathers, written in books, which declares: “The holy body of our Lord was incorruptible before the resurrection . . . ” Wherefore it behooves us, touching the proposition of the incorruptibility, to set aside the salutary suffering which he endured in the body of his own free will and power, and accomplished on behalf of our salvation. the chronicle of john, bishop of nikiu (late seventh c.), chap. 94

SEV E RU S , J U L IA N , A N D F R I E N D S

In the spring of 536, about a a year and a half after Justinian had invited Severus to Constantinople and seemed for several months to genuinely desire reconciliation, the small window of imperial favor closed again; this time for good. Ecclesiastical legates from Rome and Chalcedonian monks from Palestine and other parts of the empire nipped in the bud any attempt at rapprochement between Severus and the imperial court. As part of their campaign against Severus, the monks sent a libellus to the capital with a long list of charges against the fugitive patriarch. Included in their litany of complaints is the accusation quoted above. The monks denounced Severus’s “expansive dishonesty” in inconsistently admitting Chalcedonian names into the diptychs of churches under his jurisdiction. 141

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Was the charge of inconsistency really so grave? While many of the other accusations that the Palestinian monks leveled against Severus are clearly false, this claim appears historically plausible given its strangeness (why would Chalcedonian monks hold Severus’s inclusion of Chalcedonian names in the diptychs against him?) and given the inclusionary position on the diptychs that we saw attested in Severus’s own writings. This accusation from the pens of Severus’s enemies encapsulates the paradoxical nature of his approach, attested, as we saw, in the realms of christology, ecclesiology and the liturgy. In this approach he frustrated his enemies as much as he alienated some of his friends. And he provoked later devotees and historians to interpret him in wildly different ways. On the one hand, Severus was an intransigent opponent of Chalcedon. Much of his theological engagements, his pastoral attention, and his political activity revolved around this opposition.1 He stressed the importance of anathematizing Chalcedonian bishops and preached against all forms of religious participation with Chalcedonian congregants: orthodox believers must not pray or study with Chalcedonians, attend the same holy sites as them, or share communion with them.2 Severus has been understood, both in modern scholarship and historically among the Syrian and Coptic Orthodox churches to whom we owe the preservation of so many of his writings, as the “chief church father” of the anti-Chalcedonian church.3 He died before the creation of any actual institutional rival to the imperial church. The people who later established such institutions in the form of the Syrian and Coptic Orthodox churches viewed Severus as one of their principal founding fathers. This view is shared in much of modern historiography where the institutional alternative to Byzantine Chalcedonianism is often simply called “the Severian Church.”4 Severus himself, however, had no intention of founding a new church. I hope to have sufficiently demonstrated, through my analysis of Severus’s positions on a range of issues of the day, that he was in fact strongly opposed to this idea. His fierce disagreement with the theology of Chalcedon and his defiant resistance to the attempts of emperors Justin and Justinian to enforce its definition did not translate into an ideology of secession from the imperial church. On the contrary, Severus, in line with commonly accepted Byzantine political ideology, viewed the imperial church and the emperor at its helm as divinely ordained.5 Rather than break away from the imperial church by setting up a new anti-Chalcedonian hierarchy, Severus maintained the hope of converting the imperial establishment back to orthodoxy. In the face of more charismatic currents, as we saw represented by John Rufus and Isaiah of Armenia, Severus emphasized adherence to the canonical procedures set down in the imperial councils. It was necessary to follow these procedures even in the direst situations. No “emergency measures” could justify

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breaking with the tradition of the canons. No fewer than three bishops could ordain a new bishop, even if the Holy Spirit itself was thought to have instructed otherwise. Despite his opposition to Chalcedonian theology, Severus considered baptisms performed by Chalcedonian priests valid, arguing against the more traditional position represented by the followers of Theodotus of Joppa and Cassian, who demanded either rebaptism or rechrismation in such cases. Contrary to the practice of other anti-Chalcedonian bishops of the day, he also argued against the removal of the names of Chalcedonian leaders from the church diptychs. Although he clearly considered Chalcedonianism a heresy, Severus still viewed its adherents as belonging to the same community as himself. Chalcedonians and anti-Chalcedonians alike were part of the same social body. In order to justify this ecclesiological position Severus argued regarding the diptychs that there were, in essence, two aspects to the body of Christ: one “ideal” and one “real.” The real body allowed within it a certain degree of corruptibility precisely because the ideal body was guaranteed to be above corruption. Thus, I have argued that Severus did not view himself as a “founder,” or even as a reluctant supporter, of the emergent anti-Chalcedonian church. On the contrary, he was resolutely opposed to the elements within his party that pushed in that direction. It is within the context of this internal political and ecclesiological debate among anti-Chalcedonians that I proposed to situate the other, better-known, christological debate that ripped through the anti-Chalcedonian community during Severus’s years in exile. Invoking what I called “the stereoscopic approach,” I argued that Severus’s position concerning the social body of Christ was both reflected in and informed by his position concerning the physical body of Christ. Severus’s position, vigorously challenged by Julian of Halicarnassus, was that Jesus’s body before the resurrection was corruptible; only after its death and resurrection did it attain incorruptibility. Severus’s “dual-bodied” ecclesiological outlook correlated with his “dual-bodied” christological position. Both involved a this-worldly, corruptible aspect, and an ideal, incorruptible aspect. Julian, on the other hand, was of the opinion that the body of Christ was incorruptible from the moment of the incarnation. His outlook was steeped in an ascetic anthropology that established a symbiotic link between soul and body. The behavior of the soul was understood to have a direct impact on the condition of the body. Thus, Adam and Eve’s spiritual transgression led to an actual change in their corporeal state. If originally their bodies were incorruptible, following their sin their bodies fell into corruption. This corruption gets passed on to the bodies of ensuing generations by the sexual desire involved in all procreation. But it is within the power of the individual to regain his or her body’s incorruptibility through proper spiritual control.

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On the basis of a series of links that Severus makes between Julian and various representatives of the separatist position, I argued that Julian’s debate with Severus was not only christological; it was also political. Julian was associated with the same group that sought to maintain a clearer separation from the “corrupt” Chalcedonian church. He considered the true, orthodox church to be an incorruptible body in its very essence. Since heretical members are corruptive forces, they must be kept outside the bounds of the incorruptible church. As with the physical body, where Julian understood human agency as responsible both for corruption and for the restoration of incorruption, so also with the social body: the maintenance of its incorruptibility lay in human hands. Bishops and priests must enforce strict social boundaries between the true believers and the heretics. This meant erasure of Chalcedonian names from the diptychs, rigorist demands on Chalcedonian converts, and the encouragement of independent anti-Chalcedonian ordinations even at the expense of strict adherence to canonical procedure. Just as Julian made no distinction between the pre- and post-resurrection bodies in his christology, so also in his ecclesiology, he recognized no distinction between the ideal, pure body of the church and the actual state of its members. Severus, by contrast, was more concerned with the unity of the social body of Christ, even at the expense of its purity. Just as his christology recognized, in essence, two bodies of Christ—one before and one after resurrection—so did his ecclesiology. On the one hand, there is the ideal body of Christ, corresponding to its incorruptible, post-resurrection state; on the other hand, there is also the “real”—historical—body of Christ, which contains corruption in its midst. The historical body aspires to the ideal state of incorruption, but even when unable to attain this ideal, even if corruptible, it still remains the body of Christ. Severus, in contrast to Julian, demanded that the clergy allow for the maximal inclusion of the body’s heretical members. What was true of the physical and social bodies of Christ was true also of the liturgical body. Julian accused Severus of viewing eucharistic elements as “the food and drink of corruption.” Severus denied the charge. I argued that a close reading of Severus’s writings shows that, in a sense, there was truth to both statements. Severus’s eucharistic outlook, like his christology and ecclesiology, recognized both corrupt and incorrupt aspects in the liturgical body. It was corrupt on a physical, “here-and-now” level, but it was incorrupt in terms of the power that it had to grant future incorruptibility to the bodies of its partakers. Julian, on the other hand, fully in line with his positions on the physical and social bodies, viewed the Eucharist as purely incorrupt. Its power was immediate, “realized,” and not postponed, as it was for Severus. Just as Christ’s physical body miraculously altered the material world by imbuing other bodies with incorruption, so, in a similar manner, the Eucharist—also the body of Christ, and therefore also incorruptible— imbues its partakers with incorruption.

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The letters and treatises across which Severus and Julian hashed out their debates about the various bodies of Christ proved to be the breeding ground for yet another disagreement about yet another body. By studying the respective ways the two exiled bishops appeal to their shared patristic corpus I tried to show that their positions on this textual body were the reverse of their positions on the body of Christ. Julian had a more flexible approach, allowing for textual change, editorial intervention, and “corruption” in the history of the textual transmission of the patristic corpus. Severus, by contrast, maintained that the corpus must remain free of all change and “corruption.” Apparent contradictions within the text were to be resolved by interpretive distinctions, rather than by textual emendation or by the notion that the church fathers may have expressed themselves differently in different historical circumstances. I showed that Severus’s textual approach was a new development. Julian’s approach corresponded more closely to earlier patristic tradition. Indeed, prior to his exile, Severus himself also had a more “corruptible” view of patristic textuality. I concluded that this new development in Severus’s textual outlook might have been a means for him to regain through intellectual expertise the authority he no longer had access to after his loss of episcopal power. I proposed that we understand the timing of the outbreak of the whole incorruptibility question in relation to the conditions of ongoing exile. The core of Julian’s position about the incorruptible body of Christ and the corresponding true, incorruptible nature of man was available in anti-Chalcedonian circles long before the question became a hot-button issue in Egypt of the 520s. As we have seen, similar ideas were found in the mid-fifth-century monastic school of Gaza. Julian himself had already raised the question about the incorruptibility of Christ during the time that he spent with Severus in Constantinople in the early years of the sixth century. Similar principles were articulated again during Severus’s patriarchate by Romanus, bishop of Rhossus. Given all these antecedents to Julian’s ideas, the question is why it was only when Julian addressed the question again with Severus in exile in the mid-520s that it blew into a full-fledged controversy with definable groups of committed followers on both sides. I submitted that the answer to this question lies in the correlation between the social and theological bodies of Christ. The debate about the body of Christ turned into a full-fledged controversy when and where it did precisely because it was not just a debate about Christ’s physical body: it was also a debate about the social body. And because of changing political conditions, it was precisely at this time that the social debate, which had its own antecedents, got a new lease on life. This social debate concerned the proper mode of dealing with the Chalcedonian heresy. Severus, the acknowledged leader of the anti-Chalcedonian community, advocated remaining within the imperial church and trying to cure it of its Chalcedonian ailments from within. To this effect he argued for the maximal inclusion of Chalcedonians with the hopes of winning them over. The separatists, on the other

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hand, considered the Chalcedonians a lost cause. Rather than include them, they sought to establish sharp boundaries to keep the Chalcedonian “heresy” from contaminating the true and pure church. Initially, Severus’s approach was met with little resistance. It was only after the persecutions wore on for a number of years that collective discontent grew. The anti-Chalcedonian populace increasingly called into question the wisdom of their leader’s conciliatory, inclusionary attitude. Frustration came to a head when the time that had elapsed since Severus’s expulsion was nearing the time span of Severus’s entire patriarchate. Perhaps people had hoped that just as fortune turned against them in 518, after some five-anda-half years of anti-Chalcedonian power, now about four or five years later fortune would turn back in their favor once more.6 There was, however, no sign of this happening. I submit that it was precisely at this time that Julian’s notion of the incorruptible body of Christ was ripe for public consumption, for his teaching represented not only a challenge to Severus’s christological ideas about the corruptible physical body; it was also an expression of a radically different vision of the social body. Julian’s christological ideas provided a lightning rod for the various elements within the anti-Chalcedonian community demanding the separation of the incorruptible, “orthodox” church from the fallen, corrupted church of the empire. Julian’s position, as we saw in chapter 1, was extremely popular. The division between the Julianists and Severians—or Gaianites and Theodosians, as the two groups later came to be known, after the names of Julian’s and Severus’s successors—remained strong within anti-Chalcedonian society down through the ninth century. Ultimately, however, the “Severian” version of anti-Chalcedonianism prevailed. The Coptic and Syrian Orthodox churches of the Middle Ages and of modern times revere Severus as a saint and denounce Julian as a heretic. It is because of this that so much literature survives from the Severian side, and virtually nothing from Julian’s side. Nevertheless, a closer look at the sixth-century material reveals, interestingly enough, that even among the people who saw themselves as followers of Severus, the influence of Julian’s ideas was strong. In this period even the “Severian” wing of the anti-Chalcedonian community ended up creating a separate church, at first gradually and then more definitively. I N C O R RU P T IO N : A N T I - C HA L C E D O N IA N S O N T H E B O DY O F SEV E RU S

I conclude by offering three examples of the ways in which the followers of Severus perpetuated Julian’s legacy under Severus’s name. In the process, both the memory of Severus and the identity of the anti-Chalcedonian movement itself were transformed. The first two examples are taken from the 530s. The first of these is from John of Tella, whom we encountered in chapter 2. The second is from one of

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Severus’s biographers, John of Beth Aphthonia. The third example is from a later period: it comes from the Chronicle of John, bishop of Nikiu, which was written toward the end of the seventh century.7 Each of these examples pertains to a different “body” (or “bodies”) discussed over the course of this book. My discussion of John of Tella focuses on the ecclesiastical and liturgical bodies; my discussion of John of Beth Aphthonia concerns the physical body; and my treatment of John of Nikiu relates to the christological and patristic bodies. John of Tella, as we saw in chapter 2, spearheaded a large-scale campaign in the 520s and 530s to ordain anti-Chalcedonian priests. John’s biographers, writing one to three decades later, say that Severus granted his approval for this campaign. But we saw that there is no hint in Severus’s surviving writings that this was the case. And, in fact, writing with regard to other ordination initiatives, Severus shows a distinct reluctance to allow any ordinations outside the canonical, geographically based imperial system. John of Tella’s campaign, inasmuch as it was not geographically bound, clearly controverted the canonical regulations. It was no different from the ordination campaigns of Isaiah of Armenia and Gregory of Pontus, which Severus repeatedly denounced. Thus, in contrast to earlier scholars who have seen John of Tella and Severus as operating in tandem, I believe there was some tension between them. To be sure, John of Tella made a point of announcing his loyalty to Severus and denouncing Julian.8 Nevertheless, when it came to his ecclesiological positions, John differed with Severus on several accounts. In keeping with his separatist orientation, John also seems to have held a rigorist position on the question of the diptychs. His biographer Elias relates that upon his elevation to the episcopate of Tella in 519, John removed all the Chalcedonian names from the city’s diptychs. He not only erased the name of Sophronius, Tella’s representative at the original council (something Severus might have done himself), but John also commanded, in the face of local opposition, that all of Sophronius’s fellow party members (h. rânē bnay šâlmūteh) also be struck out.9 In chapter 3 we saw that this behavior was more in line with accepted custom than Severus’s ecumenicist approach. Although Severus had repeatedly made his inclusionary stance known during the years of his patriarchate, John felt no need to follow it. Also with regard to the question of the reception of ordained Chalcedonian converts John advocated a more rigorist position than Severus. The latter, as we saw, demanded no more than a one-year waiting period, which was probably only applied to priests. John was stricter. While he did not go so far as to demand reordination, he did insist on a two- to four-year waiting period for priests as well as for deacons.10 Although John of Tella proclaimed his loyalty to Severus, in practice his stances on ordinations, the diptychs, and requirements for converts all brought him closer to the separatist outlook. If John and Severus did indeed represent two different

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ecclesiological visions, we should expect John and Severus to differ on matters of christology as well. Although John himself proclaims his party loyalty to the patriarch, a straightforward reading of his Profession of Faith (probably written in 537) reveals a christological and soteriological worldview that sounds more Julianist than it does Severian:11 For we profess that he who died for our sake was not mortal, beloved ones of God. For, through the death of a mortal, human salvation is not granted to mortals. Corruption (h. bâlā)12 is not destroyed (meth. abal) through corruptibility (meth. ablânūtā).13 We profess on account of this . . . that, although not mortal, he died for us, (and) that because he was not mortal in his nature, he will break through his mortality the dominion of death also, and through his death he will kill our death. And because he is incorruptible (lā meth. ablânā), through his incorruptibility (lā meth. ablânūteh) he will nullify the corruptibility (meth. ablânūtā) of us corruptible ones (meth. ablânē). And on account of the fact that he is impassible (lā h. âšūšā) and is above suffering (l‘el men h. ašē) he nullified and annihilated our passions (h. ašayn) by means of his impassibility (lā h. âšūšūteh) . . . and because he voluntarily (bs. ebyâneh) descended among the corruptible ones (meth. ablânē), it was not possible for corruption (h. bâlā) to reach him.

John continues developing this theme for several more paragraphs. Yet even this short selection makes it abundantly clear that he did not share Severus’s view about the corruptibility of the body of Christ. Like Julian, he stresses only Christ’s incorruption, and also like Julian, he explains Christ’s sufferings as a voluntary act on Christ’s part that had no effect on his essentially incorrupt nature: “It was not possible for corruption to reach him.” John is clearly speaking about Christ’s body prior to the resurrection, and nowhere does he qualify, as Severus would have, that the incorruptibility that he ascribes to Christ is solely moral. The unmistakably Julianist coloring of John’s profession of faith provides a striking confirmation of the stereoscopic approach employed throughout this study. Underneath the external veneer of partisan unanimity there lurked some deep differences in matters both ecclesiological and christological between John of Tella and Severus.14 These ecclesiological and christological differences were intimately linked to one another. Contrary to Severus’s conservative, ecumenicist attitude, John advocated a more radical, separatist approach. Like Julian, John stressed Christ’s incorruptiblity because that was what he sought in the social-political body of Christ. Severus, on the hand, did not object to allowing a degree of corruptibility in both. John of Tella offers indications of the direction in which the anti-Chalcedonian movement was moving in the realms of ecclesiology and christology: it was becoming Severian in name but Julianist in conviction. Another sixth-century author, John of Beth Aphthonia, further points to this trend, but in his case the transformation takes place in the realm of anthropology.

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John of Beth Aphthonia’s Life of Severus, written very soon after Severus’s death, demonstrates an anthropological view much closer to Julian and his ascetic milieu than to Severus.15 John was clearly a partisan of Severus. He denounces Julian’s ideas and praises Severus for his critique of Julian.16 Nevertheless, Julian’s ascetic anthropology is apparent in John of Beth Aphthonia’s work. In a manner reminiscent of Cyril of Scythopolis’s subsequent descriptions of Palestinian monks, John describes the ascetic accomplishments of Peter the Iberian:17 He competed according to the rules,18 and he tortured his flesh (besrā) with ascetic acts and he became invigorated (et‘alam) against dishonorable passions (h. ašē ds. a‘rā).19 With his “bare intellect” (hawnā ‘art. elâyā) he joined combat with incorporeal demons, receiving the crown of impassibility (klīlā dlā h. âšūšūtā), with the result that thenceforth he became the leader of many monks; thus anointing them for the same contests that he had already competed in.

By virtue of the control his spirit exercised over his flesh and against the demons, Peter attained bodily impassibility. This, in turn, allowed him to lead other monks in the same ascetic practice. Such language is more in tune with Julian’s statement that “we can bring the body to whatever state we want through the control of our thoughts” than it is with Severus’s repeated declarations that the human body is by definition mortal, passible, and corruptible.20 If it appears surprising to find John of Beth Aphthonia using this “Julianist” language to describe Peter the Iberian, it is even more surprising to discover that he does the same with reference to Severus himself. When he was at the threshold of death Severus’s physicians persuaded him to take a bath, with the hope that this would prolong his life, if just for a little while. After he was helped out of the bath, his attendants laid him out on a slab of marble. John narrates:21 When they lifted him off this rock, he left it with an indelible power (h. aylā dlā metnasbânā). Until this very day, whoever suffers from the chills,22 from fever, or from any other bodily affliction is cured of the affliction by merely touching this rock. How could one not declare this to be similar to the apostolic figures Peter and Paul, who, one by his shadow, and the other by snippets of his clothes, healed the sick?

Severus’s body had attained such a degree of holiness that its mere contact with a slab of marble endowed it, like the bodies of the apostles endowed their clothes (and their shadows!), with everlasting healing powers. By speaking about Severus’s own body in this way, John takes the side of Julian in the anthropological debate with Severus. It was Julian who thought the holy man’s body itself was imbued with power, which it could in turn transfer to other material bodies. It was Julian who cited the healings of Peter and Paul—effected through their shadows and their clothes—in order to prove this point. Severus had objected both to the theory and to the proof texts. He thought that the power to heal was spiritual; it did not

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operate through some process of emanation into the material world. The fact that John of Beth Aphthonia speaks of Severus’s own body using the viewpoint and vocabulary of his opponent demonstrates the pull that Julian’s ideas had even among Severus’s greatest admirers. Had Severus known how Julian’s ideas were applied to his own dead body, he would have, in the words of the cliché (which seems to have been tailor-made for this situation), turned over in his grave.23 But perhaps nothing would have surprised Severus more than the transformation he underwent at the hands of John of Nikiu, another one of his professed followers. John wrote his Chronicle in Greek (and perhaps partially in Coptic). It was translated into Arabic and then into Ethiopic, the only language in which it survives. John’s chronology and historical details (especially names) are admittedly sometimes confused,24 but when it comes to his account of Justinian’s purported embrace of Julian’s views, something else is clearly going on. John actually gets the names essentially right, but he reverses their theological positions. In order fully to appreciate the transformation, the passage must be read in its entirety. I quote from R. H. Charles’s translation from Ethiopic:25 And there was discussion as to the body of our Lord Jesus Christ, and much controversy in the city of Constantinople as to its being corruptible or incorruptible. And they were agitated in the city of Alexandria regarding this controversy which had arisen between the two factions, the Theodosians and the Gainians.26 And the emperor Justinian sent to Eutychius the patriarch of the city of Constantinople at that time and asked him regarding this matter. He agreed on doctrinal views with Severus and Theodosius. Accordingly, he answered and said unto him: “The body of our Lord which submitted to suffering on behalf of our salvation is living, imperishable, incorruptible, and unchangeable. We believe that He suffered voluntarily. And after the resurrection He was incorruptible and unchangeable in all aspects and ways.” But the emperor did not accept this pronouncement. Now the true solution of this question is to be found in the letter sent by the holy Cyril to Succensus.27 But the emperor inclined to the views of Julian, a bishop of the Gainian party28 who had the same doctrine; for they said: “He was a man like us, and the holy Scriptures say: ‘Christ suffered for us in the body.’” And the emperor Justinian was wroth with the patriarch Eutychius because he had not sent him a reply such as he desired, but a pronouncement like that of Severus and Anthimus; “These (he said) had deceived the inhabitants of Constantinople, and this (Eutychius) likewise had deceived them.” And thereupon he sent a letter to Agathon29 the prefect of Alexandria, with orders to appoint Apollinaris, count of the Monastery of Banton,30 to be patriarch of the Chalcedonians in the city of Alexandria and the other cities of Egypt. But the inhabitants of this city were strongly attached to the incorruptibility dogma, and followed the teaching of our fathers, written in books, which declares: “The holy body of our Lord was incorruptible before the resurrection, and he submitted to suffering of his own will unto death, but since the resurrection it has become immortal and impassible.” Such was the declaration of Gregory the theologian.31 Wherefore it behooves us, touching

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the proposition of the incorruptibility, to set aside the salutary suffering which he endured in the body of his own free will and power, and accomplished on behalf of our salvation.

Although aligning himself and the inhabitants of Alexandria with the camp of Severus and Theodosius, John of Nikiu attributes to this camp the incorruptiblity position. The belief in the corruptibility of Christ’s body, by contrast, is fathered onto Julian, complete with patristic proof texts proving the heresy of that position. It appears that John cited against “Julian” two of the very texts that the historical Julian had cited against Severus! How might we explain this strange reversal? I think the best way to account for it is to say that while John of Nikiu was a Severian in name, his christology was in fact Julianist. John of Nikiu’s ecclesial situation shows that Severus’s ecclesiological vision did not end up prevailing. John served as bishop within a church that had long been separate from the imperial church. His insistence on the incorruptiblity of the body of Christ is consistent with this ecclesiological posture. There is, nevertheless, one area in which John proves himself to be a loyal continuator of the Severian tradition. In the course of his presentation of the views of “Severus” he cites two patristic proof texts: the first from Cyril’s Letter to Succensus and the second from Gregory “the theologian.” It appears that the first citation refers to a text that was popular among advocates of Christ’s corruptibility, while the second citation refers to a text that advocates of incorruptibility relied on.32 Thus John of Nikiu appears to be citing two texts that ostensibly contradict each other. As a loyal upholder of Severus’s perfectionist view of the church fathers, who resolves contradictions through the use of interpretive distinctions, John does not see a problem with that. I began this book by stating that many believe Severus to be the founder of the anti-Chalcedonian church. I hope that by now it has become clear that the opposite was the case. It was the anti-Chalcedonian church that subtly transformed the figure of Severus in the image of his adversary Julian, even as it embraced Severus’s vision of an incorruptible textual corpus of church fathers. So it was that Severus himself came to be remembered in later generations as part of this perfect patristic body.

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1. Perhaps the most influential expression of this perception in modern historiography is Joseph Lebon, Le monophysisme sévérien: Étude historique, littéraire et théologique sur la résistance monophysite au Concile de Chalcédoine jusqu’à la constitution de l’Église jacobite (Louvain: J. van Linthout, 1909). Lebon’s examination is primarily theological: he analyzes Severus’s Cyrilline christology and demonstrates its key role in determining later “Monophysite” thought. But he also ties this theology to the institutional split between the churches, as indicated already in the title of his work. Lebon presents this split in a teleological fashion, beginning with the lead-up to Chalcedon and culminating with Severus and the two generations after him that accomplished the final separation, in his eyes, between the churches. For two brief encapsulations of Lebon’s approach, see ibid., 501, 526. For other representatives of this perception, see William A. Wigram, The Separation of the Monophysites (London: Faith Press, 1920), esp. 63–64; Albert van Roey, “Les débuts de l’Église jacobite,” in Aloys Grillmeier and Heinrich Bacht, eds., Das Konzil von Chalkedon: Geschichte und Gegenwart (Würzburg: Echter, 1951–54), 2:339–360, esp. 339. More recent scholarship, which has inherited and further developed this view, even if in more nuanced ways, will be addressed in detail in chapter 2. 2. Some contemporary scholars believe, in diametrical opposition to the perception described in the previous note, that this was true of the sixth-century anti-Chalcedonian movement as a whole. See Lucas Van Rompay, “Society and Community in the Christian East,” in Michael Maas, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 239–267, at 251; Bas ter Haar Romeny with Naures Atto, Jan J. van Ginkel, Mat Immerzeel, and Bas Snelders, “The Formation of a Communal Identity among West Syrian Christians: Results and Conclusions of the Leiden Project,” CHRC 89 (2009): 1–52, esp. 2 n. 1. I fully agree with this approach when it comes to Severus, but as 153

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I hope to demonstrate in chapter 2, it does not apply to other elements within the antiChalcedonian party. At the time Severus advocated remaining within the imperial church, there were other forces that pushed for separation. 3. There are many modern accounts of Severus’s biography, which, in turn, are based mostly on Severus’s two ancient biographies, written in his lifetime and soon after his death. Zachariah the Rhetor’s account covers Severus’s life until 512, and John of Beth Aphthonia’s account covers his whole life. Both can be found in PO 2 (1907), ed. and trans. M.-A. Kugener. For English translations, see Lena Ambjörn, trans., The Life of Severus by Zachariah of Mytilene (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2008); Sebastian Brock and Brian Fitzgerald, trans., Two Early Lives of Severos, Patriarch of Antioch, Translated Texts for Historians 59 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2013). Alongside these works, Severus’s own writings provide rich material for the reconstruction of his biography. There are also scores of other late ancient and early medieval sources, which need to be taken into account. For a comprehensive list of sources, see Frédéric Alpi, La route royale: Sévère d’Antioche, Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique 188 (Beirut: Institut français du proche-orient, 2009), 2:3–39. For important modern treatments of Severus’s biography, see Alpi, Route; Pauline Allen and C. T. R. Hayward, Severus of Antioch, The Early Church Fathers (London and New York: Routledge, 2004); Kathleen M. Hay, “Severus of Antioch: An Inheritor of Palestinian Monasticism,” ARAM 15 (2003): 159–171. For the date of Severus’s birth, see Yonatan Moss, “In Corruption: Severus of Antioch on the Body of Christ” (PhD diss., Yale University, 2013), 14 n. 3. 4. Severus was ordained by Epiphanius of Magydos in Pamphylia, who was forced to forsake his see because of his support for the anti-Chalcedonian imperial usurper Basiliscus during the reign of Leo (476). See SL 1.1.7–8/7–8; and Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 5.5. He fled to Alexandria and from there to Palestine, where, according to Severus’s telling, he ordained Severus and others to the priesthood. See further Ernest Honigmann, Évêques et évêchés monophysites d’Asie antérieure au VIe siècle, CSCO 127/Subsidia 2 (Louvain: L. Durbecq, 1951), 132–133. 5. Justinian, Novella 42; M. Amelotti and L. M. Zingale, eds., Scritti teologici ed ecclesiastici di Giustiniano (Milan: Giuffre, 1977), 50; PO 2:360. 6. Only one full-length text by Severus survives in Greek—a homily transmitted under other names (PG 46:628–652; PO 16:761–862). However, Greek florilegia and catenae preserve many fragments from across Severus’s vast oeuvre. For more on Severus’s Greek legacy, see Lucas Van Rompay, “Severus, Patriarch of Antioch (512–538), in the Greek, Syriac, and Coptic Traditions,” Journal of the Canadian Society for Syriac Studies 8 (2008): 3–22, at 4–6, 17–18; Yonatan Moss, “Severing Severus: How Severus of Antioch’s Writings Survived in Greek” (forthcoming). 7. Numerous Coptic and Armenian as well as thirdhand and fourthhand Arabic and Ethiopic translations survive for many of his works, in either complete or fragmentary form. These translations are mostly independent of the Syriac translations and are therefore invaluable for the reconstruction of the Greek originals. See Van Rompay, “Severus, Patriarch of Antioch,” 11–15, 20–22. For a good example of the differences between the Coptic and Syriac versions of one homily, see Gérard Garitte, “Textes hagiographiques orientaux relatifs à Saint Léonce de Tripoli: L’homélie de Sévère d’Antioche,” Le Muséon 79 (1966): 335–386. 8. Although much of Severus’s oeuvre has survived, it is only a fraction of his original output. Brooks, SL 2.1.ix, calculates that Severus wrote at least 3,759 letters, of which only

Notes to pages 2–9

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about 265 complete letters have been published, alongside fragments known from about seventy other letters. See CPG 7070–7071; Pauline Allen, “Severus of Antioch and Pastoral Care,” in Pauline Allen et al., eds., Prayer and Spirituality in the Early Church (Everton Park, Queensland: Centre for Early Christian Studies, Australian Catholic University, 1998– 2009), 2:387–400, at 389 n. 10. 9. See Philip Wood, “We have no king but Christ”: Christian Political Thought in Greater Syria on the Eve of the Arab Conquest (c. 400–585), Oxford Studies in Byzantium (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 167. 10. For the episcopal dependence on the empire, see David M. Gwynn, “Episcopal Leadership,” in Scott Fitzgerald Johnson, ed., The Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 876–915; Fergus Millar, A Greek Roman Empire: Power and Belief under Theodosius II (408–450) (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2006), 130–149. For the empire’s dependence on the episcopate, see John Meyendorff, Imperial Unity and Christian Divisions: The Church, 450–680 A.D. (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1989), 28–38; Averil Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1991); Gilbert Dagron, Emperor and Priest: The Imperial Office in Byzantium, trans. Jean Birrell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 11. See CCT 12:250–264; CCT 2.1:204–210; CCT 2.2:14–15; Francis Dvornik, Early Christian and Byzantine Political Philosophy (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1966), 2:611– 850. On the more oppositional attitude to the empire in the centuries before Eusebius, see David A. Lopez, Separatist Christianity: Spirit and Matter in the Early Church Fathers (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004). 12. See W. H. C. Frend, The Rise of the Monophysite Movement: Chapters in the History of the Church in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), 360; Dagron, Emperor, 144. For Severus’s use of this language, see, e.g., Homily 24 (PO 37:142–145); Hymns 200–203 (PO 7:663–668); Alpi, Route, 117–119. 13. See Honigmann, Évêques, 142–149; Frend, Rise, 233–254. The new imperial policy began in late 518 and continued to be carried out in the following years. Some fifty bishops fled their sees in 519. A. A. Vasiliev, Justin the First: An Introduction to the Epoch of Justinian the Great (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1950), 229–240; Van Rompay, “Society and Community,” 241–243; and Volker Menze, Justinian and the Making of the Syrian Orthodox Church, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 17–57, all correctly point out that the imperial administration’s measures against anti-Chalcedonians varied, both geographically and chronologically, in their intensity. Yet even with these important reservations, the persecution in this period was of a scope unprecedented since the Council of Chalcedon. 14. See Jean Maspero, Histoire des Patriarches d’Alexandrie depuis la mort de l’empereur Anastase jusqu’à la réconciliation des églises Jacobites (518–616) (Paris: E. Champion, 1923), 94. See also Menze, Justinian, 144 n. 141, who thinks that given the state of our sources “the historical impact of Julian of Halicarnassus . . . might never be fully understood.” 15. Compare similar methodological observations concerning Severus’s ally Philoxenus of Mabbug in André de Halleux, Philoxène de Mabbog: Sa vie, ses écrits, sa théologie (Louvain: Imp. Orientaliste, 1963), 3, 57.

156

Notes to pages 5–9

16. René Draguet, Julien d’Halicarnasse et sa controverse avec Sévère d’Antioche sur l’incorruptibilité du corps du Christ (Louvain: Smeesters, 1924). On the methodological issues discussed here, see ibid., 93–95; 157–180. Draguet’s analysis has so far been almost universally accepted in later scholarship. See, e.g., CCT 2.2:79–111. For one dissenting voice, see Martin Jugie, “Julien d’Halicarnasse et Sévère d’Antioche: La doctrine du péché originel chez les pères grecs,” Echos d’Orient 24 (1925): 129–162, at 134–136. 17. As will become clear in fuller detail over the course of this introduction, I am not claiming that there was a causative link between the ecclesiological dispute and the theological and liturgical controversies. The link, rather, was correlative, with no “sequential” or logical primacy of one area over any of the others. It is only from our own “interpretive” perspective that ecclesiology can best help us understand what was happening in the realms of theology and liturgy. 18. For the dating of this letter, see Severus’s mention of his writings “about the incorruptibility of the body of God,” referring to his anti-Julianist works, for which date see my discussion in chapter 1. See also Brooks, PO 14:75 n. 2. On Anastasia the deaconess, who might be Anastasia the hypatissa, to whom several other of Severus’s letters are addressed, see J. R. Martindale, Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, vol. 2: A.D. 395–527 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 76. 19. CL 69 (PO 14:102–103). When citing from CL, SL, or Severus’s Hymns I normally use Brooks’s translations, occasionally with some modifications. All other translations from Greek, Latin, and Syriac, as well as from modern European languages, are my own, unless indicated otherwise. There are also Bohairic and Arabic versions for other parts of this letter. See M. Chaine, “Une lettre de Sévère d’Antioche à la diaconesse Anastasie,” OC 3 (1913): 32–58 (Bohairic); Youhanna Nessim Youssef, “A Letter of Severus to Anastasia the Deaconess,” Bulletin de la Société d’Archéologie Copte 40 (2001): 126–136 (Arabic). See also Allen and Hayward, Severus, 32. 20. See SL 9.1, 472–473/417–419. It should be noted that when I refer here and throughout the book to the patriarchate as a dating point in Severus’s career, I follow the custom of the Syriac manuscript tradition, which dates his letters to before, during, and after the patriarchate. During his lifetime, however, the followers of Severus still saw him as patriarch, even after his exile from Antioch. See on this Edward Watts, “Winning the Intracommunal Dialogues: Zacharias Scholasticus’ Life of Severus,” JECS 13 (2005): 437–464, at 461. 21. SL 2.3, 231–257/207–229, one of our main sources for Isaiah and Gregory, is dated by Brooks (SL 2.3, 207 n. 2) to 518–519, or “very soon after banishment.” See ibid., 249/22, on Isaiah’s attempt to ordain an archbishop of Egypt. For more on Isaiah of Armenia and his followers, see Timothy of Constantinople, De iis qui ad ecclesiam accedunt, PG 86a:45; Honigmann, Évêques, 33–34. 22. SL 2.3, 233–236/209–212. 23. See Num. 16:1–35; Deut. 11:6; Ps. 106:17. 24. See Robert Hespel, ed. and trans., La polémique antijulianiste, CSCO 244–245; 295– 296; 301–302; 318–319 (Louvain: Secrétariat du Corpus SCO, 1964–71), 2.1:14–15/11; 2.2:278– 279/245, 330–336/288–294; 3:87–88/73, 93/78, 106/89, 111/93, 142–143/118 [henceforth Hespel, Polémique]; CL 101 (PO 14:250); CL 108 (PO 14:266–267). See further I. B. Chabot, ed. and trans., Chronique de Michel le Syrien, Patriarche Jacobite d’Antioche (1166–1199) (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1899–1924), 2:225, 264. Despite Severus’s denials, a careful examination of

Notes to pages 10–12

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his earlier writings actually shows that the allegation was not completely baseless. In CL 65, dated to 508–511, Severus writes the following about the body of Christ in the grave (PO 14:42–43): “For he was not separated from his body that was buried, and therefore he anniܿ ‫;)ܡܒܛܠ ܗܘܐ‬ ܿ for, if it had been separated from him who is life and hilated corruption (‫ܠܚܒܐܠ‬ ܿ incorruption (‫)ܐܠ ܡܬܚܒܠܢܘܬܐ‬, perhaps it would have been constantly attacked by corrupܿ tion (‫)ܡܬܚܒܠܢܘܬܐ‬ also.” This passage implies that it was only thanks to the association of the body of Christ with the Divine Logos that it escaped corruption in the grave, but the body on its own terms was still corruptible, as it had been in life. See further Hom. Cath. 24 (PO 37:138–141; May 513); Hom. Cath. 58 (PO 8:229; October 514) for similar ideas. 25. For more on this treatise, see chapter 1, p. 24. 26. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:6/5. Compare Patrick T. R. Gray, “From Eucharist to Christology: The Life-Giving Body of Christ in Cyril of Alexandria, Eutyches, and Julian of Halicarnassus,” in István Perczel et al., eds., The Eucharist in Theology and Philosophy: Issues of Doctrinal History in East and West from the Patristic Age to the Reformation (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2005), 23–35, at 34. 27. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:11–12/9. See also CL 30 (PO 12:262–263); and the discussion in chapter 3, pp. 78–81. 28. Cyril of Alexandria, Commentary on John 10.2 (on John 15:1) (PG 74:341D; Pusey, 2:542). The translation is according to Theresia Hainthaler, “Perspectives on the Eucharist in the Nestorian Controversy,” in Perczel et al., eds., Eucharist in Theology and Philosophy, 3–21, at 4. (The reference to Cyril’s Commentary on John in Hainthaler, 4 n. 10, should be corrected from X.1 to X.2.) Hainthaler views this sentence as expressing “perhaps the central idea of Cyril’s Eucharistic doctrine” (4). 29. Hainthaler, “Perspectives,” 15, who refers also to earlier studies. 30. See Adolph Harnack’s characteristically short but perspicuous comment on this matter; Harnack, History of Dogma, trans. Neil Buchanan (Boston: Little, Brown, 1907), 4:299: “Nay, the incorruptibility of the Eucharistic body was now [i.e., from the time of Cyril onward] accepted without question, while this view, when applied to the Incarnation, was called, at least in later times, Aphthartodocetism.” While sacramentological incorruptibility was accepted without question, christological incorruptibility was just one possible position among others. 31. For an interesting precedent for this line of inquiry concerning the christological and eucharistic doctrines of Severus’s ally Philoxenus of Mabbug, see the brief observation in de Halleux, Philoxène, 395 n. 10, subsequently followed up by David Michelson, “ ‘Though he cannot be eaten, we consume him’: Appeals to Liturgical Practice in the Christological Polemic of Philoxenus of Mabbug,” in George Kiraz, ed., Malphono w-Rabo d-Malphone: Studies in Honor of Sebastian P. Brock (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2008), 439–476. 32. The letters in question are SL 5.14 (389–394/345–350) and SL 5.15 (394–405/350–359). 33. For more on the dating of these letters, see chapter 1, p. 25. 34. SL 5.14, 391/348. 35. SL 5.15, 396/352. 36. SL 5.15, 400/355. 37. SL 5.15, 401/356. This issue will be discussed in more detail in chapter 2. 38. SL 5.14, 393/349.

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Notes to pages 12–13

39. SL 5.15, 401–402/356. The image of not veering left or right of the royal road is based on Num. 20:17 and Deut. 5:32. Severus invokes it often, in various contexts; see SL 1.27, 98/88; Hom. Cath. 35 (PO 36:446–447); 83 (PO 20:405). Alpi named his study of Severus’s patriarchate after this. On the identity of the “witless Romanus” mentioned here, see Draguet, Julien, 80–81; Honigmann, Évêques, 82–83. Severus’s Hom. Cath. 119 (PO 26:375–430; February 518) is dedicated to the refutation of the doctrines of a certain Romanus who was at that time the bishop of Rhosus in Cilicia (the southeastern coastal region of Asia Minor). At fol. 161 of Vat. Syr. 255, one of the manuscripts containing Severus’s anti-Julianist works, there is a notice concerning Severus’s response to Romanus of Rhosus (see Draguet, Julien, 80). Draguet and Honigmann assumed that all of these references to Romanus are to the same person. Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 9.13 (Brooks, ed., 2:113; Greatrex et al., trans., 343) speaks of “many books [addressed] to Julian, Felicissimus, Romanus and other persons [agreeing] with [Julian’s] opinion.” On the basis of the order of the names in this last statement (which is later picked up by Michael the Syrian, Chronicle 9.28 (Chabot, ed., 1:304; Chabot, trans., 2:235), Draguet and Honigmann portrayed Romanus as a disciple of Julian’s. Pauline Allen, “Severus of Antioch as Pastoral Carer,” Studia Patristica 35 (2001): 353–368, at 358, embraces this assumption, characterizing Romanus as “an extreme follower of Julian of Halicarnassus” (see also Allen and Hayward, Severus, 48). It was Sebastian Brock who correctly realized that Romanus was not Julian’s disciple, but his predecessor. See Sebastian Brock, “Some New Letters of the Patriarch Severos,” Studia Patristica 12 (1975): 17–24, at 23–24. On the basis of two unpublished letters in Harvard Syr. 22—one from a group of Syrian monks to Severus, and the other from Severus to Antiochus, abbot of the Monastery of Mar Bassus—Brock shows that Romanus had died several years before the controversy between Julian and Severus broke out. It should be noted that Brock, ibid., 24, reads the first letter in Harvard Syr. 22 as describing Julian as “an advocate of Romanus.” I believe, however, that the text should be translated slightly differently. It reads (2b): ¾å†Êùà܃¿ÿïÙü˜‘†ƒÌåÍéßçæÙâûÐ⃾æÝØ~ ¿ÿÙæÙæâêÙè˜Ì߆‘Í蘃¾òùéñ~¾æ↘¾Øûè¾ÐØû߆¾æ܅†āßÌ߆†ĀƒÌéâÍÓ߆ ¾ÙéåûùÙß~†…¾æÙßÍØ‹ÎϚ~…ûĽæ胋…vāÁÍù߃. “Just as we anathematize the wicked council of Chalcedon . . . and the Tome of Leo, and Leo himself, so do we anathematize the stinking Romanus bishop of Rhosus, and the opposing Manichean heresy whose advocate (‫ )ܣܢܐܓܪܐ‬appeared to be Julian of Halicarnassus.” According to this, Julian was the advocate of “Manichean heresy,” not of Romanus. For further discussion on the differences between Julian and Romanus, see chapter 1, n. 163. 40. See 1 Cor. 12:12–25; Rom 12:4–6; Eph. 5:29–30. For one extended discussion of this image in Paul, see Dale B. Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995). 41. 1 Cor. 10:16–17, 11:24–29; Mark 14:22–24; Matt. 26:26–28; Luke 22:19–20. John 6:48– 58 was, at least from Cyril of Alexandria onward, interpreted principally in eucharistic terms. See Norman Russell, Cyril of Alexandria (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 230 n. 29; Gray, “From Eucharist to Christology,” 24–26. 42. Hom. Cath. 1 (PO 38:260–261). See further chapter 1. See also Hom. Cath. 99 (PO 22:218): one must attend church services so as to complete the body of Christ and not harm the composition (‫ )ܪܘܟܒܐ‬and harmony (‫ )ܡܠܚܡܘܬܐ‬of its limbs. 43. SL 1.21, 8/74.

Notes to pages 13–15

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44. Against Heresies, 4.33.7. 45. SL 1.57, 194/175. 46. CL 45 (PO 12:142–143). See further Hespel, Polémique 2.1:156–157/132–133, where Severus interestingly shifts midsentence from talking about Christ’s physical body—trying to figure out the medical logic of its conception and birth from Mary and the Holy Spirit— to talking about Christ’s social body, the church—stressing how it unites Jews and gentiles. 47. Severus, Contra Felicissimum 7.1. On the fragments surviving from Contra Felicissimum, see chapter 1. See also Hom. Cath. 118 (PO 26:360), where Severus speaks of “the great mystery of piety” that “unites the members of the church.” The idea seems to be that joint participation in the liturgical body unites the members of the ecclesial body. 48. Hom. Cath. 122 (PO 29:116–117). Translation taken from G. J. Cuming, “The Liturgy of Antioch in the Time of Severus (513–518),” in J. Neil Alexander, ed., Time and Community: In Honor of Thomas Julian Talley (Washington, DC: Pastoral Press, 1990), 83–103, at 90. See also, in a similar vein, Hymn 233 (PO 7:687–688): “The great King of the sublime hosts sacrificed upon the holy altar and laid and divided; and with faith and love let him approach and receive and eat the body.” 49. Thus, for example, in the passage mentioned just above, where Severus calls the separatist elements within his party to task for “cleaving the body of Christ,” he turns to the second-century text of Irenaeus, rather than clearly couching his accusation in Chalcedonian terms, as might be expected. 50. André de Halleux, ed. and trans., Philoxène de Mabbog: Commentaire du prologue johannique (Ms. Br. Mus. Add. 14, 534), CSCO 380–381 (Louvain, 1977), 212–216/210–214. Philoxenus calls Christ’s “physical” body “his personal body” (‫)ܦܓܪܐ ܕܩܢܘܡܗ‬. 51. See Henry Chadwick, “Eucharist and Christology in the Nestorian Controversy,” JTS n.s. 2 (1951): 145–164, at 150–152. 52. Cyril of Alexandria, Commentary on John 11.11 (on John 17:20–21) (PG 74:557D; 559A-B, D; Pusey, 2:734–736). The translation here is based on P. E. Pusey and T. Randall, trans., Commentary on the Gospel according to S. John by Cyril Archbishop of Alexandria (Oxford: James Parker, 1874–75), 2:549–551. See the brief discussion of this passage in J. N. D. Kelly, Early Christian Doctrines, rev. ed. (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1978), 405–406. Compare also Cyril’s similar exposition, Commentary on John 11.9 (PG 74:512D–17A; Pusey, 2:694–698) of a similar verse earlier in the chapter, John 17:11. 53. Contra impium gramm. 3.2.4. See CCT 2.2:21. 54. Nestorius was, therefore, correct in his Bazaar of Heraclides 1.1.37 (Bedjan, ed., 42; Driver and Hodgson, trans., 28–29) in portraying Cyril’s insistence on equating the union of Logos and the flesh with the union of Christ and the eucharistic bread. See Chadwick, “Eucharist and Christology,” 157. For a more detailed discussion of the overlap between Cyril and Nestorius’s respective christological and eucharistic ideas, see Stephen J. Davis, Coptic Christology in Practice: Incarnation and Divine Participation in Late Antique and Medieval Egypt, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 43–48. 55. This point, at least with regard to christology and the Eucharist (leaving out ecclesiology), was made already by Harnack, History of Dogma, 4:299: “From the beginning of the fifth century conceptions of the eucharist were very decidedly influenced by the Christological differences. If the conception of the eucharist was connected with that of the

160

Notes to pages 16–18

Incarnation, then it could not be a matter of indifference to the former, whether in the latter the two natures were held to be fused in one or to remain separate. . . . Cyril argued over and over again from the Lord’s Supper in support of the Incarnation and vice versa, and it was strictly due to him that the Church learned the connection between the two and never lost it” (emphasis mine). For Harnack’s survey of the development of this idea from Gregory of Nyssa to Ps.-Dionysius, see ibid., 294–297. On this same point, see, more recently, Y. Congar, “Doctrines christologiques et théologie de l’eucharistie,” Revue des Sciences Philosophiques et Théologiques 66 (1982): 233–244, esp. at 234–239. 56. Hainthaler, “Perspectives,” 15, citing (and endorsing) the opinion of Pierre Battifol, L’Eucharistie: La présence réelle et la transsubstantiation (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1905), 476. 57. Gray, “From Eucharist to Christology,” 23–24. Gray does, however, concede that the case he makes for the causal effect of eucharistic piety on christological speculation “does not, of course, exclude the commonsense conclusion that the logic in fact works in both directions.” See further Davis, Coptic Christology, 47: “In the end, this salvific promise enacted in the eucharist—conceived as a ‘reactualization’ of the unrepeatable union accomplished in the Incarnation—is what was truly at stake for Cyril in his christological battle with Nestorius.” 58. John G. Gager, “Body Symbols and Social Realities: Resurrection, Incarnation, and Asceticism in Early Christianity,” Religion 12 (1982): 345–363. 59. Mary Douglas, “Social Preconditions of Enthusiasm and Heterodoxy,” Forms of Symbolic Action: Proceedings of the 1969 Annual Meeting of the American Ethnological Society, 1969, 71. Quoted in Gager, “Body Symbols,” 347. 60. Mary Douglas, Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology (New York: Pantheon Books, 1970), 162. 61. Gager, “Body Symbols,” 348. 62. Ibid. 63. Thus, bearing in mind that it was and is just a hypothesis, its widespread acceptance by some scholars should not lead us to think it is “well-established.” See Caroline T. Schroeder, Monastic Bodies: Discipline and Salvation in Shenoute of Atripe (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), 11. For one successful application of the theory, see Claudia Setzer, “Resurrection of the Dead as Symbol and Strategy,” JAAR 69 (2001): 65–101. 64. Douglas, Natural Symbols, 166–167; Gager, “Body Symbols,” 347 and, in greater detail, 348–361. See also Elaine Pagels, The Gnostic Gospels (New York: Random House, 1979); Pagels, Adam, Eve, and the Serpent (New York: Random House, 1988). See, by contrast, Jan N. Bremmer, The Rise and Fall of the Afterlife (London: Routledge, 2002), 51. 65. See Caroline Walker Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity 200–1336 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), 110. 66. See Richard L. Rohrbaugh, “‘Social Location of Thought’ as a Heuristic Construct in New Testament Study,” JSNT 30 (1987): 103–119. 67. Gager, “Body Symbols,” 347, 350, 353. 68. Caroline Bynum, “Why All the Fuss about the Body? A Medievalist’s Perspective,” Critical Inquiry 22 (1995): 1–33, at 5. For the full quotation, see the epigraph above, at the beginning of the introduction.

Notes to pages 21–22

161

1 . HO LY F L E SH

1. The title “disputatious polemicist” was first applied to Severus by Grillmeier, CCT 2.2:21. See further James George, “Severus of Antioch’s Response to Heresy and Religious Promiscuity,” Studia Patristica 42 (2006): 133–138, at 133, 136. The modern appreciation of Severus primarily in terms of his opposition to Chalcedon is due largely to the work of Joseph Lebon, whose influential work Le monophysisme sévérien (1909) and editions of Severus’s texts and series of articles dealing with them have all focused on Severian theology vis-à-vis the Chalcedonian definition. Lebon, ibid., 173, explicitly leaves out of his discussion Severus’s engagement with opponents within the anti-Chalcedonian party. Grillmeier, CCT 2.2:21–180, however, engages equally with all battles of the “disputatious polemicist.” See also Severus’ non-polemical exposition of anti-Chalcedonian Christology to a member of his own party, as translated and studied by Iain R. Torrance, Christology after Chalcedon: Severus of Antioch and Sergius the Monophysite (Norwich: Centerbury, 1988). 2. For details on the dating, see n. 8 below. 3. See Menze, Justinian, 144 and n. 141. 4. This is borne out by three documents written in the years 530–535: the pastoral letter written by a group of anti-Chalcedonian bishops in around the year 530 and Severus’s letters to Emperor Justinian (532) and to Theodosius, patriarch of Alexandria (535). All three of these documents underscore the centrality of the Julianist issue, at the expense of the Chalcedonian issue, in the eyes of Severus. For the first document, see René Draguet, “Une pastorale antijulianiste des environs de l’année 530,” Le Muséon 40 (1927): 75–92, in particular 91–92, and Draguet’s comments at 76. On this letter, see further chapter 2, n. 57. For the second document, see Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 9.16 (Brooks, ed., 123–131; Greatrex et al., trans., 354–361). For the third document, see Joseph Lebon, Documenta ad origines monophysitarum illustrandas, CSCO 17 (Louvain: Peeters, 1907), 12–34 (text); CSCO 103 (Louvain: Peeters, 1933), 6–22 (trans.). 5. Hespel, Polémique 1:8/6 (cf. Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 9.11; Brooks, ed., 104; Greatrex et al., trans., 335). This is supported by the report of the Chalcedonian historian Theodore Lector, HE 2.26 (PG 86a:197b; PO 2:363). That their encounter was during Severus’s stay in Constantinople (508–511) is clear from Severus’s own letter. The more specific date of 511 is likely, given that Theodore Lector mentions their names in the context of the ousting of Macedonius, patriarch of Constantinople, which occurred in that year. This is further confirmed by a Coptic extract from a letter of Severus to Soterichus that has been preserved on a limestone fragment from the Monastery of Epiphanes at Thebes. In the fragment Severus describes how he and others, including a certain “Bishop Julian,” jointly upbraided Patriarch Macedonius in a meeting held in Constantinople in late July 511. Despite some later evidence to the contrary, it appears most plausible that the Julian in question is Julian of Halicarnassus. See Jitse Dijkstra and Geoffrey Greatrex, “Patriarchs and Politics in Constantinople in the Reign of Anastasius (with a Reedition of O.Mon.Epiph. 59),” Millennium 6 (2009): 223–264, at 253 n. 97. 6. As far as I can tell, Julian’s residence at Enaton is not documented in any of Julian’s or Severus’s writings. But this claim is made in a number of sixth-century sources, and is not contradicted by anything Julian or Severus says. See, e.g., Liberatus, Breviarium causae Nestorianum et Eutychianorum 19 (ACO 2.5.134). For a fuller list of sources, see Sylvain Destephen, Prosopographie chrétienne du Bas-Empire: Prosopographie du diocese d’Asie

162

Notes to page 22

(325–641) (Paris: Association des amis du Centre d’histoire et civilization de Byzance, 2008), 549 n. 23. Julian’s residence at Enaton makes sense in light of several indications, discussed below, that Julian had more frequent access to the city than Severus. For Severus’s residence in the vicinity of Kellia, see Hespel, Polémique 1:218/169. The latter source should be added to the survey of sixth-century mentions of Kellia in F. Daumas and A. Guillaumont, eds., Kellia I. Kom 219 (Cairo: Imprimerie de l’institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1969), 10–11. It should be noted that the Chalcedonian sources erroneously report that both Julian and Severus were living at Enaton. See Liberatus, ibid., 19 (ACO 2.5.134); Leontius, De Sectis 5.3 (PG 86a:1229C). Some modern scholars have followed this. See Honigmann, Évêques, 126, 144; Allen and Hayward, Severus, 25, 28; Watts, “Winning,” 462. But Destephen, Prosopographie, 549, correctly observes that this is contradicted by Severus; e.g., his letter to Justinian stating that he received Julian’s communications “when he was far from Alexandria” (Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 9.16; Brooks, ed., 128; Greatrex et al., trans., 358). 7. See Hespel, Polémique 2.1:5/4, where Severus speaks of the prospect (which he rejects) of traveling to see Julian in person as involving a “long voyage.” Roughly three–four days’ travel separated the two men. 8. Soon after the ascension of Justin, Severus fled to Egypt in late September 518. See the postscript to Severus’s unpublished letter about his flight contained in Mardin, Church of the Holy Martyrs 256, 357. Julian presumably also arrived in Egypt at around the same time. Draguet, Julien, 24–25, assumes that the controversy between them broke out soon after, “circa 520.” This dating has been followed in all subsequent scholarship; e.g., Honigmann, Évêques, 126, 144; Charles Kannengiesser and Markus Stein, “Iulianus VI (Julianos von Halikarnassos),” RAC 19 (2001): 505–508, at 505; CCT 2.2:25; Allen and Hayward, Severus, 28; Watts, “Winning,” 462; Destephen, Prosopographie, 554; Menze, Justinian, 139. There is, however, one important piece of information that these scholars failed to notice. Toward the end of his second letter to Julian, Severus refers to Philoxenus of Mabbug as ‫ܫܘܐ ܠܕܘܟܪܢܐ‬, i.e., “of blessed memory.” Philoxenus died in Chalcedonian captivity on December 10, 523. See Honigmann, Évêques, 67 n. 4; and Alphonse Mingana, “New Documents on Philoxenus of Hierapolis and on the Philoxenian Version of the Bible,” The Expositor 9 (1920): 149–160, at 156 and nn. 20–21. Thus, allowing for the time it would have taken the news of Philoxenus’s death to reach him, Severus could not have written his second letter to Julian before early 524. Furthermore, from various indications within the letters (Hespel, Polémique 1:207/160; 215–216/167) we learn that no more than a year and five months elapsed between Julian’s first letter and Severus’s third letter. In other words, Severus would have written his second letter (with the reference to dead Philoxenus) less than a year and five months after Julian’s first letter. Thus, the terminus post quem for Julian’s first letter, which sparked the whole controversy, is July 522—and in all likelihood it was written a little later that year. In other words, at least four years had elapsed between Severus’s flight from Antioch in September 518 and the outbreak of the controversy with Julian. In all likelihood, the heart of the controversy took place during the years 524–526. The terminus ante quem is, as scholars have long recognized, April 528, since this is the date Paul of Callinicum (or whoever wrote the colophon; see Sebastian Brock, “Manuscripts Copied in Edessa,” in Peter Bruns and Heinz Otto Luthe, eds., Orientalia Christiana: Festschrift für Hubert Kaufhold zum 70. Geburtstag [Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013], 109–128, at 111; 120–121) gives in the colophon to his Syriac translation of the Severus-Julian corpus in Vat. Syr. 140. For more details on the dating of the controversy, see Moss, “In Corruption,” Appendix 1.

Notes to pages 22–24

163

9. Draguet, Julien, 15 and n. 2. For an English translation of the thirty-nine “dogmatic” fragments (excluding five fragments that are only citations of earlier patristic sources), see Moss, “In Corruption,” Appendix 2. ̈ or “chapters” 10. The manuscript tradition refers to them as either “questions” (‫)ܬܒܥܬܐ‬ ̈ (‫)ܩܦܐܠܐ‬. Draguet, Julien, 16, translates these as “propositions,” as does subsequent scholarship as well. 11. Hespel, Polémique 1:215/167. 12. Ibid. 1:8–9/6–7. Cf. the slightly different version of the letter in Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 9.11 (cited above in n. 5). 13. Hespel, Polémique 1:205/158. 14. Ibid. 1:18/13; 1:218–219/169–170. 15. Ibid. 1:18/13: “You have published your Tome not only in Alexandria . . . but you have also sent it into other regions”; 1:218/169 speaks of the Tome having reached as far afield as Cilicia (or is this a corruption of Kellia?). See also 1:219/170: “The Tome was edited a while ago; many have read and even copied it.” At 1:207/160 Julian claims that the Tome was published by others, against his own wishes. At 2.1:9/7 Severus again states that Julian had made the Tome widely available. 16. See Draguet, Julien, 21–22. 17. Hespel, Polémique 1:207/160; 216/167. 18. Ibid. 1:12–18/9–13. 19. Sasima is in Cappadocia II. On Eleusinius, see Honigmann, Évêques, 114–116. See Brock, “Some New Letters,” 23–24, where Severus portrays himself as collaborating with both Philoxenus and Eleusinius in the condemnation of Romanus of Rhossus, whose ideas were thought to anticipate Julian’s. On Romanus, see above in the introduction, n. 39; and below, n. 163. 20. Ibid. 1:18–19/13–14, referring to both Philoxenus and Eleusinius as “of saintly memory.” This statement is key to the precise dating of the controversy, as discussed in n. 8 above. The version of this letter provided in Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 9.13 (Brooks, ed., 112; Greatrex et al., trans., 342) presents matters differently. Here Severus does not wish to meet Julian in person, as he had done with Philoxenus and Eleusinius, but wishes that his and Julian’s writings would agree just as Severus ensured that his own writings agreed with the writings of Philoxenus and Eleusinius. 21. Hespel, Polémique 1:206–209/159–162. The reference to Julian’s old age is at 1:208/169. 22. Thus according to the reasonable estimate of Draguet, Julien, 24. 23. On this rhetorical shift, see Draguet, Julien, 49. 24. Hespel, Polémique 1:210–278/163–214. 25. Draguet, Julien, 24. 26. Ibid., 24 n. 1, 29–31. 27. If in the Critique Severus referred to Julian as “my dearest of all” (Hespel, Polémique 1:126/97) and speaks of “wise people, like you” (1:171/132), in his third letter to Julian he says the latter has succumbed to senility (1:220/171), stating that he has acted as one “who plucks his brother’s eyes out and then has the impudence to say he is kissing him” (1:221/171). 28. Although Severus was technically a “patriarch” or “archbishop,” rather than a bishop, when speaking of him in conjunction with Julian I will refer to them both as bishops. See Hom. Cath. 99 (PO 22:219–220), where Severus warns against the dangers of too much concern with the distinctions between these titles.

164

Notes to page 24

29. Draguet, Julien, 32. 30. Ibid., 36. 31. Severus accuses Julian of dishonesty for changing both his own text and the texts of the earlier authorities. See Hespel, Polémique 2.1:9/7, 81/67; 2.1:31–32/26, 151/127; Draguet, Julien, 34–36. 32. Toward the end of his Critique (Hespel, Polémique 1:163/125–126) Severus mentions, for the first time as far as I can tell, the risk of “falling into the nets of Eutychians and Manichaeans” entailed in denying the passible and mortal character of Christ’s body. From Against Julian’s Additions and onward, however, the association is clear and commonplace; see, e.g., Hespel, Polémique 2.1:98/81, 162–163/137. See also CL 35 (PO 12:290), and Draguet, Julien, 49 n. 5, for some more examples. 33. Samuel N. C. Lieu, Manichaeism in the Later Roman Empire and Medieval China, WUNT 63 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), 161–165. 34. The 448 CE proceedings against Eutyches can be found in ACO 2.1.1.140–142. For later beliefs attached to his name, see Kelly, Early Christian Doctrines, 332–334. Modern scholars have persuasively argued that Eutyches probably did not hold any of these “heretical” views attributed to him, and in fact his thought was no different from Cyril of Alexandria’s. See René Draguet, “La christologie d’Eutychès d’après les Actes du synode de Flavien (448),” Byzantion 6 (1931): 441–457; Thomas Camelot, “De Nestorius à Eutychès: L’opposition de deux christologies,” in Aloys Grillmeier and Heinrich Bacht, eds., Das Konzil von Chalkedon: Geschichte und Gegenwart (Würzburg: Echter, 1951–54), 1:229–242; George A. Bevan and Patrick T. R. Gray, “The Trial of Eutyches: A New Interpretation,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 101 (2009): 617–657. 35. Already Timothy Aelurus referred to “Eutychians” as “Phantasiasts”; see R. Y. Ebied and L. R. Wickham, “A Collection of Unpublished Syriac Letters of Timothy Aelurus,” JTS, n.s., 21 (1970): 321–369, at 367 and 369 (from Timothy’s Letter to Claudianus). See further CCT 2.4:16–24. Severus repeatedly refers to Eutyches as the one who declares that the flesh of Christ came down from heaven (on the basis of John 6:41—“living bread that came down from heaven”). See, e.g., Hespel, Polémique, 2.2:180/153. 36. See, e.g., SL 5.1, 316/281; 5.6, 358/316. 37. See, for example, Severus’s letter, written from exile, to the noblewoman Caesaria, CL 97 (PO 14:194–199), discussing a claim attributed to the Phantasiasts that Jesus had not been circumcised. Allen and Hayward, Severus, 48, as well as Andrew S. Jacobs, Christ Circumcised: A Study in Early Christian History and Difference (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 89–91, assume that this letter refers to Julianist claims made on the basis of the belief in the incorruptibility of Christ’s body, and they cite this letter as evidence that “the attraction of Julian’s doctrine extended beyond the circle of academic theologians.” The letter, however, does not explicitly associate the denial of Christ’s circumcision with a belief in the incorruptibility of his pre-resurrection body. Severus and his correspondent Caesaria could very well be referring here not to Julianists but to some other group of people whom he accuses of “Eutychian” sympathies. Four fragments survive from Philoxenus of Mabbug that also critique those who deny Christ’s circumcision. Philoxenus does not name these opponents beyond saying that their opinions are “appropriate to the ̈ ̈ Manicheans (‫ܠܚܡܢ‬ ‫ܕܠܡܢܝܢܝܐ‬ ‫)ܐܝܠܝܢ‬,” but he does connect the claim about Christ’s circumcision to a belief in the incorruptibility of his flesh prior to the resurrection. See

Notes to page 25

165

J. W. Watt, ed. and trans., Philoxenus of Mabbug: Fragments of the Commentary on Matthew and Luke, CSCO 392–393 (Louvain: Secréteriat du CorpuSCO, 1978), 38–39/33–34 (fr. 39–42). See also de Halleux, Philoxène, 503. 38. As demonstrated by Hespel, Polémique 2.2:300/263, Severus is already aware of this work by the time he writes his Against Julian’s Apology (on which see below). ̈ (“tomes”) is used in the Syriac translation of Severus’s own works; 39. The word ‫ܛܘܡܣܐ‬ the word ‫“( ܡܐܡ̈ܪܐ‬treatises”) is used in subsequent anti-Julianist florilegia. Severus speaks of six books; the florilegia speak of ten books, but it is not entirely clear that they are referring to the Against Severus’s Blasphemies. See Draguet, Julien, 39–40. 40. Draguet, Julien, 36–41. 41. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:178/151. 42. See Draguet, Julien, 44–50. This treatise survives virtually complete in BL 12158; Vat. Syr. 140 preserves only the last quarter of it. 43. The phrase is Severus’s, used to describe his own writing style (Hespel, Polémique 2.1:5–6/4). See my discussion of this passage in chapter 4, pp. 111–12. Draguet, Julien, 49, counts 232 patristic citations in the Against Julian’s Additions and Against the Apology alone, about half of which are from Cyril of Alexandria. 44. See n. 38 above. 45. SL 5.15, 404/358. See Brooks, ibid., n. 1; and, by contrast, see Draguet, Julien, 74, together with n. 2. 46. Hespel, Polémique, 2.2:275/242 (speaks of the white hair that covers Julian’s head); 2.2:299/263 (speaks of Julian’s old age). 47. SL 5.14, to bishops John Philoxenus and Thomas, residing on the hill of Marde (in Mesopotamia I). The reference to Julian’s death is at 393/349. Evidence for the fact that this letter predates SL 5.15 is provided by a reference to Severus’s letter to John, Philoxenus, and Thomas at the beginning of SL 5.15, 395/352. Thinking that Julian’s “last work” refers to the Additions (which he calls the Appendices), Brooks deduced that SL 5.15 (to Sergius and Marion) must have been written before 528, the date of Paul of Callinicum’s Syriac translation of the Julianist dossier, which includes Severus’s response to the Additions (see n. 31 above), and that therefore Julian must have been dead by the end of 527. This reasoning is followed in most subsequent studies; see, e.g., Honigmann, Évêques, 127 and n. 3. But, as Draguet, Julien, 74, correctly pointed out, Severus’s mention of Julian’s “last work” probably does not in fact refer to the Additions. Given the evidence just adduced from the Against Julian’s Apology it is in fact certain that Julian’s “last work” cannot refer to the Additions. It can only refer to the Against Severus’s Blasphemies, which Severus did not indeed ever respond to (unless we count his Against Felicissimus as his response—see below). This being the case, the evidence for 527 as Julian’s death date collapses. Julian could very well have still been alive in 528, when Paul of Callinicum published his Syriac translation of the Julianist dossier. And letters SL 5.14–15 could have been written after that date. In any event, Julian probably died no later than 532/3 when bishops John, Philoxenus, and Thomas left Marde for Constantinople and do not appear to have resumed dwelling together at Marde upon their return to the East. See, however, Menze, Justinian, 153, who writes that John, Philoxenus, and Thomas lived at Marde “before 525.” Menze does not give a source for this dating (Brooks, based on the logic that we saw above, gives 527 as the terminus ad quem); if they left Marde by 525, this would mean that Severus had written them the letter, with the

166

Notes to pages 25–26

reference to Julian’s death, by then. It seems highly unlikely (though not impossible) that Julian was dead by the end of 524. This would leave one year for the whole exchange of writings between Severus and Julian, from Julian’s Additions and onward. This is an unlikely scenario. In the final balance, it seems most likely that both SL 5.14 and SL 5.15 were written in the late 520s. 48. It is possible, however, that Julian was still alive when Severus wrote these works (about to be discussed). Toward the beginning of his Apology for the Philalethes (Hespel, Polémique 3:6/5) he speaks of Julian wishing to hide his Against Severus’s Blasphemies “until today.” This could be taken to imply that Julian was alive (or at least Severus thought so) when Severus wrote these lines. However, other passages in the same work seem to imply that Julian is no longer alive. At 3:48/40 Severus seems to be setting up a contrast between Julian, who already has “inheritors of his impiety,” and Severus himself, who is “alive and in this world.” At 3:54/46 he speaks of “Julian, who, down to his old age, had not been schooled in theology.” The past-tense reference seems to indicate that Julian was at that time no longer alive. 49. The manuscript in question is Vat. Syr. 140. See Draguet, Julien, 50; Hespel, Polémique 3:VII–VIII/V. 50. For a full literary history of the Philalethes, see Hespel, Philalèthe, I–VII. See also the summaries provided in CCT 2.2:22–23 and n. 5; Allen and Hayward, Severus, 10–11, 41–42 (although they speak of 250, rather than 244, passages). Unlike Severus’s Philalethes, the text of the Chalcedonian florilegium that it attacks survives almost in its entirety in the original Greek. 51. See Draguet, Julien, 50–73. We owe the solution of this complex literary and historical puzzle to Draguet. 52. For more on this work and its contextualization within contemporary textual culture, see chapter 4, pp. 120–21. 53. Dionysius bar Salibi, in the twelfth century, states that Felicissimus helped disseminate Julian’s ideas among the Armenians. See Alphonse Mingana, ed. and trans., The Work of Dionysius bar Salībi against the Armenians, Woodbrooke Studies 4 (Cambridge: W. Heffer, 1931), 8, quoted in Honigmann, Évêques, 127 n. 5. 54. I say “some thirty-six” fragments, since some may be mere references to the work, rather than direct quotations. For a preliminary edition and translation of these fragments, see Moss, “In Corruption,” Appendix 4. A more updated version is forthcoming. For bibliographical information on Against Felicissimus in earlier literature, see Draguet, Julien, 79–80; CPG 7032; Allen and Hayward, Severus, 49. Draguet, Julien, 89–90, hypothesized that Against Felicissimus in fact served as Severus’s long-promised refutation of Julian’s Against Severus’s Blasphemies. 55. See Moss, “In Corruption,” Appendix 4 [henceforth Against Felicissimus], fr. 2. 56. Against Felicissimus, fr. 1–3, 6, 14, 16–20, 22, 27–28, 35. 57. Ibid., fr. 4, 8, 11, 21. 58. Ibid., fr. 5, 7, 11. 59. Ibid., fr. 16, 24–26. 60. Ibid., fr. 12–13, 31–32. 61. Ibid., fr. 7, 9–10, 15, 23, 25, 29–30, 34–35. 62. Ibid., fr. 15; see also fr. 15a, relating to Felicissimus, but not necessarily a part of Against Felicissimus.

Notes to pages 26–29

167

63. Hespel, Polémique 1:19/14. 64. See above, n. 14. 65. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:152–153/129. 66. E.g., Hespel, Polémique 2.1:139/116 (on which see chapter 2 below); 2.2:276/243, 299/262 (on which see chapter 4 below), 300/263. 67. E.g., Hespel, Polémique 2.1:3/3, 138/116. 68. See Julian, Tome, fr. 11, 13, 17, 29 (the numbering is according to Draguet, Julien, *5–*18). 69. See Watts, “Winning,” 460–463. Watts proposes to locate Zachariah’s Life of Severus within the context of the controversy between Julian and Severus, which “quickly came to involve many bishops, all of whom evidently tried to prevail” (462). 70. See SL 5.14; 5.15 (both discussed above, nn. 45–47); CL 35 (PO 12:286–289); and the letters to Justinian and Theodosius (cited in n. 4 above). 71. Liberatus, Breviarium 19 (ACO 2.5.134). See the treatment of this episode in Frend, Rise, 270; Stephen J. Davis, The Early Coptic Papacy: The Egyptian Church and Its Leadership in Late Antiquity (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2004), 102–103. 72. See Maspero, Histoire des Patriarches d’Alexandrie, 94. 73. See Jacques Jarry, “Hérésies et factions en Égypte byzantine,” Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale 62 (1964): 173–186; Jarry, “Le Gaïanisme, un ramassis d’hérésies,” Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale 63 (1965): 121–130; Jarry, “Le manichéisme en Égypte Byzantine,” Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale 66 (1968): 121–137; Jarry, Hérésies et factions dans l’empire byzantine du IVe au VIIe siècle (Cairo: Impr. de L’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1968), 66–94; Anna Maria Demicheli, “La politica religiosa di Giustiniano in Egitto: Riflessi sulla chiesa egiziana della legislazione ecclesiastica giustinianea,” Aegyptus 63 (1983): 217–57, at 229–33; Van Rompay, “Society and Community,” 252–254; Aryeh Kofsky, “Julianism after Julian of Halicarnassus: An Overview,” in Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony and Lorenzo Perrone, eds., Personal and Institutional Religion: Thought and Praxis in Eastern Christianity (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 251–294; Ute Possekel, “Julianism in Syriac Christianity,” in Peter Bruns and Heinz Otto Luthe, eds., Orientalia Christiana: Festschrift für Hubert Kaufhold zum 70. Geburtstag (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013), 437–457 74. The phrase is from Kofsky, “Julianism after Julian.” See in this regard the hyperbolic report in the History of the Patriarchs of Alexandria—a medieval Arabic compilation drawing on earlier Coptic sources (PO 1:454, Evetts, ed.)—that Julian’s Tome was initially endorsed by all but seven of all the monks in Egypt (!). For a contemporary, less hyperbolic, but nonetheless telling indication of Julian’s popularity, see Draguet, “Pastorale antijulianiste,” 92, where the Severian bishops, somewhat reluctantly (‫“ ;ܐܝܢ ܕܒܫܪܪܐ ܠܡܐܡܪ‬to tell the truth”), admit that Julian has won many over to his side. 75. Hespel, Polémique 1:10/8. Cf. the version in Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 9.10 (Greatrex et al., trans., 336). The two passages in Cyril will be identified and discussed below. 76. De recta fide ad Theodosium 21 (PG 76:1164C; ACO 1.1.55), on the basis of Acts 2:31 (“nor did his flesh see corruption [διαφθορά]”). See the end of this section for Severus’s interpretation of this verse from Acts. 77. De recta fide ad Theodosium 22 (PG 76:1165A; ACO 1.1.55). 78. Hespel, Polémique 1:11/9. See also the version in Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 9.10.

168

Notes to page 29

79. Draguet, Julien, 27, counts 158 distinct patristic passages (of which many are repeated, often more than once) in Severus’s Critique alone. 80. This was the understanding of most theologians, following the lead of Gregory Nazianzus. Gregory’s famous phrase encapsulating this notion was “What has not been assumed cannot be restored” (Ep. 101.7). See further his Or. 30.5 for a fuller development of this notion. See also Kelly, Early Christian Doctrines, 296–298. 81. Aristotle, On Generation and Corruption 1.4 (319b-320a). “Natural bodies” refers to everything in the sublunar sphere. The celestial bodies are subject to simple movement but not to change and corruption. See Aristotle, Physics 2.1 (192b-193b), 3.1 (200b); On the Parts of Animals 1.5 (644b-645a). 82. In some cases Severus makes a point of rhetorically distancing himself from Greek philosophers, whom he calls “the outside sages”; see Hespel, Polémique 1:61/46; 142/109; 172/133. See also Torrance, Christology, 219–20. On at least one occasion he offers a negative portrayal of “Aristotelian dialectic”; see Hom. Cath. 86 (PO 23:69). Elsewhere, however, he attacks Julian’s positions as being ludicrous from a philosophical standpoint. See Hespel, Polémique 3:77/64. Also when it came to embryological theory, Severus’s opinion is in line with Aristotle’s, while he presents the Julianist view as siding with an alternate embryological approach. See Hespel, Polémique 2.1:156/132, where Severus defends, in face of a “Phantasiast” opponent, the idea that “the conception of every person takes form from the seed of the father, which, out of the blood of the mother coagulates into the embryo’s flesh.” This is precisely Aristotle’s “haematogenic” embryological doctrine, which competed with at least two other embryological theories in the Greco-Roman world. For details on these different theories, see Pieter W. van der Horst, “Sarah’s Seminal Emission: Hebrews 11: 11 in the Light of Ancient Embryology,” in D. L. Balch et al., eds., Greeks, Romans, and Christians: Essays in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), 287–302. See further Hom. Cath. 61 (PO 8:302) for a similar expression of Severus’s Aristotelian embryology; and de Halleux, Philoxène, 372 n. 34, regarding the same position in Philoxenus (see also 30–31 n. 52, on other Aristotelian elements in Philoxenus). As for the degree of Severus’s knowledge of “outside wisdom,” his biography, written by his friend Zacharias Rhetor, makes a point of stressing Severus’s knowledge of pagan philosophy and religion. See on this Walter Bauer, “Die Severus-Vita des Zacharias Rhetor,” in G. Strecker, ed., Aufsätze und kleine Schriften (Tübingen: Mohr, 1967), 210–228. On classical references in Severus’s own writings, see Vicenzo Poggi, “Soggiorno alessandrino e reminiscenze classiche di Severo d’Antiochia,” in Gianfranco Fiaccadori, ed., Autori classici in lingue del Vicino e Medio Oriente (Rome: Istituto Poligrafico e Zecca dello Stato, 2001), 357–372. The image of Severus as versed both in ecclesiastical and in general philosophical knowledge is mirrored in the portrait that Severus himself paints of Basil, Gregory, and Athanasius in Hom. Cath. 9 (PO 38:338–339) and Hom. Cath. 91 (PO 25:12). Perhaps this is reflected in the later Byzantine accusation that Severus infected theology with Aristotelian logic. See Anastasius of Sinai, Viae Dux, Uthemann, ed., 100. On the basis of Severus’s presumed extensive knowledge of both pagan and Christian writings, Pier Franco Beatrice, in “Pagan Wisdom and Christian Theology According to the Tübingen Theosophy,” JECS 3 (1995): 403–418, and, in fuller detail, in Anonymi monophysitae Theosophia: An Attempt at Reconstruction, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 56 (Leiden, Boston, and Cologne: Brill, 2001), has sought to attribute to him the authorship of a late ancient Christian apology steeped in the knowledge of classical culture. But see also Frédéric

Notes to pages 29–30

169

Nicolas Alpi and Alain Le Boulluec, “La reconstruction de la Théosophie anonyme proposée par Pier Franco Beatrice: Étude critique,” Apocrypha 15 (2004): 293–305. 83. Hespel, Polémique 1:32–33/23–24. Similar ideas can be found already in Hom. Cath. 21 (PO 37:74–75); Hom. Cath. 123 (PO 29:150–151). 84. For the first statement, see Hespel, Polémique 1:45/34, quoting Cyril, Commentary on John 6, pref. on John 8:55 (PG 73:932C; Pusey, 2:128). For the second statement, see Hespel, Polémique 1:35/26, quoting Commentary on John 6, pref. on John 8:54 (PG 73:928A, Pusey, 2:124). To make the same point Severus also quotes Cyril’s De recta fide ad Theodosium (PG 76:1148C; ACO 1.1.1.48). Scholars have debated whether Cyril’s anthropology derives from earlier Platonic thought or from an Aristotelian-tinged Neoplatonism. For the former view, see Joseph Liébaert, La doctrine christologique de S. Cyrille d’Alexandrie avant la querelle nestorienne (Lille: Facultés Catholiques, 1951), 174–178; for the latter view, see Hans Van Loon, The Dyophysite Christology of Cyril of Alexandria, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 96 (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 157–171. 85. Rather than claiming, as the positions described as “Docetist” and “Phantasiast” do, that Christ’s body was a mere appearance and not physically real. 86. For one example of this oft-recurring statement, see Hespel, Polémique 1:133/103, citing Athanasius, Contra Apollinarium 1.77 (PG 26:1104B). See also Hom. Cath. 8 (PO 38:330–331), Hom. Cath. 16 (PO 38:440–441), and Hom. Cath. 35 (PO 36:444–445) for the idea that in the material world, natural growth and the passage of time lead to change and therefore to corruption. 87. Luke 2:40, 52. Hespel, Polémique 1:99–100/76–77, citing Chrysostom, In illud, Pater si possibile est 4 (PG 51:37); Cyril, De recta fide ad principissas 16 (PG 76:1353B-C); as well as citations from Atticus of Constantinople (PG 76:1213B) and Proclus of Constantinople, Ad Occidentales (PG 65:888D). A contemporary Chalcedonian rebuttal of Julian’s views (attributed by Marcel Richard, the text’s modern editor, to the grammarian John of Caesarea, Severus’s contemporary and Chalcedonian nemesis, against whom he wrote Against the Impious Grammarian) uses expressly Aristotelian terms to make this argument: “How did he [Jesus] grow, if he was incorruptible? For change (ἀλλοίωσις), inasmuch as there is, only happens (γίνεται) in a corruptible substance (φθαρτὴ οὐσία).” See Marcel Richard, ed., Iohannis Caesariensis presbyteri et grammatici opera quae supersunt, CCSG 1 (Turnhout: Brepols; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1977), 70. 88. See, e.g., Hespel, Polémique 1:92/70–71, citing Proclus, Tomus ad Armenios 9 (PG 65:864C-D); and 1:54/40–41, 92–93/71, 228–229/177, citing Chrysostom, Hom. Joh. 67.2 (PG 59:371). Compare the counterargument regarding these verses, in Against Felicissismus, fr. 15a, that Severus claims Julian and Felicissimus forged in the name of Peter of Alexandria. 89. Hespel, Polémique 1:54/41, 93/71, 229/177: ‫( ܘܐܢ ܕܝܢ ܐܠ ܐܦ ܐܠ ܦܓܪܐ ܐܝܬܘܗܝ ܼܗܘܐ‬ἐπεὶ οὐδ’ ἂν σῶμα ἦν). In the fragment from Against Felicissimus cited in the previous note, Arius (a stand-in for Severus, from the Julianist perspective) is said to have stated that “everything that comes into being, including the Son, is corruptible.” 90. For Athanasius, see n. 86 above. For Gregory’s two letters to Cledonius (Ep. 101– 102), see Hespel, Polémique 1:129/99, 224/173–174, 276/212. Chrysostom’s homily against the Manicheans and Marcionites is In illud, Pater si possibile est; see n. 87 above. For John of Jerusalem, Hespel, Polémique 1:138–140/107–108, citing the Syriac text of this confession first published (and translated into German) in Carl Paul Caspari, Ungedruckte, unbeachtete

170

Notes to pages 30–31

und wenig beachtete Quellen zur Geschichte des Taufsymbols und der Glaubensregel (Christiania: P. T. Malling, 1866), 185–186. Caspari speculatively identifies the Docetist targets of John’s polemic as Manicheans and Apollinarians. Lorenzo Perrone, La chiesa di Palestina e le controversie cristologiche: Dal concilio di Efeso (431) al secondo concilio di Constantinopoli (553) (Brescia: Paideia, 1980), 63, deems the latter option more likely in this case. For further discussion of this text, see Alexis James Doval, Cyril of Jerusalem, Mystagogue: The Authorship of the Mystagogic Catecheses, North American Patristic Society Patristic Monograph Series 17 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2001), 215–216. 91. Hespel, Polémique 1:45/34, 96/74, 101/78, 148–149/115, 200/154, 203/157, 248/191. Although long interpreted as essential affirmations about Jesus’s nature, in their original context in Hebrews these statements seem to have been intended as paraenetic encouragement to the believers to hold onto their confession even in the face of persecution, since Jesus endured testing and did not sin. See Harold W. Attridge, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1989), 140–141; Craig R. Koester, Hebrews: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, The Anchor Bible 36 (New York: Doubleday, 2001), 283–284, 293–295. 92. Acts 2:27–32. 93. It may be noted that this observation applied only to the Septuagint. The Peshitta, by contrast, has for both Ps. 16:10 and Acts 2:27/31 ‫( ܚܒܐܠ‬equivalent to “actual” corruption), rather than ‫( ܡܬܚܒܠܢܘܬܐ‬equivalent to the “potential” for corruption, or “corruptibility”). 94. Julian, Tome, fr. 8. Severus claims that he knows of no source for this distinction. Can we find any traces of Julian’s declared “outside” source? Ps.-Athanasius, Liber de definitionibus (CPG 2254; PG 28:549) distinguishes φθορά, defined only as death resulting from the separation of the soul from the body, from διαφθορά, referring to the consumption of the flesh by worms (with only bones remaining). This distinction, however, is more in line with Severus than Julian. 95. Hespel, Polémique 1:61.46, quoting from Cyril’s De recta fide ad Theodosium 21 (PG 76:1164C). 96. Hespel, Polémique 1:61–63/46–48. At a subsequent stage of the controversy, however, Severus retracts this position, claiming that Jesus’s body did not actually suffer any dissolution in the grave; it merely had the potential to do so. See Hespel, Polémique 2.1:111/92, 125/104, 278–279/245; 3:106/89. 97. Julian, Tome, fr. 48. See further Draguet, Julien, *43, fr. 152: “If the body were naturally corruptible (‫)ܡܬܚܒܠܢܐ‬, it would have been corrupted (‫ )ܡܬܚܒܠ‬also before the transgression [of Adam and Eve].” 98. See Julian, Tome, fr. 29. 99. Compare L. S. B. MacCoull, “A New Look at the Career of John Philoponus,” JECS 3 (1995): 47–60, at 53–56: “If the Second Person of the Trinity, God the Son and Word, had in the order of time first created the world and then become human and saved that world as God yet sharing the same stuff as us hungry, thirsty, tired, suffering humans, the old eternal universe of Aristotle, with heavenly bodies made out of something else, no longer looked very salvageable. Since the immaterial God became human with a body made of matter, the question ‘What is matter?’ was to take on more importance than ever. . . . By 528 the Severus-Julian corpus of writings had been translated into Syriac . . . and was sparking debate on the ‘what is matter?’ question all over the Mediterranean.” See also MacCoull,

Notes to page 32

171

“John Philoponus, On the Pasch (CPG 7267),” Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik 49 (1999): 1–12, at 10. For an in-depth investigation of Philoponus’s theory of matter and its relation to the question of perishability, see Lindsay Judson, “God or Nature? Philoponus on Generability and Perishability,” in Richard Sorabji, ed., Philoponus and the Rejection of Aristotelian Science (London: Duckworth, 1987), 179–196. 100. Julian, Tome, fr. 29. 101. Ibid. 102. See Rom. 5:12–19; 1 Cor. 15:21–50. 103. Julian, Tome, fr. 23, 24, 29, 41. 104. Ibid., fr. 20. 105. Ibid., fr. 41. 106. Ibid., fr. 23, 24. 107. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:277/243. See Draguet, Julien, 130, 135. See also Hom. Cath. 24 (PO 37:138–141); 38 (PO 36:496–497); Hom. Cath. 68 (PO 8:373–374) for earlier articulations of this idea. Fragment 10 from Against Felicissimus preserved in Moses bar Kepha’s (d. 903) On Paradise offers the most complete and straightforward picture of Severus’s understanding of the human condition before the fall. Since On Paradise has not yet been published, it is worth reproducing a full translation of this fragment (on the basis of Yale Syr. 10, 120v-121r) in order to give a clear idea of Severus’s position: “For, by its nature the body was mortal and corruptible and it was innately prone to dissolve back into the elements out of which it was composed. The body was not susceptible, however, to the operation of death, for man was not initially made to be subjected to death’s snares, nor was he made to be elevated above nature—to be immortal. Rather he was to be preserved immortal, for everlasting life, by the divine grace and will. For the natural state of things which demands that composites become decomposed cannot withstand the will of God. By the will and grace of God, this evil was not to have any effect on humans. Rather, mortality was to be swallowed up by life. For the divine grace was to draw up nature. Sin and transgression initiated the mortality of the body and the realization of its corruption, for indeed death—that which dissolves composite things in actual reality, began; while the soul, due to the transgression, necessarily suffered separation from God. And the disturbing commotion of the passions—by which the body is known and on account of which it is called ‘corruptible’—consumed the soul as well. They come into being and grow by means of the passions of nature. It is thus clear that it was the transgression that first initiated the condemnation to corruption and death; and it was not the fact that Adam’s body had been composite (which made it innately prone to dissolve back into the elements out of which it was composed). For it is not difficult for God, the maker of all, to remove corruption from the life of one who is overcome by corruption—and to preserve him for everlasting life, just as he [God] elevates the things of his own nature above corruption.” 108. Hespel, Polémique 1:134/103, quoting Basil, De gratiarum actione (PG 31:228D-229A). See Draguet, Julien, 197. 109. CL 35 (PO 12:286); Hespel, Polémique 1:41/31; 2.1:31/25. See also 2.2:277/244 (“natural and irreproachable passions”) and 1.1:90/69 (“natural passions and without blame”). It should be noted that CCT 2.2:89 (followed by Allen and Hayward, Severus, 47 n. 14) cites Hespel, Polémique 3:136–37/113–114 as a source for the term “irreproachable passions,” although the term does not show up there. In general, modern works of historical theology seem to place far more emphasis on this notion of “irreproachable, or blameless, passions

172

Notes to pages 32–34

(πάθη ἀδιάβλητα)” than Severus’s work would seem to warrant. In so doing they are following in the footsteps of the sixth-century post-Severian sources, which make much of this term. See, e.g., Evagrius’s account of Justinian’s senescent edict compelling assent to the notion that the body of Christ was “incorruptible and not susceptible to the natural and blameless passions” (Evagrius, HE 4.39; Bidez and Parmentier, eds., 190; Whitby, trans., 250); Paul of Antioch’s synodical letter to Theodore of Alexandria from 575, published in J. B. Chabot, Documenta ad origines monophysitarum illustrandas, CSCO 103 (Louvain: Peeters, 1933), 230. A similar situation pertains to Philoxenus of Mabbug. Medieval sources ascribe to him the notion of “irreproachable passions,” although, according to de Halleux, Philoxène, 462–463, this term is undocumented in his surviving works. 110. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:203/175. See CCT 2.2:105–106. 111. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:38–40/31–33. 112. Ibid. 2.1:41/34–35. 113. Ibid. 1:171/132; 2.1:33–34/27–28, 42–44/35–37; 3:11/13. See Draguet, Julien, 129–130, 250; and more below on possible connections between this accusation and the question of original sin. It should be noted that already during his patriarchate, in Hom. Cath. 21 (PO 37:72–73), delivered in 513, and in Hom. Cath. 109 (PO 25:764), delivered in 517, Severus spoke out against the notion that sin was an essential part of human nature. Those who said so suffered from “the drunkenness of the phantasy of Eutyches.” Compare this, however, to Hom. Cath. 49 (PO 35:342–343), where Severus does speak of the fall’s effect on human nature and its susceptibility to sin. 114. Julian, Tome, fr. 40. 115. Ibid., fr. 44. 116. Ibid., fr. 11, 22. 117. Ibid., fr. 13. Indeed, the mid-sixth-century East Syriac theologian Cyrus of Edessa stressed mortality and corruptibility as part of human nature’s original condition. See William F. Macomber, “The Theological Synthesis of Cyrus of Edessa, an East Syrian Theologian of the Mid-Sixth Century,” OCP 30 (1964): 5–38, at 13–25. More recently, Basil Lurié has made a case for the “Nestorian” leaning of Severus’s position (adopted also in the Christian West) as opposed to Julian’s position, which he views as in line with mainstream Eastern tradition among Chalcedonians and anti-Chalcedonians alike. See Basil M. Lurié, History of Byzantine Philosophy: The Formative Period [in Russian] (St. Petersburg: Axiôma, 2006), 182–200. 118. See most recently Hiéromoine Élisée, “Une controverse sur le péché d’origine en orient au Vle siecle,” POC 55 (2005): 6–23. For earlier versions of this argument, see Jugie, “Julien d’Halicarnasse et Sévère d’Antioche”; Georges Florovsky, The Byzantine Fathers of the Fifth to Eighth Century, trans. Raymond Miller et al. (Vaduz, Liechtenstein: Büchervertriebsanstalt, 1987), 40–41, 120. But see also the more cautious perspectives on this question in Draguet, Julien, 224–226; and Lurié, History, 195–197. 119. For a convenient summary of Julian of Eclanum’s critique of Augustine’s doctrine of original sin, see Mathijs Lamberigts, “Julian of Eclanum,” in Allan D. Fitzgerald, ed., Augustine through the Ages: An Encyclopedia (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 1999), 478–479. 120. For Severus’s application of these terms to Julian and his followers, see n. 32 above. Later, Chalcedonian opponents came to refer to Julianists as “Aphthartodocetists.” See CCT

Notes to page 34

173

2.2:213–214 on the basis of Lorenzo Perrone, “Il ‘Dialogo contro gli aftartodoceti’ di Leonzio di Bisanzio e Severo di Antiochia,” Cristianesimo nella Storia 1 (1980): 411–442. 121. Julian never disputes the reality of the “sufferings and death” of Jesus. What he disputes is the significance of these sufferings. See, e.g., Julian, Tome, fr. 11, 16, 18, 47; Draguet, Julien, *19-*20, fr. 52. 122. Julian, Tome, fr. 45: “Let us not state that the body of our Lord was passible and mortal due to compulsion, and, in this manner, corruptible and subservient to natural necessities. Rather, let us confess that it was voluntarily (‫( )ܨܒܝܢܐܝܬ‬as in truth!) that he endured the redemptive sufferings for us and [his] vivifying death . . . ” See further, ibid., fr. 27; 34, 49; and Draguet, Julien, *38, fr. 133: “If he had been subjected to suffering and death out of a necessity of nature (‫)ܒܩܛܝܪܐ ܕܟܝܢܐ‬, he would have sought, at all costs, his own redemption (‫)ܚܘܪܪܐ‬, rather than that of the others sharing his plight.” The translation of this fragment offered in CCT 2.2:103 n. 254 is too loose. 123. Julian, Tome, fr. 16. This move of Julian’s was an application to the body of Christ of a move that Cyril had already made with reference to the Logos. Against Nestorius Cyril upheld the unity of Christ by stating that the Logos suffered impassibly (ἔπαθεν ἀπαθῶς). For references, see R. V. Sellers, Two Ancient Christologies (London: SPCK, 1940), 88; and Chadwick, “Eucharist and Christology,” 159 n. 1. Cyril neutralized the contradiction inherent in this statement by arguing that the Logos suffered by will rather than by necessity. See Chadwick, 160. For more on Cyril and Nestorius’s respective christological usages of the burning bush, see CCT 1:516–517; 2:82 n. 197. 124. Julian, Tome, fr. 41. 125. Ibid., fr. 24. 126. Thus, Julian, Tome, fr. 12, can argue that during his presence on earth Jesus’s body must have been exempt from corruption, since neither “at the beginning” nor “at the end” was it “in corruption.” The “beginning” refers to Jesus’s conception, which did not involve sex, a form of spiritual corruption, and the end to his death, a form of physical corruption. For Julian these two forms of corruption are codependent. 127. Julian, Tome, fr. 27: “Yes, I say ‘passible,’ but I do not agree to call ‘corruptible,’ him who conveyed (‫ )ܐܪܕܝ‬incorruptibility to us.” In this sense, Julian did admit that Christ’s preresurrection body was merely thought to be corruptible, when in fact it was incorruptible. It was the resurrection that made apparent his body’s incorruptibility. See ibid., fr. 6: “Also, how would you understand St Cyril’s expression ‘from then on incorruptible’? Not that he was corruptible beforehand; rather that before the resurrection he was only thought to be corruptible, while by means of the resurrection it was shown that he was in fact incorruptible.” 128. On Jesus’s worshipful flesh: Draguet, Julien, *43, fr. 154, citing Ps.-Athanasius, De Incarnatione Dei Verbi (PG 28:29A; Hans Lietzmann, Apollinaris von Laodicea und seine Schule: Texte und Untersuchungen [Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1904], 253), anathematizing those who say that “the Lord’s flesh—as a human—is not worshipful (ἀπροσκυνητός; ‫)ܐܠ ܣܓܝܕܐ‬.” Although not quoting this passage from Julian directly—as it survives only in a later anti-Julianist florilegium—Severus’s Apology for the Philalethes (Hespel, Polémique 3:71–73/60–61) clarifies Julian’s argument. If Jesus’s body is worshipful it must be immortal and incorruptible, since scripture, according to Julian’s understanding, prohibits the worship of all things mortal and corruptible. On Jesus’s holy flesh, see Cyril, Adversus Diodorum, fr. in Hespel, Philalèthe, 140/114 (Latin trans.: PG 76:1450A, fr. 18), describing the

174

Notes to pages 35–36

incarnation. Julian does not quote this source in the surviving fragments, but given the frequency with which Severus quotes and reinterprets this passage, it is highly likely that it was one of Julian’s proof texts. See Hespel, Polémique 1:67/51, 281–282/217; 2.1:16/12, 117/98; 2.2:219/189, 311/272. See below for more details on Severus’s interpretation of this passage. 129. Ex. 25:10, according to the LXX: “ἐκ ξύλων ἀσήπτων”—“from wood not subject to decay.” The Massoretic (and Peshitta) version makes no mention of decay, reading “from ‫שטים‬/‫( ܐܫܟܪܥܐ‬acacia) wood” instead. 130. Cyril of Alexandria, Scholia 11 (ACO 1.5.1.190), cited at Julian, Tome, fr. 10. See CCT 2.2:87–88. Compare this to Severus’s similar interpretation in Hom. Cath. 67 (PO 8:357–359), on which see further chapter 4, pp. 118–19. 131. Cyril of Alexandria, De recta fide ad Theodosium 20 (PG 76:1161C-D/ACO 1.1.1.54), cited by Julian, Tome, fr. 14. For similar citations from other patristic sources, see further Julian’s citation of Ps.-Timothy Aelurus at Draguet, Julien, *32, fr. 100, and his citation of Ps.-Gregory Thaumaturgus, Kata Meros Pistis 30 (Lietzmann, Apollinaris, 178) at Draguet, Julien, *42, fr. 151; and my discussion of this passage in chapter 4, pp. 121–22. 132. Hespel, Polémique 1:106–107/81–83. 133. See Cyril of Alexandria, Scholia 11 (ACO 1.5.1.190), cited by Julian, Tome, fr. 10, and discussed by Severus at Hespel, Polémique 1:82/63; Cyril, Adversus Diodorum, fr. in Hespel, Philalèthe, 140 (Latin trans.: PG 76:1450A, fr. 18), discussed by Severus several times: see Hespel, Polémique 1:67/51, 281–282/217; 2.1:17/13; 2.2:219/189. At 2.1: 117/98 Severus offers a different interpretation. In Hom. Cath. 122 (PO 29:114–115) Severus is careful to refer to Jesus’s body prior to the crucifixion as “honorable” (‫)ܡܝܩܪܐ‬, rather than holy. 134. Julian, Tome, fr. 29: “And it is indeed more truthful for us to say that, preserving for nature, in his flesh, that which had become diseased in us due to our irrationality, he demonstrated in himself nature as healthy, without the admixture of corruption. For, wanting to renew our substance (inasmuch as it was of his own making) he raised us, by his own person, to our original state—outside of the damage arising from corruption.” See also ibid., fr. 27: “I do not agree to call ‘corruptible,’ him who conveyed (‫ )ܐܪܕܝ‬incorruptibility to us.” See Draguet, Julien, 183. 135. See Hespel, Polémique 2.2:224/194: “For if birth from the virgin had rendered the flesh impassible and immortal, in accordance with your vacuous opinion, death, as well as resurrection, would have been superfluous (‫)ܝܬܝܪܐ‬, inasmuch as nothing would end up being conveyed (‫ )ܫܕܪ‬to us since, according to your folly, everything would have been fulfilled through the birth itself.” A similar argument is made by Severus’s younger contemporary, the Neo-Chalcedonian theologian Leontius of Byzantium, in his Adversus Aphthartodocetas (PG 86:1316D-1356C), at 1352A. For a discussion of the relationship between Leontius’s critique of the Aphthartodocetists and Severus’s critique of Julian, see Perrone, “Il ‘Dialogo contro gli aftartodoceti.’” 136. See CCT 2.2:104 on this point: “In this there really exists no great difference between himself [i.e., Julian] and Severus.” 137. Gray, “From Eucharist to Christology,” 33. See also CCT 2.2:106: “[The difference between Severus and Julian] was in the first place terminological.”

Notes to pages 36–39

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138. Élisée, “Une controverse,” 6; cf. Maspero, Histoire des Patriarches d’Alexandrie, 88: “In ordinary circumstances he [Julian] had led a tranquil, obscure life in his city of Halicarnassus . . . [F]inding himself exiled on the banks of the Nile, what could he do to spice-up his long hours of leisure?” 139. Gray, “From Eucharist to Christology,” 34. 140. Élisée, “Une controverse,” 9. 141. Ibid., 9–10, 14. A classic articulation of this idea in Augustine can be found in his On Marriage and Concupiscence 1.26–27. 142. For Augustine, see John M. Rist, Augustine: Ancient Thought Baptized (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 92–147. For Julian, see below. 143. Élisée, “Une controverse,” 16–17. 144. See Paul Rigby, “Original Sin,” in Fitzgerald, Augustine, 607–614. 145. Augustine, City of God 14.3 (Dods, trans., 444); see further 13.13. 146. Augustine, Confessions 8.10; On Man’s Perfection in Righteousness 9, 12, 44; Against Two Letters of the Pelagians 1.13. See further Stephen J. Duffy, “Anthropology,” in Fitzgerald, Augustine, 24–31. 147. See Augustine, On Grace and Free Will and On Admonition and Grace, expressly devoted to this challenge. See further Donato Ogliari, Gratia et Certamen: The Relationship between Grace and Free Will in the Discussion of Augustine with the So-Called Semipelagians (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2003). 148. Julian, Tome, fr. 17. 149. See Cyril, Ad Succensum 1 (PG 77:236B; ACO 1.1.6a, 155, 156). 150. Julian, Tome, fr. 26. 151. Draguet, Julien, *37, fr. 125. 152. Draguet, fr. 102/Hespel, Polémique 3:76–77/64. 153. Kata Meros Pistis 2. The text can be found in Lietzmann, Apollinaris, 168: “[The] faith concerning the incarnation of the Word is that, on the one hand, he gave himself over to human flesh, which he received from Mary, but, on the other hand, he remained in the same [condition], not subjecting his divinity to any change or alteration; rather he was joined with the flesh according to human likeness so that the flesh might be united with divinity, while the divinity annihilated the flesh’s passibility through fulfillment of the mystery.” The independent Syriac tradition of this text reveals no major differences from the Greek. See Johannes Flemming and Hans Lietzmann, Apollinaristische Schriften syrisch (Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1904), 2. In any case, the text speaks of the “conjoinment” of divinity with the flesh, but not of soul with body. 154. Hespel, Polémique 3:77/64. 155. The classic representative of the ascetic orientation of late ancient philosophy is Porphyry, especially in On the Life of Plotinus and On Abstinence. But, as Pierre Hadot, What Is Ancient Philosophy? trans. Michael Chase (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 201, 242, points out, this was a widespread phenomenon among a number of ancient philosophical schools. 156. This was the Stoic position, but it was heavily critiqued by Platonists and Aristotelians alike. “The most widely held view [was] that when the body feels pain, the soul remains impassible” (Chadwick, “Eucharist and Christology,” 161). Following its development by

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Plotinus, the latter view became very influential from the fourth century on. See Chadwick, 162, on the basis of Enn. 3.6.1; 4. See also Enn. 4.7. 157. Julian, Tome, fr. 25. On the incompatibility of Julian’s outlook with the Greek philosophical tradition, see Harnack, History of Dogma, 3:171. 158. But see Draguet, Julien, 88, for a convincing case for a date no later than the first half of the seventh century. 159. See William Wright, Catalogue of the Syriac Manuscripts at the British Museum Acquired since the Year 1838 (London, 1870–72), 2:921, 955, on BL Add. 12155, the source of this text. 160. Draguet, Julien, 86–87. 161. René Draguet, “Pièces de polémique antijulianiste,” Le Muséon 44 (1931): 255–317, at 280–81 and 309. 162. Julian, Tome, fr. 25. 163. It is on this point that the difference between Julian and his predecessor Romanus of Rhossus (on whom see the introduction, n. 39, above) emerges. Severus attacked both bishops for their emphasis on the bodily nature of sin. For Severus, sins are performed by the body, but by the behest of human will. Thus the body is not inherently implicated in sin. But for Romanus, as for Augustine, human flesh itself is indeed implicated in sin. Romanus even speaks in this regard of “the will of the flesh,” a concept that Severus harshly critiques. Julian represents a middle position: on the one hand, he believes, like Romanus and Augustine, that the postlapsarian body itself is sinful and corrupt, but unlike them, he asserts that human agency can restore it to its initial state of incorruption. For Severus’s citations from Romanus’s work The Ladder relevant to this issue, see Hom. Cath. 119 (PO 26:396–397, 402, 413, 438). 164. See, e.g., the material surveyed in Michel Foucault, “Sexuality and Solitude,” in Paul Rabinow, ed., The Essential Works of Foucault: vol. 1: Ethics, Subjectivity, and Truth (New York: New Press, 1997), 175–184. 165. See, e.g., the Greek work attributed to Ephrem the Syrian, Adhortatio ad Fratres [CPG 4018], in K. G. Phrantzoles, Ὁσίου Ἐφραίμ τοῦ Σύρου ἔργα (Thessalonica: To Perivoli tis Panaghias, 1994), 5:267–68: “[The Gospel] admonishes us to behave according to the wise, so that we might corrupt [our] corruption (ἵνα τὸ φθειρόμενον ἡμεῖς φθείρωμεν). . . . It wants us to choose to impassibly corrupt (ἀπαθῶς φθείρειν) our flesh through fasting, lest through sin we might become destroyed in corruption (ἐν τῇ φθορᾷ). . . . Wanton luxury is corruption, since it increases corruptible flesh.” See Draguet, Julien, 135, who characterizes, in general terms, the controversy between Julian and Severus as a difference between Julian’s more “religious” and Severus’s more “philosophical” mentalities. 166. Athanasius, Life of Antony 14.3 (PG 26:864C), 93.1 (PG 26:973A-B). On this aspect of late ancient Christian asceticism more generally, see Teresa M. Shaw, The Burden of the Flesh: Fasting and Sexuality in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1998), 161–219. 167. Athanasius, Life of Antony 14.4 (PG 26:865A). On Athanasius’s “Pre-Pelagian” ascetic anthropology, which stresses man’s ability to return to the primordial state of incorruptibility, see Dag Øistein Endsjø, Primordial Landscapes, Incorruptible Bodies: Desert Asceticism and the Christian Appropriation of Greek Ideas on Geography, Bodies, and Immortality (New York: Peter Lang, 2008), 133–135; 143–146; Davis, Coptic Christology, 26–27.

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168. Aryeh Kofsky, “The Miaphysite Monasticism of Gaza and Julian of Halicarnassus,” OCP 78 (2012): 81–96. He was preceded by Élisée, “Une controverse,” 21, who also briefly notes parallels between Abba Isaiah and Julian. In the following chapters I will return to the important role of the Monastic School of Gaza in the formation of anti-Chalcedonian identity. 169. Abba Isaiah, Asceticon 2; Augoustinos Monachos Iordanites, ed., Τοῦ ὁσίου πάτρος ἡμῶν ἀββᾶ Ἡσαΐου λόγοι κθ’ (Jerusalem, 1911), 6; John Chryssavgis and Pachomios Penkett, Abba Isaiah of Scetis: Ascetic Discourses, Cistercian Studies Series 150 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 2002), 45. 170. Kofsky, “Miaphysite Monasticism,” 93–95. 171. Cyril of Scythopolis, Lives of the Monks of Palestine, Introduction 40; Sabas 78; Eduard Schwartz, Kyrillos von Skythopolis (Leipzig: J. C. Heinrich, 1939), 59, 184. The latter passage describes the body of the holy man Sabas as remaining “sound and non-decomposed (σῶον καὶ ἀδιάλυτον) to this day” (i.e., some twenty-five years after Sabas’s death). The theme of the saint’s incorruptible body after death went on to become popular in Byzantine and Roman Catholic belief. See L. H. Grondijs, L’iconographie byzantine du crucifié mort sur la croix, Bibliotheca Byzantina Bruxellensis 1 (Brussels: Éditions de Byzantion, n.d.), 40–41. For a noncritical treatment of the Roman Catholic tradition, see Joan Caroll Cruz, The Incorruptibles: A Study of the Incorruption of the Bodies of Various Catholic Saints and Beati (Rockford, IL: Tan Books and Publishers, 1977). 172. Cyril, Lives of the Monks, Sabas 56; Schwartz, Kyrillos, 149. 173. For another manifestation of this ascetic assumption, articulated by a follower of Severus, see the conclusion, pp. 149–150. See also Kofsky, “Julianism after Julian,” 286–287, explaining the “initial extraordinary success of Julianism” especially within ascetic circles as due to the fact that Julian’s ideas accorded with “the intrinsic propensity of the ascetic ideal to be realized already in this life.” 174. Nevertheless, Severus’s homilies show that he was not completely detached from the ascetic ideal of impassibility. Hom. Cath. 61 (PO 8:257) praises certain monks, who by ܿ impassibility and the virtue of their sexual renunciation “preemptively seize” (‫)ܩܕܡܝܢ ܿܚܛܦܝܢ‬ blessing of resurrection. On the other hand, Hom. Cath. 30 (PO 36:638–639), 68 (PO 8:385–386), and 86 (PO 23:68) laud the positive effects of Simeon Stylites’s and Antony’s asceticism on their bodies, without invoking the terms “impassibility” and “incorruptibility.” 175. Throughout his years in the patriarchate, Severus continued to advocate his view that the body of Christ was corruptible prior to the resurrection. See Hom. Cath. 65 (PO 8:330) (January 515); Hom. Cath. 119 (PO 26:427) (February 518). During that period, Julian would not have expected Severus to change his view. 2 . B O DY P O L I T IC S

1. In what follows I adopt the perspective of Honigmann, Évêques, 168; Van Roey, “Les débuts”; Arthur Vööbus, “The Origin of the Monophysite Church in Syria and Mesopotamia,” Church History 42 (1973): 17–26; Menze, Justinian; Menze, “The Regula ad Diaconos: John of Tella, His Eucharistic Ecclesiology, and the Establishment of an Ecclesiastical Hierarchy in Exile,” OC 90 (2006): 44–90; Nathanael J. Andrade, “The Syriac Life of John of Tella

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and the Frontier Politeia,” Hugoye 12 (2009): 199–234; and Wood, “No king,” who view John of Tella and Jacob Baradaeus’s ordination campaigns as decisive, intentional steps toward establishing a new ecclesiastical structure, separate from the imperial church. But Romeny et al., “Formation of a Communal Identity,” disagree. They think that these men did not intend to systematically establish a new hierarchy; they were only engaged in “an emergency measure.” Romeny et al., 2 n. 1, call Menze’s Justinian “interesting but not entirely convincing,” without further explanation. Considering the time, efforts, dangers, and sheer number of priests ordained in John and Jacob’s ordination campaigns, it seems strange to refuse to label their efforts “systematic.” While Romeny’s analysis is valuable for understanding Severus, it seems misplaced when applied to John of Tella and Jacob Baradaeus. If the ordinations were meant only as an “emergency measure,” why would Jacob have made a point of extending his campaign to provinces like Lycaonia and Lycia, where there was little anti-Chalcedonian presence? See on this point, Honigmann, Évêques, 168–169. 2. John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 24 (Brooks, ed., PO 18:515), dates the beginning of John of Tella’s ordination campaign to the late 520s, to “when the period of persecution had lasted about ten years.” This dating is, however, unlikely. See Brooks’s n. 3 ad loc., and Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis: John of Ephesus and “The Lives of the Eastern Saints” (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 101, who date the beginning of the campaign to before 527. Most recently Volker Menze has brought the date back to as early as 522/523. See his “Regula ad Diaconos,” 50 n. 29; Menze, Justinian, 178. 3. On the dating of Jacob’s campaigns, see Honigmann, Évêques, 169–170. 4. The classic study remains Van Roey, “Les débuts.” For work on Jacob Baradaeus in particular, see David Bundy, “Jacob Baradeus: The State of Research, a Review of Sources, and a New Approach,” Le Muséon 91 (1978): 45–86. See further Jeanne-Nicole Mellon Saint Laurent, Missionary Stories and the Formation of the Syriac Churches (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2015), 96–109. 5. John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 24 (PO 18:522), speaks of 170,000 ordinations performed by John of Tella alone. This is clearly a gross exaggeration, but the number was nevertheless very high. See Menze, “Regula ad Diaconos,” 74–76. 6. To be more precise, Jacob ordained priests and, after some time, bishops; John ordained priests and (mostly) refrained from consecrating bishops. See Honigmann, Évêques, 168–169; Van Rompay, “Society and Community,” 251; Menze, “Regula ad Diaconos,” 81; Menze, Justinian, 184. 7. The phrase is Volker Menze’s. See n. 8. 8. See Menze, “Regula ad Diaconos”; Menze, Justinian; Menze, “Jacob of Sarug, John of Tella, and Paul of Edessa : Ecclesiastical Politics in Osrhoene, 519–522,” in G. Kiraz, ed., Malphono w-Rabo d-Malphone: Studies in Honor of Sebastian P. Brock (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2008), 421–438; Volker Menze and Kutlu Akalin, John of Tella’s “Profession of Faith”: The Legacy of a Sixth-Century Syrian Orthodox Bishop, Texts from Christian Late Antiquity 25 (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2009); and Andrade, “Syriac Life,” 199–234. 9. Robin Darling, “The Patriarchate of Severus of Antioch, 512–518” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 1982), 109. For the full argument, see Darling, 126–155. Another expression of this view of Severus can be found in René Roux, “Notes sur la fonction épiscopale selon Sévère d’Antioche,” in Vincenzo Ruggieri and Luca Pieralli, eds., Eukosmia: Studi

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miscellanei per il 75° di Vincenzo Poggi S.J. (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 2003), 427–441, esp. 440–441. 10. Hinted at already in the tension between W. H. C. Frend, Rise, 213 (“Severus was in no sense a representative even of regional self-consciousness. His letters betray a profound deference to the emperor and loyalty to the empire”) and ibid., 239 (“For all their energy Severus and Philoxenus were at heart sectaries in a society that wanted religious unity round the person of the emperor”), but developed more fully in Frend, “Severus of Antioch and the Origins of the Monophysite Hierarchy,” in David Neiman and Margaret Schatkin, eds., The Heritage of the Early Church: Essays in Honor of Georges Vasilievich Florovsky on the Occasion of His Eightieth Birthday, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 195 (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1973), 261–275; Menze, Justinian, 12–14, 177–178, 191–192, appears to take this approach. 11. There are indications that earlier in his career, during the time he was associated with the monastery of Peter the Iberian, Severus may have been more of a separatist, in line with the ideology of the anti-Chalcedonian circle of Gazan ascetics. See SL 5.11, 369–370/327–328; and the discussion below. 12. See Van Rompay, “Severus, Patriarch of Antioch,” 14: “Severus, therefore, personified not so much the patriarchate of Antioch, but the traditional orthodoxy of the Christian Roman Empire.” 13. As (somewhat reluctantly) noted by Darling, “Patriarchate,” 147, 149–150. See ibid. for references. See further Alpi, Route, 1:119. 14. Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 9.16 (Brooks, ed., 90; Greatrex et al., trans., 360–361). 15. Darling, “Patriarchate,” 145. 16. See the evidence adduced by Frend, Rise, 222 n. 1; and Alpi, Route, 1:297 (s.v. “Acéphales”). 17. See PO 29:11–14; Pauline Allen, “A Bishop’s Spirituality: The Case of Severus of Antioch,” in Pauline Allen et al., eds., Prayer and Spirituality in the Early Church (Everton Park, Queensland: Centre for Early Christian Studies, Australian Catholic University, 1998), 1:169–180, at 179. But see also de Halleux, Philoxène, 78 n. 23. 18. Hom. Cath. 1 (PO 38:254–259), on the basis of Acts 11:26. 19. Hom. Cath. 1 (PO 38:258–267). 20. Ibid., 258–261. 21. In using the adjective “extreme” in both these cases I speak from the perspective of Severus, who, together with other fifth- and sixth-century authors, both Chalcedonian and anti-Chalcedonian, defined their respective theologies in contradistinction to their perceptions of Nestorius and Eutyches. Scholarship on both Nestorius and Eutyches portrays these theologians as less extreme and as respectively closer to Chalcedon and its anti-Chalcedonian opponents than contemporary sources would lead us to believe. On Nestorius, see Charles Moeller, “Le Chalcédonisme et le néo-chalcédonisme en Orient de 451 à la fin de la siècle,” in Aloys Grillmeier and Heinrich Bacht, eds., Das Konzil von Chalkedon (Würzburg: Echter, 1951–54), 1:638–720. On Eutyches, see above, chapter 1, p. 24. It should be noted that in Hom. Cath. 119 (PO 26:418–419) Severus acknowledges that the Council of Chalcedon officially anathematized Nestorius, even, as he argued, while upholding Nestorius’s opinions. 22. On Paul’s notions of disease and the healing of the church body in the context of GrecoRoman medicine, see Martin, Corinthian Body, 139–174. On Shenoute of Atripe’s language

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of disease and the body with reference to his monastic community, see Rebecca Krawiec, Shenoute and the Women of the White Monastery: Egyptian Monasticism in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 66–69; Schroeder, Monastic Bodies, 81–88. 23. Compare Hom. Cath. 19 (PO 37:26–27), which speaks of the Nestorians (i.e., Chalcedonians) as wasps that sneak from house to house “rubbing their leprosy (‫ ”)ܓܪܒܗܘܢ ܫܝܦܝܢ‬through impure words. Again, Severus imagines heresy as the disease of individuals that threatens to infect society as a whole. The collective nature of the Chalcedonian threat is stated explicitly in Hom. Cath. 21 (PO 37:80–81): “Our salvation is made either false or incomplete because of these opinions.” See further Hom. Cath. 29 (PO 36:588– 607), dedicated entirely to the importance of anathematizing the Chalcedonian elements within, so as “not to impute sin on the whole people” (ibid., 590–591). 24. Felix of Rome, Epistle 11.3; Thiel, ed., Epistolae romanorum pontificum 1.254. Some doubts have been raised about whether Felix was in fact the author of this letter. For a review of the scholarship (and dismissal of these doubts), see Claire Sotinel, “Gelasius I,” in Philippe Levillain, ed., The Papacy: An Encyclopedia (London: Routledge, 2001), 2:621. 25. SL 1.21, 82/74. The account of the writ of deposition that these bishops served Severus is given by Evagrius, HE 3.34. 26. Contrast Darling, Patriarchate, 148, who refers to Severus’s laudatory language toward Emperor Anastasius as “rhetorical flourishes” and “customary terminology applied to the emperor,” which is at odds with Severus’s “true opinion of the institution about which he was writing.” 27. The phrase is Darling’s, Patriarchate, 141, used to characterize the position delineated in Frend, “Origins of the Monophysite Hierarchy” (cited in n. 10 above). Frend attributes to Severus the shift in ecclesiological policy that led to the creation of a separate anti-Chalcedonian hierarchy, but he sees this shift as “due to circumstances rather than design” (ibid., 271). 28. The requirement of at least three bishops for the consecration of another bishop can be found in Canon 4 of the Council of Nicaea. For the text of this canon and a discussion of its history, see Peter L’Huillier, The Church of the Ancient Councils: The Disciplinary Work of the First Four Ecumenical Councils (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1996), 36–41. 29. Canon 2 of the Council of Constantinople. See L’Huillier, Church of the Ancient Councils, 115–119. 30. For the following, see Eduard Schwartz, Johannes Rufus: Ein monophysitischer Schriftsteller (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1912); Lorenzo Perrone, “Dissenso dottrinale e propaganda visionaria: Le Pleroforie di Giovanni di Maiuma,” Augustinianum 29 (1989): 451–495; Philippe Blaudeau, “Le cas Pierre Monge au regard des sources monophysites d’origine palestinienne (Fin Ve s.- Début VIe s.),” Studia Patristica 37 (2001): 353–360; Jan-Eric Steppa, John Rufus and the World Vision of Anti-Chalcedonian Culture, 2nd rev. ed., Gorgias Dissertations 4, Early Christian Studies 1 (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2005), 57–61; Cornelia B. Horn, Asceticism and Christological Controversy in Fifth-Century Palestine: The Career of Peter the Iberian (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 30–44; Cornelia B. Horn and Robert R. Phenix Jr., eds. and trans., John Rufus: The “Lives” of Peter the Iberian, Theodosius of Jerusalem, and the Monk Romanus (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2008), xlii-xliv. 31. John Rufus, Life of Peter the Iberian 112 (Horn and Phenix, eds., 167); Zachariah, Life of Severus (Kugener, ed., 86; Ambjörn, trans., 88). It is clear that Severus arrived for

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his law studies in Beirut several years after John Rufus departed. See Schwartz, Johannes Rufus, 8. 32. See Steppa, John Rufus, 18–19, 58. 33. Perrone, “Dissenso,” 473. See further Steppa, John Rufus, 78. 34. Perrone, “Dissenso,” 473. 35. See Plerophories 13 (PO 8:28–29), predicting the incurable schism that would result with the consecration of Peter Mongus. 36. See Perrone, “Dissenso,” 464, 473; and Blaudeau, “Le cas,” 356, who point out this basic tension. 37. See Schwartz, Johnannes Rufus. Some scholars have proposed that these two works were written by members of Rufus’s circle, rather than by Rufus himself. For two judicious reviews of the question, see Philippe Blaudeau, Alexandrie et Constantinople (451–491): De l’histoire à la géo-ecclésiologie (Rome: École Française de Rome, 2006), 120 n. 29; and Horn and Phenix, Lives of Peter, lviii-lxi. 38. I employ “charismatic” authority here and throughout the chapter in the sense of authority anchored in a direct, unmediated access to the miraculous and the divine. Severus’s model of episcopal-canonical authority, inasmuch as it was rooted in the expertise, and therefore control, of a body of knowledge, could also be called “charismatic” in a different sense of the word. For application of this latter sense of charisma to Severus, see Kathleen M. Hay, “Severus of Antioch: An Inheritor of Palestinian Monasticism,” ARAM 15 (2003): 159–171, at 167. 39. This initiative, which apparently dated back to the days of Peter Mongus (see Liberatus, Brev. 17, ACO 2.5.126; Honigmann, Évêques, 33–34; Blaudeau, Alexandrie, 228–29 with n. 749) and which Severus had to combat also during his patriarchate (see SL 9.1, 472–473/418–419), was discussed in the introduction. 40. Despite Severus’s strong insistence here on the three-bishop requirement, in another letter, written during the patriarchate (SL 5.6, 341–344/302–304), he demonstrates more flexibility in accepting ex post facto the legitimacy of one-bishop ordinations. See P. Wilhelm De Vries, Sakramententheologie bei den syrischen Monophysiten, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 125 (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1940), 240. 41. John Rufus, Life of Peter the Iberian 91 (Horn and Phenix, eds., 136–138); Severus, SL 2.3, 252/224–225. See also Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 4.1. For a survey of other late ancient accounts (including Chalcedonian ones) of the consecration of Timothy, see Blaudeau, Alexandrie, 149 n. 246. I find puzzling Blaudeau’s claim, ibid., that Rufus leaves open the possibility that in order to “conform to the rules,” there were three, rather than two, bishops present at Timothy’s consecration. The text explicitly states that only two bishops were used because it was a time of persecution. 42. According to the calculation first established by M.-A. Kugener, “Observations sur la Vie de l’ascète Isaïe et sur les Vies de Pierre l’Ibérien et de Théodore d’Antinoé par Zacharie le Scholastique,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 9 (1900): 464–470, at 466 n. 3, Peter was born between 409 and 412. Horn and Phenix, Lives of Peter, lxxxvi, date his birth to ca. 413 or 417, with a preference for the later date. Thus, at the time of Timothy’s consecration Peter was anywhere between forty and forty-eight years old. 43. The hypothesis that Severus’s account was a reworking of Rufus’s, rather than the reverse, receives further confirmation from the differences regarding the identities of the

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consecrating bishops. Rufus names the two bishops as Peter the Iberian and Eusebius of Pelusium. Severus names only Peter the Iberian, leaving unnamed the two other bishops he claims took part. Although modern scholars have expressed doubts about the historical likelihood that Eusebius of Pelusium was still alive at the time of Timothy’s consecration (see Pierre Évieux, Isidore de Péluse, Théologie Historique 99 [Paris: Beauchesne, 1995], 70–71; Blaudeau, Alexandrie, 149–150 n. 247), Rufus’s account at least offers historical specificity that is lacking in Severus. It would have been difficult for Rufus to explicitly name Eusebius of Pelusium had there not already been a tradition in place linking him to Timothy’s ordination. If Severus’s three-bishop account is secondary, as I am arguing, it would make sense that he would leave the other two bishops unnamed. He can plausibly do this by focusing the consecration story on Peter. In the absence of a tradition naming a third bishop, Severus did not dare invent a name out of full cloth. Yet, had he named Eusebius of Pelusium it would have appeared strange for him not to name the third bishop. So he named only Peter and left the other two anonymous. Compare this to Severus’s explanation, at SL 2.3, 246–247/219–221, of Gregory of Nyssa’s account of the ordination of Gregory Thaumaturgus. Gregory of Nyssa relates how the bishop Phaedimus of Amasia had to chase after Gregory over a long distance to ordain him (PG 46:909). Severus postulates that “since Phaedimus was head of the metropolis of the men of Amasia, that he had his bishops close by him, and with them pursued Gregory. . . . Accordingly he had the bishops standing round him.” Gregory of Nyssa makes no mention of other bishops; when Severus inserts them into the story he does not dare assign them specific identities. 44. As far as I can tell, throughout his published letters Severus uses the word plerophoria (or its derivatives) only here and in two other cases (SL 1.1; SL 5.11). The first of these two cases is devoid of charismatic coloring, while the latter case, to be discussed in more detail below, is in the context of a critique of charisma. The fact that Severus makes such a targeted usage of the word plerophoria, so central to Rufus’s outlook, seems to indicate that these passages were intentionally designed as covert critiques of Rufus. For an analysis of the function of the concept of plerophoria in Rufus and the broader anti-Chalcedonian milieu, see Lorenzo Perrone, “‘Trembling at the Thought of Shipwreck’: The Anxious Self in the Letters of Barsanuphius and John of Gaza,” in Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony and Lorenzo Perrone, eds., Personal and Institutional Religion: Thought and Praxis in Eastern Christianity (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 9–36, at 28–32. 45. Another source relating this story should also be mentioned: John of Beth Aphthonia’s Life of Severus (PO 2:222), written ca. 538 (for a fuller discussion of the dating of this work, see the conclusion below). In that account Peter is inspired by the Holy Spirit to leave the unthreatened area of Gaza and to throw his lot in with the persecuted anti-Chalcedonian faithful in Egypt. John writes: “Guided by God, he arrives at the great Timothy (just as Habakkuk had arrived at Daniel), at the moment when the people of Alexandria were leading Timothy by force to the episcopate. Since they were missing a third bishop for the placing of the hands, according to the canon, he lent his hand to the Spirit at the moment he arrived.” John’s version agrees with Severus in stressing the presence of three, rather than two, bishops (and like Severus, he does not mention the names of the other bishops). But, unlike Severus, John frames the account within a charismatic setting: it is only because of the Spirit’s prompting and actual transportation (like Habakkuk who was transported from Israel to Babylonia) that he shows up in Egypt. Harvey, Society in Crisis, 186 n. 41, seems to have understood this account in an entirely different way.

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46. Outside Egypt (which was predominantly anti-Chalcedonian), I count sixty-eight anti-Chalcedonian episcopacies vs. twenty-two Chalcedonian ones on the map provided at the end of Honigmann, Évêques. 47. See SL 1.11, 56–7/51, where Severus demonstrates a clear historical awareness of the changing fates of the anti-Chalcedonian cause. He and Philoxenus of Mabbug were both well aware of the earlier shifts in imperial patronage between Nicenes and Arians that resulted in the ultimate victory of the Nicenes. See Dana Iuliana Viezure, “Argumentative Strategies in Philoxenus of Mabbug’s Correspondence: From the Syriac Model to the Greek Model,” Hugoye 13 (2010): 149–175, at 168–169. For the same sense of the impermanence of political successes, but from the Chalcedonian side, see Menze, Justinian, 141. 48. See Perrone, “Dissenso,” 473; Blaudeau, “Le cas,” 356. 49. Chalcedonian sources speak of a group of followers of Isaiah, called Esaïanistai or Isaiani, who continued to exist as an independent group into the seventh century. See Timothy of Constantinople, De iis qui ad ecclesiam accedunt 14 (PG 86.1.45B); Liberatus, Brev. 18; ACO 2.5.132. See further Honigmann, Éveques, 34–35; de Halleux, Philoxène, 204, 207– 208; Blaudeau, Alexandrie, 237 n. 803. 50. SL 2.3, 242/216–217. 51. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:139/116. On this passage, see also Yonatan Moss, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Text: Severus of Antioch, the Babylonian Talmud, and Beyond,” in Carol Harrison et al., eds., Patristic Studies in the Twenty-First Century: Proceedings of an International Conference to Mark the 50th Anniversary of the International Association of Patristic Studies (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), 521–545, at 529–531. See also Torrance, Christology, 165–166. 52. Ibid. 2.1:139/116–117. Compare Hom. Cath. 101 (PO 22:270–271), where Severus critiques “those who profess the ‘phantasy’ of Eutyches,” who, rather than relying on “masters of theology and interpreters of the mysteries of the Church,” explain their ideas like “interpreters of swimmy dreams.” Severus also critiques these “Phantasiasts’” ecclesiology, inasmuch as he accuses them of not accepting the given episcopal hierarchy. This seems to provide yet another confirmation of the actual link that existed between more extreme versions of Miaphysite theology and a separatist political stance. 53. Note, however, that whereas in the cases of Rufus and Isaiah, Severus casts canon law and episcopal structures as the alternative to charisma, here, in the case of Julian, he presents scriptures and the church fathers as the alternative source of authority. We will see later in the book how over the course of his years in exile Severus’s anchor of authority gradually shifted away from the epispocal system to venerated texts and their correct interpretation. 54. René Draguet, “Pièces de polémique antijulianiste: 3. L’ordination frauduleuse des julianistes,” Le Muséon 54 (1941): 59–89, at 72/82. 55. See Friedhelm Winkelmann, “Konzeptionen des Verhältnisses von Kirche und Staat im frühen Byzanz, untersucht am Beispiel der Apostasia Palästinas (452–453),” in V. Vavrinek, ed., From Late Antiquity to Early Byzantium: Proceedings of the Byzantinological Symposium in the 16th Eirene Conference (Prague: Academia, 1985), 73–85. Winkelmann proposes an argument about Peter the Iberian, Theodosius of Jerusalem, and their circle of anti-Chalcedonian monks of Gaza that is very similar to my argument about John Rufus, Isaiah of Armenia, and Julian of Halicarnassus. These monks of Gaza, according to

184

Notes to pages 58–60

Winkelmann, broke away from the imperial ecclesiastical model to create a new, asceticand charismatic-based model, independent of the accepted church canons. 56. See SL 5.11, 369–370/327–328, where Severus critiques a group of Eastern anti-Chalcedonians who cited the authority of “dreams and visions” to justify their separation from the anti-Chalcedonian establishment in Egypt on the grounds that it embraced the henoticist patriarch Peter Mongus. Here as well, Severus uses the rare language of plerophoria to claim continuity with Peter the Iberian (“This communion I so hold and to it I draw so near as I drew near in it with the highest assurance (plerūpūria) and a fixed mind, when our holy father Peter the bishop from Iberia was offering, and was performing the rational sacrifice”). See further SL 5.11, 373–375/331–332 for another interesting case of Severus coping with charismatic authority. See further chapter 3, n. 36. 57. Severus’s letter: SL 1.14, 393–394. A fragment of John and the other bishops’ response was published by René Draguet, “Une pastorale antijulianiste des environs de l’année 530,” Le Muséon 40 (1927): 75–92. See also Arthur Vööbus, “Entdeckung neuer Handschriften des antijulianischen Pastoralschreibens,” OC 66 (1982): 114–117. Ute Possekel has recently discovered the full text of the letter in Harvard Syr. 91. Her edition of the text is forthcoming. For now a description can be found in Possekel, “Julianism,” 442–443. 58. John of Tella, Canons, Canon 1, in Arthus Vööbus, ed. and trans., The Synodicon in the West Syrian Tradition, CSCO 367, 368, 375, 376 (Leuven: Secréteriat du CorpuSCO, 1975– 1976), 1:147/2:143. 59. What was true of the imperial court was also true of the episcopate. Several bishops, such as Soterichus of Caesarea in Cappadocia, Philoxenus of Doliche, and Paul of Edessa, switched their allegiances between the sides, in some cases several times. In his early years of exile Severus had concrete reasons to be hopeful. Following the union between Rome and Constantinople in 518, Pope Hormisdas advocated for an aggressive implementation of the newly agreed-upon Chalcedonian policy. He sought to convince the emperor to reinstall three Chalcedonian bishops who had been deposed during the anti-Chalcedonian takeover of 512 (Coll. Avell. 193; Guenther, ed., 2:650–651), and he tried to install his ally, the avid Chalcedonian deacon Dioscorus, as patriarch of Alexandria in place of the sitting, anti-Chalcedonian patriarch Timothy (517–535) (Coll. Avell. 175; Guenther, ed., 2.631–632). See Claire Sotinel, “Emperors and Popes in the Sixth Century: The Western View,” in Maas, Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, 267–290, at 271; CCT 2.1:327. Yet both these proposals were met with the emperor’s refusal. The sitting anti-Chalcedonian officeholders were allowed to keep their positions. Severus might have interpreted these decisions as an indication of the ambivalence reigning within the imperial court, that there was still plenty room for change. Indeed, even the few years immediately following Justin’s ascension showed fluctuations in imperial policy. During 518–520 the persecution was much harsher and more consistent than it was from 521 onward, as demonstrated by Vasiliev, Justin the First, 229–240. See, more recently, along the same lines, Van Rompay, “Society and Community,” 242–243. These fluctuations in governmental policy could also have been a factor in Severus’s appreciation of imperial ambivalence and his hope for change. 60. See SL 5.8, 365/322 (from ca. 520). Writing to his charges back in Antioch, Severus promises that a certain disciplinary problem that had come up awaits “a common inquiry by the saintly bishops at the proper time.” He considered the anti-Chalcedonian return to power an imminent scenario.

Notes to pages 60–61

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61. SL 1.53, 170/153, written ca. 520. 62. See also Severus’s first and third letters to Julian (Hespel, Polémique 1:8–9/6–7, 219/170), where he abstains from publishing his Critique of Julian’s Tome so as to maintain a nonfactitious anti-Chalcedonian front. See the brief discussion of this matter in chapter 1, p. 23. 63. Nau, ed., PO 13:193; Sebastian Brock, “The Conversations with the Syrian Orthodox under Justinian (532),” OCP 47 (1981): 87–121, at 115 and n. 86. The text has Justinian asking them to commit not to ordain, baptize, or offer the Eucharist to “anyone apart from those who are with you” (‫)ܐܠܢܫ ܠܒܪ ܡܢ ܗܠܝܢ ܕܐܝܬ ܥܡܟܘܢ‬. Brock, ibid., interpreted this, in terms of social-theological identity, as referring to Chalcedonians. It could also, however, be taken in a geographical sense, as referring to anyone outside of their respective geographical jurisdictions. 64. For a helpful reconstruction of the canonical collections Severus had at his disposal, see Hubert Kaufhold, “Welche Kirchenrechtsquellen kannte Patriarch Severos von Antiocheia (512–518)?” in H. Zapp et al., eds., Ius Canonicum in Oriente et Occidente: Festschrift für Carl Gerold Fürst, Adnotationes in Ius Canonicum (Frankfurt am Main, 2003), 259–274. 65. Canon 2 of the Council of Constantinople; see L’Huillier, Church of the Ancient Councils, 115–119. 66. See, e.g., Canons 15 and 35 of the Canons of the Apostles (Funk, ed., 568–569, 574– 575) and Canon 15 of the Council of Sardica; see Hamilton Hess, The Canons of the Council of Sardica, A.D. 343: A Landmark in the Early Development of Canon Law (Oxford: Clarendon, 1958), 83–85. This interpretation is supported by the language of Canon 2 of the Council of Constantinople, which forbids bishops to ordain outside of their dioceses “if they are not invited.” 67. SL 1.1, 8–9/8–9 (dated to 508–511). See Orly Mizrachi, “The Church of Syria and the Christological Controversy in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries” [in Hebrew] (PhD diss., University of Haifa, 2013), 204, with n. 59 (the reference there should be to SL 1.1, rather than Zachariah’s Life of Severus 1.1). Mizrachi deduces from this letter that Severus allowed bishops to perform ordinations outside of their dioceses in cases where the local bishop was “heretical,” but she does not stress Severus’s insistence on the importance of receiving authorization. 68. See similar language below in SL 1.59 and in fr. 15a of Against Felicissimus (see Moss, “In Corruption,” 369). Severus attributes to Timothy Aelurus the idea that Meletius (who was in turn supported by Arius) was excommunicated by Peter of Alexandria because he “dared to make impositions of hands in the dioceses of others, during the period of persecution, without authorization.” See also Socrates, HE 1.6. 69. SL 1.55, 183/165, to Theodore archimandrite of the Monastery of Romanus (dated to 525–531). 70. SL 1.59, 198/178–179. On the location of the monastery, see Honigmann, Éveques, 189. Frend, “Severus and Origins,” 273, interprets this letter and the letter mentioned in the n. 69 below as an indication that Severus recognized the need, later pursued by John of Tella, for an independent church. He states these two letters prove that “the principle of an independent hierarchy had already been conceded [i.e., by Severus] by the time John of Tella had taken up the issue with the leaders of Alexandria [in the ‘council’ alleged by John of Ephesus].” I disagree with Frend’s interpretation. Rather than proving Severus’s new

186

Notes to pages 61–65

acceptance of the need for an independent hierarchy, these letters merely play out Severus’s traditional view of ordination within the existing imperial-ecclesial structures, in line with accepted canon law. See also Menze, “Regula ad Diaconos,” 86–87; Menze, Justinian, 176– 177, who shares my interpretation of the extracanonical nature of John’s ordinations but, unlike me, interprets the following letter of Severus’s as a blanket permission to do so in times of persecution. 71. See SL 5.15, 402–404/357–358, where Severus, writing to Sergius and Marion, delegates this task to them. 72. SL 1.62, 216/193–194, to deaconesses in an (unspecified) eastern monastery (dated to 519–538). 73. Especially not from the ex-anti-Chalcedonian bishop Paul of Edessa, who returned to his see in March 526 as a Chalcedonian. See Ps.-Dionysius of Tel-Mahre, Chronicle, part 3, p. 25. See further Menze, “Jacob of Sarug, John of Tella, and Paul of Edessa.” 74. For two recent surveys of John’s literary oeuvre, most of which relates to canonical legislation and other aspects of pastoral care, see Menze, “Regula ad Diaconos,” 49–53; Menze and Akalin, John of Tella, 12–17. 75. See on this Van Rompay, “Society and Community,” 252. 76. Wood, “No king,” 163–208, makes a similar claim with regard to John of Ephesus. 77. See n. 70 above. 78. See Andrade, “Syriac Life,” 201 n. 6. 79. Elias, Life of John of Tella (Brooks, ed., 58–59; Ghanem, trans., 69). 80. Elias, Life of John of Tella (Brooks, ed., 75; Ghanem, trans., 88). 81. John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints 24 (PO 18:517–518). 82. As opposed to Frend, “Severus and Origins,” 263. Compare Harvey, Society in Crisis, 101, who is more cautious. Concerning this episode Harvey writes: “the Monophysite bishops, apparently sanctioned by Severus himself ” (emphasis mine). See further Muriel Debié, “Syriac Historiography and Identity Formation,” CHRC 89 (2009): 93–114, for a similar argument about Syriac historiography in general. 83. Compare this to the case of Jacob Baradaeus’s ordination of bishops. John of Ephesus makes a point in saying that Jacob only initiated his campaign once he received a mandate from Theodosius of Alexandria. See John of Ephesus, Lives of James and Theodore (PO 19:155). See Van Rompay, “Society and Community,” 251. Compare also Menze, Justinian, 147 n. 8, who proposes that the words John of Ephesus (PO 18:687) puts in the mouth of Severus on the eve of his departure to Constantinople for a conference with Justinian were actually John’s own fabrication in light of subsequent historical developments. But see, on the other hand, Jan J. Van Ginkel, “John of Ephesus on Emperors: The Perception of the Byzantine Empire by a Monophysite,” in René Lavenant, ed., VI Symposium Syriacum 1992, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 247 (Rome: Pontificio Istituto Orientale, 1994), 323–333. 84. Honigmann, Évêques, 15–18; Frend, Rise, 223–228; Alpi, Route, 1:49. See, however, de Halleux, Philoxène, 81–84, who doubts the actual existence of this council. 85. As reflected in Severus’s unbridled optimism in a letter written in this period, SL 1.11.56–57/51: “When church histories and the labors of the holy fathers from the coming of the Great God and our Savior Jesus Christ down to this time come before me, I find that this present condition (κατάστασις) of the holy churches in the East and in Egypt is purer than

Notes to pages 65–67

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the condition in former times, when the facts are examined side by side.” See further Van Roey, “Les débuts,” 345–349; Frend, Rise, 228. 86. Cyprian, Letters 74.4. 87. See the discussion in Everett Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church: History, Theology, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2009), 380–399. 88. Jean Gaudemet, Conciles gaulois du IVe siècle, SC 241 (Paris: Cerf, 1977), 50–51. 89. See L’Huillier, Church of the Ancient Councils, 78–83. For the precise date of the council of Antioch, see Fergus Millar, “Paul of Samosata, Zenobia, and Aurelian: The Church, Local Culture, and Political Allegiance in Third-Century Syria,” JRS 61 (1971): 1–17, at 11. 90. Athanasius, Or. c. Arianos 2.18.42–43 (PG 26:236C-237A). 91. Basil, Ep. 188.1; Roy J. Defarrari, ed. and trans., St. Basil: The Letters (London: W. Heinemann; New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1926–34), 3:6–21; Yves Courtonne, ed. and trans., Saint Basile: Lettres (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1957–66), 2:121–124. 92. Basil attributed this distinction to unnamed “old authorities.” To whom might he be referring? Nicaea, Canon 19, as we saw, required followers of Paul of Samosata to be rebaptized, while Canon 8 stated that Novatianist clergy should not be reordained (they must only provide a written allegiance to the church). Although the canon does not say so explicitly, if Novatianist ordinations are considered valid, then the baptisms performed by Novatianist priests must also have been valid. But see Defarrari, St. Basil: The Letters, 3:13 n. 1. Another possibility is that Basil is thinking of the Council of Laodicea, which distinguishes Novatianists, Photinians, and Quartodecimans, who require the chrism, from Montanists (Phrygians), who require baptism and ordination. See Périclès-Pierre Joannou, Discipline générale antique: IIe-IXe s. (Grottaferrata: S. Nilo, 1962–64), 1.2:133–134 (Canons 7–8). However, this possibility is complicated by the fact that the date of the Council of Laodicea is uncertain. The council is thought to have taken place sometime between 345 and 381 (see Thomas Podella, “Laodikeia,” in Neue Pauly Enzyklopädie der Antike 6 [1999]: 1131–1132). Inasmuch as Basil’s letter is dated to 374 it is possible that the council had not yet occurred or, if it had, it might not have happened long enough before 374 to fit Basil’s designation “men of old.” 93. The Encratites were dualistic ascetics who eschewed marriage and wine. They were active in central Asia Minor. For a contemporary, hostile account of the Encratites, see Epiphanius of Salamis, Panarion 47. 94. Basil, Ep. 188.1 (Courtonne, ed. and trans., 2:123–124). This translation hinges on rendering the first phrase of this sentence “παντὶ δὲ λόγῳ” as “in any case.” It can also be translated otherwise. 95. See L. Krestan, “Balsam,” RAC 1 (1950): 1153–1157, at 1156. 96. The author of this treatise might have been Didymus the Blind; see Alasdair Heron, “Some Sources Used in the De Trinitate Ascribed to Didymus the Blind,” in Rowan Williams, ed., The Making of Orthodoxy: Essays in Honor of Henry Chadwick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 173–181, at 178–179. 97. Ps.(?)-Didymus, De Trinitate 2.15 (PG 39:720A-721A). See Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church, 470. 98. Joannou, Discipline générale, 1:53–54; L’Huillier, Church of the Ancient Councils, 131. Although this document, in its current form, claims to have been sent from the church of

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Notes to pages 67–68

Constantinople to Martyrius, patriarch of Antioch, 459–471 CE, over the course of the sixth century, it ensured its permanent inclusion in Byzantine canon law by taking on a new identity. The Syntagma XIV titulorum, which is thought to have been composed in Constantinople around 580 CE, and which is the backbone of all subsequent collections of Byzantine canon law, presents the document in question not as a letter to Martyrius of Antioch, but as the seventh canon of the Ecumenical Council of Constantinople, 381 CE. The text was also incorporated into the Council in Trullo (Quinisext Council, 692 CE), which was highly influential in the subsequent development of Byzantine canon law. Nevertheless, it has been demonstrated that the document is neither a canon of the Council of Constantinople nor is it a document from the latter part of the fifth century. It is in fact a letter written in the earlier part of the fifth century, prior to the Nestorian and Chalcedonian controversies. Ernest Honigmann has convincingly argued that the letter was a response to an inquiry about the status of penitent heretics that Nestorius made at the beginning of his patriarchate in the late 420s CE. The ruling remained valid, but Nestorius’s name was removed. See Ernest Honigmann, Trois mémoires posthumes d’histoire et de géographie de l’orient chrétien (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1961), 74–80, on the basis of Eduard Schwartz, “Die Kanonessammlungen der alten Reichskirche,” in Gesammelte Schriften (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1960), 4:159–275. 99. J. Patout Burns, Cyprian the Bishop (London and New York: Routledge, 2002). 100. SL 1.60, 202/182. 101. Ibid.: “But he [scil. Timothy Aelurus] has not been shown to have done anything else whatever as to these men which impairs or disturbs the strictness of the canons in any point whatsoever; no second ordination, no second baptism, no chrism; as some from unreasonable fervor and inconsiderate zeal dared to do, at the beginning immediately after the synod at Chalcedon had been held.” 102. SL 5.6, 356–357/315. Romanus was part of the same so-called monastic school of Gaza as Abba Isaiah, Peter the Iberian, and Theodosius of Jerusalem, which spearheaded the resistance to Chalcedon in Palestine. See Brouria Bitton-Asheklony and Aryeh Kofsky, The Monastic School of Gaza (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2006); Horn and Phenix, Lives of Peter, 295–301. See the discussions concerning this important anti-Chalcedonian circle in the introduction; chapter 1, p. 41; chapter 2, pp. 68–69. 103. Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 5.4 (Brooks, ed., 217; Greatrex, et al., trans., 184–185); Evagrius, HE 3.6 (Bidez and Parmentier, eds., 106). See Lorenzo Perrone, La chiesa di Palestina e le controversie cristologiche: Dal concilio di Efeso (431) al secondo concilio di Costantinopoli (553) (Brescia: Paideia, 1980), 123–124. Theodotus had been consecrated by Theodosius, the antiChalcedonian ascetic leader who had also consecrated Peter the Iberian during his twentymonth tenure as patriarch of Jerusalem in 452–453. 104. Ebied and Wickham, “Syriac Letters of Timothy Aelurus,” 330–331, 361. Interestingly, this distinction can resolve the apparent contradiction between Severus and Ps.Zachariah Rhetor’s reports on Timothy’s position. Severus, CL 34 (PO 12:105–106) speaks of “periods of penance which Timothy of saintly memory, archbishop of Alexandria, laid down with regard to those who are converted from the heresy of the Diphysites.” Ps.-Zachariah, on the other hand, writes of Timothy: “He required nothing else from them except that they should anathematize the Synod and the Tome and confess the true faith . . . he did not hold them aloof, even for a little while, from the communion” (Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 5.4, cited

Notes to pages 68–69

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in n. 103). Severus could be read as referring to clergy, and Ps.-Zachariah as referring to laypeople. In any case, it is worth noting that Timothy may have had an earlier, more rigorist opinion on this matter. See SL 1.60, 201–203/181–182; 5.1, 276–277; 5.6, 344–345/304–305; Joseph Lebon, “Textes inédits de Philoxène de Mabboug,” Le Muséon 43 (1930): 17–84, 149– 220, at 155–156. For the text of anathematization that was required from converts from Chalcedonianism (and other heresies), see BL Add. 12156, 61r and Timothy’s prayer for the sake of these converts, ibid., 61v; Wright, Catalogue, 2:643. 105. CL 34 (PO 12:105–106), thought to be dated to 519–521 CE. See further the interesting case discussed in Vööbus, Synodicon, 169–171/162–163. ̈ ‫)ܨܒܝܢܘܬ ܕܚܠܬܐ‬. “Uncanonical 106. “Self-created religion”: SL 1.60, 207 (‫ܕܡܫܚܝ ܡܢܕܪܝܫ‬ preposition”: SL 1.60, 206–207/185–186. In this letter dated by Brooks to 519–521 (see the “Addenda et Corrigenda” to SL, 479), Severus refers to these events as happening at the very beginning of his episcopacy. For Severus’s response to their treatise, see Vööbus, Synodicon, 185–187/175–177. 107. John Rufus, Life of Peter the Iberian 191 (Horn and Phenix, eds., 276–277). 108. This is all the more striking in light of the fact that the historian Ps.-Zachariah, writing later in the sixth century, does explicitly present Peter the Iberian as “not at all agree[ing]” with the faction of Theodotus, and as being “warmly attached to Timothy” in his conciliatory, nonrigorist attitude toward the acceptance of Chalcedonian converts (Ps.Zach. Rhet. 5.4; Brooks, ed., 217; Greatrex, et al., trans., 184–185). If this were indeed the case, would Severus not have been eager to present Peter in the same light? Ps.-Zachariah’s account of Theodotus’s adoption of the rigorist position is historically suspicious. The whole account is laden with motifs characteristic of the heresiographical tradition (Theodotus became a rigorist out of spite toward Timothy Aelurus, for not having regained his bishopric during the reign of Basiliscus as Timothy had; Theodotus is explicitly associated with an earlier heresy, that of the Novatians). 109. I read the Syriac verb ‫ ܐܫܬܘܬܦ‬here as representing the Greek κοινόω, both of which have the technical meaning “to communicate” (in a liturgical sense). Brooks understood ‫ ܐܫܬܘܬܦ‬in the more general sense of “to take part,” translating the phrase “anyone else who took part in the synod of Chalcedon.” While either interpretation seems possible, I have chosen the former inasmuch as it sits better with the position Severus defends in other letters of the period that actually does exclude from the diptychs the names of those who participated in the Council of Chalcedon itself. See SL 1.75–76/68. If, as Brooks translates, Severus were describing his youthful position as excluding only the names of those who were present at Chalcedon, there would be no difference between that and his position on the matter as patriarch. But if we translate his youthful position as erasing the names of anyone who communicated with Chalcedon, namely, all Chalcedonians, his position as patriarch could be understood as limiting exclusion only to those who actually participated in the council. For another example of Severus’s usage of ‫ ܫܘܬܦܘܬܐ‬in the sense of “communion,” see SL 5.11, 370 (line 9). 110. CL 40 (PO 12:305), dated 516–517, to the monks at the Monastery of Mar Bassus. See also SL 5.11, 370–371/328 (written 520–534 CE), where Severus argues for a similar position, and, in the process of doing so, he anxiously defends the consistency of his faith with the faith of Peter the Iberian. For more on Severus’s position on this question, see below.

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Notes to pages 69–71

111. SL 5.6, 332–340/296–302. For the canons of these councils on rebaptism and rechrismation, see n. 92 above. 112. Historically Severus is wrong. Cyprian’s opinion was ratified in council. See Paolo Bernardini, Un solo battesimo una sola chiesa: Il concilio di Cartagine del settembre 256 (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2009). In an earlier letter (SL 5.1, 314/279), Severus interestingly refers to Cyprian’s decision in conjunction with “the synod under him.” 113. SL 5.6, 335/298. 114. SL 5.6, 340/301. See also ibid., 336–337/298–299: “We ought to follow later principles adopted as a matter of expediency and for the sake of the union of the church, and not be shackled by prejudices held at an earlier time. . . . Each man ought not to be constantly and at all times contending for the opinions which once won his approval and prevailed: but, if anything better and more beneficial show itself, gladly accept it” (quoting, according to Brooks, 299 n. 1, from Cyprian, Ep. 71.3; but this reference is either a mistake on Brooks’s part, or Severus has completely misread or rewritten that passage; Cyprian says virtually the reverse of what Severus attributes to him). 115. SL 5.1, 314/279; 5.6, 345/305. See also SL 2.3, 236/212, where, in the context of his objection to Isaiah the Armenian’s reliance on an early piece of canon legislation, Severus appeals to the abrogation of Cyprian’s rulings on rebaptism by subsequent councils. Severus formulates the following general principle: “For in ecclesiastical regulations enactments carefully made at a later time in the churches allow no play to those of ancient date.” 116. In two different places (SL 5.3, 319/284 and 5.6, 357–358/316–317) the manuscripts uniformly refer to the gathering as having taken place at Laodicea, but Brooks corrects both to Ephesus. The first speaks of “the holy bishops who met at Laodicea and effected the deprivation of Flavian.” Brooks assumed that this refers to the deposition of Flavian of Jerusalem in the mid-fifth century, at Ephesus II, and therefore he emends Laodicea to Ephesus. But perhaps the reference is rather to the deposition of Flavian II of Antioch at the beginning of the sixth century. We have no record of an official council having taken place at Laodicea for this purpose, but we do know that alongside Philoxenus of Mabbug, Nicias of Laodicea was active in this effort. Perhaps Severus’s reference here is not so much to a formal council as to a meeting of anti-Chalcedonian bishops that took place in the city of one of the party’s active members. See Evagrius, HE 3.31; de Halleux, Philoxène, 71. 117. SL 5.6, 357/316. 118. Ibid., 358/316. 119. As we shall see further in chapter 4, Severus himself thematizes “theology” as an independent realm, or genre, of ecclesiastical cultural production. See Hespel, Polémique 2.1:5–6/4. 120. SL 5.1, 312–313/278–279; 5.6, 346–347/306–307, citing from John Chrysostom, De laudibus S. Pauli Apostoli, Hom. 5 (PG 50:498–499). Severus made use of this homily also in his explanation of apparent inconsistencies in Cyril of Alexandria’s christology. See Philalethes (Hespel, ed.) 209–210/172, and the discussion in chapter 4, pp. 129–130. 121. Circumcision of Timothy: Acts 16:3. Statement in Galatians: Gal. 5:2. 122. SL 5.6, 345/305. Severus displays a similarly contingent approach to canon law in his cathedral homily on Thecla. In Hom. Cath. 97 (PO 25:133) he argues that because of differing historical circumstances the short haircut that was permitted for Thecla was no longer per-

Notes to pages 71–73

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mitted for women at a later time. See also Hom. Cath. 125 (PO 29:246–249), where Severus defends the Miaphysite addition of the phrase “you who were crucified for us” to the Trisagion, by appeal to other examples showcasing the gradual development of liturgical and linguistic usages. 123. On Theophilus’s relationship with Flavian, see Norman Russell, Theophilus of Alexandria (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 13–14, largely drawing on Agostino Favale, Teofilo d’Alessandria (345–c. 412): Scritti, vita e dotrina (Turin: Società Editrice Internazionale, 1958), 72–77. 124. See Manlio Simonetti, “Melitius of Lycopolis, Melitian Schism,” in Angelo Di Berardino, ed., Encyclopedia of the Early Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 1:551. 125. On Auxentius of Milan, see Daniel H. Williams, “The Anti-Arian Campaigns of Hilary of Poitiers and the Liber Contra Auxentium,” Church History 61 (1992): 7–22; Timothy D. Barnes, “Valentinian, Auxentius, and Ambrose,” Historia 51 (2002): 227–237. 126. SL 5.6, 343/304. See also ibid., 347–348/307–308. Severus is our only source for this letter. 127. Nevertheless, in one place Severus attempts to deny that his opposition to rebaptism and rechrismation of Chalcedonians is a validation of the efficacy of their rituals. SL 1.60, 203/183: “These things we have related, not because we would reckon the acts done by heretics valid (they are in fact invalid and without foundation and unsubstantial), but because we would explain that healing is not applied to converts from heresy in one way only, but according to the nature of the error: perfection and the cure of the disease being granted to some through baptism and ordination, to others through chrism, to others through their anathematizing the heresy in writing, and repudiating it and showing fruits of penitence.” Severus’s denial here is suspiciously specific. If anything, it proves his realization that the logic of his position ineluctably led to the validation of Chalcedonian ritual. Severus can logically argue that rebaptism, reordination, and rechrismation are not needed as a means of “healing,” but if he really considered Chalcedonian baptism, ordination, and chrismation meaningless he would be admitting unbaptized and unchrismated people into communion, and he would be allowing unordained priests to perform liturgical functions. See also SL 4.5, 296/262. De Vries, Sakramententheologie, 71–80, also tackles this question and offers a “theological” resolution: that the church itself in its acceptance of the heretic performs an action equivalent to baptism and ordination. Thus, although the baptisms and ordinations of Chalcedonians were not initially legitimate, they do not need to be repeated. 128. SL 1.60, 203/182–183. On the date of this letter, see Brooks’s remarks at SL, vol. 1, p. 179 and vol. 2, p. 479. 129. See Matt. 1:7 for the inclusion of Rehoboam in the genealogy of Jesus. The identification of Rehoboam with the contemporary episcopate and the concomitant construal of rebellion against him as a rebellion against Christ are attested also elsewhere in Severus’s writings. See Françoise Petit, Sévère d’Antioche: Fragments grecs tirés des chaînes sur les derniers livres de l’Octateuque et sur les Règnes, Traditio Exegetica Graeca 14 (Louvain: Peeters, 2006), 134–137 (fr. 46–47). 130. Severus develops this theme more explicitly in the course of Hom. Cath. 2 (PO 38:282–285). Jacob and Esau are respectively construed as the Church and the Synagogue. The prophecy concerning these two brothers in Gen. 25:23—“The elder shall serve the

192

Notes to pages 73–78

younger”—is interpreted as indicating that the Synagogue, considered the elder brother because it was chronologically prior, shall come to serve the younger, namely, the Church. Severus explains that this refers to the political subjugation of the Synagogue to the Church. For after Constantine “the power of the Roman Empire passed over to Christ” (ibid., 285). For more on this typology, see Gerson D. Cohen, “Esau as Symbol in Early Medieval Thought,” in Alexander Altmann, ed., Jewish Medieval and Renaissance Studies (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967), 19–48. 131. See Hom. Cath. 24 (PO 37:142–145) and 114 (PO 26:300) for further expressions of the divine sanction Severus believed the empire to have. 132. Besides Severus’s portrayal, there survive no other descriptions of the christology of Theodotus of Joppa (not least by Theodotus himself). Therefore, we have no way of testing the relevance of Severus’s account to Theodotus’s actual position. What interests me here is Severus’s rhetorical choice to cast the difference between them in these terms. 133. SL 5.6, 356–357/315; CL 34 (PO 12:105). Severus associates Theodotus with the murky fifth-century theologian John the Rhetor, who also minimized the human nature of Christ. See Ps.-Zach. Rhet. 3.10; and the literature cited by Greatrex et al., trans., 124–125 n. 148. See also Draguet, Julien, *32, fr. 100, stating that “all aspects of Christ are above our nature.” Severus claims that Julian attributed these words to Timothy Aelurus, when they were in fact by John the Rhetor. 3 . T H E F O O D O F I N / C O R RU P T IO N

1. Julian, Tome, fr. 25. See discussion in chapter 1, p. 39. 2. See Matt. 26:26–28; Mark 14:22–24; Luke 22:19–20; John 6:48–58; 1 Cor. 10:16–17, 11:23–25. 3. Thus, rather than seeing the relationship between christology and sacramentology as moving only in one direction or the other, as previous scholars have (see the introduction and chapter 1, pp. 36–37), I prefer to see these as two, out of three (including ecclesiology as well), reflexes of the same discussion. 4. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:11–12/9. See above, introduction, pp. 10–11. 5. See Catherine M. Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 61–90. The passage from Bell, 82–83, serves as an epigraph to this chapter. 6. See Menze, Justinian, 75: “The diptychs seem to form a crucial, but also underestimated issue in the history of the split of the anti-Chalcedonians.” Menze, 76–89, 96–102, wisely incorporates treatments of the diptych question within his discussion of this split. 7. Catherine M. Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 123–124. For a helpful application of Bell’s theory to one aspect of Catholic ritual, see Patricia M. Mann, “How Rituals Form and Transform: The Scrutiny Rite from Medieval to Modern Times” (PhD diss., Catholic University of America, 2011). 8. Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, 123. 9. Ibid. 10. Besides the six catechetical homilies expressly delivered every year on Wednesday of Holy Week, prior to the Easter baptism, Severus dedicated many other homilies to baptismal themes. He customarily expounded on baptism during the first Sunday of Lent, after which the baptisteries would be closed until Easter. For the first Sunday of Lent homilies,

Notes to pages 78–79

193

see Hom. Cath. 40 (PO 36:8–13); 69 (PO 8:388–394); 88 (PO 23:92–99); 106 (PO 25:660– 666). For the catechetical homilies, see Hom. Cath. 21 (PO 37:64–87); 42 (PO 36:30–73); 70 (PO 12:5–51); 90 (PO 23:120–165); 109 (PO 25:732–781); 123 (PO 29:124–207). 11. See the comment to this effect in de Halleux, Philoxène, 318. G. J. Cuming, “The Liturgy of Antioch in the Time of Severus (513–518),” in J. Neil Alexander, ed., Time and Community: In Honor of Thomas Julian Talley (Washington, DC: Pastoral Press, 1990), 83–103, provides a catalogue of liturgical references embedded within Severus’s homilies and letters (excluding his dogmatic works). However, as the additional note at 83 indicates, Cuming planned on analyzing the material for overarching themes, but died before he got a chance to do so. De Vries, Sakramententheologie, which is useful on other matters relating to Syrian “Monophysite” sacramental theology, has very little to say about the effects of the Eucharist. His two pages on the matter (ibid., 179–180) are silent about Severus. Bryan Spinks, “The Anaphora Attributed to Severus of Antioch: A Note on Its Character and Theology,” in J. Getcha and A. Lossky, eds., Θυσία αἰνέσεως: Mélanges liturgiques offerts à la mémoire de l’archevêque Georges Wagner (Paris: Presses Saint-Serge, 2005), 345–351, demonstrates, by comparison with other writings of Severus, the possibility that the anaphora attributed to him is indeed correct. Baby Varghese, West Syrian Liturgical Theology (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2004), 64–65, discusses one practical issue within Severus’s eucharistic theology, to which we will return. Lizette Marlene Larson-Miller, “To Imitate Their Perfection: A Comparison of the Relationship of Christology and Martyrial Liturgy in Sixth-Century Gaul and Syria” (PhD diss., Graduate Theological Union, 1992), 222–233, uses Severus’s writings to reconstruct the “sixth-century celebration of [the] eucharist,” but is concerned only with matters of structure and arrangement, not theology. 12. SL 9.1, 474/419 (during the patriarchate), describing how Severus sent Victor the ̈ presbyter and xenodochos (‫ܐܟܣܢܝܐ‬ ‫—ܡܩܒܠ‬a technical term referring to the director of the guesthouse associated with the monastery and under supervision of the bishop) and Eusebius the presbyter to try to convert the bishop of Berytus, “who had fallen into the nets of Eutyches, Valentinus and those who have contracted the disease of phantasia.” SL 1.49, 154/139 (after the patriarchate; Brooks, ibid., 132, opts for right after: 519–520) encourages the addressees of the letter to accept Victor’s advice—on what matter is not entirely clear. 13. CL 30 (PO 12:262), taken from the anti-Julianist florilegium in BL Add. 12155, 76b. See Draguet, Julien, 78 n. 1, for further attestations of this passage in other manuscripts. Regarding the dating of this letter, Brooks, PO 12:262n, tentatively proposes 519–521. Draguet, Julien, 78 n. 1, finds Brooks’s dating supported by his general opinion that the controversy broke out in those years. I agree with Draguet that the letter seems to directly echo the controversy, but inasmuch as I postpone the outbreak of the debate to a few years later, I think it is just as likely that the letter was written in the mid-520s. See chapter 1, n. 8. 14. Brooks has “transmuted” here. The Syriac word means only “completed” or “celebrated/consecrated” in a liturgical context. I normally reproduce Brooks’s excellent translations verbatim, but in this case “transmuted” brings to mind echoes from the transubstantiation debates, which are wholly foreign to this time and place. 15. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:11–12/9. See the discussion of this passage in the introduction, pp. 10–11. Note, however, that whereas in the latter passage Severus speaks of incorruptibility alongside impassibility and immortality, here, in his letter to Victor, Severus speaks only of impassiblity and immortality, with not a word on incorruptibility. This difference could

194

Notes to pages 79–81

be significant given the fact that Julian, as we saw in chapter 1, was willing to concede Christ’s passibility and mortality, but not his corruptibility. 16. CL 30 (PO 12:262–263). 17. Hymn 229 (PO 7:684). 18. Cyril of Alexandria, Scholia on the Incarnation 9 (PG 75:1377D-1380B; ACO 1.5.1.221); Comm. on Isaiah 6:6–7 (PG 70:180D-184A). See further CCT 2.2:82; Davis, Coptic Christology, 38. 19. Hom. Cath. 48 (PO 35:316–320); 68 (PO 35:330); Hymn 35.1–8 (PO 6:75–76); CL 1 (PO 12:180–184); Hespel, Polémique 1:153–154. For a discussion of some of these passages, see Roberta C. Chesnut, Three Monophysite Christologies: Severus of Antioch, Philoxenus of Mabbug, and Jacob of Sarug (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), 88, 136. For the incorporation of this image within the Jualinist debate, see CCT 2.2:82–87. 20. For Christ’s incarnate existence, see Ephrem, Discourse on our Lord 48 (CSCO 270, 45); Hymns on the Nativity 6.13 (CSCO 186, 53). For the Eucharist, see Hymns on Faith 10.10 (CSCO 154, 50). These and other sources are cited and discussed in Sebastian Brock, The Luminous Eye: The Spiritual World Vision of Saint Ephrem, Cistercian Studies Series 124 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications), 103–104. For more on the Eucharist-coal image in the Greek and Syrian traditions, including Philoxenus of Mabbug, see Menze, “Regula ad Diaconos,” 63–64. 21. See further F. E. Brightman, Liturgies Eastern and Western (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1896), 181–182, for a prayer said during the fraction of the host attributed to Severus, which also describes the Eucharist as a glowing coal that cleanses the lips of its consumers— “this true coal, quickening soul and body and spirit, which is the holy body and the precious blood.” The prayer does not, however, specify whether this corresponds to Christ’s body pre- or post-resurrection. Ian Levy et al., eds, A Companion to the Eucharist in the Middle Ages (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 286, believes that the medieval deployment of Isaiah’s glowing coal in eucharistic descriptions originated in the eighth century with Germanus of Constantinople and John of Damascus. This picture must be updated in light of the evidence presented here. 22. BL 12155, 75v. See further Moss, “In Corruption,” Appendix 3, fr. 24. 23. Moss, “In Corruption,” Appendix 3, fr. 24. See further fr. 25 and 26. 24. Literally, “partaking in the mysteries” (as throughout). 25. See 1 Cor. 11:23. 26. See also Hespel, Polémique 1:37–38/28, which, although speaking of baptism, rather than of the Eucharist, presents his view of the proleptic, futuristic orientation of the liturgy’s salvific power in unambiguous terms: “By it [the resurrection] he resurrected the entire human race, by making himself known to us as the first-born among the dead. He accomplished all this for us who believe in him, we who are baptized in the image of his death and who imitate, to the degree possible, the three days of his burial by our triple immersion in the mysterious waters (see Rom. 6:3–14; Col. 2:12), from which we draw the force (‫ )ܚܝܐܠ‬and pledge (‫ )ܪܗܒܘܢܐ‬of resurrection, even if we suffer common death and the corruption of nature (‫( ”)ܚܒܐܠ ܕܟܝܢܐ‬emphasis mine). Although those baptized still suffer death and bodily corruption, the baptismal rite grants the force and promise of a future state of bodily incorruption. As we will see presently, among earlier authors there is no single consistent viewpoint on this question. Severus could have appealed to the following formulation in Irenaeus to

Notes to pages 81–83

195

support his “futurist” orientation: Against Heresies 4.18.5 (Harvey, ed., 2:208; Roberts and Donaldson, trans., 486): “For as the bread, which is produced from the earth, when it receives the invocation of God, is no longer common bread, but the eucharist, consisting of two realities, earthly and heavenly; so also our bodies, when they receive the eucharist, are no longer corruptible, having the hope (ἐλπίς) of the resurrection to eternity.” For similar language about the sacramental gift of future resurrection and incorruptibility, see also Hom. Cath. 90 (PO 23:139). 27. Against Felicissimus, fr. 26 (BL 12155, 76r; Moss, “In Corruption,” Appendix 3). Compare Severus’s reference to the Eucharist as a “suprasensual coal” in Hymn 229, cited above. 28. Following the model of “futuristic” or “unrealized” (also called “reserved”) eschatology as opposed to “realized” eschatology, as articulated in C. H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), 7. See further Urban C. von Wahlde, “C. H. Dodd, the Historical Jesus, and Realized Eschatology,” in Tom Thatcher and Catrin Williams, eds., Engaging with C. H. Dodd on the Gospel of John: Sixty Years of Tradition and Interpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 149–162. 29. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:259–266/227–233. The introduction is at 259–260/227. 30. Julian’s initial position is attested in Tome, fr. 20; Severus contests it in the final part of his Critique. See Hespel, Polémique 1:199–205/153–158. 31. Matt. 9:19–22; Mark 5:25–34; Luke 8:43–48. 32. Matt. 14:13–21; Mark 6:30–44; Luke 9:10–17; John 6:1–15. Cf. Matt. 15:32–39; Mark 8:1–10. 33. This is how Julian seems to have understood the “power” (δύναμις/‫ )ܚܝܐܠ‬that had gone forth from Jesus in curing the hemorrhaging woman (Mark 5:10; Luke 8:46—absent from Matt.). See the fragment from Julian’s Apology concerning the multiplication of the loaves quoted further below. 34. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:260/227. 35. See esp. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:262–263/230. For an earlier articulation of this view, see Hom. Cath. 83 (PO 20:405–406). 36. Acts 19:12 (healings by contact with Paul’s garments). Cf. Acts 5:15 (healings by contact with Peter’s shadow). Compare Hom. Cath. 79 (PO 20:320–321), where, in the context of his preaching against the use of amulets, Severus interestingly insists that the cures described in Acts 19 were done “without Paul’s knowledge and not according to his teaching”; they only came about because of “a custom of the people.” Severus goes on to state that the only legitimate method of healing is the procedure detailed in James 5:14–15, according to which the elders of the church pray over the sick and anoint them with oil in the name of Jesus. By insisting that the miraculous healings performed by Paul were contrary to the latter’s knowledge and teaching, Severus is clearly trying to minimize charismatic authority. Paradoxically, however, by denying Paul’s intentionality, Severus comes out in support of charisma: Paul’s healing powers were so great that he cured even without meaning to do so! In any case, Severus’s position here is in line with his anticharismatic tendencies discussed in chapter 2. Severus’s theoretical position on healing here conforms to the episode from his own life that he relates in SL 5.11, 373–375/331–332. On that episode, see Moss, “Rise and Function,” 528–529. 37. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:261/228. Severus makes this argument as a reductio ad absurdum. I am not sure, however, that Julian would have regarded this notion as absurd. In light

196

Notes to pages 83–85

of our analysis of his anthropological position in chapter 1, he probably would have said that the apostles’ bodies did indeed attain a certain level of incorruptibility. 38. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:265/233. The fragment is from Julian’s Apology; see Draguet, Julien, *51, fr. 57. 39. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:266/233. The (previously unidentified) Greek original for this text survives. See J. A. Cramer, ed., Catenae graecorum patrum in Novum Testamentum (Oxford: Typographeo Academico, 1838–44), 2:156. Draguet, Julien, 26 n. 1, mentioned the fragment but was not able to locate it in Severus’s work. 40. A conflation of Luke 22:19 (“This is my body which is given for you”) and Matt. 26:28 (“For this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins”). Perhaps Severus is citing from the eucharistic anaphora that conflated these verses rather than from the biblical text. See L. S. B. MacCoull, “John Philoponus, On the Pasch (CPG 7267),” Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik 49 (1999): 1–12, at 3–4, for a similar argument with regard to a work by Severus’s younger contemporary John Philoponus. 41. Cyril of Alexandria, Comm. Joh. 12.1 (on John 20:26–27) (PG 74:725D-728A; Pusey, 3:145). 42. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:266/233, as cited above (emphasis mine). 43. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:266/233. 44. See, e.g., Severus, Against Felicissimus, fr. 24, 26. 45. What is interesting about this choice is that it was probably made by the Syriac translator rather than by Severus himself. Greek does not normally distinguish between “bread” and “loaf.” Both in the accounts about the multiplication miracle and in the accounts of the Last Supper in the Gospels the word ἄρτος is used without distinction. The ancient translator must have sensed the rhetorical point Severus was trying to make from the very fact that he inserted the word “one.” As it was not otherwise required here by context, this insertion was interpreted as having been intended to create a contrast with the many loaves immediately preceding. The Syriac translator made sure to use the same word for “loaf ” (‫ )ܓܪܨܐ‬to bring out this contrast, which, incidentally, is completely lost in Hespel’s French translation. 46. See Harnack, History of Dogma, 4:294, 297, discussing similar ideas in Gregory of Nyssa and John Chrysostom. 47. See Harnack, History of Dogma, 4:296, calling this way of thinking “nominally Christian heathenism.” Jules Gross, The Divinization of the Christian According to the Greek Fathers, trans. Paul A. Onica (Anaheim, CA: A & C Press, 2002), 184–186, speaks of Gregory’s “excessive realism” in this regard. 48. Gregory of Nyssa, Or. Catech. 37 (PG 45:93C); James Herbert Srawley, ed., The Catechetical Oration of Gregory of Nyssa (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1903), 143. 49. Gregory of Nyssa, Or. Catech. 37 (PG 45:97B); Srawley, ed., Catechetical Oration, 152. Gross, Divinization, 187, states that according to Gregory “actual incorruptibility” is “reserved for the time to come.” Yet he supports this statement by citing Catechetical Oration, chap. 35, which deals with baptism, not the Eucharist. These two rituals fulfill very different functions in Gregory’s thought, as Gross himself explains (ibid., 185–186). 50. See John Chrysostom, Hom. 1 Cor. 24 (PG 61:201), as interpreted by August Naegle, Die Eucharistielehre des heiligen Johannes Chrysostomus, des Doctor Eucharistiae (Freiburg: Herder, 1900), 254–255.

Notes to pages 85–88

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51. Cyril of Alexandria, Comm. Joh. 4 (on John 6:54) (PG 73:577C-580A)/Pusey, 1:530). My citation follows the translation of P. E. Pusey in P. E. Pusey and T. R. Randell, trans., Cyril of Alexandria, Commentary on the Gospel According to S. John (London: W. Smith, 1874; 1885), 1:418–419. For a partial translation and brief discussion of this important passage in other contexts, see Gross, Divinization, 226–227; CCT 2.2:225; Davis, Coptic Christology, 44–46. 52. On the more general, overarching soteriological differences between the Antiochene tradition, as represented by Chrysostom, on the one hand, and the Alexandrian tradition, as represented by Cyril, see Brian E. Daley, “The Word and His Flesh: Human Weakness and the Identity of Jesus in Patristic Christology,” in Beverly Roberts Gaventa and Richard B. Hays, eds., Seeking the Identity of Jesus: A Pilgrimage (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008), 251–269, esp. at 260–263. On Theodore of Mopsuestia and Theodoret of Cyr’s strongly futuristic interpretation of the Eucharist, see Gross, Divinization, 211–216. See, e.g., 212: “While expecting that the promised incorruptibility be actually granted to us, we occupy an intermediate position between the present life and the future life, seeing that we remain mortal, subject to changeability and exposed to sin.” For Severus’s attitude to Theodoret, see Hom. Cath. 51 (PO 35:376–377); 59 (PO 8:230–244); 64 (PO 8:313–320); 124 (PO 29:226–227). 53. Anastasius of Sinai, Viae Dux, chap. 23; PG 89:297C-D; Uthemann, ed., 308. 54. For the medieval Byzantines, Severus’s outlook won out: prior to the resurrection Christ’s body was corruptible; afterward it attained incorruptibility. The question, which came up several times in the Middle Ages, was whether the eucharistic body corresponded to Christ’s pre-resurrection body and was thus corruptible, or whether it corresponded to the post-resurrection, incorruptible body. For a survey of these debates, see Marie-Hélène Congourdeau, “L’eucharistie à Byzance du XIe au XVe siècle,” in Maurice Brouard, ed., Eucharistia: Encyclopédie de l’Eucharistie (Paris: Cerf, 2002), 145–166, at 157–158. For a modern attempt to salvage the Julianist perspective in the face of Anastasius’s experiment, see Martin Jugie, “Gaianite (la controverse) et la passibilité du corps de Jésus-Christ,” in DTC 6 (1947), 1002–1023, at 1011. 55. Although there is also one letter (SL 3.1) on this topic written during the patriarchate. Severus maintained the same position on this question during these two very different stages of his career. 56. Three out of the five letters listed in the following note are addressed to a count (‫ܩܘܡܝܣ‬, SL 3.1), a patricia (‫ܦܛܪܝܩܝܐ‬, SL 3.4), and a hypatissa (‫ܗܘܦܛܝܣܐ‬, CL 105), although the latter two might be one and the same person. See Martindale, Prosopography, 248–249, Caesaria 1–3. 57. SL 3.1; 3.2; 3.3; 3.4, 261–282/231–249; CL 105 (PO 14:256). See further Varghese, West Syrian Liturgical Theology, 64–65. See also De Vries, Sakramententheologie, 73, who touches upon this issue within a different context. 58. Severus, Letter to Ammian and Epagethus, SL 3.2, 264–265/234–235. See further Moss, “Rise and Function,” 527. Compare this to the similar position advocated by Philoxenus of Mabbug. See de Halleux, Philoxène, 278. 59. On the diptychs’ role in the construction of community identity and the inscription of authority, see Kimberly Bowes, “Ivory Lists: Consular Diptychs, Christian Appropriation, and Polemics in Late Antiquity,” Art History 24 (2001): 338–357, esp. 348–353; Menze,

198

Notes to pages 88–90

Justinian, 76–86. The archaeological and literary evidence seems to indicate that the practice of reading out specific names of the dead (as opposed to just a general prayer) was initially limited to the East. Evidence for the list of names in the West begins only around the seventh century. See Edmund Bishop, appendix to R. H. Connolly, The Liturgical Homilies of Narsai (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1909); Gregory Dix, The Shape of the Liturgy, 3rd ed. (London: Continuum, 2005), 506–507; Jean-Charles Picard, Le souvenir des évêques: Sépultures, listes épiscopales et culte des évêques en Italie du Nord des origines au Xe siècle (Rome: École française de Rome, 1988), 521–526; Robert F. Taft, A History of the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, Vol. 4: The Diptychs (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1991). 60. For liturgical aspects of the diptychs, see, in addition to the citations in n. 59, F. Cabrol and H. Leclercq, “Diptyques,” in Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1920), 4:1045–1170; Vincent L. Kennedy, The Saints of the Canon of the Mass, 2nd rev. ed. (Vatican City: Pontificio istituto di archeologia Cristiana, 1963); O. Stegmüller, “Diptychon,” RAC 3 (1957): 1138–1145. 61. Taft, Diptychs, 185–196. 62. See Taft’s own reservations at Diptychs, 185, 189. See further Éric Rebillard, “The Church, the Living, and the Dead,” in Philip Rousseau, ed., A Companion to Late Antiquity (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 220–230, at 228. 63. Contrary to Taft, Diptychs, 52, stating that the earliest evidence for this comes from the Acts of the Synod of Mopsuestia of 550 CE. It seems that Taft has overlooked the earlier evidence from Philoxenus and Peter of Apamea for the same kind of “confessional diptychs,” on which see below. 64. See Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 75 (from Atticus) and 76 (to Atticus). John I. McEnerney, trans., Cyril of Alexandria: Letters 51–110 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1987), 86 n. 1, dates this correspondence to 415 CE; Taft, Diptychs, gives 418 CE. Atticus bowed to popular pressure and reinstated John’s name, as did Theodotus of Antioch (Cyril, Ep. 75.4). Cyril strongly opposed the reinstatement, although he may have later changed his mind. See further below. 65. Although, as Taft, Diptychs, 169, rightly points out, this needs to have been a selective process. By the early fifth century the episcopal succession lists of all five patriarchates included over 175 names. It seems very unlikely that all these names were read. 66. Leo, Epistle 80.3 (PL 54:915; ACO 2.4.40): “Nam iniquum nimis est atque incongruum eos qui innocentes et catholicos sua persecutione vexarunt sanctorum nominibus sine discretione misceri.” See further Leo’s Epistle 85.3 (PL 54:923–924; ACO 2.4.44). The inclusion of Eustathius of Berytus here indicates that it was not just the patriarchs of the major cities who were commemorated in Constantinople’s diptychs. See Frans van de Paverd, Zur Geschichte der Messliturgie in Antiocheia und Konstantinopel gegen Ende des vierten Jahrhunderts: Analyse der Quellen bei Johannes Chrysostomos (Rome: Pontificum Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1970), 355. 67. ACO 3.74–76 (the request); 3.64 (the execution). See also the case of the Acacian schism, discussed in the previous chapter, which revolved around the demand made by a succession of Roman bishops that Acacius of Constantinople’s name be removed from the diptychs of any community desiring communion with Rome. See, in addition to the discussion of popes Felix’s and Gelasius’s involvement in this affair, the conclusion of Pope Horm-

Notes to pages 90–93

199

isdas’s famous Libellus, also dedicated to this question: Coll. Avell. 522. For one further example from the fifth century, see ACO 2.1.3, 49, where the presbyters of Constantinople testify that Proclus, their patriarch (434–446), listed Bassianus in the diptychs as bishop of Ephesus (444–448). 68. Joseph Lebon, “Textes inédits de Philoxène de Mabboug,” Le Muséon 43 (1930): 17–84, 149–220, at 207/218. For the dating of the letter to the 520s, see Lebon, 199. For the dating of the occurrences described in the letter to 485, see Honigmann, Évêques, 5. 69. ACO 3.94.2: “Πέτρον τὸν κληθέντα τῆς ἡμετέρας πόλεως πρόεδρον.” 70. ACO 3.94.17–20. 71. ACO 3.104.16–19, and more generally 3.103–106. See Honigmann, Évêques, 54–56; Menze, Justinian, 82. The report of the Chalcedonian clergy about Peter’s erasure of Isaac is surprising given the fact that Severus had approved the latter’s anti-Chalcedonian orthodoxy. See SL 1.30, 105/94. 72. For Severus’s earlier practice, see CL 40 (PO 12:305) (discussed in the previous chapter). For Severus’s fate in the diptychs under Chalcedonian ascendency, see SL 5.11, 370/328: “We did not by our concession give anything like what we received. We waived the strict observance of names according to the fathers’ ordinances for the sake of the salvation of many cities.” I take “We did not . . . give anything like what we received” (‫ ܐܝܟ ܡܐ ܕܢܣܒܢܢ‬. . . ‫ )ܐܠ ܡܕܡ ܓܝܪ ܕܐܝܟ ܗܢܐ ܝܗܒܢܢ‬to refer to the discrepancy between the exclusion of Severus’s name from the Chalcedonian diptychs and his later allowance for the inclusion of Chalcedonian names. 73. On Musonius and Solon’s initiative, see Honigmann, Évêques, 85–87, 94–95; Alpi, Route, 1:226–228. 74. SL 1.3, 22/20; 1.19, 84–85/76. This position is supported by the report in John Rufus’s Plerophories 23 (PO 8:56) that upon ascending to the patriarchate Severus erased from the diptychs the name of Basil of Seleucia, a signatory of Chalcedon. But it should also be remembered that Rufus’s ecclesiological ideology, which was markedly different from Severus’s (on which see chapter 2), could have colored his portrayal of Severus. See also the evidence adduced by Menze, Justinian, 80–81 n. 107, for the erasure of other signatories of Chalcedon in other metropolitan cities in Severus’s patriarchate. 75. On Severus’s pragmatism in matters of church discipline, see James George, “Severus of Antioch’s Response to Heresy and Religious Promiscuity,” Studia Patristica 42 (2006): 133–138. 76. SL 1.22, 85–86/77–78; 1.53, 170/153–154; 5.11, 370–371/328; CL 40 (PO 12:305); 41 (PO 12:307–308). 77. E.g., SL 1.3, 21/19, 22–23/21; SL 5.11, 370/328; CL 41 (PO 12:307). 78. See Ernest Honigmann, “Eusebius Pamphili: The Removal of His Name from the Diptychs of Caesarea in Palestine in 431 A.D.,” in Patristic Studies, Studi e Testi 173 (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1953), 59–70, at 61; Menze, Justinian, 79–80, 83. 79. CL 41 (PO 12:306–307); 44 (PO 12:311–312). 80. CL 42 (PO 12:308–309); 44 (PO 12:311). 81. See Bishop, appendix to Connolly, Narsai, 103–104; Taft, Diptychs, 59; Van de Paverd, Zur Geschichte der Messliturgie, 355. 82. See Bishop, appendix to Connolly, Narsai, 104 and n. 2, who points out that “in the discussions during and after the council of Ephesus (431) the subject of the diptychs is

200

Notes to pages 93–95

hardly so much as mentioned.” Bishop detects only two references to the diptychs in the entire dossier of the council. One of these references is interesting inasmuch as Meletius of Mopsuestia, a partisan of John of Antioch’s, proposes that John anathematize Cyril and inscribe the name of Nestorius in the diptychs (of the living). Bishop takes note of Meletius’s usage of “inscribe” rather than “replace” or “restore,” which would seem to indicate that even by the end of the first third of the fifth century, the diptychs had not yet taken on the official and fixed form of later generations. See also Bishop, 107. 83. On the very central role Cyril occupied for Severus, and indeed all parties of the Chalcedonian debate, see the next chapter. 84. CL 45 (PO 12:313). 85. See Honigmann, “Eusebius Pamphili,” 67–70. 86. On the involvement of local communities in the constitution of their diptychs, see Menze, Justinian, 83–84. 87. CL 45 (PO 12:313–314). 88. Cyril, Ep. 72; Schwartz, ed., 17–19; McEnerney, trans., 72–74. 89. Menze, Justinian, 79. 90. This point is missed in earlier scholarship. See Honigmann, “Eusebius Pamphili,” 63–64. Menze, Justinian, 79, interprets Severus as being in direct continuity with Cyril, writing that “Severus took Cyril’s side . . . that . . . Theodore of Mopsuestia . . . should not be removed from the diptychs.” 91. Hom. Cath. 1 (PO 38:254–259). See Menze, Justinian, 80 n. 104; and my discussion in chapter 2. 92. Moreover, Severus consistently stressed the importance of anathematizing Chalcedonian bishops—e.g., Hom. Cath. 29 (PO 36:588–607)—while at the same time arguing against those within his party who sought to remove all Chalcedonian bishops from the diptychs. 93. Atticus, Epistle to Cyril, listed as Letter 75 in the Letters of Cyril (Schwartz, ed., 23–24, at 23). See further the discussions above and below. 94. Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 76 (Schwartz, ed., 25–28). 95. SL 1.53, 176–77/159–60. 96. Constantinople. 97. Cf. Phil. 2:21: “They all look after their own interests, not those of Jesus Christ.” 98. Brooks translates ‫“ ܚܬܝܬܘܬܐ‬strict procedure,” but the simple idiomatic meaning of the word is “accuracy” or “precision.” 99. Modern historians mostly think that Cyril did indeed change his mind. See, e.g., Gustave Bardy, Histoire de l’église depuis les origins jusqu’à nos jours, vol. 4: De la mort de Théodose à l’élection de Grégoire le Grand (Paris: Bloud & Gay, 1937), 158. For the skeptical viewpoint, see L’Huillier, Church of the Ancient Councils, 175 n. 13, echoing Louis Duchesne, Early History of the Christian Church from Its Foundation to the End of the Fifth Century, trans. Claude Jenkins (New York: Longmans, Green, 1924), 3:211. For a full survey of the evidence, see Chrysostomus Baur, John Chrysostom and His Time, trans. M. Gonzaga (Westminster, MD: Newman Press, 1960), 2:444–457. Those who think that Cyril did indeed change his mind cite from a letter of Nestorius to Cyril, as translated by Marius Mercator, ACO 1.5.40 ( = Friedrich Loofs, Nestoriana: Die Fragmente des Nestorius [Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1905], 300): “Taceo de Iohanne cuius nunc cineres adorando veneraris invitus.” (I say

Notes to pages 96–102

201

nothing of John, whose ashes you now adoringly venerate against your will.) This is hardly conclusive proof that Cyril agreed to include Chrysostom’s name in the diptychs. It comes from the pen of Cyril’s opponent, and it says nothing about diptychs. See also Honigmann, “Eusebius Pamphili,” 60. 100. See Theodoret, HE 5.34–36. 101. Thus, for example, by the first half of the sixth century, both Severus and his Chalcedonian opponents extensively quote from both Cyril and Chrysostom. 102. George Cedrenus, Compendium Historiarum, at year 403 (PG 121:625B-C); Nicephorus Callistus HE 14.28 (PG 146:1152B). 103. See the literature cited in n. 99 above. 104. Including, surprisingly enough, Honigmann, “Eusebius Pamphili,” which addresses another previously unnoticed passage from Severus’s Select Letters relevant to the question of exclusion from the diptychs. Honigmann is of the opinion that Cyril did indeed change his mind, but he does not cite Severus on the matter. 105. Atticus, Epistle to Cyril ( = Cyril, Ep. 75); Schwartz, ed., 23. For a further analysis of Atticus’s argument in this letter, see Thomas Graumann, Die Kirche der Väter: Vätertheologie und Väterbeweis in den Kirchen des Ostens bis zum Konzil von Ephesus (431) (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 267. 106. CL 41 (PO 12:307). 107. Compare this to the situation Severus discusses in CL 34 (PO 12:105–106). Clergy members from the followers of Theodotus, who, as it will be remembered, advocated rechrismation, wished to convert to Severus’s party. The question was whether they needed to be reordained. 108. SL, 1.53, 177/160. 109. Ibid. 110. See the continuation of the letter, SL 1.53, 178/160–161. After describing the serious “dissension and disputation” (‫ )ܣܛܐܣܝܣ ܘܒܥܬܐ‬that divided the early Christian communities, as these are reflected in Acts 15, Severus states: “The disputation passed to other churches also, until Peter the chief of the apostles and James, who was termed brother of our Lord, . . . were inspired from above, and brought forward the prophetic words, and so put an end to the dispute that had been raised. And they extended their resolution to the other churches also, so that all members of all of them might say the same and think the same” (emphasis mine). 111. CL 45 (PO 12:313–314). The other two letters are CL 44 (PO 12:310–311) and SL 2.4, 289–290/256–257. 112. See SL 1.60, 203/183, discussed in chapter 2, and the case of the divided Syrian bishops, discussed just above (SL 1.53, 177/160). 113. See chapter 2, pp. 64, 70. 114. CL 44 (PO 12:310–311). 115. Severus’s liturgico-ecclesiological view of the ideal and the real church is similar to the stance Augustine articulated in response to the Donatist challenge. This view has been variously adopted by theologians in subsequent historical contexts. See G. R. Evans, The Church and the Churches: Toward an Ecumenical Ecclesiology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 28–42. 116. SL 1.22, 85–86/77.

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Notes to pages 102–107

117. Discussed both in the introduction and in chapter 2. 118. See further Draguet, Julien, 157–169, on Severus’s reinterpretation of Julian’s thought as a form of Eutychianism, which, like the theology Severus attributes to John Rhetor and to Theodotus of Joppa, views Christ’s humanity as consumed and completely assimilated by his divinity. 119. Cf. Jacques Jarry, “Le gaïanisme, un ramassis d’hérésies,” Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale 63 (1965): 121–130, who similarly argues that the Gaianites, the followers of Julian in Egypt, encompassed a range of different dissident groups. 120. CL 45 (PO 12:314), discussed above at n. 111. 121. CL 45 (PO 12:314). 122. For another case of the exegetical benefits of the stereoscopic approach, see Hom. Cath. 91 (PO 25:21–22). Severus understands the situation described in 1 Cor. 15:53 (“For this corruptible must put on incorruption and this mortal put on immortality”) as referring not to the transformation of the body from corruptible to incorruptible, but as the coexistence of corruptibility and incorruptibility. 123. For the text of Julian’s fragment, see his Tome, fr. 20 (Draguet, Julien, *10). See also Severus’s treatment of this issue in the liturgical context, as discussed on pp. 82–83 of this chapter. 124. Hespel, Polémique 1:201–204/155–158. The excerpt cited below is from 1:201– 201/155–156. 125. See John 19:23–24. See also the usage of this passage by the Roman council on Acacius, discussed at the beginning of chapter 2. 126. Ps. 21:19. 127. Eph. 5:30. 128. Job 10:11. 129. See Hom. Cath. 24 (PO 37:138–141) and CL 100 (PO 14:412–415) for further developments. See also Davis, Coptic Christology, 171, and, more generally, Sebastian Brock, “Clothing Metaphors as a Means of Theological Expression in Syriac Tradition,” in Studies in Syriac Christianity: History, Literature, and Theology (Hampshire, UK, and Brookfield, VT: Variorum, 1992), XI (11–38). 4 . T H E B O DY O F T H E FAT H E R S

1. Although Severus continued to write against Julian and his followers, Against Julian’s Apology is probably the last work he wrote while Julian was still alive. On the place of this treatise in the overall chronology of Severus’s anti-Julianist writings, and on the rhetorical shift between his earlier and later writings, see Draguet, Julien, 42–50; chapter 1, pp. 24–25. 2. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:299/262. 3. Hespel’s translation here glosses over the specific reference to the textual body as dead: “des paroles détachées de leurs corps.” 4. Based on Wisdom of Solomon 15:12, on which see more below. 5. For the usage of this term with reference to the formation of the corpus of New Testament writings, see David Brakke, “Scriptural Practices in Early Christianity: Towards a New History of the New Testament Canon,” in Jörg Ulrich, Anders-Christian Jacobsen, and

Notes to page 107

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David Brakke, eds., Invention, Rewriting, Usurpation: Discursive Fights over Religious Traditions in Antiquity, Early Christianity in the Context of Antiquity 11 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2012), 263–280. 6. See Richard Lim, Public Disputation, Power, and Social Order in Late Antiquity (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995); Basil Studer, “Argumentation, Patristic,” in Angelo Di Berardino, ed., Encyclopedia of the Early Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 1:72 and the literature cited there. Inattention to this fundamental text-cultural difference between earlier and later patristic writing has in some cases led to unwarranted theological and historical conclusions. See, e.g., Hans Lietzmann, The Beginnings of the Christian Church, trans. Bertram Lee Woolf (London: Lutterworth Press, 1953), 390, who assumes Origen must not have known Clement well because he does not cite him. Similarly, Joseph T. Lienhard, Contra Marcellum (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1999), 127–128, assumes that Eusebius does not cite Origen because of theological differences. For more on Eusebius’s citation techniques, see Sabrina Inowlocki, Eusebius and the Jewish Authors: His Citation Technique in an Apologetic Context (Leiden: Brill, 2006). 7. See Patrick T. R. Gray, “‘The Select Fathers’: Canonizing the Patristic Past,” Studia Patristica 23 (1989): 21–36; Graumann, Die Kirche der Väter. My focus here is only on the Eastern Church. The development of patristic argumentation in the West followed a parallel, but somewhat different course: see Mark Vessey, “The Forging of Orthodoxy in Latin Christian Literature: A Case Study,” JECS 4 (1996): 495–513; Éric Rebillard, “A New Style of Argument in Christian Polemic: Augustine and the Use of Patristic Citations,” JECS 8 (2000): 559–78. 8. As one expression of this dramatic shift, Gray, “Select Fathers,” 16, compares the number of “Christological florilegia from the pre-Chalcedonian period” with those from 500–600 CE. Grillmeier’s exhaustive list of the former category occupies one and a half pages of CCT 2.1 (pp. 52–53), as compared with the list of the latter category which occupies sixteen pages (CCT 2.1:55–71). 9. See Gray, “Select Fathers,” 29–30: “Theology was to be an enterprise that worked, not with ideas, but with the authoritative sources”; or, as he puts it in his Leontius of Jerusalem: Against the Monophysites; Testimonies of the Saints and Aporiae (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 26: “By the sixth-century, the argumentum patristicum did not just demand a bigger place in the theological argument, it exercised virtual hegemony.” For further literature on various aspects of this cultural transformation, see Gray, “Forgery as an Instrument of Progress: Reconstructing the Theological Tradition in the Sixth Century,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 81 (1988): 284–289; Gray, “Down the Tunnel with Leontius of Jerusalem: The Sixth-Century Transformation of Theology,” in Pauline Allen and Elizabeth Jeffreys, eds., The Sixth Century: End or Beginning? (Brisbane: Australian Association for Byzantine Studies, 1996), 187–196; Daniel King, The Syriac Versions of the Writings of Cyril of Alexandria, CSCO 626/Subsidia 123 (Louvain: Peeters, 2008), 4–11; Menze, Justinian, 61–66. 10. See Henry Chadwick, “Florilegium,” RAC 7 (1969): 1131–1160, at 1157–1158; CCT 2.1:89; Gray, “Select Fathers,” 26. 11. For more on Eutyches, see chapter 1, p. 24. 12. ACO 2.2.1.161; see also the slightly different report of the same statement at ibid., 124. The translation is adopted, with modifications, from Richard Price and Michael Gaddis, The Acts of the Council of Chalcedon: Translated with Introduction and Notes, Translated Texts

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Notes to pages 108–110

for Historians 45 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2005), 1:244. See also 1:199, 200, with n. 220. 13. Gray, “Select Fathers,” 28. 14. For Julian, see Hespel, Polémique 1:10/8: “I have taken pains to show that the statements of the fathers agree with this and with one another . . . whether Athanasius or Cyril or the others . . . I believe that I have followed the intention (‫ )ܢܝܫܐ‬of the fathers and that they do not contradict themselves or one another; just as Paul . . . does not contradict James. . . . Rather they are shown to be in agreement with each other.” For Severus, see Hespel, Polémique 1:13/10: “When I speak of the teachings of the fathers I actually mean the teachings of God—he who speaks through them. . . . Since you and I equally strive to prove that these same fathers do not contradict one another, nothing can prevent us from investigating their statements with care and from realizing the intention (‫ )ܢܝܫܐ‬according to which they come out as never contradicting themselves or one another.” See further ibid. 1:114–115/88–89. 15. For other canon debates, see Lee Martin McDonald and James A. Sanders, eds., The Canon Debate (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002). 16. Jonathan Z. Smith, Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 52. ̈ 17. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:11/9: “the corruptions (‫)ܚܒܐܠ‬ in which he is mixed up”; 2.1:108/90: “the foulness of your truly corrupt (‫ )ܡܚܒܠܬܐ‬treatise. You add tatters to tatters and you weave worn-out inanities together with inanities that are near to corruption (‫)ܚܒܐܠ‬.” 18. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:299/262: Severus speaks of the body of the fathers as “perfectly composed.” 19. Hespel, Polémique 3:57–58/48–49: Severus explains that Julian sought to prove that already before the resurrection Christ’s body enjoyed “a perfect, supernatural, and unsurpassed glory.” 20. Cf. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:178/151: “Into your treatise, which is like a tunic of rags (‫ )ܟܘܬܝܢܐ ܕ̈ܪܘܩܥܐ‬you sew other rags, secretly, stealthily and basely, all at once.” For Severus’s use of similar metaphors in an earlier context, see his attack on the author of the Cyrilline florilegium: Philalethes (Hespel, ed.), 106/131: “After reading, if one may say so, all the books given by God and after having amputated with a knife of wickedness limbs from their bodies and from every joint and juncture, this blasphemer wove a tunic (‫ )ܟܘܬܝܢܐ‬woven from the bottom.” See also nn. 58–59 below and Torrance, Christology, 182. 21. For the accusation of perverse rearrangement of earlier sources, see Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.1.8. For the accusation of creating lifeless, statue-like texts, see Ephrem, Hymns against Heresies 2.19–21. See further Alain Le Boulluec, La notion d’hérésie dans la littérature grecque IIe-IIIe siècles (Paris: Études augustiniennes, 1985), 1:226–227; Madeleine Scopello, Femme, gnose et manichéisme: De l’espace mythique au territoire du réel (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 255–258. Nevertheless, whereas in the past the reference was always to the misusage of biblical texts, Severus speaks of patristic texts. 22. E.g., Hespel, Polémique 1:114/88: “We must therefore holistically read the teachings of the venerable teachers throughout the history of the holy church and not cite their texts in segments.” For other examples, see ibid. 1:111/86, 263/202; 3:83/70. 23. E.g., Hespel, Polémique 1:82/62: “Your Reverence cited the proof-text until here. When, however, the elements missing from the text are added, they make it clear what the

Notes to pages 110–113

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incorruptibility of the body is.” For further examples, see ibid. 1:119/91–92, 196–197/151, 272/209; 2.1.80/67–68, 151/127. 24. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:3/2. See also ibid. 1:104/80–81, 278/213. Julian, however, also makes similar claims against Severus. See ibid. 3.54/46, 61/51. 25. This is a recurrent theme in Severus’s work, not limited to his anti-Julianist writings. See, e.g., Ad Nephalium (Lebon, ed.), 56/42: “I will offer you the divinely inspired word of the fathers. I will not tell you things from my own heart.” 26. See Hespel, Polémique 3:111/86: “Let us adhere to his [the church father Gregory Thaumaturgus’s] teaching, without allowing ourselves to explain the thought of the teacher.” Although ostensibly recusing himself from the hermeneutic process, after citing Gregory’s text Severus proceeds to explain it. He then rushes to accuse Julian of explaining Gregory’s words and thought differently (ibid. 3:112/87). By doing so Severus has effectively admitted that he himself is also not detached from the hermeneutic process. Compare to Severus’s exegetical procedure found in Konrad F. Zawadzki, “Zwei unbekannte griechische Fragmente des Severus von Antiochien und Theodot von Ancyra: neue antike Auslegungen zum 2. Korintherbrief,” Sacris Erudiri 54 (2015): 151–69, at 163. 27. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:5–6/4. 28. See D. S. Wallace-Hadrill, Christian Antioch: A Study of Early Christian Thought in the East (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 95, for a similar assessment of Severus’s compositional technique. Draguet, Julien, 84 n. 2, draws an illuminating contrast between Severus and Philoxenus of Mabbug on precisely this point. Whereas Philoxenus rarely cites the fathers, and when he does, they do not play a major role in his composition, “Severus, by contrast, interrupts his own exposition at every moment in order to introduce patristic texts. He does this to such a degree that one asks oneself whether the author thought he was writing an exposition or a florilegium.” For more on Philoxenus’s usage of patristic authorities, see de Halleux, Philoxène, 131, 233–234, 323–324. In crafting this style of writing, Severus might have been influenced by his predecessor in the leadership of the anti-Chalcedonians, Timothy Aelurus. See R. Y. Ebied and L. R. Wickham, “Timothy Aelurus: Against the Definition of the Council of Chalcedon,” in C. Laga, J. Munitiz, and L. Van Rompay, eds., After Chalcedon: Studies in Theology and Church History Offered to Professor Albert van Roey for His Seventieth Birthday, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 18 (Leuven: Peeters, 1985), 115–166, at 116–117. 29. Compare this to Severus’s similar claim against the authors of the Cyrilline florilegium, the text he refuted in his Philalethes; Hespel, Polémique 3:14/12–13: “This one book, although compiled by many, . . . they put it into circulation as if it was composed by just one person.” 30. Hespel, Polémique 3:61/51, 62/53. See also ibid. 2.1:152–153/129–130, where Severus claims that Julian had collaborators tasked with “producing” patristic proof texts for him. 31. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:1/1 (from the title of the work, which could admittedly stem from a later hand): “the texts . . . which he composed from his memory.” 32. Contra impium gramm. 3.2.339/250: “For this reason I have carefully excerpted and promptly cited with God’s help, as the occasion arose, from the books themselves ̈ ‫ )ܡܢܗܘܢ‬the accounts (‫)ܬܫܥܝܬܐ‬ ̈ and the treatise headings (‫ )̈ܪܝܫܝܗܘܢ ܕܡܐܡ̈ܪܐ‬in the (‫ܕܟܬܒܐ‬ places where it seemed necessary to do so.” 33. See Hespel, Polémique 1:8/6: “I have selected the texts in the commentary from the teachings of the fathers and collected them from the books that have come my way.” Severus’s reliance on full-length texts rather than on florilegia, at least as far as his citations

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Notes to pages 113–114

from Athanasius were concerned, is confirmed by Hans-Georg Opitz, Untersuchungen zur Überlieferung der Schriften des Athanasius (Berlin and Leipzig: Walter de Gruyter, 1935), 168–169. By way of contrast, de Halleux, Philoxène, 233, has concluded that Philoxenus relied on already extant florilegia in his citations from the fathers. 34. Severus frequently upbraids his opponents for citing from faulty manuscripts. As a rule, Severus’s readings, rather than those of his opponents, are corroborated by the witnesses extant to us. On this point, see Joseph Lebon, “Sur quelques fragments des lettres attribuées à saint Épiphane de Salamine,” in Miscellanea Giovanni Mercati, Studi e Testi 121 (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1946), 1:145–174, at 146–147 (cited in Michel Spanneut, Recherches sur les écrits d’Eustathe d’Antioche [Lille: Facultés catholiques, 1948], 32). See also Gustave Bardy, “Sévère d’Antioche et la critique des textes patristiques,” in Mémorial Louis Petit: Mélanges d’histoire et d’archéologie byzantines (Bucharest: Institut français d’études byzantines, 1948), 15–31, who, while praising Severus’s careful textual work, also points out cases where he failed to unmask false attributions of several patristic texts. See also Henry Chadwick, The Early Church, rev. ed. (London: Penguin, 1993), 207; and the reservations offered by Christopher Lash, “Saint Athanase dans les écrits de Sévère d’Antioche,” Charles Kannengiesser, ed., Politique et théologie chez Athanase d’Alexandrie, Théologie Historique 27 (Paris: Beauchesne, 1974), 377–394, at 379. See further section 3 below. 35. Hespel, Polémique 1:171/132, 201/155, 203/155. For a similar argument from silence, see also Contra impium gramm. 3.2.247–257/182–189, where Severus describes his bibliographical research into the writings of Isidore of Pelusium. He deduces that Isidore was not a bishop from the fact that the latter’s supposed episcopacy never comes up in any of his writings. These writings included, according to Severus’s report, close to 3,000 letters. 36. Wisd. of Sol. 15:3–5. Translations are quoted from David Winston, The Wisdom of Solomon: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, The Anchor Bible (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1979). 37. The corruptibility of creations of clay and their utter dependence on the whims of their makers is a stock trope in the language of the prophets: see Is. 29:16, 45:9; Jer. 18:1–6. 38. Wisd. of Sol. 15:9–11. 39. Ibid. 15:12, 17. 40. Cf. Hespel, Polémique 3:61/51: “From florilegia provided to him by the unlearned he dresses up his texts as living beings.” 41. Philalethes (Hespel, ed.), 139/113; Ad Nephalium (Lebon, ed.), 56/42. 42. Hespel, Polémique 1:134/103. Similarly, CL 69 (PO 14:88) (written after the outbreak of the controversy with Julian). 43. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:301/264: “the Holy Spirit, which speaks in sacred scripture and in the select doctors of the church”; 3:108/90. 44. At Hespel, Polémique 2.1:77–78/65–66, Severus presents the Phantasiast argument that Christ cannot be said to be “consubstantial” with humanity since scriptures never describe the relationship in such terms. He refutes their claim by saying that even if the term is not used in scriptures, it is used by the fathers, and inasmuch as the fathers were endowed with the same divine spirit as the prophets and apostles they enjoy the same level of authority. Severus had previously made the same argument in Hom. Cath. 70 (PO 12:42). Cf. de Halleux, Philoxène, 324 n. 31. 45. Hespel, Polémique 1:22–23/17: “Alongside the divinely inspired Bible, we must adhere to the select and lawful teachers of the mysteries of the holy church in every generation: not

Notes to pages 114–116

207

only to their teachings, but also to the specific terms used to express these teachings. Let us deem as true whatever has been said by them, and as untrue whatever has not been said by them.” See Draguet, Julien, 27, 84 n. 2. Cf. Hom. Cath. 37 (PO 36:482–483): “reading Gregö ̈ ry’s theological works (‫—)ܥܡܐܠ‬no, rather, his revelations (‫)ܓܠܝܢܐ‬. ” 46. Hespel, Polémique 1:23/17: “For it is not they themselves who spoke but rather the Spirit of their Father . . . announcing what they should say, and what they should not say, in accordance with the traps [lain] by the craftiness of the wicked heresies that would be among them—so much so that there is absolutely nothing that remains to us unexamined and uninvestigated.” According to another, more radical, version of this text, the Spirit inspires the fathers to write not against the heresies “that would be among them” (‫)ܕܗܘܝܢ ܗܘܘ ܒܝܢܬܗܘܢ‬, but against the heresies that “would subsequently arise” (‫)ܕܒܬܪܟܢ ܗܘܘ‬. According to this version, the writings of the fathers are endowed with proleptic powers. They are capable and sufficient for dealing with all heresies, past, present, and future. For more on this textual variant, see Yonatan Moss, “‘I Trapped You with Guile’: Rationalizing Theology in Late Antiquity,” in Yohannan Friedmann and Christoph Markschies, eds., Rationalization and Religions (Berlin: De Gruyter, forthcoming). 47. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:289/254. Although Hespel, ibid., n. 2, had not identified the source of this quote, it is fully attested in the letter of Dioscorus to Domnus of Antioch as cited in the Acts of Ephesus II. See Johannes Flemming, ed., Akten der Ephesinischen Synode vom Jahre 449, Syrisch (Berlin: Weidmann, 1917), 132–139. The passage Severus cites appears at Polémique 2.2:136/137 (thus CPG 5452 and 5455 should be merged into one). While the full letter in the Acts of Ephesus II and Severus’s fragment of it are obviously different Syriac versions of the Greek original, a comparison of them shows that they are based on the same archetype. ܿ ‫ܘܠܝܬ ܡܕܡ ܡܢ‬. 48. Flemming, Akten, 136, line 13, has ‫ܕܗܘ‬ 49. Rather than “similar to divine words” (see Hespel’s translation ad loc.). The Syriac ̈ ̈ ‫ ̈ܫܠܡܢ‬supports either interpretation, but the alternative Syriac version in ‫ܠܡܐܠ‬ ‫ܐܠܗܝܬܐ‬ ̈ ܿ indicates that the underlying Greek was ̈ ‫)ܢܩܦܢ‬ ‫ܠܡܐܠ‬ Flemming, Akten, 136, line 15 (‫ܐܠܗܝܬܐ‬ closer to “following” than “similar to.” See Severus’s earlier citation of this passage at Torrance, Christology, 196. 50. Hos. 14:9. 51. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:289–290/254–255. 52. “Dioscorus who has decreed as a canon”; cf. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:281/247: “wise Cyril’s disciples, Dioscorus and Timothy, who cited in their writings testimonies from him as if they were from the holy scriptures.” 53. Patrick Gray, in “Forgery as an Instrument of Progress” and in “Covering the Nakedness of Noah: Reconstruction and Denial in the Age of Justinian,” Byzantinische Forschungen 24 (1997): 193–206, analyzes this phenomenon in the age of Justinian, calling it “the double movement of reconstruction and denial” (195). For the same phenomenon in other contexts, see Brian E. Daley, “Boethius’ Theological Tracts and Early Byzantine Scholasticism,” Mediaeval Studies 46 (1984): 158–191; Bart D. Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture: The Effect of Early Christological Controversies on the Text of the New Testament (Oxford and New York, 1993); Yonatan Moss, “‘Packed with Patristic Testimonies’: Severus of Antioch and the Reinvention of the Church Fathers,” in Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony and Lorenzo Perrone, eds., Personal and Institutional Religion: Thought and Praxis in Eastern Christianity (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 227–250. 54. Hespel, Polémique 1:23 (17–20)/17.

208

Notes to pages 116–119

55. Cf. Lienhard, Contra Marcellum, 131 and n. 115, for a similar observation about Eusebius. 56. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:5/4: “For if he had revered the words of the fathers that were in the treatise that I sent him, he would have also felt reverence for my word issuing from my mouth.” 57. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:300/263: “You thereby make it known to all people that what you wrote against me is blasphemy against God. He who made the demons say: ‘What have you to do with us, O Son of God, have you come to torment us before the time?’, compels you too to say that you have blasphemed against me, or, rather, against Truth itself.” See Hom. Cath. 36 (PO 37:438–457), which is one sustained self-comparison with Moses. 58. Hespel, Polémique 1:222/172: “I prevented the text from being edited and I removed ̈ that attends to its beautiful nothing from it that suits the harmony of its members (‫)ܗܕܡܐ‬, form at every juncture, and that works to make it be found throughout the body (‫)ܓܘܫܡܐ‬.” 59. Besides the passages cited in nn. 17 and 20 above, see Hespel, Polémique 2.1:60– 61/51, comparing Julian’s adoption of patristic citations to a woman who passes the children of others off as her own. 60. See Hespel, Polémique 3:54/46. For another reference to this accusation of Julian’s, see ibid. 3:61/51. Julian made this accusation also against other advocates of corruptibility; see 1:6/5. 61. Hespel, Polémique 1:6/5. 62. See Julian’s first letter to Severus, Hespel, Polémique 1:7/5–6: “Write me so that I might know what opinion to hold.” As late as his third letter, 1:207–208/160, Julian seeks dialogue with Severus. 63. Hespel, Polémique 1:8/6. 64. SL 5.15, 2:404–405/358–359. 65. Hespel, Polémique 1:10/8, 207/160. 66. Ibid. 1.8–9/6, 18–19/13–14. See chapter 1, p. 23. 67. Hespel, Polémique 1:18–19/13–14. 68. See further Draguet, Julien, 18–22, 28–29. 69. Ps.-Zachariah Rhetor’s version of the letter mistakenly implies that this homily was written by Cyril (Brooks, ed., 103, line 5/71; Greatrex et al., trans., 334 n. 128). Michael the Syrian (Chabot, ed., 2:299) follows in his footsteps. Although this mistake was pointed out already by Draguet, Julien, *45 n. 1, Hespel, Polémique 1:5 strangely attributes the homily to Cyril (although at n. 4 he does correctly cite PO 8:358). See further PO 29:63 n. 2; and the discussion below. 70. Hespel, Polémique 1:6/5. Compare the independent tradition of this homily, PO 8:349–367, at 358–359. The homily was delivered on February 2, 515 (PO 8:254 n. 1; and Allen and Hayward, Severus, 47). See the discussion of Julian’s and Severus’s competing interpretations of this text in CCT 2.2:87–89. 71. Hespel, Polémique 1:6/5. 72. After citing the two testimonies from Cyril, Julian writes (Hespel, Polémique 1:6/5): “They have also brought to me homily sixty-seven written about the subject of Blessed Virgin and Mother of God, where is the following . . .” Since he had just spoken of Cyril, and he attaches no name to “homily sixty-seven,” it is natural enough to deduce that he thought that “homily sixty-seven” was also the work of Cyril. Cf. n. 69 above.

Notes to pages 119–121

209

73. See Elizabeth L. Eisenstein, The Printing Press as an Agent of Change (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979); Bernard Cerquiglini, In Praise of the Variant: A Critical History of Philology, trans. Betsy Wing (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999). See, however, for a different perspective, Adrian Johns, The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge in the Making (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998). 74. See Manlio Simonetti, Lettera e/o allegoria: Un contributo alla storia dell’essegesi patristica (Rome: Institutum patristicum Augustinianum, 1985), 85–86, 102. 75. Severus dedicates several chapters of his Against Julian’s Additions to exposing Julian’s emendations of patristic texts: see Hespel, Polémique 2.1:31–73/25–63. See further 2.1:151/127, where Severus claims that Julian removed the words “the time of resurrection” from a citation from Epiphanius; 2.1:152–153/128–129, involving a corruption of a passage from (Ps.-)Athanasius’s Ad Jovinianum; and 2.2:276/242, where Severus claims that Julian’s followers changed the wording of a testimony from Cyril concerning the stigmata of Jesus from “a corruption” to “a sign of corruption.” In all the passages in question it is Severus’s version, rather than Julian’s, that is corroborated by our textual editions. 76. See Anthony Grafton, Forgers and Critics: Creativity and Duplicity in Western Scholarship (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990) for various historical manifestations of this irony. 77. The cases in Contra impium gramm. (3.1.278–287/195–201; 3.2.144–145/198–199, 152– 155/208–212) discussed by Bardy, “Sévère d’Antioche et la critique,” 27, 29, fit the pattern. Rather than emending the “given” text Severus is proposing that John, his adversary, had emended them. Compare this to Cyril of Alexandria’s claim that in order to manufacture support for their “Nestorian” position, Diodore and Theodore had introduced emendations into Athanasius’s letter to Epictetus; Cyril countered this by sending “correct” versions of Athanasius’s letter. See Cyril’s Epistles 40, 45 (PG 77:200, 237). Severus cites this precedent in his Hom. Cath. 91 (PO 25:24–25). Severus followed the same approach when it came to scriptural verses. See Hom. Cath. 64 (PO 8:318), where rather than emending Luke 22:43, as others had done, he reinterprets the verse; Hom. Cath. 77 (PO 16:832, 840), with reference to Mark 16:2, 9–20, where Severus interprets textually suspect passages, rather than deleting them. 78. Hespel, Polémique 3:89/74–75. Cf. Hespel, Philalèthe, 331–333/270–272, together with n. 2. 79. Hespel, Polémique 3:90/75. 80. See the groundbreaking work of Carl Paul Caspari, Alte und neue Quellen zur Geschichte des Taufsymbols und der Glaubensregel (Oslo: P. T. Malling, 1879), 65–146, confirmed by Hans Lietzmann, Apollinaris von Laodicea und seine Schule (Tübingen: Mohr, 1904). See Caspari, 80–90, for evidence from Theodoret of Cyr and other fifth-century sources for the attribution of the work to Apollinarius rather than to Gregory Thaumaturgus. The first surviving, full-scale argument along these lines was made, however, in Leontius of Byzantium’s mid-sixth-century Adversus Fraudes Apollinaristarum. See PG 86b:1947A. For a review of more recent literature and a translation of Kata Meros Pistis into English, see Kelly McCarthy Spoerl, “A Study of the Kata Meros Pistis by Apollinarius of Laodicea” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 1991), 66–94 (on the textual history), 378–397 (English translation). See further CCT 2.2:237–239. The exchange between Julian and Severus about to be discussed offers yet another piece of evidence for early sixth-century attacks on the Gregorian

210

Notes to pages 121–123

authorship of Kata Meros Pistis. To the best of my knowledge, this evidence has not been addressed in modern studies of the problem. 81. Lietzmann, Apollinaris, 178 (chap. 30 of the work). The very literal Syriac version reproduced by Severus’s translator reflects precisely the same text: Hespel, Polémique 3:82. See Spoerl, “A Study,” 285–286, 303–304; CCT 2.2:89–92 for a christological analysis of this passage. Severus’s version of the passage should be brought into consideration in the debate concerning the textual priority of the independent tradition of Kata Meros Pistis versus the text quoted in the Adversus Fraudes Apollinaristarum, especially given the fact that both Severus’s text and its manuscript attestation (Vat. Syr. 140) predate the composition of the Adversus Fraudes Apollinaristarum. See Spoerl, “A Study,” 70–74, for a review of the question. As far as the fragment quoted by Severus is concerned, the two versions are very close, but where they differ Severus accords with the independent tradition. 82. Hespel, Polémique 3:82/69. 83. Julian’s full version of the sentence does not survive, but it can be reconstructed in this manner based on Severus’s descriptions. It should be noted that this reading hinges on a small but significant editorial correction proposed by Hespel. In the manuscript there is a seyome (two dots indicating a plural noun or adjective) above the word “unvanquished” ̈ (‫ܡܙܕܟܝܢܐ‬ ‫)ܐܠ‬. Hespel proposes to remove the seyome in order to make better sense of the sentence and the passage as a whole. See Draguet, Julien, *43, fr. 151, who also reproduces the word without a seyome. 84. Hespel, Polémique 3:83/69–70. 85. Ibid. Severus attributes these passages to Gregory’s second (?—the manuscript is somewhat effaced) letter to Cledonius, dedicated, as Severus himself notes, to refuting Apollinarius (Ep. 102; see P. Gallay, Grégoire de Nazianze: Lettres théologiques, SC 208 [Paris: Cerf, 1974], 36–94, for a collection of Gregory’s main anti-Apollinarian letters, Ep. 101–102, 202). The passages, however, are not found in our texts of the letter (or of his other antiApollinarian letters). See Hespel’s notes 1 and 2, ibid.; Hespel had not identified the passage. See further CCT 2.2:408–409. 86. See Frend, Rise, 124, 208; Susan Wessel, Cyril of Alexandria and the Nestorian Controversy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 5, 296–302; Gray, Leontius, 6–7; Menze, Justinian, 64–66; CCT 2.2:22–23, 28–46. Van Loon, Dyophysite Christology, 15–20, surveys the twentieth-century scholarly debate about this question, which continues along more or less the same lines. 87. Gray, “Forgery,” 287, and Wessel, Cyril, 266–267; 277–278, take the view that Cyril actually changed his mind. John A. McGuckin, St. Cyril of Alexandria: The Christological Controversy (New York: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2004), 112, 228, by contrast, interprets the apparent inconsistencies in Cyril’s christology as different expressions of an essentially consistent position (much in the way that Severus himself would read the fathers!). Frend, Rise, 121, attributes the ambivalences in Cyril’s christology to his exposure to the contradictory influences of earlier theologians. In line with Frend, Christopher A. Beeley, “Cyril of Alexandria and Gregory Nazianzen: Tradition and Complexity in Patristic Christology,” JECS 17 (2009): 381–419, traces the shifting and competing influences of Athanasius and Gregory Nazianzus on Cyril’s christology. See also Beeley, The Unity of Christ: Continuity and Conflict in Patristic Tradition (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2012), 256–272.

Notes to pages 123–124

211

88. Allen and Hayward, Severus, 70. 89. E.g., De recta fide ad dominas 1.10 (PG 76:1212a; ACO 1.1.5, 65). See McGuckin, St. Cyril, 207–212. But see Van Loon, Dyophysite Christology, 512–516, 518–543, who argues for Cyril’s relative disinterest in one-nature expressions even in this period. 90. In Epistle 39 (to John of Antioch) (PG 77:177a; ACO 1.1.4, 17), Cyril subscribes to the Eastern formula of reunion that includes the words “There was a union of two natures” (δύο φύσεων ἕνωσις γέγονεν). 91. At one point Cyril had to write to his agents in Constantinople to dispel their impression that he had gone over to the other side: Ep. 37 (PG 77:160c; ACO 1.1.7, 154). See McGuckin, St. Cyril, 116–117. 92. Ep. 46 (Second Letter to Succensus) (PG 77:245a; ACO 1.1.6, 162). For a history of the christological applications of the “anthropological paradigm” and its philosophical background, see Uwe Michael Lang, John Philoponus and the Controversies over Chalcedon in the Sixth Century: A Study and Translation of the “Arbiter” (Leuven: Peeters, 2001), 101–157. Cf. Beeley, “Cyril of Alexandria,” 395–396. Van Loon, Dyophysite Christology, 531–543, argues that Cyril actually embraced the distinction of two natures all along, while his objections were focused on Nestorius’s separation between them. Severus uses this paradigm in Hom. Cath. 42 (PO 36:48–49), and in Against Felicissimus, fr. 22. For Julian’s use of this paradigm, see chapter 1, pp. 38–40. 93. Ep. 33 (to Acacius of Beroea); ACO 1.1.7, 149; trans. McGuckin, St. Cyril, 340. 94. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:285/251. 95. See n. 92 above. 96. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:287/252. Several years later, Justinian made a similar accusation against Ibas of Edessa (PG 86a:1077b): “Where has the holy Cyril set out the opposite of his former teaching, or where did he change his mind? How did the Holy Synod in Chalcedon set him down as a father (πατέρα τοῦτον ἐπεγράφετο) if he repented . . . ? He who repents is not numbered among the teachers, but is received as one who returns from his wandering ways.” See Gray, “Select Fathers,” 33 n. 57. 97. Basil, Ep. 210 (Deferrari, ed. and trans., 3:206–209). See further Basil’s Ep. 9 (Deferrari, ed., 1:94–95), where he uses this same historical approach to explain his disagreements with the opinions of another of his predecessors, Dionysius of Alexandria. Severus, SL 5.11, 379/336, was aware of Basil’s critique of Dionysius for having “left utterances that do not at all beseem a spiritual man.” 98. Athanasius, De Sententia Dionysii 4, 6; PG 25:485b, 488c. See further Uta Heil, Athanasius von Alexandrien, De Sententia Dionysii: Einleitung, Übersetzung und Kommentar (Berlin and New York: W. de Gruyter, 1999), 143–45. 99. At Hespel, Polémique 1:115–116/89–90 Severus interestingly quotes from the following two sections (7–8) in Athanasius’s De Sententia Dionysii (PG 25:489b-491b). Although Athanasius, in the passage quoted by Severus, continues to advocate for rhetorically informed, audience-based exegesis, Severus puts this passage to a very different use. Reading the passage against its grain, he recruits it as an argument for holistic, intertextual exegesis, ignoring its fundamentally historicizing orientation. On the other hand, the letter mentioned at the end of n. 97 above demonstrates that Severus was fully aware of Athanasius’s rhetorical-historical defense of Dionysius. See SL 5.11, 378–379/335–336. 100. Graumann, Kirche, 154–161.

212

Notes to pages 125–127

101. See more generally Wessel, Cyril, 126–137, 190–235, on Cyril’s rhetorical background. 102. De Sententia Dionysii 6; PG 25:488b-c. 103. See Draguet’s Greek retroversion of Julian’s fragment (Draguet, Julien, *59, fr. 61). He renders the Syriac ‫ ܡܐܤܐ ܠܡܟܬܒܢܘܬܗ‬as ἰασάμενος τὸ αὐτῷ γεγραμμένον. In light of the precedent I have adduced from Athanasius it seems more likely that Julian used θεραπεύων, rather than ἰασάμενος. In his French translation Hespel (2.2:251) offers “en amendant son propre écrit,” altogether effacing the word’s medical connotation. 104. For an early example, see Scholia vetera in Odysseam 5.1 (Dindorf, ed.), 241: ἡ δὲ θεραπεία τοῦ μύθου, ὅτι . . . (“the ‘healing’ of the myth is to say . . . ” ). Already Augustus Gräfenhan, Geschichte der klassischen Philologie im Alterthum (Bonn: H. B. König, 1843), 1:214–215, made note of this usage and adduced several examples. See further Adam Kamesar, “The Literary Genres of the Pentateuch as Seen from the Greek Perspective,” Studia Philonica Annual 9 (1997): 143–189, at 168–169; Jacob Stern, “Heraclitus the Paradoxographer: Περὶ Ἀπίστων, ‘On Unbelievable Tales’,” Transactions of the American Philological Association 133 (2003): 51–97, at 63–64; neither mentions Gräfenhan. 105. Origen, Comm. Matt. 15:14 (on Matt. 19:18). For a discussion of Origen’s usage of the “curing” imagery here, see Bernhard Neuschäfer, Origenes als Philologe (Basel: Friedrich Reinhardt, 1987), 1:88–98; Adam Kamesar, Jerome, Greek Scholarship, and the Hebrew Bible: A Study of the “Quaestiones Hebraicae in Genesim” (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 10–14. 106. Eusebius, Pr. Evang. 2.6.17 (cited in Gräfenhan, Geschichte, 1:214–215). For another example, see Robert P. Casey, “An Early Homily on the Devil Attributed to Athanasius of Alexandria,” JTS 36 (1935): 1–10, at 10. 107. See, e.g., Plato, Phaedrus 268B-269C; Philo, On Joseph 75–79. 108. For “adaptability” in Paul, see esp. 1 Cor. 9:19–23. For the reception of this passage in later Christian literature (including the invocation of the medical image), see John Chrysostom’s 5th Panegyric on Paul (PG 50:498–99/502), to be discussed below. See further Clarence E. Glad, Paul and Philodemus: Adaptability in Epicurean and Early Christian Psychology, NovTSup 81 (Leiden and New York: Brill, 1995); Glad, “Paul and Adaptability,” in J. Paul Sampley, ed., Paul in the Greco-Roman World: A Handbook (Harrisburg: Continuum; Trinity Press International, 2003), 17–41; Margaret M. Mitchell, “Pauline Accommodation and ‘Condescension’ (συγκατάβασις): 1 Cor. 9:19–23 and the History of Influence,” in Troels Engberg-Pedersen, ed., Paul beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 197–214, 298–309. 109. Hespel, Polémique 1:119–122/92–94. 110. Ibid. 1:67/51; 2.1:124–125/103–104. 111. Ibid. 1.79–80/60–61. 112. Severus employs a similar exegetical approach in his interpretation of the Bible, particularly contradictions within the Gospels. See esp. Hom. Cath. 77 (PO 16:794–862); 82 (PO 20:371–398); 94 (PO 25:51–74); 95 (PO 25:75–96); 96 (PO 25:97–120); René Roux, Exégèse biblique dans les Homélies Cathédrales de Sévère d’Antioche (Rome: Institutum patristicum Augustinianum, 2002). But see also n. 121 below. 113. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:124–126/103–105. See Draguet, Julien, 28. 114. See the similar language Severus uses to describe his theological exposition in Hom. Cath. 60 (PO 8:248): “We have dissected the spiritual holocaust by the subtlety

Notes to pages 127–130

213

(‫ )ܩܛܝܢܘܬܐ‬of dogmas and have divided it limb by limb.” In this respect Severus’s approach was different from the scholastic method that flourished in twelfth-century Western Europe. The medieval schoolmen advocated content-based distinctions alongside fullfledged usage of the rhetorical-historical approach. See Martin Grabmann, Die Geschichte der scholastischen Methode (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herdersche, 1909), 1:234–239; Marcia Colish, “Authority and Interpretation in Scholastic Theology,” in Judith Frishman et al., eds., Religious Identity and the Problem of Historical Foundation: The Foundational Character of Authoritative Sources in the History of Christianity and Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 369–386. 115. Hespel, Polémique 2.2:275/241 (accepting Hespel’s slight textual emendation ad. loc.). 116. Allen and Hayward, Severus, 8. 117. For the dating, see Lebon, Monophysisme, 120–121. For a reconstruction of Nephalius’s christology, see P. T. R. Gray, The Defense of Chalcedon in the East (451–553) (Leiden: Brill, 1979), 105–111; CCT 2.2:47–52. 118. Ad Nephalium (Lebon, ed.), 1–2 =Contra impium gramm. 3.2.3–4/2–3. Two Greek versions of part of this fragment have been preserved by Anastasius of Sinai, Viae Dux 7.2, 21.3 (PG 89:109–112, 280; Uthemann, ed., 111, 289–290). See more below on Anastasius’s treatment of this fragment. 119. ‫ܫܘܒܚܢܐ ܗܘܐ ܠܗܘܢ ܟܐܢܐܝܬ‬. This is a difficult phrase. Lebon renders it: “recte venia conceditur (patribus),” “the fathers were granted permission.” I do not understand how he derives the notion of “permission” from the word ‫ܫܘܒܚܢܐ‬, which normally means “praise.” Perhaps ‫“( ܫܘܒܩܢܐ‬forgiveness”) should be read instead of ‫ܫܘܒܚܢܐ‬. 120. Ad Nephalium (Lebon, ed.), 4–5/3–4. 121. Philalethes (Hespel, ed.), 199/164; 208/170–171. Severus employs a similar, rhetorical-historical approach, including usage of the word ‫“( ܥܒܝܐܝܬ‬in thick terms”), in order to resolve contradictions in the Gospels. See Hom. Cath. 96 (PO 25:106–107, 110), dedicated to explaining discrepancies between the genealogies of Matt. 1 and Luke 3. But see also n. 112 above. The idea of “double predication” mentioned here is the Nestorian notion that the human and divine attributes of Christ are to be predicated on two different subjects. Elsewhere, in Hom. Cath. 22 (PO 37:92–93), Severus, in line with the Cyrilline tradition, voices his objections to this idea. See further Torrance, Christology, 87; 125. 122. Philalethes (Hespel, ed.) 211/173. 123. Ibid. 209–210/172–173. The Greek text is found in PG 50:498–499/502. An English translation of the Greek (from which I drew certain turns of phrase for my translation from the Syriac) may be found in Margaret M. Mitchell, The Heavenly Trumpet: John Chrysostom and the Art of Pauline Interpretation (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), 470. In letters written both before and during his episcopacy, Severus made use of this same homily in the context of the rebaptism debates: SL 5.1, 312–313/278–279; 5.6, 346–347/306– 307. See the discussion in chapter 2. 124. For further instances of these usages in Severus, see Philalethes (Hespel, ed.) 201/165, where he speaks of Cyril’s “physician’s acuity”; and 202/166, where he contrasts the Easterners’ words of sickness with Cyril’s words of healing (‫)ܐܣܝܘܬܐ‬. Although Severus was probably not directly influenced by Theodore of Mopsuestia in this regard, it is possible that Theodore’s idea of “progressive revelation” and its application to biblical exegesis could have reached him by way of Chrysostom. See Aryeh Kofsky and Serge Ruzer, “Theodore of

214

Notes to pages 130–131

Mopsuestia on Progressive Revelation and Human Development in Christ,” Revue Biblique 120 (2013): 570–595. 125. See Patrick Gray, “Neo-Chalcedonianism and the Tradition: From Patristic to Byzantine Theology,” Byzantinische Forschungen 8 (1982): 61–70, esp. 63–67. The generation of Neo-Chalcedonian writers immediately after Severus (Ephrem of Antioch, Leontius of Jerusalem, Justinian, et al.) strongly opposed the notion that there were any contradictions or historical changes in the fathers, and developed the hermeneutic of discovering the author’s “intention” (ἔννοια) in any given passage as the key to resolving contradictions. As the material Gray adduces shows, in practice this method amounted to the same as Severus’s “distinctions” method. Cf. Julian’s and Severus’s similar stress on the importance of “intention” (‫ )ܢܝܫܐ‬for the resolution of patristic contradictions (at n. 14 above). 126. Thus Gray, Leontius, 40, who dates the work to 536–538, contra Marcel Richard, “Léonce de Jérusalem et Léonce de Byzance,” Mélanges de Science Religieuse 1 (1944): 35–88, who dates it to the period immediately following Severus’s death, 538–544. 127. Gray, Leontius, 98–99. 128. To support his case, Leontius (Gray, Leontius, 102–103) cites a passage from Contra impium gramm. 3.2.2/1, where Severus speaks of the fathers as rejecting their earlier twonature formulations in order to offer medication for later threats. 129. Gray, Leontius, 102–103. Leontius cites Timothy Aelurus as the author of this source. This attribution is impossible, because the latter died while Severus was still a child. Gray (26 n. 69) proposes that perhaps Leontius meant Timothy III, patriarch of Alexandria, 517–535. As for the content of this source, see Gray, “Neo-Chalcedonianism,” 66; and Gray, “Covering the Nakedness,” 198–199. 130. Anastasius of Sinai, Viae Dux 21.3 (PG 89:280; Uthemann, ed., 289–290). 131. Anastasius is alluding here to the passage from Ad Nephalium quoted above, but the text he gives differs from the extant Syriac version. Elsewhere in the same work, at 7.2 (PG 89:109–112; Uthemann, ed., 111), Anastasius cites a different version of part of the same passage from Severus, which lines up much more closely with the Syriac. 132. Anastasius, Viae Dux 21.3 (see above). “One Lord, one faith” is from Eph. 4:5. The passage from Basil is taken from Ep. 226.3. 133. Anastasius, Viae Dux 21.3. 134. There is some irony in Anastasius’s usage of legal vocabulary to describe what he understands as Severus’s “historicizing” hermeneutical innovation. See more on this point below. 135. Leontius’s and Anastasius’s polemical misrepresentations of Severus continue to mislead. As great a theological historian as Aloys Grillmeier (CCT 2.2:72–73) portrays Severus’s use of the rhetorical-historical approach in his earlier writings as an innovation and as evidence that he “allowed himself to correct individual Fathers and regarded this procedure as legitimate.” However, as I hope to have shown on the basis of the long-standing engagement in the rhetorical-historical approach among fourth- and fifth-century patristic authors, Severus’s reliance on this approach in his earlier writings does not constitute an innovation. Moreover, Grillmeier extends this portrayal of Severus also to the latter’s later writings. In a section entitled “Notable Critique of Authorities by Severus” (CCT 2.2:91–92) he argues, on the basis of one badly mutilated paragraph in the Apology for the Philalethes (Hespel, Polémique 3:83–84/70), that Severus “openly criticizes” the fathers. He

Notes to pages 131–133

215

deduces that Severus rejected Athanasius’s Letter to Maximus, the opinions of which he understands Athanasius to have “corrected” in a subsequent letter. However, the paragraph under discussion is missing whole lines in the manuscripts, and even based on the text that does survive, I do not think that Grillmeier’s conclusions are warranted. The paragraph in question discusses the fact that in Kata Meros Pistis and in the Letter to Maximus nothing is said of Christ’s flesh being animated by a spiritual soul. Severus merely shows that although these texts do not contain this idea, it can be found in other texts written by the same authors. As for the sentence that Grillmeier claims proves that Severus rejected certain patristic texts, he seems to have read it as a statement, while it is in fact a rhetorical question: “Are we to reject the letter to Maximus . . . ?” 136. John composed his Apology for the Synod of Chalcedon, to which Contra impium grammaticum is a response, around 511. Severus, as he notes in a letter (PO 12:276), began working on Contra impium grammaticum during his patriarchate, but wrote the bulk of it soon after being exiled. See Allen and Hayward, Severus, 27. 137. See Contra impium gramm. 3.2.2, 3–4, 10, 69/1, 2, 7, 49–50. All but one (the third) of these references incorporates citations from the earlier Ad Nephalium. 138. SL 5.6, 340/301 (written during the episcopacy). 139. SL 2.3, 236/212 (written, according to Brooks, “very soon after the banishment”). See also SL 5.1, 314/279 (before the episcopacy); 5.6, 336–337/298–199 (during the episcopacy): “Each man ought not to be constantly and at all times contending for the opinions which once won his approval and prevailed: but, if anything better and more beneficial show itself, gladly accept it.” 140. If this interpretation is correct, this would be another area in which Severus differs from the Western medieval scholastics (see n. 114 above). According to Colish, “Authority and Interpretation,” 370–371, scholastic theologians were more open than their canonist counterparts to critiquing authorities of the past in the light of historical changes. 141. Zachariah, Life of Severus (Kugener, ed., 91; Ambjörn, trans., 94). For the correct translation of this passage, pace Kugener (and Ambjörn), see Vincenzo Poggi, “Severo di Antiochia alla Scuola di Beirut,” in Massimiliano Pavan and Umberto Cozzoli, eds., L’eredità classica nelle lingue orientali (Florence: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1986), 57–71, at 64–65. 142. John of Beith Aphthonia, Vie de Sévère, ed. and trans. M.-A. Kugener, PO 2:3 (Paris, 1907), 131. 143. René Roux, “The Concept of Orthodoxy in the Cathedral Homilies of Severus of Antioch,” Studia Patristica 35 (2001): 488–493. See further Poggi, “Severo,” 65–67, for traces of some Roman laws in Severus’s writings. 144. H. J. Scheltema, L’enseignement de droit des antécesseurs (Leiden: Brill, 1970). Already Harnack, History of Dogma, 4:239 n. 1, curtly observed with regard to Severus’s distinctions in his dispute with Julian: “The distinctions which were made are highly significant in view of the period of scholasticism which was approaching.” Harnack does not specify which “period of scholasticism” he had in mind. 145. See Justinian, Digest, Const. Omnem 5; cited in Fritz Schulz, History of Roman Legal Science (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1946), 276. For more on the curriculum at the Beirut law school in the fifth century, see Paul Collinet, L’école de droit de Beyrouth (Paris: Sirey, 1925), 223–240.

216

Notes to pages 133–137

146. Quintilian, Inst. 7.7.1–5; Julius Victor, Ars rhetorica 3.13, in Charles Halm, ed., Rhetores latini minores (Leipzig: Teubner, 1863), 323. See also Heinrich Lausberg, Handbook of Literary Rhetoric: A Foundation for Literary Study, trans. Matthew T. Bliss, et al. (Boston and Leiden: Brill 1998), 93–95. 147. See the passage quoted and discussed earlier in this chapter; Hespel, Polémique 2.1:124–126/103–105: “Since you do not understand the subtlety (‫ )ܩܛܝܢܘܬܐ‬of the wisdom of the Teachers concerning the lessons of the Faith you also do not distinguish the times [in the life of Christ].” Such subtlety was required not only for the resolution of exegetical problems, but, naturally enough, also in order to come up with the problems to begin with. See Hom. Cath. 94 (PO 25:52), speaking of members of his audience in Antioch, who “listened very attentively and very subtly” to the lectionary readings of the gospel and, as a result, posed various exegetical challenges for Severus to resolve. 148. On the requirement for interpretandi subtilitas, see Cod. Theod. 6.21. The citation is from Const. Tanta 15, according to the translation of Charles Henry Monro, trans. The Digest of Justinian (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1904), 1:xxxii. 149. For a detailed study of the terminology of the harmonization of legal contradictions by sixth-century Roman jurists, see Fritz Pringsheim, “Beryt und Bologna,” in Festschrift für Otto Lenel (Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz, 1921), 204–285, at 212–242. 150. See Schulz, History of Roman Legal Science, 135. 151. Ibid., 279. 152. See further Moss, “Packed with Patristic Testimonies,” for parallels between Severus’s approach to the patristic past and the hermeneutical approach the redactors of the Babylonian Talmud brought to bear on their rabbinic heritage. 153. When I speak of Julian’s use of “textual criticism” I do not mean to anachronistically invoke the modern meaning of that term. I refer only to a basic openness to textual emendation. 154. See Hindy Najman’s similar argument about the rise of scriptural pseudepigrapha as a response to the destruction of the Second Temple in “How Should We Contextualize Pseudepigrapha? Imitation and Emulation in 4 Ezra,” in Anthony Hilhorst et al., eds., Flores Florentino: Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish Studies in Honour of Florentino García Martínez (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007), 529–536. 155. In a sense, the emergence of these two competing theories signals a return to the fourth-century contest between the “catholic” and “academic” models of ecclesial authority, as outlined by Rowan Williams, Arius: Heresy and Tradition, 2nd ed. (London: SCM, 2001), 82–91. 156. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:25/20. 157. Ibid. 2.1:28/23. 158. The context requires that we translate ‫“( ܙܒܢܐ‬time,” “occasion”) here as “context” or “textual circumstance” (see Hespel’s “circonstance”), rather than historical time. 159. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:28/23. 160. Ibid., citing Gregory Nazianzus, Or. 43; PG 36:581a. It should be noted that although Basil died in 379, Gregory did not deliver his funeral oration until several years later, sometime (it is not known how long) after he had delivered his famous Theological Orations in the capital, in 380. See further below on the theological-historical ramifications of the chronology of these orations.

Notes to pages 137–139

217

161. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:29/23. 162. In context, Gregory is defending Basil from his opponents’ claims that he was haughty: “Was it possible that he who embraced lepers and descended to such humiliation could yet treat with disdain those who were in health? . . . Was it possible to condemn the Pharisee and dwell upon the debasing effect of his pride, to know Christ, who lowered himself to the form of a slave, who ate with publicans and washed the feet of his disciples, who did not disdain the cross that he might nail my sin to it—although nothing is more wonderful than this, to contemplate God crucified, in the company of thieves and mocked by passersby, him who was invincible and beyond all suffering—and yet for Basil to raise himself above the clouds and recognize no equal, as his slanderers believe?” Translation is taken from Leo P. McCauley et al., trans., Funeral Orations by Saint Gregory Nazianzen and Saint Ambrose (New York: Fathers of the Church, 1953), 81–82. Gregory stresses Basil’s adherence to Christ’s human example: although he condescended to the meek and subjected himself to sufferings, nevertheless he himself remained aloof from suffering. 163. Hespel, Polémique 2.1:29; Gregory Nazianzus, Or. 30; PG 36:104c. 164. The context is Gregory’s articulation of his hermeneutical rule for interpreting biblical statements about Christ. See further Or. 29.16–18 and further here at 30.1–2, 8–10; R. P. C. Hanson, The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God: The Arian Controversy, 318–381 (Edinburgh: T &T Clark, 1988), 713; Christopher Beeley, Gregory of Nazianzus on the Trinity and the Knowledge of God: In Your Light We Shall See Light (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 133–134. According to this rule, the “higher and more divine” expressions like “God” and “Word” refer to “the Divinity,” while “the lower and more human” expressions like “slave” and “he hungered” refer to Christ’s humanity (see Beeley, ibid.). In this context, it makes sense to adduce Gregory’s reference to “the new Adam for our sakes and God passible against sin” as support for the notion that Christ’s body was inherently capable of suffering. 165. Donald F. Winslow, Dynamics of Salvation: A Study in Gregory of Nazianzus (Cambridge, MA: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation, 1979), 94; and, in more detail, Winslow, “Christology and Exegesis in the Cappadocians,” Church History 40 (1971): 389–396. See, however, Beeley, Gregory, 134–138, who disputes this account, arguing for a unitive reading of Gregory’s earlier works as well. 166. Even Beeley, who promotes a more consistent reading across Gregory’s works, recognizes that “there are other passages that do not resolve themselves so neatly into a unitive scheme” (Gregory, 140). 167. Hespel, Polémique 3:123–125/102–104 (emphasis mine). Note the error in Hespel’s ̈ instead of ‫ܕܩ̈ܪܝܫܐ‬. text at 3:123, line 19: Read ‫ܕܩܕܝܫܐ‬ 168. See Draguet, Julien, 84 n. 2. Draguet also points out how later generations came to assimilate Severus’s works with those of other fathers, most notably Cyril. 169. See the observation of John of Beth Aphthonia, Life of Severus (PO 2:249), with reference to the challenge posed by John of Caesarea’s Chalcedonian treatise: “The God-clad Severus alone had the power to refute [his patristic treatise].” Severus himself conceived his exegetical efforts to resolve contradictions within the Bible as an athletic struggle, comparable to the Olympic games. See Hom. Cath. 94 (PO 25:71–74); 95 (PO 25:76–77); 96 (PO 25:120). In Hom. Cath. 99 (PO 22:227–228), Severus applies the blessing of the peacemakers in Matt. 5:9 to his role, as bishop, of making peace among contradictory biblical texts. It is a task that requires, according to Hom. Cath. 81 (PO 20:346), skill, hard work, and virtue. It is instructive

218

Notes to page 142

to compare Severus in this regard to Philoxenus of Mabbug. De Halleux, Philoxène, 131, 316– 317, 323, contrasts Severus’s dialectical, “scholastic” treatment of the patristic corpus with Philoxenus’s more dependent, and less creative, engagement with the patristic tradition. C O N C LU S I O N

1. See the ten letters collected in section 4 of Severus’s Select Letters, all dedicated to the following topic: “That one must not communicate indiscriminately (‫ )ܐܠ ܡܫܚܠܦܐܝܬ‬or without investigation with heretics [i.e., Chalcedonians]; and how one ought to avoid being with them while they pray” (SL, 2.282/249). These letters were written both during and after the patriarchate. 2. Anathematization: Hom. Cath. 29 (PO 36:588–607); Eucharist: SL 4.3, 290–293/257– 260; 4.5, 295–296/262; holy places: SL 4.7, 301/267; prayers: SL 4.10, 306–307/272–273; Hom. Cath. 1 (PO 38:262–263). Interestingly, Severus does allow for exceptions in the case of antiChalcedonian functionaries in the Chalcedonian government (SL 4.7, 307/273). See also SL 1.50, 158/143 where Severus allows for Chalcedonian communion to be administered to a dying child. 3. The expression “chief church father” (“Hauptkirchenvater”) comes from De Vries, Sakramententheologie, 19. See further Van Rompay, “Severus, Patriarch of Antioch,” 18 n. 27. On Severus’s reception in the later Syrian church, see PO 38:251 and n. 2, referring to the status his homilies achieved in the Syrian Orthodox Church, including a “massoretic” tradition, similar to that for the Bible, listing proper names and difficult words with the correct vocalization. For Severus’s reception in the Coptic tradition, see Davis, Early Coptic Papacy, 99ff.; and Davis, Coptic Christology, 53–54, 105–106, 207; Youhanna Nessim Youssef, “Notes on the Cult of Severus of Antioch in Egypt,” Ephemerides Liturgicae 115 (2001): 101–107; Youssef, The Life and Works of Severus of Antioch in the Coptic and Copto-Arabic Tradition, Gorgias Eastern Christian Studies 28 (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, forthcoming). For more on Severus’s reception in the various linguistic traditions, see Van Rompay, “Severus, Patriarch of Antioch.” 4. Lebon, Monophysisme; Aryeh Kofsky, “Severus of Antioch and Christological Politics in the Early Sixth Century,” POC 57 (2007): 43–57; Alpi, Route, speaks of the “communion sévérienne.” See further Mizrachi, Church of Syria, 235. De Halleux, Philoxène, 509, distinguishes between Philoxenus’s role as “precursor” of the “Jacobite” church and Severus’s role as its “founder.” 5. It is instructive to compare Severus in this regard to his contemporary Jacob of Sarug, the venerated bishop and liturgical poet of the Syrian Orthodox Church. Jacob’s letters, even those written after 518, demonstrate a very pro-imperial stance. Speaking of Emperor Justin, Jacob asserts that “all the Eastern churches are joyous and thank God for having given us a faithful and powerful emperor, able to confess his faith.” In another letter he speaks of himself and his community as “we Romans, who live quietly under Christian kings.” Several modern scholars, baffled by such statements coming from the pen of an anti-Chalcedonian have concluded that Jacob of Sarug was, in fact, pro-Chalcedonian. See the discussion of the letters and the modern treatments of this question in Vasiliev, Justin, 234–235; Menze, Justinian, 127 n. 79, with citations of earlier literature. It is because of the presumed link between anti-Chalcedonian sentiments and anti-imperialism that scholars have used these

Notes to pages 146–149

219

letters to doubt Jacob’s anti-Chalcedonianism. It is because of this same link that Severus has been presumed to have been anti-imperial. Yet, both in the case of Severus and in the case of Jacob it appears to be an erroneous link, deriving from anachronistic assumptions. 6. For my dating of the outbreak of the controversy to ca. 523, contrary to the ca. 520 established by Draguet, see chapter 1, n. 8. 7. Nikiu is in the Nile Delta. For a review of different opinions about when John wrote his Chronicle, see James Howard-Johnston, Witnesses to a World Crisis: Historians and Histories of the Middle East in the Seventh Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 182 n. 64. 8. See chapter 2, nn. 57–58. 9. Elias, Life of John of Tella (Brooks, ed., 55–56; Ghanem, trans., 65–66). See Menze, Justinian, 82. 10. Thomas of Germanicia, Letter to the Archimandrite John of Mar Eusebius, BL Add. 14532, 142b, as cited in Menze, Justinian, 183. 11. Menze and Akalin, John of Tella’s “Profession of Faith,” 81/80. For the 537 date, see ibid., 36. 12. Here and throughout, rather than using “corruption”-based words, Menze and Akalin have chosen to translate the derivatives of ‫ ܚܒܠ‬with “destruction”- or “perish”-based words (“destroyed,” “indestructible,” etc.). Might this decision have had to do with the more distinctly (and therefore, perhaps, uncomfortably) Julianist echoes that “corruption”-based words have? 13. John’s ‫“( ܒܡܬܚܒܠܢܘܬܐ ܚܒܐܠ ܐܠ ܡܬܚܒܠ‬Corruption is not corrupted [i.e., destroyed] through corruptibility”) is rendered by Menze and Akalin as “Destruction is not rendered void through perishability.” 14. See, however, Menze and Akalin, John of Tella’s “Profession of Faith,” 30–33. Assuming that John must have wholly disagreed with Julian, Menze and Akalin strive to explain why Julian is not named among the heretics denounced in the text. They read the passage just quoted as a refutation of Julian’s teaching, but I do not find their interpretation convincing. 15. There is some confusion about the identity of the author of this biography attributed to John, abbot of the monastery of Beth Aphthonia (Qenneshre) in the province of Euphratesia. The work was written in Greek but survives only in the Syriac version of the abbot Sergius bar Karia (as well as in some Coptic fragments). It was published and translated into French by M.-A. Kugener in PO 2:203–264, and translated into English by Sebastian Brock and Brian Fitzgerald, Two Early Lives of Severos, Patriarch of Antioch, Translated Texts for Historians 59 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2013). If indeed written by John of Beth Aphthonia it could be dated to sometime soon after Severus’s death, in 538, since it ends with a description of the patriarch’s death (on which see below), and John lived on for some two decades after that. At the same time we know from other sources of a contemporary of Severus’s by the name of John bar Aphthonia (i.e., John, son of the woman Aphthonia). A series of Syriac hymns survive in the name of this John (M.-A. Kugener, ed. and trans., PO 2.2:327–331), and a hagiographical account of his life has been published (F. Nau, ed. and trans., “Histoire de Jean bar Aphthonia,” ROC 7 [1902]: 97–135). Scholars have tended to equate these two Johns; but in light of the fact that John bar Aphthonia died in 537 (as attested in the Life of Severus itself; see PO 2:257), they needed to attribute either the

220

Notes to pages 149–150

ending of the life of Severus or the entire work to an anonymous author, perhaps a monk at the monastery. See Alpi, Route, 2:30; Brock and Fitzgerald, Two Early Lives, vii, 24–25. For a skeptical position regarding the identification of the two Johns, see John W. Watt, “A Portrait of John bar Aphthonia, Founder of the Monastery of Qenneshre,” in Jan Willem Drijvers and John W. Watt, eds., Portraits of Spiritual Authority: Religious Power in Early Christianity, Byzantium, and the Christian Orient (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 155–169. 16. John of Beth Aphthonia, Life of Severus, PO 2:251–252; Brock and Fitzgerald, trans., 131–132. 17. John of Beth Aphthonia, Life of Severus, PO 2:219–220; Brock and Fitzgerald, trans., 109–110; translation here mine. 18. An invocation of 2 Tim. 2:5: “An athlete is not crowned unless he competes according to the rules.” 19. An invocation of Rom. 1:26: “For this reason God gave them up to dishonorable passions.” 20. This is just one example. The text provides other indications of this tendency. See PO 2:227, speaking of another ascetic about whom someone said: “Here is Adam before the transgression!” PO 2:228 attributes to Severus himself the saying “The more ‘our outer man’ (‫ )ܒܪܢܫܢ ܒܪܝܐ‬is corrupted (‫)ܡܬܚܒܠ‬, the more ‘our inner man’ is renewed (‫)ܡܬܚܕܬ‬.” John employs the verb “to corrupt” here in the same sense as in the passage from Ps.-Ephrem, Adhortatio ad Fratres, quoted in chapter 1, n. 165: “to corrupt corruption”; “to corrupt the flesh.” 21. John of Beth Aphthonia, Life of Severus, PO 2:260; Brock and Fitzgerald, trans., 137; translation here mine. 22. Kugener’s text has ‫ܩܪܝܫܝܬܐ‬. Should it be ‫?ܩܪܝܪܝܬܐ‬ 23. The text goes on to describe two more miracles wrought by Severus’s dead body: it continued to exude in death the same sweet smell that it had exuded, ever since Severus’s baptism, in life (PO 2:262; Brock and Fitzgerald, trans., 138); it miraculously contracted (‫ )ܐܬܩܦܣ‬so as to fit into the undersized coffin that had been prepared for it, and it entered into the coffin on its own (PO 2:263; Brock and Fitzgerald, trans., 138). Regarding the former miracle, see Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Scenting Salvation: Ancient Christianity and the Olfactory Imagination (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). Harvey does not mention this case, but see Harvey, 203, regarding the sweet-smelling bodies of other saints, and 325 n. 27, regarding sweet-smelling corpses. It should be noted, finally, that Severus was not completely isolated from the conception, common in his day, of the healing properties of the bodies of saints. Hom. Cath. 27 (PO 36:558–561), Hom. Cath. 30 (PO 36:638–639), and Hom. Cath. 97 (PO 25:137) associate the performance of cures and wonders with the bodies of Leontius of Tripoli, Simeon Stylites, and Thecla. Nevertheless, with regard to Leontius (PO 36:566–567) Severus also points out that these miracles were only for the benefit of simple folk. More advanced individuals received spiritual and intellectual communications from the martyrs. See further Hom. Cath. 51 (PO 35:370–371), where Severus claims that devotees of the martyr Dometius were healed not by contact with the latter’s remains, but by the overall spiritual experience of frequenting his martyrium. 24. See Howard-Johnston, Witnesses, 183. It is possible that the confusion with regard to names, dates, and perhaps also the theological reversal discussed below stem not from John’s pen, but from the text’s subsequent transmission history. However, in the absence of

Notes to pages 150–151

221

the earlier Greek, Coptic, and Arabic versions of the text we have no evidence to prove that John himself is not responsible for these discrepancies. 25. R. H. Charles, The Chronicle of John (c. 690 A.D.), Coptic Bishop of Nikiu, Being a History of Egypt before and during the Arab Conquest (London: William and Norgate, 1916), 148–149 (emphasis mine). A portion of the passage serves as an epigraph to this chapter. 26. I.e., “Gaianites”—the followers of Julian of Halicarnassus, as opposed to “Theodosians,” who were the followers of Severus, named after the latter’s ally, who was patriarch of Alexandria from 535. 27. It is unclear to which passage in which of Cyril’s two letters to Succensus John is referring to. Perhaps he is thinking of the passage in Julian’s first letter to Severus (Hespel, Polémique 1:6/5) and in the former’s Tome, fr. 17. See the discussion of this passage in chapter 1, n. 148. 28. John betrays his historical confusion here. Gainanus was a follower of Julian rather than the reverse. 29. See H. Zotenberg, ed. and trans., Chronique de Jean, évêque de Nikiou (Paris: Impr. Nationale, 1883), 399 n. 3. 30. I.e., the Enaton federation of monasteries. 31. The reference is unclear. Gregory the Theologian usually refers to Gregory of Nazianzus, but this passage is more reminiscent of Ps.-Gregory Thaumaturgus’s statement from the Apollinarian Kata Meros Pistis, discussed in chapter 1, n. 153. See further below. 32. See nn. 27 and 31 above.

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Index

Acacius of Constantinople, 47–48, 198n67 Adam and Eve, 26, 31, 32–33, 35–37, 41, 143, 171n107, 220n20 Alexander of Mabbug, 90 Alexandria, 2, 23, 27, 52, 54, 55–56, 60, 67, 89, 95, 106, 111, 141, 150–51, 154n4, 182n45, 185n70, 197n52 Ambrose of Milan, 17, 71 Anastasia (deaconess), 8, 156n18 Anastasius (emperor), 2, 3, 6, 42, 45, 47, 51, 57, 90, 101, 180n26 Anastasius of Jerusalem, 92 Anastasius of Sinai, 86, 130–32, 168n82, 213n118, 214nn131,134,135 Andrade, Nathanael, 45, 62 Antioch, 2, 11, 12, 46, 51, 61, 68, 71, 89, 91, 95, 162n8; Council of, 64, 187n89 “Antiochene approach,” 14–15, 85, 197n52 Antony the Great, 17, 40–41, 177n174 Apollinarius of Laodicea, 30, 121, 209n80, 210n85, 221n31; forgeries associated with, 38, 121–22; movement associated with, 123, 170n90 Arabia, 50 Arascius of Constantinople, 95 Ariminum: Council of, 92 Aristotle, Aristotelianism, 29, 31, 168n82, 169nn84,87, 170n99, 175n156 Arius, 93, 128, 169n89, 183n47, 185n68; movement associated with, 66, 70, 71, 123, 125

Arles: Council of, 65 Athanasius, 29, 30, 36, 40, 66, 124, 125–26, 134, 176n167, 204n14, 206n33, 209n77, 210n87, 211n99, 215n135 Atticus of Constantinople, 89, 95–96, 198n64 Augustine, 33, 37–38, 40, 65, 201n115 Auxentius of Milan, 191n125 baptism, 11, 30, 54, 62, 65–70, 72, 74, 78, 100–104, 143, 185n63, 191n127, 192n10, 194n26, 196n49. See also rebaptism Basil of Caesarea, 32, 66, 67, 124, 130, 131, 134, 137–38, 168n82 Basil of Seleucia, 199n74 Basiliscus, 154, 189n108 Beirut: law school of, 2, 51, 132, 133 Bell, Catherine, 75, 77–78 body and soul, 15, 17–18, 37–41, 75–76, 81, 83, 88, 121–23, 143, 170n94, 171n107, 194n21 Burns, J. Patout, 67 Bynum, Caroline, 1, 18 canon law, 3, 6–9, 12–13, 44–46, 49–52, 54–72, 76, 91, 95–96, 101, 132, 134, 142–44, 147 Cassian, 50, 67–69, 101, 143 Chadwick, Henry, 16 Chalcedon, Council of, 3, 10, 12, 13, 47, 50, 51, 107, 141, 158n39, 179n21, 189n109 Christ: crucifixion of, 3, 9, 103, 104, 137, 174n133, 191n122, 217n162; garments of, 82, 83, 104, 105;

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Christ (continued) incarnation of, 3, 14–17, 22, 28, 29, 32, 35, 37, 38, 79, 80, 81, 84, 85, 114, 119–21, 126, 128, 129, 137, 143; liturgical body of. See diptychs; Eucharist; miracles of, 82–86, 88, 144; social body of, 13, 41, 42, 64, 72–74, 76, 82, 87, 97, 98, 102–4, 135, 136, 143–46; physical body of, 3, 10, 11, 14–16, 18, 22–24, 32–34, 41, 42, 73, 74, 75–77, 79–80, 82–87, 102–5, 122, 134, 135, 136, 143–47, 159n46; resurrection of, 3, 9, 17, 23, 30, 35, 36, 38, 41, 42, 79, 80–86, 103, 109, 119, 120, 127, 143, 144, 148, 150 church fathers: “canonization” of, 108, 114, 115, 134; corpus of, 18, 28, 105, 107, 109–10, 111, 113, 115, 116, 118, 121, 126, 127, 134–36, 138, 139, 145, 151 ; disagreements among, 23, 28, 29, 71, 107, 111, 118, 122–25, 126–31, 134, 135, 138, 145, 151, 211n97, ; textual corruption in, 109, 111, 115, 116, 120, 126, 135, 145 Constantine (emperor), 3, 73, 192n130 Constantinople, 2, 22, 23, 29, 42, 89, 90, 94–95, 107, 127–28, 141, 145, 150, 184n59, 186n83, 188n98, 211n91; Council I of, 60, 92; Council II of, 108 Cyprian of Carthage, 65–67, 69–70 Cyril of Alexandria, 7, 10–11, 14–16, 25–26, 28–30, 34–38, 80, 83, 85, 89–90, 92–96, 98, 114–20, 123–30, 150–52, 153n1, 158n41, 159n54, 164n34, 165n43, 173nn123,127,128, 190n120, 197n52, 204n14, 208n69, 209nn75,77, 211n96, 217n168 Cyril of Scythopolis, 41, 149 Cyrus of Edessa, 172n117 Dathan and Abiram, 8–9 David (king), 30, 44, 72–73 Dionysius of Alexandria, 124–26, 131, 211n97 Diodore of Tarsus, 46, 90, 94, 209n77 Dioscorus of Alexandria, 89–90, 114–16 diptychs, 3, 69, 74–75, 77–79, 88–105, 141–44, 147–48 “docetism,” 17, 30, 34 Domnus of Apamea, 90, 207n47 “Donatism,” 65–66, 201n115 Douglas, Mary, 16–18 Draguet, René, 5, 23, 24, 25, 39 dreams, 51, 54, 58, 183n52, 184n56 Egypt, 2, 8, 9, 22, 26–27, 56, 61, 72, 97, 131, 145, 150 Élisée, Hiéromoine, 36–37 Eleusinius of Sasima, 23, 118 Enaton, 22 “Encratism,” 66

Ephesus: Council I of, 93–94, 123, 199n82; Council II of, 89, 190n116, 207n47 Ephrem the Syrian, 80, 176n165, 204n21 Epiphanius of Magydos, 154n4 Esau, 191n130 Eucharist, 7, 10–11, 13–14, 16–17, 26, 36–37, 45, 49, 62, 76–77, 80–85, 87, 98, 102–3; coal imagery of, 79–80; in/corruption of, 78, 80, 86, 144 Euphratesia, 61, 219n15 Eusebius of Caesarea, 3, 49, 93, 203n6, 208n55 Eusebius of Pelusium, 53, 55 Eustathius of Berytus, 89 Eutyches, 24, 47, 107–8, 193n12 “Eutychianism,” 24, 48, 172n113, 183n52, 202n118 Evagrius of Antioch, 71 Fathers of the Church. See church fathers Felicissimus, 26, 158n39, 166nn53,62, 169n88. See also Severus of Antioch, Against Felicissimus Felix of Rome, 47–48, 198n67 Flavian of Antioch, 71 florilegia, 25–26, 80, 107, 112–13, 154n6, 173n128, 193n13 Gager, John, 16–18 Gaianus, 27; followers of, 86, 146, 102n119, 221n26 Gamaliel, 73 Gaza: School of, 41, 51, 68–69, 145, 179n11, 182n45, 183n55, 188n102 Gelasius of Rome, 47–48, 198n67 Germanus of Constantinople, 194n21 Graumann, Thomas, 124 Gray, Patrick, 36, 107–8 Gregory of Nazianzus, 29, 30, 122, 137–38, 150–51, 210n85, 221n31 Gregory of Nyssa, 84, 85, 160n55, 182n43, 196n46 Gregory of Pontus, 8–9, 50, 52, 57–58, 99, 101, 102, 147 Gregory Thaumaturgus, 38, 121, 122, 124, 131, 182n43, 205n26, 209n80, 221n31 Harnack, Adolph, 157n30, 159n55, 215n144 “Henoticism,” 3–4, 6, 42, 47, 51, 57, 92, 93 Hespel, Robert, 83, 156n24, 196n45 Homer, 126 Hormisdas of Rome, 184n59 Ibas of Edessa, 90, 211n96 Irenaeus of Lyons, 13, 159n49, 194n26, 204n21 Isaiah (prophet), 79–80 Isaiah, Abba, 41, 188n102

index Isaiah of Armenia, 8–11, 50, 52, 57–59, 99, 101–3, 142, 147, 190n115 Isidore of Pelusium, 206n35 Jacob, 46, Jacob Baradaeus, 44, 49, 62, 191n130 Jacob of Sarug, 218n5 James (apostle), 201n110, 204n14 Jeroboam, 72–73 Jerome, 17 Jews and Judaism, 47, 70, 71, 73, 129, 159n56 John Chrysostom, 29, 30, 71, 85, 89, 95–97, 129, 196n46, 212n108 John of Caesarea, 169n87, 217n169 John of Beth Aphthonia, 147–50, 154n3, 182n45, 217n169 John of Damascus, 194n21 John of Ephesus, 6, 63–64, 178nn2,5 John of Jerusalem, 30 John of Nikiu, 147, 150–51 John of Tella, 44, 45, 49, 50, 59–64, 102, 146–48 John Philoponus, 170n99, 196n40 John Rufus, 50, 51–59, 68, 142, 199n74 John the Rhetor, 192n133, 202n118 Judas the Galilean, 44, 72–73 Julian of Eclanum, 33 Julian of Halicarnassus: Additions to the Tome, 24, 27, 165n47; Against Severus’s Blasphemies, 25, 27, 165n47; Apology, 25, 27, 83; letters to Severus, 22, 23, 27, 28, 29, 117–19, 145, 221n27; Tome, 21–24, 27, 28, 38, 40, 59, 221n27 Justin (emperor), 2, 6, 9, 42, 90, 135, 142, 184n59 Justinian (emperor), 2, 3, 6, 45, 60, 133, 141, 142, 150, 172n109, 207n53, 211n96, 214n125 Juvenal of Jerusalem, 89 Kellia, 22, 163n15 Kofsky, Aryeh, 41, 167n74 Laodicea: Council of, 69–70, 187n92, 190n116 Lebon, Joseph, 153n1, 161n1 Leo (emperor), 154n4 Leo of Rome, 68, 89, 90, 158n39 Leontius of Byzantium, 174n135, 209n80 Leontius of Jerusalem, 130, 131, 214n125 Macedonius of Constantinople, 161n5 Maiuma, 2, 51 Manichaeism, 24, 30, 33, 66, 158n39 Mar Bassus Monastery, 61, 189n110 “Marcionites,” 30, 66

243

Marion of Sura, 25, 61 Mary (Virgin), 118, 120, 159n46, 175n53 Melitian schism, 71 Menze, Volker, 45, 62, 94 miracles, 29, 54, 58, 82–86, 88, 144, 181n38, 195n36, 220n23 Moses, 8–9, 34, 208n57 Moses bar Kepha, 171n107 Musonius of Meloe, 91, 93, 97, 99, 101, 102, 103 Nephalius of Alexandria, 127–28, 130 Nestorius, 10–11, 16, 37, 46, 47, 92, 94, 98, 123, 124, 128, 159n54, 173n123, 179n21, 188n98, 213n121; followers of, 48, 70, 90, 92, 172n117, 209n77 Nicaea: Council of, 66, 69, 70, 92 “Novatianism,” 66, 70, 189n108 Optatus of Milevis, 65 ordination (of clergy), 3, 4, 7, 8, 9, 44, 50, 52–56, 59–68, 71–72, 100–103, 143, 144, 147, 182n43. See also reordination Origen, 119, 126, 203n6 original sin, 33, 37 Oxyrhynchus, 52, 55 Palestine, 41, 51, 61, 65, 68, 71, 93, 141, 154n4 Pamphylia, 8, 154n4 Paul (apostle), 13, 17, 32, 47, 49, 71, 104, 126, 129–30, 149, 195n36, 204n14 Paul of Callinicum, 162n8, 165n47 Paul of Edessa, 184n59, 186n73 Paul of Ephesus, 92 Paul of Olba, 97 Paul of Samosata, 66, 70 “Pelagianism,” 33, 40, 176n167 Peter (apostle), 30, 46, 149, 195n36, 201n110 Peter Mongus, 51, 181n39, 184n56 Peter of Alexandria, 169n88, 185n68 Peter of Apamea, 90, 91, 198n63 Peter the Fuller, 51, 92 Peter the Iberian, 2, 6, 51–59, 68, 69, 91, 149 “Phantasiasts,” 24, 34, 58, 138, 168n82, 169n85, 206n44 Philip (apostle), 54 Philoxenus of Doliche, 184n59 Philoxenus of Mabbug, 2, 14, 23, 90, 91, 118, 155n15, 157n31, 162n8, 164n37, 168n82, 172n109, 179n10, 183n47, 190n116, 194n20, 197n58, 205n28, 206n33, 218n169, 218n4 Porphyry (philosopher), 175n155 prelapsarianism, 32, 35, 40, 41, 87

244

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Proclus of Constantinople, 94, 98, 169nn87,88, 199n67 protology, 26, 33–35, 38, 40–41 rebaptism/rechrismation, 3, 7, 11, 12, 13, 50, 65–70, 72, 73, 91, 94, 96, 100–102, 131, 143, 213n123 recursivity. See self-reference Rehoboam, 72–73 reordination, 3, 50, 65–67, 71, 102, 147, 201n107. See also ordination Romanus, Abba, 67, 68, 69 Romanus of Rhossus, 1, 12, 145, 158n39, 163n19, 176n163 Rome, 48, 72–73, 95, 141, 184n59, 198n67 Roux, René, 133 Sabas, 177n171 “Sabellianism,” 70, 125 Sardica: Council of, 92, 185n66 Scholasticism, 133, 207n53, 213n114, 215nn140,144, 218n169 Schulz, Fritz, 134 Seleucia: Council of, 92 self-reference. See recursivity Severus of Antioch: Ad Nephalium, 127, 132; Against Felicissimus, 26, 27, 80, 84; Against Julian’s Additions, 10, 24, 25, 27, 58, 79, 164n32, 165n43, 209n75; Against Julian’s Apology, 25, 27, 82, 83, 106; Apology for the Philalethes, 25, 26, 27, 120, 214n135; Contra impium grammaticum, 131, 205n32, 206n35, 209n77, 215n136; Critique of Julian’s Tome, 23, 24, 25, 27, 104, 164n32, 168n79, 185n62, 195n30; homilies, 13, 46–47, 49, 94, 118–19, 133, 154n6, 157n24, 158nn39,42, 159nn47,48, 163n28, 168n82, 169nn83,86, 171n107, 172n113, 174nn130,133, 176n163, 177nn174,175, 179n21, 180n23, 183n52, 190n22, 192n131, 193n10, 194n19, 197n52, 202nn122,129, 208n57, 213n121, 217n169, 220n23; hymns, 79, 155n12, 159n48; letters, 8, 11, 12, 13, 22, 23, 27, 29, 49, 52–53, 57, 60, 61, 62, 65, 72, 73, 78, 87, 90, 91, 93, 97–98, 100, 102, 111, 131, 154n8, 156n20,

158n39, 161n4, 162n8, 164n37, 181n40, 182n44, 186n85, 197n55, 201n104, 218n1; Philalethes, 26, 27, 120, 128, 129, 132, 138, 204n20, 213n124 sexuality, 1, 32–35, 37, 38, 143, 177n174 Shenoute of Atripe, 179n22 Sophronius of Tella, 147 Smith, Jonathan Z., 106, 108 Solon of Seleucia, 91, 93, 99, 101–4 soul. See body Stephen of Rome, 65, 67 “stereoscopic approach,” 6–7, 11, 13, 15–18, 28, 42, 75, 77, 101–4, 109, 143, 148, 202n122 Syria I: Province of, 61 Syria II: Province of, 49, 65, 90 Talmud, 183n51, 216n152 Taft, Robert, 88 Thecla (apostle), 190n122, 220n23 Theodore of Mopsuestia, 90, 94, 98, 197n52, 213n124 Theodoret of Cyr, 197n52, 209n80 Theodosius II (emperor), 28 Theodosius of Alexandria, 27, 150–1, 161n4, 186n83 Theodosius of Jerusalem, 68, 183n55 Theodotus of Joppa, 50, 68, 69, 72–74, 101, 102, 103, 143, Theophilus of Alexandria, 71, 72, 95 Theudas, 44, 72, 73 Timothy Aelurus, 51–58, 68, 90, 92–93, 164n35, 185n68, 192n133, 205n28, 214n129 Timothy III of Alexandria, 27, 61, 184n59 Trullo: Council in, 188n98 Tyre: Council of, 64 “Valentianism,” 66, 193n12 Victor (presbyter), 78–79 Wilde, Oscar, 21, 38 Zachariah Rhetor (and Ps. Zachariah Rhetor), 133, 154n3, 163n20, 167n69, 168n82, 188n104, 189n108, 208n69 Zeno (emperor), 47, 57