Jews, Christians and Zoroastrians: Religious Dynamics in a Sasanian Context 9781463224547

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Jews, Christians and Zoroastrians

Judaism in Context

17 Series Editors Lieve Teugels Rivka Ulmer Naomi Koltun-Fromm

Judaism in Context contains monographs and edited collections focusing on the relations between Jews, Judaism, and Jewish culture and other peoples, religions, and cultures among whom Jews have lived and flourished.

Jews, Christians and Zoroastrians

Religious Dynamics in a Sasanian Context

Edited by

Geoffrey Herman

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34 2014

Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA www.gorgiaspress.com Copyright © 2014 by Gorgias Press LLC

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC. 2014

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ISBN 978-1-4632-0250-7

ISSN 1935-6978

Cover image: Prof Morgenstern and The Schøyen Collection, MS 2053/253. www.schoyencollection.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Jews, Christians, and Zoroastrians : religious dynamics in a Sasanian context / edited by Geoffrey Herman. pages cm. -- (Judaism in context, ISSN 1935-6978 ; 17) “This volume explores the contacts between Jews and Christians within the broader religious and cultural context of the Sasanian Empire. It collects the proceedings of a workshop that took place on March 17-18th, 2010, in Bochum"--Summary. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4632-0250-7 (alk. paper) 1. Religious minorities--Iran--History--to 640--Congresses. 2. Jews--Iran--History--to 640--Congresses. 3. Christians--Iran--History--to 640--Congresses. 4. Sassanids--Congresses. 5. Zoroastrians--Iran--Congresses. I. Herman, Geoffrey, editor. BL2270.J49 2014 200.955’09015--dc23 2014017881

Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS Table of Contents ..................................................................................... v Preface ...................................................................................................... vii Abbreviations ........................................................................................... ix Introduction .............................................................................................. 1 Political Theology and Religious Diversity in the Sasanian Empire ............................................................................................... 7 Adam H. Becker Another ‘Split Diaspora’? How Knowledgeable (or Ignorant) were Babylonian Jews about Roman Palestine and its Jews? ................................................................................... 27 Isaiah M. Gafni Antizoroastrische Polemik in den Syro-Persischen Märtyrerakten ................................................................................. 47 Peter Bruns The Last Years of Yazdgird I and the Christians .............................. 67 Geoffrey Herman To Convert a Persian and Teach him the Holy Scriptures: A Zoroastrian Proselyte in Rabbinic and Syriac Christian Narratives........................................................................................ 91 Reuven Kiperwasser and Serge Ruzer The Cologne Mani Codex and the Life of Zarathushtra ....................129 Albert De Jong Dynamics of Christian Acculturation in the Sasanian Empire: Some Iranian Motifs in the Cave of Treasures ............................149 Sergey Minov Zechariah and the Bubbling Blood: An Ancient Tradition in Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Literature.................................203 Richard Kalmin Bibliography ..........................................................................................253 List of Contributors .............................................................................297 Index .......................................................................................................301 v

PREFACE This volume is the result of a workshop, the aim of which was to explore contacts between the religious communities and traditions of the Sasanian Empire, and especially between Persian Christianity and Babylonian Jewry. The workshop sought to promote greater cooperation between these fields, and further interest in the value of adopting a comparative approach in the study of these neighbouring ancient communities. Published here are papers presented at that workshop that took place on the 17th–18th March, 2010, entitled “Between Contact and Contrast”: Jews and Christians in the Sasanian Empire. Two additional papers, by Adam Becker and Richard Kalmin, who were unable to attend, are also published here. The workshop was held under the auspices of the Käte Hamburger Kolleg, Dynamics in the History of Religions, at the Center for Religious Studies at Ruhr Universität in Bochum. I would like to express my gratitude to Volkhard Krech, the director of the Käte Hamburger Kolleg (KHK) and to Marion Steinicke, its Scientific Coordinator, for enthusiastically hosting the workshop. I wish to thank the KHK team, and particularly Silke Köster and Thomas Jurczyk for dealing expertly with all of its logistical needs. Peter Wick and Görge Hasselhoff, both of Ruhr Universität willingly chaired sessions during the workshop. I also wish to acknowledge Herr Klaus Grigo of Bochum, for graciously opening up his unique private antiquities collection for viewing before the participants of the workshop. Finally, I would like to express my appreciation to Gorgias Press: to George Kiraz for willingly accepting this volume; to Rivka Ulmer, Naomi Koltun-Fromm, and Lieve Teugels, the series edi-

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tors of Judaism in Context, for including the book in their series, and to acquisitions editor, Melonie Schmierer-Lee, who has cheerfully and expertly steered it safely to its harbour. Geoffrey Herman October, 2013

ABBREVIATIONS AJS BCE CE CSCO SBL SE

Association of Jewish Studies Before the Common Era Common Era Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium Society for Biblical Literature Seleucid Era

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INTRODUCTION The Sasanian Empire was home to many religious communities. It was also a place of meeting and transformation. It was where old religions met more recent arrivals, and where both new and old were transformed as a result of this contact. While some religious communities shared more than others, and this for historical or geographical reasons, some form of contact and exchange with Zoroastrianism, the religion of the ruling dynasty and of many of the inhabitants of the empire was undoubtedly the rule for all. Scholarship on Sasanian religious exchange over the years has often been hesitant and somewhat uneven, but this has changed now. A recent conference at Halle highlighted the Zoroastrian interface with Christianity; and another in Los Angeles addresed Jewish Zoroastrian relations.1 The nature of Sasanian Manichaeism has been an ongoing concern among scholars, the pendulum swinging between Zoroastrianism and Christianity.2 The situation concerning study of Jewish Christian interaction is slightly more complex. It is, indeed, not too often that scholars do discuss Jews and Christians within a Sasanian context.3 More familiar is a firm diviThe proceedings of the Halle conference were published as Mustafa, Tubach and Vashalomidze (eds.), Die Inkulturation des Christentums im Sasanidenreich. For the published proceedings of the Los Angeles conference see Bakhos and Shayegan, eds. The Talmud in Its Iranian Context. 2 See Ab De Jong’s contribution in this volume. 3 A recent session at the annual conference of The Society of Biblical Literature on this theme organized by Richard Kalmin was a rare event. An article by Jean-Maurice Fiey with the promising title, “Juifs et chrétiens dans l’Orient Syriaque” is almost exclusively concerned with the image of the Jews in Syriac literature. 1

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sion between the disciplines.4 But in antiquity in many places Jews and Christians were undoubtedly neighbours, interacting and sharing the common experiences of the times, and often responding in similar ways. An earlier era of scholarship on Jewish-Christian interaction in the East, or in Mesopotamia, typically focused on Christian-Jewish polemic, primarily as portrayed in the works of Aphrahat, and has, indeed, enjoyed a revival in recent decades.5 New realms of study have also emerged. These have included the comparison of the Eastern Christian school in Nisibis with the Babylonian academies6 and the study practices and gestures of deference, of the two communities;7 and the comparison of hagiographical and martyrological genres of the two communities.8 The extent of direct narratives paralleling the New Testament, and in particular, all that relates to Jesus, found in the Babylonian Talmud has aroused renewed interest of late.9 The magic literature, and in particular that emanating from the incantation bowl material is proving a veritable treasure of new understandings of the relationship between the religious communities inhabiting Mesopotamia. It is in particular the similarities of these bowls that evidence the closeness of the communities This is sometimes even reflected in the way we typically describe them: “Babylonian Jewry”, but “Mesopotamian” or Persian Christianity. 5 See Neusner, Aphrahat and Judaism and Becker, “Anti-Judaism and Care for the Poor”; Naomi Koltun-Fromm, Jewish-Christian polemics in fourth-century Persian Mesopotamia: a reconstructed conversation, PhD dissertation, Stanford University, 1994; now revised as Jewish-Christian Conversation in Fourth-Century Persian Mesopotamia, and refer there for earlier studies. Cf. the recent Lizorkin, Aphrahat’s Demonstrations: A Conversation with the Jews of Mesopotamia. 6 See Becker, “The Comparative Study of “Scholasticism”” for a review of the scholarship on this topic. 7 Vidas, Tradition and the Formation of the Talmud. See, especially, chapter III. On a shared culture of gestures of deference see Herman, “‘Like a Slave before his master’.” 8 See Naeh, “Freedom and Celibacy”; Bar-Asher-Siegal, “A Rabbinic Monk.” 9 E.g. Kalmin, “Christians and Heretics”; Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud; Boyarin, Border Lines. 4

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that produced them and their world outlooks. In addition, comparative study of the leadership structures, and interaction with the Sasanian ruling powers is in evidence.10 The studies in this volume encompass a diverse array of topics concerning these religious communities inhabiting the Sasanian Empire. Some include the Roman East in their deliberations. Most, however, deal with the interaction of one or other religious community based in the Sasanian Empire with the dominant religion of the empire, Zoroastrianism. The first article, by Adam Becker reviews some modern concepts typically employed by scholars when describing religious issues in the Sasanian Empire, such as addressing matters in terms of a “church-state” dichotomy. He suggests that awareness of the presuppositions behind many notions that have been imported from a different reality will contribute towards developing a better approach to explaining the religious situation in the Sasanian Empire. While a political border separated the Jewish communities of the Sasanian Empire from their brethren in the Roman Empire, the Jews of Palestine and Babylonia shared both a common vernacular in Aramaic and a usage of Hebrew for religious purposes. The development of rabbinic culture in Palestine and Babylonia; and the paucity of evidence for similar rabbinic activity among the Jews of the Greek (and Latin) speaking Roman Diaspora has been attributed, in a recent thesis, to the existence of a language barrier between Jewish communities functioning in Greek and those who understood Aramaic and Hebrew. Isaiah Gafni offers a response to this thesis. While critiquing some of its assumptions, he suggests that other factors, apart from a shared language, may explain the development of rabbinic culture in Babylonia. The inculturation of Persian Christians and their familiarity with Zoroastrian religious terminology, particularly as reflected in the Syriac martyrology literature, is the topic addressed by Peter Bruns. In the Syriac literature of the East one encounters traces of interaction with Zoroastrianism and Bruns reviews this literature. He relates to compositions belonging to the latter half of the SasaMcDonough, Power by Negotiation; Herman, A Prince without a Kingdom, passim. 10

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nian era when many martyrological works reveal a deeper familiarity with Zoroastrian notions and terms than is apparent in the earlier Syriac compositions. Some of the sources dealt with by Bruns are also of relevance to my own contribution to this volume. I re-examine the evidence for anti-Christian persecution in early fifth century CE Mesopotamia. My paper concerns the Sasanian king, Yazdgird I, whose treatment of Christians allegedly underwent a reversal in the course of his reign. Comparing sources from the Greek ecclesiastical historiography with Syriac martyrdom accounts and other sources I question whether such persecution took place and argue that two conflicting narratives exist. The Jewish sources about this king found in the Babylonian Talmud and Geonic sources are also of value here. The persecution narrative probably stems from the Roman Empire, but, at any rate, is less credible. The emergence of such accounts should probably be sought in the Roman Christian discourse on active anti-pagan aggression rather than in the Sasanian Empire. Reuven Kiperwasser and Serge Ruzer compare Babylonian Jewish and Syriac Christian conversion narratives that involve instruction in the letters of the alphabet as the first step. The texts they explore date to the Sasanian era. Of significance is the role played by the candidate for conversion, common to both Jewish and Christian narratives: a Persian who questions the efficacy of literacy and favours orality. This study also includes a digression on the topos of learning the alphabet in early education in the Syriac literary tradition. Ab de Jong considers the impact of Zoroastrian mythology, and in particular, traditions about the beginnings of Zoroaster, on the accounts of the early life of Mani. He suggests that the account of Mani’s early life in the Cologne Mani Codex reflect such an impact. The topos of the appearance of the prophet before the king is far more prevalent in Parthian and Sasanian sources than in the West. Mani’s appearance before the king may, then, be inspired by the appearance of Zarathushtra at the court of king Vishtaspa. Sergey Minov, on the other hand, explores Persian and Zoroastrian themes in The Cave of Treasures, a Syriac Christian work composed in the late Sasanian Era. In this rich study he considers, on the one hand, the impact of Iranian cosmological notions on this Christian work, focusing, in particular, on the mythological notion

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of Rapithwin; and, on the other, on the political and ideational implications inherent in its depiction of the Magi in the nativity scene. Finally, a paper by Richard Kalmin traces the development of late antique and early medieval traditions on the murder of Zechariah, a priest and prophet, in the Jerusalem Temple. Among its noteworthy arguments is that Palestinian and Babylonian rabbinic works preserve the core of a non-rabbinic and ultimately Christian source. This conclusion is arrived at through close attention to the rabbinic literature’s consistent use of a different language, whether Hebrew or Aramaic, in distinguishing the core source from later interpretative accretions.

POLITICAL THEOLOGY AND RELIGIOUS DIVERSITY IN THE SASANIAN EMPIRE ADAM H. BECKER Sasanian Iran was a religiously diverse empire. Scholars often employ anachronistic, modern notions borrowed from liberal political philosophy when they describe the diversity of the Sasanian Empire and the relations between the different religious communities and the Sasanian regime. By reflecting upon the presuppositions behind such terms as “Church-State relations” and “tolerance” we may be able to transcend our own normative thinking about religious diversity and reconceptualize our approach to the Sasanian Empire, the premodern conditions of which are confused when we employ the secularized categories of “religion” and “politics.” Recent scholarship in other fields may point the way forward for Sasanian historiography. As several of the chapters in this volume attest, scholars have recently begun to better integrate Sasanian history into other fields such as Late Antiquity, Rabbinics, and Syriac Studies, while the study of the Sasanian Empire is again becoming a topic in its own right.1 In this chapter I would like to raise some questions about how we conceptualize religious diversity in Sasanian Iran. I begin with an apology: I know and work primarily on Syriac sources and This piece is based on an oral presentation given in the History and Literature of Early Rabbinic Judaism section at the 2009 annual conference of The Society of Biblical Literature and later in the Department of History at UCLA in the Fall 2010. I thank Kyle Smith, Richard Payne, and especially Michael Pregill for their feedback and editorial comments on this piece, and Geoffrey Herman for inviting me to contribute to this volume and for his editorial efforts. 1

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not the Rabbinic, Manichaean, Middle Persian, Armenian, Arabic, and other sources that shed light on Sasanian history. One of the reasons why this history has been understudied is precisely because of the diversity of the sources and the languages in which they are written or at least extant, as well as the difficulty of reading many of them. The sources have suffered from a general scholarly neglect and therefore many tools, such as critical editions of texts, are lacking. Furthermore, because the literary sources are primarily highly ideological and composed by religious elites they often provide only a limited perspective on the social worlds that interest many historians. Although I approach the Sasanian material as an outsider and this is a contribution to a volume on two of the better known religious communities of the Sasanian Empire, I nonetheless offer here some broader speculations about how we may develop our thinking about Sasanian religious diversity, particularly within an imperial context. My suggestions will be tentative, often only pointing to other literature that may push the conversation forward. As will become clear, I think that the kind of theoretical conversations occurring elsewhere in the academy, especially in Religious Studies, have much to offer historians of pre-modernity who are interested in thinking about religion and politics.

‘CHURCH-STATE’ RELATIONS IN PRE-ISLAMIC IRAN On examining the historiography of Sasanian Iran, especially the larger synthetic works, it becomes apparent that the scholarship often has certain implicit and explicit notions of religious diversity and how a religiously diverse society can or at least tends to function. I would like to address this issue by focusing on one recent book, Touraj Daryaee’s Sasanian Persia: The Rise and Fall of an Empire (2009). I preface the following statements with an important qualification. I am not suggesting that Daryaee is not aware of the problems I will address. Sasanian scholarship is still in its youth, if not infancy, and, to be frank, it is unfair or even unpleasant, as someone outside the field, to criticize a leading scholar of things Sasanian when I am unable to read most of the sources except in translation. In fact, I introduce Daryaee’s work specifically because of its significance in the field. In Daryaee’s recent book I find an ongoing tension between his learned discussion of the details of Sasanian social, religious, political, and economic culture on the one hand, and the terms and

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implicit framework he uses in his discussion on the other. The latter, a paradigm implicit in much scholarship in general on premodern religious diversity, entails the norms of political liberalism. What do I mean by this? In Daryaee’s survey we find the terms “tolerance,” “toleration,” “officially tolerated,” “secular power” as opposed to “religious power,” “secular ruler,” “church” to refer to a Zoroastrian religious establishment (albeit in quotation marks), “church and state,” “balance of power” between religion and politics, “citizens of the Empire,” “minorities,” “recognized religion,” “official religion,” and “state church.” These terms are all potential anachronisms and when combined suggest an approach to political life that belongs to our own world rather than what is appropriate for understanding pre-modern institutions. Among other things, ‘church’ is a problematic term because it implies a physical structure as well as a formally organized community, often subject to the larger organization of ‘the Church.’ We typically understand membership within a ‘church’ to be based upon a faith commitment, with members being considered equal, aside from the remaining hierarchy of clergy and laity. Zoroastrianism in antiquity, however, seems rather more to resemble the collection of practices and beliefs that have come only over the past two hundred years to be referred to as ‘Hinduism.’ ‘Persecution’ is the term regularly used in Daryaee’s book for policies and practices that entailed violence against non-Zoroastrian religious communities. However, ‘persecution’ is an awkward heuristic term because it is difficult to define and only nihilistically evil people would ever admit to doing it.2 The point I am making about Daryaee’s book can be made about others. For example, in Arthur Christensen’s classic 1944 L’Iran sous les Sassanides, we find statements like “The church gave to mundane power its sacred character and intervened at the same time in the life of each citizen in all important circumstances.”3 Mary Boyce in 1968 referred to Zoroastrianism in the seventh to

See, e.g., comments by Castelli at “Praying for the Persecuted Church,” 328. 3 Christensen, L’Iran sous les Sassanides, 111. 2

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ninth centuries CE as “a church on the defensive,”4 whereas Parvaneh Pourshariati’s 2008 Decline and Fall of the Sasanian Empire uses the language of church-state relations without any qualification.5 The language I have identified in Daryaee’s book is common to other works in the field. All the terms I have listed, such as ‘church’ and ‘persecution’, when set together, fit into a framework of liberalism. In order to be precise about the paradigm apparent in much of the historiography, and in this case, in Daryaee’s book, I should specify that I use ‘liberalism’ in the broad sense of the term. By it I refer to the political, philosophical, and ethical formation that consists in a focus on moral autonomy, political agency, epistemological independence from tradition, and a tendency to preserve the rights of property, as well as a clear distinction between persons and things. The concern for the ‘modern’ typical of much liberal thought has implied a certain ‘moral narrative’ whereby it behooves all humans inasmuch as they are human to free themselves from tyranny, ignorance, and enthrallment to the fetish. 6 By ‘fetish’ I refer to the notion that human beings ignorantly attribute agency to a trifle, often of a religious nature, such as an idol, and subject themselves to it. In contrast to this imagined other, liberalism prioritizes human agency and reason. Although not necessarily anti-religious, liberal thought is associated with a concomitant disenchantment of the world and a rejection of ecclesial forms of authority. Liberalism, if for example simplistically typified by John Locke’s Letter on Toleration, advocates the removal of religion from the public space, a removal which in fact constitutes religion as a distinct and private sphere. The ideology of secularism, which prescribes such a privatization, and the secularization thesis, a historical model that describes a progressive decline in religion, both treat religion as an epiphenomenal part of human social life, a secondary effect that obscures and misdirects human action in the ‘real’ world of political and economic life. The liberal model of politics takes for granted a distinction between religion and politics, sometimes Boyce, “Middle Persian Literature,” 39. Pourshariati, Decline and Fall of the Sasanian Empire, e.g., 324–5. 6 Keane, Christian Moderns, 47–55. 4 5

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even a (utopian) separation of church and state, purportedly in order that all citizens may enjoy equal rights under the law.7 Sometimes, as in most European countries, liberal politics includes an official or state religion, but the possibility of inequitable treatment of citizens is reduced by the tolerance and even special privileges granted to minorities.8 Furthermore, it is noteworthy that liberal politics developed in part in reaction to Catholicism and the specter of ‘Oriental despotism.’ The perceived hegemony of the Pope and the supposed ‘fanaticism’ of the Turk created anxieties that helped promote liberal politics (as similar concerns today motivate our politics). The paradigm of politics that I have just described, which of course has a specific discursive history, seems to be implicit in much of the scholarship on the Sasanian Empire (and other ancient empires). Such scholarship tends to re-inscribe Enlightenment categories that are fundamentally modern and Protestant. However, a scholar as learned as Daryaee is aware of how fundamentally different the Sasanians were from us. In fact he shows this throughout his book. For example, we learn that judges and numerous officials in the Sasanian Empire were from the priestly class. Priests held important offices at various levels and the “bureaucratic apparatus” was “under the control of the priests.”9 The second estate of Sasa-

For a thorough history of the phrase “separation of church and state,” describing how it evolved in American parlance until it was read into the American constitution, see Hamburger, Separation of Church and State. 8 Brown, Regulating Aversion, offers a critique of the current discourse of tolerance. For the colonial particularity of the process of minoritization, see the discussion in Mufti, Enlightenment in the Colony, which, among other things, attempts “to delineate central categories and narratives of liberal culture and thought concerning the question of minority existence — assimilation, emancipation separatism conversion, the language of state protection and minority rights, uprooting, exile, and homelessness — and the dialectic within which they are produced” (2–3). 9 Daryaee, Sasanian Persia, 26. Cf. “But even in the Sasanian period the separation between a priestly specialization and public, judicial or ad7

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nian Society, the warrior class, “had a designated fire-temple,” second only to one other regional fire-temple. The King and members of this warrior class worshipped there. 10 The family of Ardashir, the founder of the Sasanian dynasty, “had a priestly function with the Zoroastrian cult of Anahid and its fire-temple at the city of Istakhr.”11 These examples suggest that the notion of church-state relations does not apply here. Religion and politics were not simply intermingled, but imbricated and impossible to separate. To be sure, there was conflict between the priestly class and the Shahanshah or between the priestly class and the nobles, but these were frictions within a fundamentally political and religious system of social networks that made up the Sasanian state and elite society. The Letter of Tansar attests to these deeply linked yet semidistinct spheres, although Boyce’s standard translation of this text, which was mediated through Middle Persian, Arabic, and then New Persian, points to the very problems I aim to demonstrate in this piece. The Letter states, in her translation, “for church and state were born of the one womb, joined together and never to be sundered”.12 Or, as one sixth-century Syriac text puts it, the piety of the Magi depended on the authority of the king.13 Garth Fowden has pointed to links between Sasanian universalism and the violence suffered by some non-Zoroastrians, thus showing a connection between ‘persecution’ and political theology, but he suggests that ultimately this universalism was limited by the fact that Zarathustra “remained a national rather than a universal prophet.”14 This is another reason why the language of ‘church and ministrative office is by no means clear-cut,” Shaked, Dualism in Transformation, 88. 10 Ibid. 47 11 Ibid. 69 12 Boyce, The Letter of Tansar, 8 (33–34). Cf. ibid. 11–13 (37–39). See also Boyce, Textual Sources for the Study of Zoroastrianism, 109. Daryaee refers to “religion” and “nation” (in quotation marks) in addressing this passage (Daryaee, Sasanian Persia, 71). 13 Bedjan, ed., Histoire de Mar-Jabalaha, 402.14 (the sixth-century Martyrdom of Yazdpaneh). 14 Fowden, Empire to Commonwealth, 33. See also 24–36.

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state’ is misleading in discussions of the Sasanian Empire: ‘church’ and, in particular, the political problem it raises implies a universalism typical of Christianity. In fact, Christian universalism may be one of the reasons for the violence Christians occasionally suffered: their universalism as well as the fact that their piety was shared with the Christian Roman Empire rendered them an apparent threat to Sasanian rule. In turn, the closed nature of Zoroastrianism may also explain why Christian martyrs in the later Sasanian period were primarily elite converts. ‘Church’ — or even ‘religion’ — and ‘state’ elide this historical particularity.15 Daryaee mentions several times the shift from the identification of the Shahanshah with the seed of the Gods in the earlier Sasanian period to the links that were later drawn between the ruling dynasty and the Kayanids, mythological figures of the past. 16 This could perhaps reflect the institutional divisions that developed between the priestly class and the Shahanshah, but it is too hasty to treat this differentiation as a secularization of political authority, as Daryaee does.17 The descent of kings from mythological primordial ones continues to look enchanted, and this Sasanian genealogy resembles the descent Medieval French kings traced for themselves back to the Holy Family.18 Furthermore, the xwarrah or aura of the kings remains a dominant theme throughout this period.19 The mistake here is to assume that tensions between, for example, the Shahanshah and the priestly class suggest a bifurcation between religion and politics. Gignoux has argued that the symbiosis of religion and kingship scholars have seen in the Sasanian Empire is in fact a projection back from later sources and that the two were often in conflict, the former often striving for dominance and the latter maintaining its independence. However, this is not an instance of ‘church-state relations’ in some simple sense, despite the title of 15

In general, see Payne, Christianity and Iranian Society in Late Antiqui-

ty. Daryaee, Sasanian Persia, 24. Ibid. 20. 18 Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, 333. 19 Soudavar, The Aura of the Kings. 16 17

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Gignoux’s article: He cites Widengren, for example, who states “the Sasanian kingship has a religious character of its own and is least marked by Zoroastrianism,”20 which fits with what we know about sacral kingship among the Sasanians.21 Despite the common acknowledgement of sacral kingship, the tendency which I have identified in Daryaee’s work to anachronistically treat religion in the Sasanian Empire from a secular modern perspective is common in much of the literature. This leads to confusion. The religious character of kingship is often noted by scholars, but then in the same passage they will designate the Shahanshah’s interests as non-religious. For example, after referring to the Shahanshah’s support of the religious establishment and his self-identification as a mazdēsn (worshipper of Ahura Mazda), Gherardo Gnoli states “[p]olitical interest always, or almost always, prevailed in the Sasanian monarchy’s concern about, and attitude towards, the different religious faiths.”22 Or Shaul Shaked, after a nuanced discussion of the Shahanshah’s relationship to the various religious communities, writes: “Royal interference in religious matters is an expression not so much of interest in religion as of interest in holding the populace in tight control. The king’s involvement in the affairs of the Zoroastrian church is not much deeper than in those of the other religious communities of the kingdom.” 23 This is Gignoux, “Church-State Relations in the Sasanian Period,” 80. Wiesehöfer, “King and Kingship in the Sasanian Empire”; Canepa, The Two Eyes of the Earth; Panaino, “Astral Characters of Kingship in the Sasanian and Byzantine Worlds”; Choksy, “Sacral Kingship in Sasanian Iran.” 22 Gnoli, The Idea of Iran: An Essay on its Origin, 166. This instrumental view of religion is common in the secondary literature. Daryaee writes, for example, “…Shabuhr I understood that in order to have a universal empire, a universal religion which could cement loyalty to the king and state was much desired” (Daryaee, Sasanian Persia, 14). Or, note the instrumental view of sacral kingship when Josef Wiesehöfer states, “Specific means and institutions were meant to strengthen the idea that the ruler and his Iranian subjects shared the same destiny” in “King and Kingship in the Sasanian Empire,” 144. 23 Shaked, Dualism in Transformation, 112. 20 21

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a fundamentally secular perspective in that it presupposes that true religion is something that essentially does not have to do with “holding the populace in tight control” (i.e. politics) and that it generally remains limited, at least in its essence, to the “church.” One cause of the confusion in much of the literature is the failure to differentiate between priestly institutions and the various cosmicizing ideas that scholars vaguely identify with religion. The point I am making has been made in nuce in the past, but scholars’ calls for a better model have not been heeded. For example, Josef Wiesehöfer wrote almost twenty years ago: Moreover, the differentiated religious-administrative hierarchy, which Perso-Arabic sources already attribute to the third and fourth centuries, was created in a lengthy process, as we have seen, and based on the model of monarchic power. This being the case, the concept of ‘state religion’ and ‘state Church’ used by earlier scholars has to be discarded, and that not only for semantic reasons — the concept of ‘Church’ suggesting false analogies with Western evolution — but also on historical grounds.24

As Hal Drake reminds us in an article on the issue of religious intolerance in antiquity, it is better for us “not to read religious conflicts in the ancient world through clearly defined categories of ‘Church’ and ‘State,’ because in the ancient world these spheres were deeply intertwined: the ancient ‘state’ was also a religious institution, a ‘church.’ It is not at all clear that the conceptual categories needed to distinguish between ‘Church’ and ‘State’ even existed.”25 Drake’s claim for the Roman world applies all the more so for Sasanian Iran, a region less imbricated in the genealogy of the

Wiesehöfer, Ancient Persia, 211. Canepa, The Two Eyes of the Earth, shows an awareness of this problem and steps back from “religion” (and the implicit “secular”) by simply talking about ritual (see, e.g., 230 note 2). However, this is a term with its own baggage, cf. Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. 25 Drake, “Intolerance, Religious Violence, and Political Legitimacy in Late Antiquity,” 214. 24

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West than Rome and therefore more likely to be misconstrued by Western categories.

POLITICAL THEOLOGY I would suggest that we employ the term ‘political theology’ to think about the Sasanian material. The empire was a political entity and a religious one. The question for us is how to conceptualize this without, on the one hand, using all the recognizable terms and categories of our own society and, on the other, saying simply that everything just had fuzzy and blurred boundaries. What I mean by ‘political theology’ must be defined because it is a term theologians use in a variety of ways, and it is also most well-known of late among certain scholars because of the revival of interest in the work of the political theorist Carl Schmitt.26 Schmitt uses ‘political theology’ as a term to address the theoretical and juridical basis of the state and sovereignty. Schmitt famously defined the sovereign as the one who was permitted the exception — that is, possessing the authority to step outside the law, just as God is outside of creation. In fact, he suggests that this legal concept is a secularized theological notion. For theologians, ‘political theology’ tends to refer to theological engagement in the political, whereas for Schmitt it concerns a foundational politics, as if politics were theology. But he does not simply suggest an analogy between the two. He also draws a homologous relationship between them. He states, “The metaphysical image that a definite epoch forges of the world has the same structure as what the world immediately understands to be appropriate as a form of its political organization.”27 Thus the structure of politics and theology can correspond at any given time. Ultimately, however, Schmitt’s notion of political theology is misleading for historians of pre-modernity because of the implicit secularist framework of his project. Schmitt is critical of the legal proceduralism associated with liberal democracy and he understands it Scott and Cavanaugh, The Blackwell Companion to Political Theology, provides a broad survey. For Jewish thinkers on the term, see Lazier, “On the Origins of ‘Political Theology’.” 27 Schmitt, Political Theology, 46. 26

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as equivalent to what he takes to be the Godlessness of the modern world.28 His notion of the sovereign is in fact an attempt to ground a post-theological politics. When I use the term ‘political theology,’ I am referring to the inevitable mutual imbrications of the domains of the religious and the political and the diversity of ways that these domains are constituted. That is, multiple political theological formations are possible over time and across cultures. We know that the two spheres often function in like manner: religion and politics are both activities constituted by the production of social imaginaries around which communities are organized, and both often establish the wellbeing of the community as the good. In fact, we could understand “politics” as simply a deracinated form of religion, or ‘religion’ as a more blatantly metaphysical politics. My usage of this term is also influenced by Ernst Kantorowicz’s classic The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology (1957): the political imagination is constituted by and within the theological, and only in modernity sets itself as opposed to it. One problem that has interested me as a historian of religion is the question of how to step outside of the very terms ‘religion’ and ‘politics,’ both of which have liberalism, more broadly defined, built into them.29 We should not simply treat religion and politics as two relatively static spheres. It is not enough to compare, for example, how for some moderns religion is — or should be — subject to politics whereas in contrast, in other periods and places this relationship is understood differently. For example, western Medieval thought, following Classical philosophy, treats politics as a science subject to ethics, which was in turn subject to theology, the queen of the sciences. This simple comparison fails to take into account how the range of these spheres changes over time and how they are often constituted within a variety of overlapping discursive fields.30 For example, ‘religion’ for us is constituted variously, such E.g., see comments in Geréby, “Political Theology versus Theological Politics,” 12. 29 Scott and Cavanaugh, Blackwell Companion to Political Theology, 436. 30 See the important comments on the failure of scholars of ancient cultures to engage with the deeper problems of religion in pre-modernity 28

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as in the triad ‘magic, science, religion,’ or the contemporary contrast between ‘religion’ and ‘spirituality,’ and then also by ‘religion’ and ‘politics.’31 In other words, I am certain that something is being obscured when even recent scholarship on pre-Islamic Iran features discussions of ‘religion’ and ‘politics’ and the problem of ‘church-state relations.’ Zoroastrians don’t have churches! Of course, categories are necessary but we need to be aware of their baggage. Take for example Kerdir’s inscription, the third-century text describing the apparent imposition of Mazdeanism on the land and the concomitant restriction of a number of religious communities. How would our reading of this key piece of evidence for understanding early Sasanian religious diversity and politics be affected by a historiographical perspective that maintained the nuances of contemporary theoretical thinking about ‘religion’?32 The notion of ‘political theology’ helps us to eschew a modern and therefore anachronistic model of church-state relations when we consider different periods of history. Employing such a model of church-state relations results in a framing of all of history as simply a number of variations on how the church, or religion, relates to the state, or politics. This is obviously a model that comes out of the attempt to create further boundaries between these two spheres in the Reformation and especially the Enlightenment. Rather, instead of tracing the slow liberation of politics from religion, a standard Enlightenment approach, we can use the concept ‘political theology’ to think not only about how in every time and place religion and politics might relate or differ, but also how each of and the obfuscation that occurs when they speak of the ‘embeddedness’ of ancient religion in Nongbri, “Dislodging ‘Embedded’ Religion.” 31 The bibliography on the category “religion” is large. The most important work remains Asad, Genealogies of Religion. See also Smith, “Religion, Religious, Religions”; Arnal, “Definition.” On ‘Magic,’ see Tambiah, Magic, science, religion, and the scope of rationality; Styers, Making Magic. For a polemical treatment of ‘spirituality,’ see Carrette and King, Selling Spirituality. With regard to ‘religion’ and ‘politics’ the massive and growing bibliography on secularism is in a sense about this dichotomy. 32 E.g., MacKenzie, “Kerdīr’s inscription.” Or for the same translation, see http://www.humanities.uci.edu/sasanika/pdf/Kerdir.pdf.

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these entities themselves are produced. What is the benefit of this? We can see then that the very notion of ‘church-state relations,’ of ‘politics and religion,’ has a history, that it begins at a certain time. We can also better understand the present and how secularism in its various forms is not simply the removal of religion from the public sphere, the absence of religion, the evacuation of the sacred, but a specific formation, an imposed order where the limits of certain spheres are defined in distinct ways. That is, secularism promotes certain kinds of religiosity; it produces certain kinds of religion and restricts others. 33 From political theology we can then turn to the problem of religious diversity and how this diversity is variously negotiated, both by the politically dominant religious community and by the dominated.

OTHER, NON-LIBERAL FORMS OF INTERACTION One thing Sasanianists and those who work on one or more of the religious communities of the Sasanian Empire can do is to look to other fields and learn how scholars in those fields have dealt with the problem of conceptualizing religious diversity in pre-modern settings. For example, scholarship on ‘religion’ in the Roman Empire, such as James Rives’s 2006 book, helps us see how Christianity was an important step and innovation in the making of ‘religion,’ that is, the prioritization of religious identity as a marker of community.34 One example of recent scholarship I would like to briefly focus on is a book on the Latin Crusader States that attempts to get beyond traditional models of liberal tolerance. In The Crusades and the Christian World of the East (2008), Christopher MacEvitt puts forward a model of religious interaction that he calls “Rough Tolerance.” According to MacEvitt, the historiography of the Latin crusader states of Edessa and Jerusalem has been guided by two models: first the “colonialist model”, which posited “an integrated Levant, a variety of Convivencia of the East, where content locals

33 34

Asad, Formations of the Secular, e.g. 190–2. Rives, Religion in the Roman Empire, 208–9.

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flourish under the benevolent rule of creole Franks ‘gone native’;”35 the second, the “segregationalist model,” treats the crusader states as the invention of intolerant Western Europeans, who had no interest or concern for the norms and religious diversity of the region. In an attempt to transcend these two positions, MacEvitt introduces the concept of “Rough Tolerance,” which “is not the equivalent of modern concepts of multiculturalism, in part because it was not an ideology but a practice.” Unlike the famed Convivencia of Spain, which entailed disputation and debate, 36 and worked within the strictures of the dhimmi system, what is characteristic of “rough tolerance” is its silence about difference. There was a deliberate obfuscation of Christian difference and a de-emphasis on the problem of heresy in this social, religious, and political context complexly consisting of Greek Orthodox, Arab Melkites, Armenians, Syriac and Arabic speaking Jacobites, and Catholic Franks.37 The Franks arrived in the eleventh century to find a deeply fragmented society: they and the local elites — sometimes including Muslims — pragmatically negotiated politics; the theological problem of Christian diversity was generally ignored, as Christians divided since the fifth century prayed together, ordained and baptized one another, and patronized one another’s institutions. I take three ideas from MacEvitt’s work. First, rough tolerance, or tolerance in practice, is what we find between the Sasanians and the Christian community in normal circumstances. Presumably such conditions would be common to any pre-modern empire, where policing is difficult and political hegemony requires negotiation and compromise. Dominating even just the Iranian plateau alone in a pre-modern context seems impossible without strong local powers to negotiate and work with. Second, we should think about the pragmatics of silence, and, as MacEvitt argues in his last chapter, how theological definition is divisive. This is something familiar to anyone with a basic knowledge of the history of the later Roman Empire and the problems caused by the attempts at establishing a unified Orthodox Christianity. Although it may be MacEvitt, The Crusades and the Christian World of the East, 21. Ibid. 25. 37 Ibid. 101. 35 36

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an argument from silence, we should listen closely to those points where there is an absence of codification, for example, where the state does not address difference. Third, monotheism creates political problems and, to put it simply, if we can find such instances of ambiguity, permeability, and localized pragmatic negotiation among Medieval Christians, then what about in a context where the political authorities are not universalizing Christians?38 True, Zoroastrianism, at least certain trends within it in the Sasanian Empire, was at times universalizing, but it was generally not a proselytizing religion, as opposed to Christianity and Manichaeism, two traditions that came into conflict with the Sasanian authorities.39 Of course, there are numerous other examples of recent work that may help us to conceptualize Sasanian religious diversity and politics, such as Barry Flood’s Objects of Translation, which “emphasizes the remarkable mobility of premodern subjects and objects, and considers the nature and effects of this mobility on the identities of both.” 40 Going beyond a simplistic model of multiculturalism, Flood looks at the “dialectic between alterity and identity” in the “Hindu-Muslim” encounter.41 Such work may help us think about how community itself is a process, as opposed to an unconflicted and static set of relations that does not require continual maintenance. The abundant scholarship on Jewish-Christian relations in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages bears witness to some of the problems that arise in studying intercommunal relations. It also demonstrates the mutually constitutive relationship that can

Historians of religion continue to discuss what a difference monotheism makes, or “monotheism as a political problem,” to translate the title of Erik Peterson’s famous response to Schmitt. See, for example, Stiegler and Swarat, Der Monotheismus als theologisches und politisches Problem. 39 Another common anachronism that appears in the scholarship are the references to Zoroastrianism as a “national religion,” e.g., Hutter, “Manichaeism in the Early Sasanian Empire.” This distinction between national and universal religions derives ultimately from Christian antiJewish discourse. 40 Flood, Objects of Translation, 1. 41 Ibid. 4. 38

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exist between religious communities that polemicize against, or refuse to acknowledge, one another. 42 One area that could bear further examination is instances where differences within the given religious community led not only to the intrusion of the Sasanian state, but the invitation, even courting, of it by different sides in a dispute (e.g. in controversies over the selection of the Catholicos among the East Syrians). We see multiple examples of this kind of negotiation in later, better attested periods, for example, in Medieval Egypt when Jews and Christians sought out Muslim authorities and Islamic law to settle their own disputes, thus engaging in a shared Islamic discourse and simultaneously demoting the authority of their own legal traditions.43 The recent work of several scholars has demonstrated how knowledge of Zoroastrian legal texts can shed light on the argumentation of the Babylonian Talmud.44 Will the results of their work correspond in any way to what we find in Medieval Christian Arabic documents, in which the terms and norms of Islamic law are used to express the differences between Christian communities, and even “madhāhib,” the term for Muslim legal schools, is used for different Christian communities? The large secondary literature on Muslim Spain obviously offers us parallels. Furthermore, like MacEvitt’s work, Stuart Schwartz’s All Can Be Saved (2008) and Benjamin Kaplan’s Divided by Faith (2007) treat, respectively, early modern Spain and the Portuguese and Spanish Americas and Protestant and Catholic interactions in early modern Europe. Both address how “tolerance” developed in practice and not just among intellectuals; and both suggest that there was a form of tolerance in practice at the popular level. Scholars could even look further afield: for example, Classical China, a culture with ongoing relations with the Sasanians, may provide comparative examples.

See, for example, the essays in Becker and Reed, The Ways That Never Parted. 43 El-Leithy, “Coptic Culture and Conversion in Medieval Cairo.” 44 See, for example, essays in Bakhos and Shayegan (eds.), The Talmud in its Iranian Context. 42

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Finally, I suggest we look at how religious diversity was imagined by Zoroastrian and non-Zoroastrian communities, especially by looking at the terms used by different groups themselves for what we heuristically call ‘religion.’ How was religious diversity imagined and in that imagining actually constituted? Just as the Kerdir inscription both represents and defines (creates?) religious diversity, so also politically subject religious communities imagined diversity in various ways. For example, what terms do we find used to address religious difference by the different communities, and in what strategic rhetorical situations are they used? Names matter, and taking our sources seriously requires that we see how they themselves name things and what those names mean. This suggests that, for example, dēn, the Persian term commonly translated as ‘religion,’ needs to be interrogated and its range taken seriously.45 In an article in the Journal of Late Antiquity I demonstrate how the use of the Syriac word for ‘fear’ and its cognates, especially in certain martyrologies from the Sasanian Empire, reflects both an acknowledgement of, and an attempt to transcend, the religious diversity of the sixth century.46 In his study of stories about the baptism of Ardashīr, the founder of the Sasanian Empire, and similar legends concerning the conversion to Christianity of sixth and seventh century Shahanshahs within the religiously plural Sasanian Empire of the sixth century, Alexander Schilling demonstrates the relationship of such stories both to Christian historiographical and exegetical traditions about their overlords and to the actual politico-religious policies of the Shahanshahs.47 The diverse traditions concerning the Shahanshahs converting to Christianity include the story of Khusro I’s enthusiasm for learning and, after studying all the religions (‘fears’), his eventual endorsement of Christianity.48 Such fantasies address

45

See, e.g., Vevaina, “Enumerating the Dēn”; Lankarany, Daēnā im

Avesta. Becker, “Martyrdom, Religious Difference, and ‘Fear’.” Schilling, Die Anbetung der Magier. 48 John of Ephesus, Ecclesiastical History, Part III, VI.20 (p. 316): “[A]ll his lifetime he assiduously devoted himself to the perusal of philosophical 46 47

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the problem of religious diversity, which had become a serious threat to the social and political order in late antique Rome as well as Persia. In these formulaic tales, the comparison of religions raises the issue of diversity, whereas the king’s endorsement of one religion, often after public debate, resolves it. In Schilling’s material, we can see how the religious plurality of the Sasanian Empire was imaginatively negotiated by Christians. By examining how the cosmos was conceptualized among Zoroastrians as well as among others within the Sasanian Empire historians may better understand the imperial realia, which are often treated as the only evidence for political history. For example, a close reading of Zoroastrian texts will perhaps help scholars understand the conceptual categories that lay behind the imperial apparatus and how it negotiated religious diversity. The “rough tolerance” of the Sasanian Empire was possibly grounded in silence, a practical decision to leave things be, but we may also find that there was a Zoroastrian conceptual language in which this pre-modern ‘tolerance’ was grounded. Moreover, the political theology of the Sasanian Empire will be better understood and we will be able to move beyond the simple distinction between ‘religion’ and ‘politics’ that often guides much of the scholarship. Finally, I would like to emphasize that the religious diversity of the Sasanian Empire should not be rendered in “minoritized” terms, which clearly reflect the history of those excluded from modern nation states. Instead, we need to distinguish between our own diverse liberal forms of politics and an implicitly liberal historiographical method. In this I would draw an analogy to the emphasis Saba Mahmood puts on “the dual character of feminism as an analytical and a political project.” 49 Mahmood problematizes a notion of agency that maintains an implicit moral autonomy, one that “sharply limits our ability to understand and interrogate the lives of women whose desire, affect, and will have been shaped by

works. And, as was said, he took pains to collect the religious books of all creeds (lit. all the books of all the religions [deḥlātā]).” 49 Mahmood, “Feminist Theory, Embodiment, and the Docile Agent,” 203.

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nonliberal traditions.”50 As a part of Enlightenment thought, feminist analysis often imports a prescriptive political project and therefore can fail to grasp other, nonliberal ways of being in the world, lifestyles in which the criteria for flourishing are not based upon individualism and autonomy. In a similar way, we need to avoid the trap of thinking about the “problems” of religious diversity, tolerance, and intercommunal violence when we consider social formations and worlds discontinuous from our own.

50

gion, 16.

Ibid. See also the earlier speculation of Asad in Genealogies of Reli-

ANOTHER ‘SPLIT DIASPORA’? HOW KNOWLEDGEABLE (OR IGNORANT) WERE BABYLONIAN JEWS ABOUT ROMAN PALESTINE AND ITS JEWS? ISAIAH M. GAFNI Recent studies have suggested that a language barrier prevented the reception of Palestinian rabbinic tradition, produced in Hebrew and Aramaic, by the Greek and Latin speaking Jews of the Roman Empire. This paper re-examines the divisive nature of such a barrier, given a wide range of cultural and communal ties that nevertheless connected Jewish Palestinian authorities — Patriarch as well as rabbis — with the west. Conversely, the paper also examines the potential barriers that may have led to misunderstandings and divisions between the Babylonian Jewish diaspora and the Palestinian center, notwithstanding their apparent ‘shared language’. It concludes by suggesting that there may have been other factors, other than a shared language, that encouraged Babylonian rabbis to accept and then proceed to enhance and cultivate a local rabbinic tradition that would ultimately challenge Palestinian primacy. The title of this article alludes to a recent study by Arye Edrei and Doron Mendels1 which sets out to address “a serious gap between the western Jewish Diaspora and the eastern one”.2 Their thesis, in 

This study was supported by a grant from the Israel Science Foun-

dation. 1

Edrei and Mendels, “A Split Jewish Diaspora;” id., Zweierlei Diaspo-

2

Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 91.

ra.

27

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a nutshell, is that rabbinic tradition developed only in the East, moving from Palestine to Babylonia, but never made it to the Roman west because of a language barrier that precluded access to the Hebrew Mishnah and its Aramaic explication by the Greek (and Latin) speaking Jews of the Roman Empire. This schism, they maintain, was exacerbated by the fact that rabbinic tradition was transmitted orally, thereby preventing a close translation of the texts, similar to the manner in which the Bible was translated into Greek.3 As a result of this language barrier, Jewish communities in the west “were isolated from the Rabbinic network,”4 with rabbis traveling primarily between Palestine and Babylonia,5 and in essence relinquishing any desire for the reception of their halakha among Greek or Latin speaking Jews. Consequently, the authors posit the emergence of two distinct “Judaisms”: the western ‘Written Torah Judaism’ based on the Greek text of the Bible as well as the similarly accessible books of the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha (i.e. Judaism “before the rise of the rabbis and their teachings”),6 and the ‘eastern Oral Torah Judaism.’

LANGUAGE AND THE WESTERN DIASPORA: HOW DEEP WAS THE “SPLIT”? While the thrust of Edrei and Mendels’ argument focuses on the proposed disassociation of the western diaspora from the spiritual and communal leadership of Jewish Palestine, the present study will address the assumed collaboration and mutual understanding “The halakhic and aggadic corpus built upon Hebrew and Aramaic was preserved as an oral tradition in the eastern diaspora … In contrast, the corpus preserved in the west was a written tradition”; Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 96. 4 Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 130. 5 Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 131: “rabbinic travels to western diaspora communities point to the fact that these visits were chance occurrences … In contrast, it is clear that the eastern diaspora did create a communication system that transmitted laws systematically. The Talmud is filled with stories of Sages who travel between the land of Israel and Babylonia, carrying with them laws and traditions.” 6 Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 114. 3

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evinced by the relations between the Jewish communities of Palestine and Babylonia. Nevertheless, some preliminary observations regarding the proposed nature of the western ‘split diaspora’ may be in order, as the arguments put forward by the two authors are critical for our overall perception of the communal interaction among Jews of Late Antiquity. In their detailed study, the authors cite a broad array of evidence, primarily gleaned from rabbinic sources but with reference to Greco-Roman material as well, that would presumably bolster the image of two radically different and disassociated Jewish worlds. To begin, they note that “no literature parallel to the Talmud, that compiled the oral law, developed in the west”.7 From the absence of such literature they conclude that a different sort of religious community must have developed in the west. One might note, however, that this very same community did not leave behind a meaningful literary heritage in Greek or Latin as well, and thus the argument from silence actually proves very little. We simply do not know in any significant detail what intellectual activity was pursued by the Jews of the west, and in what language(s) this activity was carried out. Similarly, and as noted by Fergus Millar regarding the Greek speaking east, “we cannot claim to know that no compositions of a ‘rabbinic type’ circulated in the diaspora. Nor indeed do we know that none were written there”.8 While a predominant everyday use of Greek and Latin as a spoken tongue should be assumed, the fact is that when Jewish literary works do begin to appear in ninth-century Italy, they are primarily in Hebrew. Although some scholars see this emergence of Hebrew in Europe as a new phenomenon, attributing it to the impact of the Muslim conquest (at least in Spain) among Jewish Arabic-speakers, others have argued that “the claims of a continuous tradition may seem to be stronger”.9 That Hebrew and Aramaic were not wholly unknown even in the “Greek” diaspora has been convincingly argued by Millar,10 who also suggests that the various ‘teachers of wisdom’ or ‘of Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 103. Millar, “Christian Emperors,” 19. 9 De Lange, “The Hebrew Language,” 114. 10 Millar, “A Rural Jewish Community,” 351–374. 7 8

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the law’ encountered in synagogue inscriptions and Christian texts, and even the ‘rabbis’ mentioned in late Roman Jewish inscriptions from Italy and Spain, may have been ‘real’ rabbis.11 Moreover, the fact that Jews probably used Greek or Latin as their vehicles for everyday discourse does not automatically lead to the sweeping conclusion “that their religious lives, including the reading of Torah and prayer, were conducted only in Greek”.12 As noted by de Lange, one must distinguish between “the different uses to which a language may be put … it may even be used in a religious context without being widely understood”.13 Millar, “A Rural Jewish Community,” 365; for the Sardis inscription cf. also Goodman, “Jews and Judaism,” 257, who suggests that “Somoe, priest and wise teacher” was a rabbinic Jew. The inference of the title ‘rabbi’ on inscriptions (and Millar’s suggestion that they may have been ‘real’ rabbis — and not just persons to whom an honorific title was attached) has been critically addressed over the past few decades, beginning with Cohen, “Epigraphical Rabbis,” 1–17, who was one of the first to maintain that “not all rabbis were Rabbis” (12). For one critical reexamination of Cohen’s conclusions cf. Miller, “Epigraphical Rabbis,” 27–76 (esp. 39–48); for a recent qualified return to Cohen’s derabbinization of ‘epigraphical rabbis’ cf. Lapin, “Epigraphical Rabbis: A Reconsideration,” 311–346. 12 Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 100. 13 De Lange, “The Hebrew Language,” 114–115; the current use of Hebrew (and even Aramaic) for liturgical purposes in modern-day synagogue contexts, even when not understood by major segments of those attending the service, would tend to support this claim. In this context, one of the ‘proofs’ cited as evidence of a ‘split diaspora’ may prove just the opposite. In a legal decision handed down by Justinian in 553 CE (Novellae 146; Linder, Roman Imperial Legislation, 402–411) the emperor claims that an internal Jewish dispute was addressed to him, wherein some communities demanded that the scriptures be read in synagogue only in Hebrew, while others “consider it right to admit Greek as well”. The authors (Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora” 127–128) suggest that “the unresolved controversy was between the Jews of Israel and the Greekspeaking diaspora”, although if this were the case it is striking that even the “Greek-speaking diaspora” wanted to add Greek to the use of Hebrew. But even more noteworthy is Justinian’s response that, while Greek 11

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Similarly, the claim that the western diaspora does not present us with any “spiritual centers dedicated to the study of oral law, no yeshivot (‘academies’) and no Torah centers”,14 may not be all that probative. Recent scholarship has maintained that the great Torah centers of Babylonia were in fact the creation of a much later period, whereas Torah in the Talmudic era (third–fifth centuries) developed in much smaller disciple circles, comprised of a sage and a few disciples.15 Moreover, to prove that the western diaspora maintained no Torah-centers, the authors cite a midrashic anecdote, which relates how the Roman government, in an attempt to familiarize itself with the nature of Jewish oral tradition “sent two agents and told them to disguise themselves as Jews and observe the nature of their Torah. They went to Rabban Gamaliel in Usha and may also be used (with the Septuagint being the preferred version although Aqilas — “preferred by the Rabbis” according to the authors, was also permitted), “what they call Mishnah (λεγομένην δευτέρωσιν) … we prohibit entirely”, adding that “those who are called among them Archipherekitai, or possibly Presbyters or Didaskaloi” shall not be allowed to intercede in these matters. If, in fact, these teachers of material “not included in the Holy Books” (i.e. oral tradition) were outlawed precisely where Greek Torah-reading was now permitted (“the Greek-speaking diaspora”), the proposed ‘split’ between a Greek-speaking — and text oriented — diaspora Jewry on the one hand and Jews influenced by rabbinic oral tradition on the other hand, may not have been all that clearcut. Moreover, if indeed a prohibition against teaching “deuterosis” was aimed only at the Palestinian community, we might expect at least some brief reference to this in the vast corpus of rabbinic material produced in that center, inasmuch as significant portions were redacted only after Justinian’s law was published. 14 Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora”, 102. 15 The most compelling argument for limiting the academic contexts of Torah-study in the earlier period was made by Goodblatt, Rabbinic Instruction. For a more recent similar depiction of the earlier generations of Torah life in the east see Rubenstein, The Culture, 16–38; Rubenstein attributes references to full-fledged academies in Babylonia to the Stammaitic stratum of the Talmudic text, dated anywhere from the sixth to eighth centuries.

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studied the Bible, the Mishnah, the Midrash, the laws and the Aggadah.”16 If indeed there were ‘academies’ in the west, the authors argue, “it would have been natural for the two agents to have gone to a closer, Greek-speaking institution … It was apparently impossible to study these texts in Rome, and if this was true of Rome, we can assume that it was surely the case in Greek- and Latin-speaking communities east and west of Rome”.17 Needless to say, numerous questions may be raised here. To begin, one can only wonder how the agents went about ‘disguising’ themselves as Jews.18 Assuming this was achieved by procuring a thorough knowledge of the Hebrew and Aramaic dialects needed to understand Bible, Mishnah, Midrash, Aggadah and so on, how is it that only Roman agents could achieve this proficiency, but not Roman Jews? If the agents were dispatched from the eastern portions of the empire, this tells us nothing about the realities in the west. And if the agents were indeed from the west but were tutored there for this project by some local teacher, such a person or persons would also be sufficient to serve as conduits for the transmission of oral Torah to the western communities.19 Sifre Deut. 344 (ed. Finkelstein, 400–401). Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 103. 18 External appearances, such as clothing, would hardly serve as an identifying factor, cf. Cohen, “Those Who Say They are Jews,” 1–45; on clothing, see 4–8. Cohen notes that in two versions of the ‘Roman agents’ story (y. Bava Qamma 4:3 (4b) and b. Bava Qamma 38a) the command to “make yourselves Jews” is missing; the examiners came and went as Romans. Cohen suggests that the clause was added by an editor of the Sifre who could not reconcile the story with the prohibition against teaching Torah to gentiles, hence the need to have them appear as Jews. 19 The movement of learned traditions from one country to another does not require that the masses on the receiving end be totally conversant in the original language of those teachings, but only the presence of a few members of an intellectual elite that were able to understand those traditions and, if they so wished, to spread them among broader circles of their community. Thus, for example, the Hebrew Mishnah made its way to Babylonia, and yet we might justifiably wonder how many Jews east of 16 17

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33

Indeed, rabbinic literature seems to suggest the cultivation of precisely such links between Jewish Palestine and the western communities. In particular, we are informed that major rabbinic figures made their way to Rome on more than one occasion, 20 and similarly we encounter Rabbi Akiva in various locations throughout the Greek-speaking diaspora. Edrei and Mendels write off these stories as unreliable “from a historical perspective” and prefer to consider them “legendary stories that are suspect as historical documents”,21 which of course begs the question as to what renders the “Roman agents” story any more of a “historical document”. In truth, assuming a significant legendary component for all the above sources may be justified, but even as such they would tend to negate the claim that Palestinian rabbis had consciously chosen to write off the western diaspora. And one final observation regarding the characterization of western Jewry as “Written Torah Judaism” — and not rabbinic — may also be in place. As proof of this designation the authors note that “the impression of the Jew in Pagan, Greek and Latin literature is one who lives according to the laws of the Torah, but not the Oral Law. [Jews] in the writings of Tacitus and others up until the sixth century … are described according to the model known to us in the Bible”.22 But as noted by Martin Goodman, “Greek and Latin pagans after the early second century CE seem largely to have fallen into literary clichés when writing about Jews, and little that they wrote sheds any light on the Jews of their own day”.23 On the other hand, the influence of the Palestinian patriarch upon the Euphrates were actually conversant in Hebrew, and especially the sophisticated and at times highly technical Hebrew that the rabbinic legal code contained. 20 Cf. Alon, The Jews, 234–237; Safrai, “Visits of the Sages,” 365–381 (Hebrew). 21 Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 113. 22 Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 128. 23 Goodman, Judaism in the Roman World, 238–239; Goodman does not argue for rabbinic Judaism as the norm throughout the western diaspora, but rather stresses the “diversity in the Judaism of the late-Roman diaspora” (239).

34

ISAIAH M. GAFNI

fourth-century western communities, at least in certain communal and financial matters, is amply supported by literary as well as other evidence. While the Patriarch did not represent the rabbis at that time, he did “come from within the same type of Judaism that the rabbis espoused”.24 And thus, the western diaspora may not have been as ‘split’ from Palestine as suggested. Both centers shared a common use of the Greek language, both were ruled by the Roman and Byzantine empires, and at least until the early fifth century were represented before that ruling power by the same patriarchal authority. Having contended that the western diaspora was not all that removed from Palestinian influence, we might now address the converse assumption of a far more symbiotic relationship between the Jews of Palestine and their eastern, Babylonian brethren.

THE “HELLENISATION” OF BABYLONIAN RABBINIC TRADITION One point of departure for such an examination would be to question the nature and degree of removal of Babylonian Jews, and sages in particular, from Hellenistic influence, and how this may have served as a barrier of sorts even in the world of the rabbis. My late teacher Prof. Eliezer Shimshon Rosenthal would often refer to a process of internal ‘hellenization’ to which the rabbis of Babylonia were exposed, and which, in a sense, introduced them to a wide range of social and cultural phenomena deriving from the Hellenistic-Roman world, a world to which large segments of local Iranian society may not have been similarly sensitized. This ‘hellenization’ was characterized by Greek and Latin phrases from everyday life, institutional terminology and legal frameworks that were incorporated into Palestinian rabbinic tradition, and through the rabbinic pipeline placed at the feet of Babylonian sages, who were required to inquire as to their meaning and halakhic implications, while at Goodman, Judaism in the Roman World, 256–257. Goodman (256) also notes that by the fifth century CE the synagogue at Sardis, clearly not in an area where Aramaic was the dominant language, had nevertheless “come under the influence of the rabbis of the land of Israel.” 24

ANOTHER ‘SPLIT DIASPORA’?

35

the same time adapting them to local realities. In 1963 Rosenthal delivered a lecture in Hebrew entitled “The Yerushalmi within the Bavli — on the Question of Palestinian Tradition within the Babylonian Talmud” (hitherto unpublished). Rosenthal’s ideas were fleshed out by his son David some thirty-six years later, in a detailed study on how Palestinian traditions were frequently misconstrued — or misrepresented — by Babylonian amoraim and the subsequent transmitters of the Babylonian Talmud.25 The inclusion of scores of Greek words and legal terminology in Palestinian rabbinic literature was only one component of a potential barrier between the two rabbinic communities,26 and the Bavli is replete with all sorts of far-fetched etymological suggestions or misunderstanding of Greek terms.27 Indeed, the Babylonians were not above admitting outright that they had no idea, at times, what their Palestinian peers were talking about. Thus, for example, the Mishnah (Avodah Zarah 1:5) quotes Rabbi Meir as listing ‘Nicolaus’ (‫)ניקליבס‬ among those fruits of the palm tree that are forbidden to be sold to idolaters. The Babylonians had no idea what these Nicolaus dates were, and a somewhat humorous anecdote relates how when Rav Dimi arrived in Babylonia from Palestine he explained that these were in fact ‘Kuriatti’. One can almost hear the sarcastic response in the local Bet-Midrash (‘Aha! Now we know!), and in fact Abaye complains precisely about this: “We learn (‫‘ )תנן‬Nicolaus’ and have no idea what this is, so you tell us ‘kuriatti’ about which we also don’t have a clue! What help have you been?”28 Rosenthal, “The Transformation,” 7–48. The groundbreaking contribution to this phenomenon was Krauss’ Griechische und Lateinische Lehnwörter; for the most recent update of this work cf. Sperber, Greek in Talmudic Palestine. 27 On the lack of a significant knowledge of Greek among Babylonian sages cf. Lieberman, Greek in Jewish Palestine, 26–27; cf. Rosenthal, “The Transformation,” 13, for one example of a Greek work (eikwn) that required an explanatory gloss in the Babylonian Talmud. 28 B. ‘Avodah Zarah 14b; R. Dimi’s response is no less intriguing: “Indeed I have benefited you. Were you to go up to Palestine and say “Nicolaus” no one would know what you are talking about, but if you say ‘kuriatti’ they will know and show it to you.” The story seems to suggest 25 26

36

ISAIAH M. GAFNI

Here, of course, the barrier was not only one of language, but of agricultural realia. In his article D. Rosenthal cites other examples where the agricultural milieu of Babylonia differed from the Palestinian one to such an extent that different readings of the Mishna emerged, representing at least one small deviation from the image of an ‘unsplit’ diaspora.29

ARAMAIC — THE ‘COMMON’ LANGUAGE? However, even the proposed commonality of language(s) that supposedly enabled the Palestinian and Babylonian centers to embrace the same oral tradition may not have been as clear cut as imagined. As noted by S. D. Sperling, “some of the greatest confusion in communication occurs when two parties wrongly assume that they are speaking the same language. Different dialects of the same language abound in opportunities for confusion”.30 Sperling goes on to single out “the problem of mutual intelligibility of the Aramaic dialects spoken by Jews in late Antiquity” by analyzing in meticulous detail one humorous Talmudic anecdote: There was a certain Babylonian who went up to the Land of Israel and took a wife. He said to her: Boil me two [cows’] feet (‫ ;)טלפי‬she boiled him two lentils (‫)טלופחי‬. He raged at her. The next day he said: Boil me a neck (‫)גריוא‬, she boiled him a bushel (or: measure; ‫ )גריוא‬of lentils. He said to her: Bring me two squashes (‫)שרגי‬. She brought him two lamps (‫)בוציני‬. He said to her: go and break them on the top of the gate (‫רישא‬ ‫)דבבא‬. Baba ben Buta was sitting at the gate and was judging a that in some cases even Palestinian Jews have no real idea regarding certain phrases in the Mishna. Rosenthal, “The Transformation,” 12 n. 28, also cites this example. 29 Rosenthal, “The Transformation,” 18–22. One critical difference between the two centers was the source and imagery of the flow and quantity of available water, which had an immediate impact on agriculture, commerce and transportation. The Babylonians sometimes note these differences (b. Bava Qamma 73b), but in other cases one senses halakhic as well as aggadic material that reflect two significantly different societies. 30 Sperling, “Aramaic Spousal Misunderstandings,” 205.

ANOTHER ‘SPLIT DIASPORA’?

37

case. She went and broke them (the lamps) on his head. He said to her: What is this you have done? She said: Thus my husband commanded me. He said: You have done the will of your husband. The Lord will bring forth from your belly two sons like Bava ben Buta.31

Sperling examines in great detail the causes for each of the cited misunderstandings, but for our purposes I would note one critical observation, namely that “the difficulties of mutual understanding between and among dialects are greatest in oral communication, where there are abundant variations in diction and pronunciation that are masked by the written language”.32 This is striking, for we have seen that one of the central arguments for the removal of the western diaspora from rabbinic tradition was the fact that it was transmitted orally,33 while it now appears that orality might in fact have created a significant barrier for mutual understanding even with the Babylonians, rather than a smoothly-functioning conduit.

BABYLONIAN RABBINIC PERCEPTIONS OF ROMAN PALESTINE Our examination, however, need not be limited to the question of mutual understanding and verbal comprehension among the various Jewish communities. Rather, the broader issue is how cognizant were Babylonian Jews of the differences between the realities of life that surrounded them, and the conditions that prevailed in Roman Palestine. These realities, to be sure, might have been products of different climatic conditions, topography and landscape, and could easily have contributed to the reshaping of Palestinian traditions upon their arrival in Babylonia. Thus, for example, for almost every Palestinian story that takes place near the local water-well or cistern, the Bavli inserts the far more familiar rivers of its own surroundings. The ‘rivers of Babylon’ were so predomiB. Nedarim 66b; the translation is based on Sperling, ibid., 209. Sperling, “Aramaic Spousal Misunderstandings,” 205; cf. Rosenthal, “The Transformation,” 13–16 for a number of phonetic differences between the centers that led to miscommunication. 33 Edrei and Mendels, “Split Diaspora,” 96. 31 32

38

ISAIAH M. GAFNI

nant in the lives of the Babylonian storytellers that they imposed themselves on a wide variety of Palestinian sources, many of which originally mentioned no water at all, while others referred to the hero or heroine as going to draw water from the well. Thus, for example, while Rabbi Tarfon was suspected of stealing from a field and apprehended by watchmen who began to beat him,34 the parallel version in the Bavli35 has someone place him in a sack, and carry him off “to throw him in the river”. In similar fashion, I fear we might search in vain for that precise spot in the mighty River Jordan where, the Bavli informs us, Rabbi Zera had to traverse by ferryboat if he truly wished to enter the Land of Israel.36 These Babylonian impositions on the realities of Roman Palestine do not appear to be agenda-driven, but one might nevertheless wonder why they were required and for whom. Do they reflect an ignorance of Palestinian terrain, knowledge of which could easily have been provided by those sages who frequently ‘went down’ to Babylonia from the Land of Israel (‫)נחותי‬, or were they introduced to render stories more familiar to a local audience, thereby providing a more dramatic payload?37 Be that as it may, a broad selection of Babylonian revisions of Palestinian sources do owe their genesis to agenda-driven processes, frequently part of the tension, polemic or diverse value systems that distinguished between the two rabbinic communities. This phenomenon has been abundantly documented, most recently in studies produced by Jeffrey Rubenstein and Richard Kalmin, and is Y. Shevi‘it 4:2 (35b). B. Nedarim 62a; for this and other examples cf. Rosenthal, “The Transformation,” 20–22. 36 B. Ketubot 112a. 37 The question, in a way, is no different from the similar one often encountered when renaissance artists — to cite just one example — commonly depict Roman soldiers at the crucifixion as being grandly attired in the familiar garb of the day and location of the artist. In those cases, of course, artists may not have known what Roman soldiers actually wore fourteen hundred years before their day (although surviving statues may have helped), but the question of whether this was a conscious or inadvertent imposition of the familiar on the unknown still persists. 34 35

ANOTHER ‘SPLIT DIASPORA’?

39

not the main focus of this paper.38 Our question, rather, is to what extent, and in what areas, does the Bavli evince an awareness of the difference between its own environment, be it political, social or cultural, and that of Roman Palestine. This, in a way, is the flip side of the coin described in the previous lines; rather than seeking the extent to which the Bavli revised elements of a received Palestinian corpus of information to conform to its own image or support its own agenda, the question is to what extent, and to what degree of sophistication, was the Bavli sensitive to a whole range of differences between its own environment and that of Roman Palestine. To be sure, one might attempt to answer this question by pointing to a well-known and commonly employed phrase used by the Bavli (in most cases, but not all, in the anonymous stratum of Talmud39) when confronted by variant traditions surrounding a particular practice: “this is our (=Babylonian custom), this is theirs (i.e. the Palestinians’; ‫”)הא לן והא להו‬. This solution is applied approximately twelve times in the pages of the Babylonian Talmud, and clearly alludes to the existence of different practices in the two centers. A closer look at the use of this phrase, however, may leave us with the sense of a rather limited Babylonian perception of the nature of these differences. In almost all cases where the phrase appears, the Bavli cites two disparate traditions regarding a particular practice (e.g. lighting or not lighting a candle on the eighth day of Sukkot in the sukkah;40 permission or prohibition to sow pulse (kitnit) in a field that was leased originally to sow cereal,41 and so on). In almost all cases the Bavli was confronted by a divergence of customs, and responded by suggesting that the two traditions reRubenstein, Talmudic Stories; idem, The Culture; idem, Stories of the Babylonian Talmud; Kalmin, Jewish Babylonia; both authors provide numerous examples to show how Babylonian storytellers inserted into received Palestinian traditions a far greater stress on the centrality of Torah-study, in line with the heightened rabbinic ideology that emerged in Talmudic and post-Talmudic Babylonia. 39 Although this would distance us even more from judging the familiarity of Babylonian amoraim with conditions in Roman Palestine. 40 B. Sukkah 48a; in Babylonia they lit. 41 B. Bava Mezi‘a 107a. 38

40

ISAIAH M. GAFNI

flect disparate behavior in Babylonia and Palestine, thereby negating the existence of an outright halakhic dispute, or corrupted transmission of halakhic tradition. In almost none of the cases does the Bavli actually explain why the two communities act differently, although in one or two cases one might surmise that climatic or agricultural variance may be the root cause. The Babylonians were certainly aware of differences in climate between the two centers, and actually note that manipulating the days of the week when the High Holidays fall so as to prevent their attachment to the Sabbath was a major consideration when intercalating the calendar, as any extended cessation from work might lead to the wilting of vegetables or the decomposition of an unburied corpse. The problem, they point out, was acutely felt in Babylonia, since “for us the world (i.e. the climate) is hot; for them (in the Land of Israel) the world is not hot”.42 But these are the exceptions, and most cases simply cite different behavior without displaying a deeper understanding of what caused the discrepancies.43 For example, the Bavli notes the different behavior in the two centers regarding the practice of either marrying first and then studying Torah, or behaving in a reversed sequence: “Rav Judah in the name of Samuel said: The law is that one should take a wife and afterwards study Torah. Rabbi Yohanan said: With a millstone around his neck can one study Torah?!”44 Here again the anonymous Talmud explains: “They are not in dispute. This statement (i.e. marrying first) is for us, that one — for them (in Palestine)”. Not only does this distinction appear in the latest stratum of Talmud, most probably post-amoraic, but there is also no indication of any deeper understanding of why the two centers act differently. Thus it was left for Rashi to explain that “The Babylonians would go off to study the mishnayot of the tannaim in The Land of Israel, B. Rosh Hashanah 20a; cf. Rosenthal, “The Transformation,” 40, who argues that this climatic discrepancy actually led to divergent Mishnaic texts in other matters, such as the types of vegetables that serve as ‘bitter herbs’ at the Passover seder in the two centers; m. Pesahim 2:6. 43 These explanations were usually left for Rashi and other medieval commentators. 44 B. Qiddushin 29b. 42

ANOTHER ‘SPLIT DIASPORA’?

41

and because they were away from home the chores of the household did not fall upon them, and therefore they married first, thereby removing [distracting] thoughts, and then went to study Torah, whereas they — the Israelis — study while at home, and thus if they marry first the needs of the household will fall upon them and they will be distracted [from learning]”. Not only is there scant support for this explanation in the Talmud itself, but one can only suspect that Rashi might be imposing upon the text certain European realities known to him firsthand. Both Daniel Boyarin and this author have posited that the variant customs reflect major attitudinal differences towards the role and requirement of marriage, and indeed of all sexual activity. While attitudes in Roman Palestine and the Hellenistic-Roman world appear to equivocate in their embrace of marriage as a positive and absolute requirement for an acceptable lifestyle, constantly stressing the major role of marriage being procreation, the social and cultural norms of Iran and its Zoroastrian ethos see the union of man and woman as the ultimate road to well-being.45 One doubts if in Babylonia rabbis such as Ben Azzai could get away with statements justifying their celibacy with the argument that “my soul desires Torah — let the world continue to exist through others”.46 The Babylonian mindset seems to be reflected far more by statements such as that of Rava,47 who claims that if one is not married by the age of twenty, God proclaims “Blast his bones!”48 The question is: Were the Babylonian rabbis aware of such underlying differences, did they even think along such lines, or were they simply noting different behavior with

Gafni, “The Institution of Marriage”; Boyarin, Carnal Israel, 138‒ 142; for a different approach, especially regarding the sugya in b. Qiddushin 29b, cf. Schremer, Male and Female, 91‒95, esp. n. 70 (Schremer tends to accepts Rashi’s economic criterion for the difference between the two centers, but in either case the Bavli does not seem to be aware of the underlying cause for this difference). 46 T. Yevamot 8:7; ed. Lieberman, 26. 47 Whether this is the well-known fourth century Babylonian amora is unclear; cf. Schremer, Male and Female, 92 n. 66. 48 B. Qiddushin 29b. 45

42

ISAIAH M. GAFNI

the sole aim of thereby negating the existence of inter-communal mahloket: ‫ולא פליגי – הא לן והא להו‬. A lack of such contemplation, inquiring how Roman Palestine may have differed from Iranian Babylonia, may explain why ‫הא לן‬ ‫ והא להו‬does not appear when we might have most expected it. For example, the Mishnah in Nedarim (3:4) decrees that one is permitted to take a false oath and lie to a tax collector in order to prevent seizure of property. Upon arrival in Babylonia this statement appears to have been received with a total lack of comprehension, with the Bavli expressing scandalous shock: Did Samuel not declare: “The law of the kingdom is law”?!49 The solutions provided by the Babylonian Talmud are a contrived fine-tuning of the Mishnah’s intent (‫)אוקימתא‬. One solution claims that the Mishnah refers to a tax collector who knows no bounds; the other — to a selfappointed tax collector rather than one officially sanctioned by the government. If ever there were a place that warranted reference to the radically different attitudes evinced by the rabbis towards the two political empires, an acceptance of the legitimacy of the local government in Babylonia (hence Samuel) versus the perception in rabbinic Palestine of the Roman Empire as ‘the evil kingdom’ (hence the Mishnah) — this would surely have been the place. The Bavli avoids this distinction, which would have required stating categorically that the Palestinian Mishnah derives from a political reality totally alien to the Babylonian situation, and is therefore not applicable in Babylonia. Our question again is: were the Babylonian rabbis fully cognizant of this difference, or does their reticence to employ such knowledge go to the heart of Talmudic discourse when dealing with halakhic tradition? For here, as opposed to the variant practices that were solved by ‫הא לן והא להו‬, the Bavli is confronted by a Mishnah, which clearly represents halakha incumbent on all of Israel. To remove Babylonia from the practical, and in this case political realities that produced the Mishnah would have created an extremely slippery slope. We cannot state categorically B. Nedarim 28a; the principle itself may date only to the fourth century and not to Samuel, but this does not change the thrust of the Bavli’s reaction to the Mishna; cf. Herman, A Prince without a Kingdom, 202‒207. 49

ANOTHER ‘SPLIT DIASPORA’?

43

that the Babylonian rabbis were able to conceptualize the critical difference between their reality and that of Roman Palestine, and as in the case of the preferred sequence of marriage and learning Torah the Talmud provides no indication that this was the case. But even if the amoraim were sensitive to such underlying differences, they may have preferred to steer away from introducing that perception into their deliberations, opting instead for the fine-tuning solution (‫ )אוקימתא‬that preserves the applicability of the Mishnah to all Jewish communities.50 Babylonian sages were certainly aware of all sorts of differences between their immediate circles and those of their counterparts in Palestine, and given the links between the two communities this is hardly surprising. They point out, for example, that annual prayers for rain commence at different times in the two lands,51 and, as noted above, might easily have attributed this to different climates.52 Similarly, they knew that the Babylonian fear of all things performed in even numbers (e.g. drinking two cups of There are points of contact between our discussion of this case, and comments by Daniel Schwartz on the sugya. Schwartz sees this case as yet another example of the Talmudic discourse removing itself entirely from considerations of time and place, and in effect embracing a totally ahistorical mindset; cf. Schwartz, “From Alexandria to Rabbinic Literature,” 40‒55. For Schwartz, belief in an eternally sanctioned legal system not subject to the vicissitudes of history dismissed any need for a study of change in human events, which lies at the core of historical analysis. To his mind, if the Bavli so obviously refrained from citing political differences as the cause for the Mishna not being understood in Babylonia, this consciously sent a message that such thoughts are totally unacceptable (48). Elsewhere I argued that a belief in halakha as eternal and unchanging did not always carry with it a denial, or even non-interest, in certain historical processes, or even in ‘what really happened’; cf. Gafni, “Rabbinic Historiography,” 295‒312. 51 B. Ta‘anit 10a. 52 The statement by Rav Nahman bar Isaac (b. Ta‘anit 10a) that distinguishes between the rainfall needs of those living in the highlands (‫ )עילאי‬and those of the lowlands (‫ )תתאי‬was understood by Rashi to refer to the different requirements in Palestine and Babylonia. 50

44

ISAIAH M. GAFNI

wine) lest this attract all sorts of dangerous demons, was not shared “in the West” [=Palestine].53 The fact that a whole range of Iranian demonological beliefs permeated Jewish society in Babylonia 54 but was not shared by their Palestinian co-religionists, who were probably far more familiar with Hellenistic-Roman cults as witnessed by the numerous allusions to these practices in Palestinian rabbinic literature,55 should certainly serve as a consideration in any attempt to link the Palestinian center with diaspora communities of the East or West. Obviously, in matters relating directly to the rabbinic community Babylonian sages would be expected to know of differences between the two lands. One such area that has enjoyed renewed interest of late is the frequency and degree to which rabbis were confronted with Christian polemicists, requiring a response on their part. A remarkable story in b. ‘Avodah Zarah 4a suggests a definite awareness of the different social and religious challenges in the two rabbinic centers. The Babylonian amora Rav Safra, we are told, was commended by Rabbi Abbahu to the minim (most probably of Caesarea) as being a learned man. The Babylonian, however, fails to meet the challenge of explaining a (loaded) scripture to the minim, whereupon he is accosted by them. The latter proceed to ask Rabbi Abbahu how he could have falsely presented Rav Safra as learned, to which he replies: “I said [that he was a great man] only regarding Oral Torah (‫ ;)תנויי‬did I say this to you regarding Scripture? They said to him: Why are you different that you know [Scripture]? He said to them: We, who live in proximity to you, take it upon ourselves and study [Scripture]; they (i.e. the Babylonians) do not study.”56 B. Pesahim 110b. Cf. Gafni, “Babylonian Rabbinic Culture,” 246. 55 Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine, 115–146; for a detailed study of this phenomenon see: Friedheim, Rabbinisme et Paganisme. 56 This does not mean that polemics with Christians did not take place east of the Euphrates, and one noteworthy example is the efforts of Aphraates to prepare his flock for such confrontations. For one example 53 54

ANOTHER ‘SPLIT DIASPORA’?

45

The precise reality and implications expressed in this story have been disputed,57 and recent studies have made it evident that Jewish-Christian polemics were certainly taking place in Sasanian Babylonia.58 For the purposes of this study, however, it is sufficient to note that a perception of critical differences in the intellectual endeavors and contexts of rabbinic activity in Palestine and Babylonia was felt and expressed by the sages of Babylonia. In sum, our discussion has tended to qualify the rigid limitations proposed for the western diaspora’s possible access to Palestinian tradition, while at the same time calling into question the overly-symbiotic relationship between the Babylonian and Palestinian centers. While language certainly may have had an impact on the nature of ties between communities, we would be hard-pressed to prove that it was the major factor in either the close links or alienation between the various centers of the Jewish population. Ancient history, Jewish and non-Jewish, is replete with travelers and information crossing from one language-oriented community to another, and somehow the messages always came through. Far more critical for compatibility were the cultural and social mindsets and atmosphere of the different centers. Jews living in a Hellenistic-Roman environment would probably appreciate all sorts of Palestinian allusions far more than their Babylonian counterparts. Even when the latter refer to the existence of differences between their environment and behavior and that of their Palestinian breth-

see his eighteenth demonstration, where Jews are described as attacking the notion of Christian celibacy in actual debate with Christians, and Aphraates sees this as a cause for rebuttal. 57 See, for example Boyarin, Border Lines, 223‒224. 58 See most recently Koltun-Fromm, Jewish-Christian Conversation. Aphraates in his twenty-first demonstration (quoted by Koltun, 1) explicitly notes that his adversary was called “the sage of the Jews”, which suggests that it was the rabbis that participated in at least some of these confrontations. This is hardly surprising, given Aphraates’ part-time residence at (or at least contacts with) the Christian community of Ctesiphon and its proximity to the major Jewish (and rabbinic) center at Mahoza; Gafni, The Jews of Babylonia, 142‒146; see also Elman, “Two Cities,” 8‒10.

46

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ren, they were frequently not able (or not interested) in getting to the root causes of those differences. If we nevertheless wish to seek a reason for the Babylonian community producing its own corpus of rabbinic tradition, perhaps we may find one in the self-image and assertiveness that would become the hallmark of that community. Babylonian Jews will come to see themselves as a new ‘Zion’, with all the intellectual qualities and Torah-tradition that was once assumed to be the sole property of Palestinian rabbis.59 To their mind, they can do things on the religious playing-field far better than the Palestinians, and this may ultimately have encouraged the production of a literary corpus that would be proclaimed, at least by the ninth century CE,60 as the truly ancient and pristine halakha, untainted by generations of constant religious persecution, such as that experienced by Jews of the western world — whether in the Land of Israel or the diaspora. If, indeed, there was a “split diaspora” in Late Antiquity and early medieval times, the Babylonian community makes a powerful argument for assuming that designation.

Gafni, “How Babylonia became Zion.” This argument was forcefully articulated by Pirkoi b. Baboi. For a brief summary of his claims see Gafni, “How Babylonia became Zion,” 333–336. 59 60

ANTIZOROASTRISCHE POLEMIK IN DEN SYRO-PERSISCHEN MÄRTYRERAKTEN PETER BRUNS1 The Syriac martyrological texts of the Acts of Âdur-Hormizd, Pethiôn, and Anâhîd are set in the year 446 A.D., during the reign of Yazdegerd II; but they were apparently recorded long afterward (probably during the second half of the sixth century). They offer more detailed data on Zoroastrianism and Zurvanism, even though in a somewhat corrupted form, than is commonly found in the records of the Christian martyrs of the Sasanian Empire. Other Acts tend to concentrate on repudiating the idea of cultic veneration of the sun (Syriac šemsā, fire (nūrā), and water (mayyā). The Acts of Ādur-Hormizd, however, mention a number of important terms: ʾbstg (Mid. Pers. abestāg “Avesta;” Bedjan, Acta, 576.12); the opposition between gtyh and bhšt (gētīh:wahišt, “the material world”: “paradise;” 576.16); drwsthyd (according to Nöldeke, an erroneous rendering of ristāxēz “resurrection,” but possibly a word with drustih “righteous, health;” 576.13); ʾhrmn (“Ahreman;” 578.1, etc.); snwmn (šnūman “propitiation;” 579.2); kwtwdwiyh (for xwēdōdah “kin-marriage,” which is also referred to as a usual Zoroastrian practice in the Acts of Die syro-persischen Märtyrerakten liegen in mehreren Ausgaben vor: Assemani, Acta sanctorum martyrum orientalium et occidentalium I–II; Bedjan, Acta martyrum et sanctorum II.IV; deutsche Auswahl bei Braun, Ausgewählte Akten persischer Märtyrer; ältere Übersetzung (oft auch nur Paraphrase), allerdings mit vorzüglichem Kommentar bei Hoffmann, Auszüge aus syrischen Akten persischer Märtyrer. Umfassende Untersuchung des überlieferten Materials bei Wiessner, Zur Märtyrerüberlieferung aus der Christenverfolgung Schapurs II. (leider ohne Register!). 1

47

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PETER BRUNS Anāhīd but without the specific term; 578.9); and ʾšwqr, fršwqr, zrwqr, zrwn (“Ašōqar, Frašōqar, Zarōqar, Zurwān,” i.e., Zurwān as the Fourfold God [tetraprósōpos in the Byzantine anathemas], 577.6–7 and 11–12). The Acts of Anāhīd comment that the god Ohrmazd was hermaphrodite “like his father Zurwān” (592.10f.). It names the god’s mother as kwšyrg (592.17–18); variant forms are kwšyzg and kwšwryg, probably representing a name * Xwašxwarrig “she whose fortune is fair” (cf. Zaehner, Zurvan). Fragments of a Sogdian version are also known (Olaf Hansen, Berliner Sogdische Texte II [Abh. der Ak. der Wiss. und der Lit. in Mainz, Geistes- und sozialwissenschaftliche Kl., 1954, no. 15], 31f.).

Spuren einer literarischen Auseinandersetzung mit dem Zoroastrismus finden sich in der reichhaltigen syrischen Kirchenväterliteratur in wechselnden Formen und in unterschiedlicher Dichte ihres Auftretens. Aphrahat,2 der Persische Weise etwa, der in der Mitte des vierten Jahrhunderts im Westteil des Sasanidenreiches lebt, weiß zwar von einem Aufmarsch persischer Truppen unter Schapur II. im Grenzland zu berichten, auch betet er inständig für einen Sieg der römischen Legionen, doch zu einer literarischen Polemik gegen die persische Religion ist er — ganz im Gegensatz zu jüdisch-christlichen Streitthemen — nicht geneigt. Der berühmteste syrische Dichter jener Tage, der Diakon Ephräm, widmet nur einen Bruchteil seines umfangreichen literarischen Werkes der Religion des persischen Erbfeindes, der seine Heimatstadt Nisibis mehrfach in arge Bedrängnis brachte. Zumindest in seinen Prosaschriften 3 setzt sich Ephräm sehr intenVgl. Bruns, Aphrahat. Die Darlegung V. „Über die Kriege“ vermittelt dem Leser ein anschauliches Bild von den Kriegsvorbereitungen. Der Kirchenschriftsteller bekämpft recht allgemein Markion, Mani und Valentin und attackiert diverse dualistische Strömungen. Das Böse ist sekundär und hat gegenüber dem Guten keinen Bestand (IX, 7), die Welt ist zwar von Gegensätzen gekennzeichnet (XIV, 49), doch wirkt der eine Gott alles in allem (XVIII, 8) und ist das alleinige Urprinzip aller Dinge, d.h. es gibt keine zwei Wurzeln (XXIII, 3). 3 Zu den Prosaschriften Ephräms vgl. Mitchell, S. Ephraim’s Prose Refutations. Zum iranischen Erbe bei Bardaisan und seine Widerlegung durch Ephräm vgl. zuletzt Kremer, „Ephräm versus Bardaisan.“ 2

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siv mit dem iranischen Substrat in der Gedankenwelt Bardaisans auseinander. So zeigt er sich in der an Hypatius gerichteten Streitschrift mit den Grundthesen des Zervanismus wohl vertraut: „Als erstes setzt er (Bardaisan) den Raum, doch worin gleicht der Raum Gott? Der eine grenzt ein, der andere ist nicht begrenzt. Der eine schließt ein, der andere ist nicht eingeschlossen. Der eine hat Substanz (qnômâ) und Verstand (îdactâ), Kraft und Weisheit, und darin Güte und Freiheit, während der andere nichts von all diesen Dingen hat. Dabei herrscht über das, was der Raum ist, eine große, unleugbare Diskussion. Denn nicht nur gleicht der Raum nicht Gott…(lacuna) auch birgt er daselbst, wie sie behaupten, Finsternis und Licht. Es soll nun durch eine Frage die Diskussion abgewürgt werden, haben sie sich doch selbst den Strick um ihren Nacken geworfen. Denn sie sollen bezüglich des Raumes befragt werden, ob er zur Hälfte finster oder zur Hälfte licht ist, ob er zur Hälfte gut oder zur Hälfte schlecht ist, ob die dem Guten zugewandte Seite dem Guten gleicht und der dem Bitteren zugeneigte Abgrund der Finsternis gleicht. Wenn sie nun behaupten, die dem Guten zugewandte Seite sei gut und die dem Bösen zugewandte Seite sei böse, siehe, dann ist dies schwierig zu akzeptieren, daß der Raum, wo er doch beide umfaßt, eines sein soll. Wie ist die eine Hälfte gut und die andere Hälfte schlecht, da sie nämlich keine zwei Räume machen oder einen weiteren Raum zwischen die beiden Räume stellen können? Auch bezüglich der Eigentümlichkeit jenes Dritten gibt es eine dritte Fragestellung: Was ist es, wozu gehört es und wem gleicht es? Jener umschließende Raum ist notwendigerweise einer, auch finden sich in ihm viele Unterscheidungen und Grenzen. Denn Grenzen begrenzen und umschließen den Raum keineswegs so, daß sie ihm Genüge täten, vielmehr begrenzen sie die Dinge, die sich innerhalb des Raumes befinden, d.h. Häuser oder Städte, Länder oder Berge, breite Täler oder Königreiche und Völker, die einander durch Meer und Festland begrenzen. Wenn aber, so behaupten sie, jener Raum in seiner Gänze mit seinem Ganzen gleichförmig ist, dann spannt er sich über das Gute und über das Böse, dann ist es klar, daß er entweder zu beiden gehört oder daß die beiden zu ihm gehören… Vielmehr stell dir vor, daß das, was auch im-

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PETER BRUNS mer sich im Raum befindet und einen Körper hat, notwendigerweise begrenzt wird. Denn der umgrenzende Raum ist größer als er. Was sich aber nicht im Raum befindet, ist unbegrenzt, da es keinen Raum gibt, der ihn begrenzen könnte. Deswegen legt die wahre Lehre jene Erhabenheit, welche die (Irr-)Lehren dem Raum beilegen, Gott bei, denn er ist der Raum seiner selbst. Denn größer sind die Lobpreisungen, welche Bardaisan über den Raum spricht, als diejenigen, die er über Gott aussagt, der sich im Raum befindet; diese ziemen sich nicht für den Raum, sondern für Gott.“4

Auch im Genesiskommentar lassen sich bei sorgsamer Untersuchung versteckte Hinweise entdecken, die sich als Polemik gegen die persische Lehre einer doppelten Schöpfung deuten lassen.5 Sehr subtil und eher indirekt erscheint uns die Apologie des Christentums bei Narsai6 dem Aussätzigen, einem Dichter und Theologen der strengen antiochenischen Tradition. Indirekt ist seine Verteidigungsmethode aus dem Grunde zu nennen, da sie ihre Gegner nicht namentlich benennt, gleichwohl aber in der Wahl ihrer Themen (Schöpfungslehre, Angelologie, Anthropologie und Seelenlehre und abschließend in der Eschatologie) ganz bewußt die klassischen Felder der iranischen Religiosität besetzt und den Persern streitig macht. Oberflächlich betrachtet, ist die Geschichte des Christentums östlich von Antiochien, und zwar zunächst noch im Parther-, später dann im Sasanidenreich, seitens der herrschenden Kreise oft durch höfliche Nichtbeachtung der christlichen Untertanen, nicht selten aber durch offene Feindschaft, gelegentlich auch durch Kooperation geprägt. Unbestritten hingegen bleibt die historische Tatsache, daß es einen persischen Konstantin nie gegeben hat, auch wenn es im Laufe der wechselvollen Geschichte kurze Phasen einer Syr. Text bei Mitchell, Prose Refutations I, 130, 23–132, 47. Für Ephräm sind die „ahrimanischen“ Kreaturen wie die Reptilien gleichfalls durch Gott erschaffen, vgl. CSCO 153, 8.16f. Ferner gilt es zu beachten, daß Licht und vor allem die Finsternis keine aus sich existierenden Wesen sind, vgl. CSCO 153, 6. 6 Vgl. Bruns, „Narses von Edessa.“ 4 5

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Annäherung zwischen Kirche und Großkönig gab, die sich zu einer Legende um die Taufe der Sasaniden7 literarisch verdichteten. Der erste flüchtige Eindruck, den die Lektüre syrischer Märtyrerakten hinterläßt, ist tatsächlich der einer schwer geprüften Märtyrerkirche, welcher anders als im Römischen Reich der Status einer religio licita8 stets versagt geblieben ist. Das auf uns gekommene Material ist enorm. Allein in ihrer syrischen Bearbeitung (aus Platzgründen sehen wir an dieser Stelle von den griechischen und armenischen Versionen9 ab) füllen die Märtyrerakten, zieht man Bedjans monumentale Gesamtausgabe zur Rate, zwei ganze Bände. Bis heute fehlt es indes an Übersetzungen in moderne Fremdsprachen. Die ältere Übersetzung von Hoffmann ist leider unvollständig, sie bietet vielfach nur eine paraphrasierende Inhaltsangabe, besticht aber durch einen vorzüglichen Kommentar, vor allem zur Topographie des persischen Christentums. Brauns Auswahl folgt vor allem seelsorglich-praktischen Gesichtspunkten. Neben der philologischen Genauigkeit und Texttreue, die ihm nicht abgesprochen werden kann, ist der erbauliche Aspekt bei der Wiedergabe nicht völlig von der Hand zu weisen. Doch für unsere spezielle Fragestellung erweist er sich insofern von Nachteil, als Braun die oft langatmigen apologetischen Textpassagen glaubte überspringen zu müssen; ähnliches gilt auch in gewisser Weise für Hoffmann. Eine knappe Zusammenfassung der zoroastrischen Vorwürfe gegen die christliche Religion liegt im Martyrium des Bischofs cAqqebschmâ10 († 379) vor, welches noch in die Schapurzeit fällt:

Vgl. Schilling, Die Anbetung der Magier. Und dies bis auf den heutigen Tag, wenn wir auf den beklagenswerten Zustand der Kirche im Irak, besonders der mit Rom unierten Chaldäer, blicken. Vgl. auch Bruns, „Beobachtungen.“ 9 Griechische Ausgabe bei Delehaye, Les versions grecques. Die armenische Ausgabe (2 Bde.) wurde von den Mechitaristen, Venedig 1874, besorgt. 10 BHO 22; deutsch bei Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, 116; zu den griech. Rezensionen des Acepsimas vgl. BHG 15-20, zur armen. Überlieferung vgl. BHO 23. 7 8

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PETER BRUNS „Die Christen lösen unsere Lehre auf und lehren die Menschen also, einem einzigen Gott allein zu dienen, die Sonne nicht anzubeten, das Feuer nicht zu ehren, das Wasser durch häßliche Waschungen zu verunreinigen, keine Frauen zu nehmen, keine Söhne und Töchter zu zeugen, mit den Königen nicht in den Krieg zu ziehen, auf keinen Fall zu töten, ohne Gewissensbisse die Tiere zu schlachten und zu essen, die Toten in der Erde zu begraben und zu verbergen. Sie behaupten, daß Gott, nicht der Satan, die Schlangen, Skorpione mitsamt dem ganzen Gewürm der Erde gemacht habe. Auch verderben sie viele Diener des Königs und lehren sie Zaubereien, die sie Schriften nennen.“11

Die Hauptthemen der interreligiösen Kontroverse sind rasch genannt: die Verehrung des einen Gottes, die Weigerung, Sonne und Feuer anzubeten, die Verunreinigung des Wassers, die Askese der christlichen Bundessöhne und Kleriker,12 die Kriegsdienstverweigerung, die Verwerfung der Speisegebote, die Erdbestattung der Toten, die Vorstellung, die ahrimanischen Kreaturen wie die Kriechtiere etc. gingen auf den einen (guten) Schöpfer zurück, sowie schließlich der von den heiligen Schriften ausgehende „Schadenszauber“. Letzterer bezog sich wohl auf die Praxis christlicher Bischöfe und Missionare, ein Evangeliar als Beutelbuch13 mitzuführen. Offensichtlich beruhte der Missionserfolg der Christen unter der persischen Bevölkerung auf der freimütigen Verkündigung des Glaubens und dem ungehinderten Zugang zum Evangelium. Die „Schriften der Nazarener“ übten auf die Heiden eine unwiderstehSyr. Text bei Bedjan, AMSS II, 363f. Die Christen des Sasanidenreiches fielen aufgrund ihrer praktizierten Askese unter das gleiche Verdikt wie die Manichäer, vgl. Bruns, „Beobachtungen,“ 88, Anm. 38. 13 Im Martyrium des Sâbâ trägt der Missionar bei seiner Verkündigung in Kurdistan einen (Kreuzes-?)Stab und ein Evangeliar, vgl. Hoffmann, Auszüge 71; die Acta Milis überliefern ein besonderes Vorkommnis im Streit zwischen den persischen Bischöfen um den Vorrang des Katholikos von Seleukia-Ktesiphon. Um Mâr Pâpâ zu widerlegen, greift Miles zum Evangelium, welches er in seinem Rucksack bei sich führt, vgl. Bedjan, AMSS II, 266f. 11 12

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liche Faszination aus; die persischen Behörden waren sich dessen bewußt, und in der Zeit des Bahrâm V. Gôr (420-438) konnte der Besitz eines Evangeliars14 strafbar sein. Die offizielle Magierreligion basierte hingegen im wesentlichen auf einem breiten Strom mündlicher Tradition,15 die sich gegenüber der geschriebenen Form der Evangelien argumentativ im Nachteil befand. Viele syro-persische Märtyrerakten enthalten längere polemische Passagen gegen die Fremdreligionen. So beschäftigt sich das stark legendenhafte Qardâgh-Martyrium16 in einigen Kapiteln (cap. 16–22) mit dem Astralkult, den es zu widerlegen gilt. Dieses Streitgespräch des Mönches Abdischo mit dem späteren Konvertiten Qardâgh unterbricht den Erzählzusammenhang und läßt sich bequem aus diesem herauslösen und getrennt untersuchen, wie dies Walker in seiner Monographie zu Qardâgh 17 getan hat. Innerhalb des Makrotextes eines Martyriums kommt dem lehrhaften Mikrotext eine besondere katechetische Funktion zu. Diese kann einmal konfessionell gefärbt sein, wie z.B. innerhalb des Gîwargîs(Georgs-)Martyriums, wo es um die Verbreitung einer bestimmten christologischen Lehre, nämlich der Babais des Großen geht, welche in Erzählform unter das christliche Volk gebracht werden soll. Ein anderes Mal prägt die Polemik gegen fremde Religionen, speziell den Zoroastrismus, das Bild; in diesem Falle geht es darum, die Anhänger im eigenen Glauben zu stärken und enger an die kirchliche Gemeinschaft zu binden, gegebenenfalls auch die Fernstehenden für die christliche Religion zu gewinnen. Dieser werbende, protreptische Aspekt bestimmt das Qardâgh-Martyrium, in Während der Regentschaft des Bahrâm Gôr brach eine große Verfolgung über die Gemeinden in Mesopotamien herein. Im Martyrium des Peroz gesteht dieser sein Vergehen, die Schriften der Nazarener zu lesen, vgl. Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, 167. 15 Man muß sich nicht alle Thesen von François Nau zu eigen machen, doch scheint das Awesta tatsächlich lange Zeit nur mündlich überliefert worden zu sein, vgl. Nau, „Étude historique.“ 16 Bruns, „Das Martyrium des hl. Mâr Qardâgh.“ Eine englische Übersetzung mit vorzüglichem Kommentar wurde vorgelegt von Walker, The Legend of Mar Qardagh. 17 Vgl. Walker, Legend of Mar Qardagh, 164–205. 14

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welchem der Mönch Abdischo durch sein keusches und gewaltloses Leben, seine Predigt und einige spektakuläre Mirakel den Marzpan von der Wahrheit der christlichen Botschaft überzeugt. In anderen, eher ätiologisch ausgerichteten Martyrien, hier wäre z. B. die Behnâm-Geschichte18 zu nennen, tauchen syrische Götternamen wie Bel und Belti auf; im Sâbâ-Martyrium19 stoßen wir gar auf die griechischen Äquivalente Zeus, Kronos, Apollo und Beldok. Eine explizite Auseinandersetzung mit dem Zoroastrismus findet dagegen nicht statt. Das Sâbâ-Martyrium ist in seinen Einzelheiten recht vage; es erwähnt eher beiläufig, daß die Kurden Sonnenanbeter20 seien, welche erst zum wahren Gott bekehrt werden müßten. Die Behauptung, daß die Anhänger eines gewissen Saddoq einen Schweinskopf21 anbeteten, hält Hoffmann für nicht einmal gelogen; er denkt an den Verethragna-Eber, dessen Verehrung sich im Titel „Reichseber“22 niedergeschlagen habe. Die anonym überlieferte „Chronik von Karkâ und seinen Märtyrern“23 enthält einen profangeschichtlichen Teil, beschäftigt sich recht ausführlich mit der Einführung des Christentums in der Region und, damit verbunden, der Einrichtung einer lokalen kirchlichen Hierarchie, behandelt im Rahmen der Stadtgeschichte aus lokalpatriotischen Beweggründen den Kult der hiesigen Märtyrer und bezieht im innerkirchlichen Rangstreit eindeutig Position. Der vom Verfasser propagierte Märtyrerkult dient vor allem der Aufwertung des Metropolitansitzes von Karkâ durch die alljährli-

BHO 177: Bedjan, AMSS II, 397–441, hier: 414. Erwähnt wird ferner Kewân (Saturn), Belti steht für die Venus. 19 Sabas Gusniazdad (BHO 1029/30): Bedjan, AMSS II, 635–680; Hoffmann, Auszüge, 68–78, hier: 72. 20 Vgl. Hoffmann, Auszüge, 75. 21 Vgl. Hoffmann, Auszüge, 76, Anm. 700. 22 Zu ergänzen wäre freilich, daß sich der Eber als Wappentier auch auf den Sasanidischen Silberschalen findet, vgl. Walker, Legend of Mar Qardagh, 77, Abb. 5. 23 Vgl. Bedjan, AMSS II, 507–535; (unvollständig) Hoffmann, Auszüge, 43–60; Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, 179–187. 18

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chen Wallfahrten. Nur en passant wird die religiöse Kontroverse gestreift: „König Jazdegerd (II.) befahl: ‚Wenn ihr auf die Befehle seiner Majestät nicht hört, seinen Willen nicht tut, die Sonne, den großen Gott, nicht anbetet, und Feuer und Wasser, Hôrmîzds Kinder, nicht ehrt, so wird euer Leben durch diese Dinge ausgelöscht.’“24

An mehreren Stellen des Martyriums werden die Gläubigen recht vage vor der Verehrung der Elemente Feuer und Wasser gewarnt, doch wird jede konkrete Erläuterung der Zusammenhänge vermieden. Als äußerer Anlaß der Verfolgung unter Jazdegerd, der viele christliche Bewohner von Karkâ zum Opfer fielen, wird eher beiläufig die beharrliche Weigerung der Christen25 erwähnt, Feuer und Wasser zu verehren. Gelegentlich greifen die Hagiographen auch zum Stilmittel der Ironie wie etwa im Martyrium des Dâdû,26 wenn der Erzähler seinen Helden besonders ausgesuchte Marter erdulden läßt. Dâdû wird von seinen Peinigern mehrmals in einen kochenden Kessel geworfen, unter dem die frisch entfachten Flammen immer wieder ersticken. Der Erzähler mokiert sich: „Göttin Feuer ist erloschen!“27 Nämliches widerfährt dem Wasser, das immer wieder gefriert, so daß der Heilige nicht ertrinkt. Nachdem also die Elemente dem wahren Gott gehorchen und ihre Geschöpflichkeit erwiesen ist, wird Dâdû schließlich zerstückelt; seine sterblichen Überreste werden verbrannt bzw. in die Kloake geworfen, wo sie von frommen Christen als Reliquien aufgesammelt werden. Mit der Regentschaft des „Frevlers“ Jazdegerd I. (399-420)28 verbanden die Bischöfe des Sasanidenreiches große Hoffnungen auf eine Versöhnung von Kirche und Staat, doch sollten sich diese nicht erfüllen. Umso schockierender waren die bitteren ErfahrungBedjan, AMSS II, 522f. Vgl. Bedjan, AMSS II, 519/20. 26 BHO 240: Bedjan, AMSS IV, 218‒221; BHO 325: Bedjan, AMSS IV, 141–163. 27 Vgl. Hoffmann, Auszüge, 33f. 28 Vgl. Bruns, „Beobachtungen,“ 95–100. 24 25

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en einer neuen heftigen Verfolgung in den letzten Tagen dieses bedeutenden Herrschers, in die das Martyrium des cAbdâ/Haschû fällt: „Als der König hörte, daß alle in Ketten bei der Pforte lägen, befahl er, den seligen Mâr cAbdâ und seine Gefährten vorzuführen. Der König fragte sie: ‚Warum verachtet ihr unsere Befehle und folgt nicht der Lehre, welche uns von unseren Vätern überliefert wurde, sondern wandelt nach eigenem Gutdünken auf dem Pfad des Irrwegs?’ Die Hehren antworteten ihm: ‚Wir wandeln nicht nach der Lehre der Menschen, welche uns gebietet, viele Götter und Herrschaften, die Elemente und die Lichter zu verehren, den Schöpfer aller Geschöpfe aber zu verachten und zu schmähen. Vielmehr beten wir den Schöpfer aller Dinge an, die Geschöpfe aber, die er zu unserem Gebrauch erschuf, machen wir uns, wie sie uns gegeben, untertan.’ Der König sprach zu Bischof Mâr cAbdâ: ‚Da du Haupt und Lenker dieser Leute bist, warum läßt du dann zu, daß sie unser Königtum verachten und unsere Gebote übertreten und sich so eigenwillig aufführen? Unser Bethaus und das Gestell des Feuertempels, das zu verehren wir von unseren Vätern übernommen haben, habt ihr eingerissen und zerstört!’ Der selige cAbdâ sprach: ‚Die Magier haben uns vor Euer Königlichen Hoheit in betrügerischer Weise verleumdet, da solches von uns nicht getan wurde.’ [252] Der König sprach: ‚Keineswegs gebe ich eine verleumderische Klage wieder, da ich es von wahrhaftigen Leuten erfahren habe.’ — Daraufhin umkleidete sich der Priester mit göttlicher Kraft und sprach: ‚Wir haben kein Götzengestell und keinen heiligen Altar umgerissen!’ Der König sprach: ‚Ich habe nicht dich, sondern deinen Vorgesetzten gefragt. Und der ist noch eine Antwort schuldig.’ Der selige Haschû sprach: ‚Unsere Lehre weist uns an, daß weder klein noch groß sich für das Wort Gottes schämen soll, wenn er vor den König zitiert wird. Ferner sprach unser Lebendigmacher zu uns: Ich werde euch Mund und Weisheit geben, denen eure Verfolger nicht standhalten werden. Deshalb ist unser Wort wahr, mag es von groß oder von klein verkündet werden.’ Der König sprach: ‚Was ist deine Lehre, du Frechling, daß du für deinen Meister sprichst und dich für dein Volk derart ereiferst?’ Der Hehre

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sprach: ‚Ich bin Christ, Diener des lebendigen Gottes. Es ist kein Grund, jemanden anzufahren und ihn zu fragen: Was treibst du?’ Der König sprach: ‚Also ist es wahrhaftig erwiesen, daß du das Feuer niedergerissen und ausgelöscht und unser Gebot übertreten hast?’ Der selige Haschû sprach: ‚Das Gestell habe ich niedergerissen und das Feuer gelöscht, weil es kein Haus Gottes und auch das Feuer keine Tochter Gottes ist, sondern eine Dienstmagd für Könige und Knechte, für Reiche und Arme und für Bettler. Mit trockenen Reisern wird es von ihnen erzeugt, denn zum Gebrauch hat es Gott gegeben wie auch all die übrigen Geschöpfe im Himmel und auf Erden. Denn zu unserem Gebrauch [253] sind die Geschöpfe, daß wir geehrt würden von den kreatürlichen Dingen, die Gott eingerichtet hat und um dessentwillen ihr Schöpfer von uns angebetet und verehrt werden soll.’ — Noch einmal fragte der König: ‚Wer von euch hat jenes Feuergestell herausgerissen und es gewagt, seine Hand an etwas zu legen, was durch unsere Herrschaft Bestand hat?’ Der hehre Haschû sprach: ‚Du wirst, König, nicht viel größer machen, was dir gegeben, und was geringer ist als du, wirst du nicht über dich erhaben machen, denn wie der Mensch das Haus überragt, in dem er wohnt, und geehrter ist als der Besitz, von dem er Gebrauch macht, so sehr ist der Mensch größer und erhabener als das Feuer, dem ihr dient und das ihr für Gott haltet. Dies ist aber zum Gebrauch des Menschen geschaffen. Und wenn es so sein sollte, daß du bei einem Menschen über die Einkünfte oder den Besitz, ohne…’ (hier bricht der Text ab).“ 29

Soweit die syrische Überlieferung, die wir im Anschluß an die leicht modifizierte Braunsche Übersetzung wiedergeben. Theodoret berichtet in seiner Kirchengeschichte h. e. V,39,1-4, der Perserkönig Jazdegerd habe lediglich nach einem Vorwand gesucht, um gegen die Kirchen Krieg zu führen. Den Anlaß hierzu fand er bei einem gewissen Bischof namens cAbdâ (gräzisiert Abdas), in dessen Diözese ein Feuerheiligtum zerstört worden war. Der Kirchenschriftsteller fügt noch erläuternd hinzu, daß die Perser das 29

Bedjan, AMSS IV, 251‒253; Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, 139–141.

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Feuer für einen Gott halten. Er selbst mißbilligt die Zerstörung des Feuerheiligtums, da sie „unzeitgemäß“ sei und, diese Bemerkung verdient Beachtung, auch der Apostel Paulus bei seinem Areopagbesuch seinerzeit keine Altäre eingerissen hätte. Gleichwohl hält er es auch für eine ziemliche Zumutung, wenn ein christlicher Bischof ein bereits zerstörtes heidnisches Heiligtum wiederaufbauen soll, wie es vom Großkönig befohlen wurde. Die Situation war einigermaßen komplex, folgt man den Angaben der Chronik von Seert. Das Feuerheiligtum30 befand sich in der Susiana, genauer in Hormizd-Ardaschir, einem Ort in Huzistan, in unmittelbarer Nachbarschaft zu jener Kirche, an welcher der Priester Haschû31 seinen Dienst tat. Die Chronik von Seert 32 nimmt Haschû in Schutz und spricht entlastend von Provokationen seitens der heidnischen Tempelwache. Das zerstörte Heiligtum wird wohl kein riesiger Tempel, sondern eher ein kleineres Feuerhaus (atešgah) gewesen sein. Gleichwohl handelt es sich um eine rechtlich zu verfolgende Straftat. Da nach zoroastrischer Lehre das Feuer in symbolischer Weise die Gottheit33 selbst vertritt, gilt ein Angriff auf dasselbe als ein mit aller Härte zu bestrafendes Sakrileg. Jazdegerd I. ließ daher Rabbân cAbdâ, den Bischof der Susiana, zum Tode verurteilen und hinrichten. Weitere Übergriffe auf Kirchen in der Region folgten; erst die Intervention des armenischen Königs34 führte zu einem Abflauen der allgemeinen Christenverfolgung. Zu den Feuerheiligtümern in parthischer und sasanidischer Zeit vgl. überblickartig Widengren, Die Religionen Irans, bes. 184–190; 269–274; Erdmann, Das iranische Feuerheiligtum; Schippmann, Iranische Feuerheiligtümer. Zum Heiligtum in Susa, wo seit achämenidischer Zeit das Feuer verehrt wird, vgl. bes. 15–22; zur Verbreitung des Kults in der Susiana vgl. die Karte im Anhang. 31 Lat. Hosa, aus Hosea? 32 Die Chronik von Seert I, 71 (PO 5, 328). 33 Ferner gilt es zu bedenken, daß die sasanidischen Münzen auf ihrer Rückseite mit wenigen Ausnahmen stets den König vor dem Feueraltar zeigen, vgl. Erdmann, Feuerheiligtum, 36, Anm. 233, d.h. ein Angriff auf das Feuer war ein Akt der Majestätsbeleidigung, den auch ein Jazdegerd nicht unbeantwortet lassen konnte. 34 Vgl. Chronik von Seert I, 71 (PO 5, 328). 30

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Obwohl die syrischen Akten nur bruchstückhaft vorliegen, läßt sich der Vorgang nicht zuletzt dank Theodorets Angaben einigermaßen zuverlässig rekonstruieren. Dem unvoreingenommenen Leser springt sogleich die latente Spannung zwischen Bischof und Priester ins Auge. Wider alle Etikette35 mischt sich Haschû in die Diskussion ein und wird vom Großkönig zurechtgewiesen, der allein mit dem Vorgesetzten sprechen will. In den Augen der weltlichen Obrigkeit war der Priester lediglich ein Strohmann, der im Auftrag seines Bischofs gehandelt hatte. Der Verdacht war nicht gänzlich unbegründet, wenn man bedenkt, daß der Katholikos Ahai seinen Suffraganen die Einäscherung markionitischer und manichäischer „Hexenhäuser“36 befohlen hatte, um Religionsvermischung und gemeinsame liturgische Handlungen von Christen und Häretikern oder gar Heiden zu unterbinden, und nun war der Funke des Fanatismus auch auf die persischen Feuerheiligtümer übergesprungen. Ohne Zweifel war Haschû ein Heißsporn, der seinen Bischof mit der überstürzten Aktion in arge Verlegenheit gebracht hatte. Der Bischof mußte für seine Kleriker buchstäblich den Kopf hinhalten. Die persischen Bischöfe befanden sich seit der großen Synode von Seleukia-Ktesiphon (410) nicht mehr auf Konfrontationskurs mit dem Staat, sondern strebten eine halbwegs friedliche Kooperation und Koexistenz mit den Feinden der Kirche an. Die Herrschaft Jazdegerds erfüllte die heilige Synode mit großer Freude und Zuversicht. Jérome Labourt37 diskutiert daher auch die Frage, ob es in den letzten Lebensjahren des Großkönigs zu einer wesentlichen Änderung der bis dato einzigartigen Toleranzpolitik gekommen sei. Er verneint38 dies mit dem Hinweis auf die Synode von 420. Den Bischöfen konnte indes aus durchaus nachvollziehbaren Gründen nicht an einer Eskalation der Dinge gelegen sein. Deshalb äußert auch Theodoret grundsätzlich Kritik am Vorgehen Haschûs, das er als „unzeitgemäß“ (katà chrónon) empfand. Doch hatte der syrische Bischof im Römischen Reich leicht gut reden. Während in seiner Heimat Darauf hat Hoffmann, Auszüge, 35, hingewiesen. Vgl. Chronik von Seert I, 69 (PO 5, 325). 37 Vgl. Labourt, Le christianisme, 104–130. 38 Vgl. Labourt, Le christianisme, 106f. 35 36

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Cölosyrien das Heidentum bereits in zahlreichen Regionen darniederlag, stand es im Sasanidenreich noch in voller Blüte, genoß staatliche Protektion und setzte der christlichen Mission energischen Widerstand entgegen. Unter diesem Aspekt betrachtet, wirken Theodorets Ratschläge an die persischen Mitbrüder in Sachen religiöser Duldung in der Tat etwas wohlfeil. Von dem frühen fünften machen wir nun einen Sprung zum späten sechsten Jahrhundert. Die Lage der Christen im Sasanidenreich39 hatte sich nicht prinzipiell geändert in bezug auf die Duldungspolitik der Großkönige. Diese hing von der außenpolitischen Großwetterlage, besonders den Beziehungen zum Byzantinischen Reich, ab sowie von den persönlichen Vorlieben des Regenten und seiner Haltung zur offiziellen Magierreligion. Das Christentum war und blieb keine religio licita; dennoch hatte es aufgehört, eine Untergrundreligion der Kriegsgefangenen zu sein. Zahlreiche Konvertiten aus der persischen Oberschicht schlossen sich dem neuen Glauben an und mußten den Schritt in ihrem persönlichen Umfeld rechtfertigen. Diesem Anlaß verdankt eine Reihe, z. T. recht erbaulicher Martyrien ihre Entstehung. Auch wenn der Stoff oft recht legendenhaft erscheint und weitgehend ohne historische Genauigkeit auskommt, ist er — wie das Qardâgh-Martyrium zeigt — für die Mentalitätsgeschichte der Sasanidenzeit nicht ohne Belang. In diesem Zusammenhang wäre auch das Behnam-Martyrium40 zu nennen, welches von einem „charmanten Prinzen“ handelt, der mit seiner Schwester Sarah nach allerlei Irrungen und Wirrungen zum christlichen Glauben findet. Zu einem ganzen Kranz von Martyrien sind die Viten des Pethiôn41 und seiner Gefährten Adûrhôrmîzd42 und Anâhîd zusammengeflochten. Eine detaillierte quellen- und literarkritische Untersuchung verbietet sich hier schon allein aus Platzmangel. Dennoch kann soviel mit ziemlicher Sicherheit festgehalten werden: Ursprünglich wohl einzeln überliefert, gibt es aufgrund Vgl. Bruns, „Beobachtungen,“ 106–112. BHO 177: Bedjan, AMSS II, 397–441. 41 BHO 923/24: Bedjan, AMSS II, 559‒603. 604–631. Das Martyrium wurde herausgegeben von: Corluy, „Historia Sancti Mar Pethion.“ 42 BHO 25: Bedjan, AMSS II, 565–583. 39 40

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biographischer Verflechtungen enge Beziehungen zwischen den einzelnen Überlieferungssträngen, die den Redaktor dazu veranlaßt haben mögen, eine zusammenhängende Erzählung zu komponieren. So ist mit dem Martyrium des Haupthelden Pethiôn wiederum das Bekennertum eines mit dem Christentum sympathisierenden Magiers namens Naihormazd Radh verbunden, welches zu folgender Apologie Anlaß bietet: „Daraufhin antwortete Naihormazd Radh und sprach zu ihm: ‚O guter Großer der Magier, höre, was ich vor dir zu sagen habe, denn sehr groß ist das, was dieser Mann da tut. Wenn nun die Werke, die er tut und vollbringt, aus der Kraft der Dämonen Ahrimans sind, dann ist das schon schwer erträglich, daß Hormizd derart vor der Kraft Ahrimans und der Dämonen schwach wird, daß selbst die Kinder Gottes aus ihren Wohnungen ausziehen. Also wirf bei der Größe deines Wissens einen Blick auf die ganze Awesta, ob Ahriman solches überhaupt tun kann.’“43

Die Akten des Adûrhôrmîzd sind seinerzeit von Theodor Nöldeke44 einer eingehenden philologischen Untersuchung unterzogen worden. Bei seinem Vorgehen ließ er sich indes von einer Hermeneutik des Verdachts leiten: tumbe Mönche hätten als eher mäßige Hagiographen die von ihnen bekämpfte zoroastrische Lehre bewußt entstellt. Nöldekes Darlegung beschränkt sich daher auf rein philologische Fragen, da er der Theologie grundsätzlich ein gewisses Mißtrauen entgegenbringt. In der Tat birgt der Text eine Reihe von Schwierigkeiten, die mit der schlichten Tatsache gegeben sind, daß er einige wenige Pahlavi-Wörter in syrischer Transkription bietet. Dieser Umstand macht ihn allerdings für die Sprachforscher höchst interessant. Gleichwohl handelt es sich bei diesem Sammelmartyrium um einen größeren zusammenhängenden Text, der sich mit bestimmten Aspekten zoroastrischer Lehre im west-

Corluy, Historia, 25, 12–26, 8. Nöldeke, „Syrische Polemik gegen die persische Religion.” Der Text wurde nachgedruckt bei Mariès, Le De Deo d’Eznik de Kołb connu sous le nom de “contre les sectes”, 41–47. 43 44

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lichen Sasanidenreich auseinandersetzt. Mit geringfügigen orthographischen Abweichungen bieten wir Nöldekes Übersetzung: „‚Denn wen habt ihr so unverständig gesehen wie diesen, der etwas Hohes und Erhabenes, das klar und licht wie die Sonne ist, aufgegeben hat und ein beraubter Nazarener geworden ist. Denn aus unserem Abhestâg45 ist deutlich erkannt worden, daß jeder, der in dieser Welt in Glanz und Ehren, auch bei der Auferstehung46 herrlich, geehrt und erhaben ist, und jeder, der in dieser Welt elend und niedrig, auch in jener Welt ebenso elend ist. Denn diese beiden Welten Gêthîh47 und das Paradies sind von Hormizd geschaffen, und wie einer vor dem Großkönig, den Hormizd Chodâi48 zum Pâtachschâh gemacht hat, um [577] in dieser Welt über unser Kischwar49 zu herrschen, Ehre hat, so hat er sie auch im Paradies50 von Hormizd Chodhai.’ Da tat der treffliche Adûrhormizd den Mund auf und sprach zu ihm: ‚Was ist das Leben? Was sind diese vergänglichen Güter, mit denen sich beschäftigt zu haben nach dem Vergehen der Welt keinem mehr hilft? Was habt ihr für eine Lehre, die nützte? Sollen wir Aschoqar, Fraschoqar, Zaroqar und Zurwan51 für Götter halten? Oder den durch Vgl. hierzu Nau, Étude historique. Diese zoroastrische Verkündigung wirkt so, als wäre sie dem Gleichnis vom armen Lazarus und dem reichen Prasser entgegengesetzt. 46 Zur Schreibung des Wortes vgl. Nöldekes Beobachtungen bei Mariès, De Deo, 43, Anm. 4. 47 Zur syrischen Schreibweise vgl. Nöldeke bei Mariès, De Deo, 43, Anm. 5. 48 „Gott, Herr“ wie noch heute im Persischen, ebenso das nachfolgende Pâdhschâh. 49 „Weltteil“. Der persische Großkönig wird damit als Universalherr der bekannten Erde bezeichnet. 50 „Behišt“ für „Paradies“ kommt in diesen Akten häufiger vor. 51 Vgl. hierzu Widengren, Religionen Irans, 214–221; 283–295. Im Hintergrund scheint der mehrfache Aspekt der schöpferischen Zeit zu stehen: sie bringt zur Reife, nutzt ab und verklärt, oder wie Widengren, 287, betont: Aschoqar beherrscht die Konzeption, Fraschoqar die Geburt und Zaroqar den Niedergang des Kosmos, alle drei Aspekte vereint Zur45

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Gebet und Gelübde erlangten Hormizd, dessen Vater für seine Gelübde und Opfer erst Erfolg hatte, nachdem er, ohne es zu wollen, den Satan hervorgebracht, indem er gar nicht damit einverstanden war und nicht wußte, wer sie in ihm gebildet hatte und von wem sie geschaffen waren? So zeigt sich, daß Aschoqar, Fraschoqar und Zaroqar leere Namen und empfindungslose Steine sind, und so zeigt sich auch Zurwan fern von aller Eigenschaft als Gott, da er ja nicht einmal das wußte, was in seinem eigenen Leibe gebildet wurde. Es sieht also nach euren Worten so aus, als ob etwa noch ein anderer Gott da war, dem Zurwan, nach euren Worten opferte und der ohne seinen Willen die Söhne bildete. Oder galt das vielleicht den Naturwesen, die von euch die Angehörigen des Hormizd und Behman genannt werden, den dreißig Göttern und Göttersöhnen, die Gutes und Böses tun? Wen sollen wir also von ihnen ehren oder wem zu gefallen suchen, daß er uns helfe? [578] Oder muß man vielleicht dem Ahriman zu gefallen suchen, der nach euren Worten aus seinen Werken als weise, kundig und hochmächtig erscheint, wie Hormizd als schwach und dumm, da er gar nichts zu schaffen wußte, bis er von Ahrimans Schülern lernte? Denn als er nach euren Worten die Welt erschuf, ließ er sie in Finsternis, bis er von Ahrimans Schülern lernte. Dann erst schuf er das Licht. Als Hormizd dann nur einmal mit seiner Mutter schlief, wurde die Sonne, die so hell ist, geboren, und die Hunde,52 Schweine, Esel und Rinder. Während sie vorher jeden Tag Chwetwodath (Inzest) vollzogen hatten, konnten sie doch nicht die Sonne schaffen und besonders nicht die Rinder, welche die Gerechten sind, wân, der mit diesen umfassenden Dimensionen eine gottgleiche Gestalt annimmt. 52 Die hohe Wertschätzung des Rindes bei den Persern und der Platz des Urstiers in der Schöpfung sind allgemein bekannt; ebenso die Hochachtung des Hundes. Mit den Hütern der Paradiesestore sind wohl die beiden Hunde gemeint, welche nach Vend. 13,9 die Cinvat-Brücke bewachen. Der Ausdruck „die reinen und reinigenden“ klingt sehr zoroastrisch, ist aber vom Verfasser der Akten gewiß ironisch gemeint. Auch die Erschaffung von Schwein und Esel kling leicht mokant.

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Im Anschluß an Nöldeke ist unser Text mehrfach untersucht worden, zunächst von Mariès, sodann auch von Zaehner 56 und zuletzt von Asmussen.57 So kann man mit gutem Grund zu dem Schluß kommen, daß der Verfasser des Martyriums die verhaßte Religion der Magier nicht nur oberflächlich gekannt hat. Bei den engen Kontakten zwischen den Angehörigen der verschiedenen

Was es mit dem Frosch auf sich hat, ist nicht ganz klar. Nöldeke vermutet hier eine „persische Schulmythe“; an der ahrimanischen Herkunft dieses Wesens besteht indes kein Zweifel. 54 Mit Nöldeke ist chšnûman („Besänftigung“, „Versöhnung“) zu lesen; es handelt sich wohl um einen Sühneritus. 55 Nöldeke, zit. bei Maries, De Deo 43–47; syr. Text bei Bedjan, AMSS II, 576–579. 56 Zaehner, Zurvan, 434–37; s. auch S. 64–65, 151, 154f. 57 Vgl. Asmussen, „Das Christentum in Iran und sein Verhältnis zum Zoroastrismus”, hier: 11f. 53

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Religionen und der nicht geringen Zahl von Konvertiten aus dem Zoroastrismus erscheint dies keinesfalls verwunderlich.

THE LAST YEARS OF YAZDGIRD I AND THE CHRISTIANS GEOFFREY HERMAN1 This article re-examines the evidence for anti-Christian persecution in early fifth century CE Mesopotamia. It concerns the Sasanian king, Yazdgird I, whose treatment of Christians allegedly underwent a reversal in the course of his reign. Comparing sources from the Greek ecclesiastical historiography with Syriac martyrdom accounts and other sources it questions whether such persecution took place. It argues that two conflicting narratives exist. The persecution narrative probably stems from the Roman Empire, but is less credible. The emergence of such accounts should therefore be sought in the Roman Christian discourse on active anti-pagan aggression rather than in the Sasanian Empire.

THEODORET AND SOCRATES The 21, or 22 year long reign of the early fifth century Sasanian monarch, Yazdgird I is an enigma.2 While most of it is acknowlA version of this paper was read at the annual meeting of The Society of Biblical Literature in New Orleans on 23rd November, 2009. An earlier version was read in Geneva in July, 2009. I would like to thank Daniel Barbu, of Geneva University for his comments. Research for this paper was conducted in the course of a post-doctoral fellowship at the University of Geneva, supported by a grant from the Foundation for Interreligious and Intercultural Research and Dialogue through the generosity of the Levant Foundation and the Marc Rich Foundation for Education, Culture and Welfare. 2 On the length of Yazdgird’s reign the sources disagree. The Chronicle of Seert gives 21 years and 9 months [332]. Agapius has 21 years; Eu1

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edged as an era of peace between Rome and Persia, and as a period of royal benevolence towards both Jewish and Christian subjects, Yazdgird is usually said to have changed his course and cruelly persecuted Christians at the very end of his reign.3 In this paper I wish to review the sources on this period. Finding problems that have been overlooked, I shall contest this portrayal of Yazdgird and suggest alternative ways to explain the discrepancy between the diverse sources on this period. The Christian sources on Yazdgird, as Averil Cameron succinctly remarks, “praise him to the skies”.4 Yazdgird is acclaimed for legitimating Christianity after a long period when the status of Christianity remained uncertain. A synod gathered in the year 410 CE in the royal capital, under royal auspices, to organize the formal centralization of the Persian Christian community. The detailed synod proceedings are altogether ecstatic about the event.5 The record of this synod, edited later but probably based on a contemporary source, paints a portrait of excitement, hope, achievement and pride. The official recognition of Christianity received an endorsement in a second synod held in 420 CE, in the 21st year of his reign, under the catholicos, Yahbalaha, and in the presence of the Roman envoy, the bishop of Amid, Acacius.6 The change, we are told, occurred at the very end of his reign. He is said to have suddenly turned upon the Christians and initiated a cruel persecution that was continued after his untimely death by his heir, Warahrān V. The sources, however, are not unanimous about this turn of events. While they all concur that Yazdgird was tychios: 21 years, 5 months, and 18 days; and Bar Shinaya has 21 years. The Abda martyrdom, on the other hand, refers to his 22nd year. Tabari cites both possibilities: 21 and 22 years. 3 The question of whether the persecution occured in the last few years of his reign (see below, concerning the martyrdom of Shabur, and on this basis Nöldeke), the last year (see e.g. the martyrdom of Abda), or just in the last few months of his reign (thus, e.g. Peeters) will be addressed in detail below. 4 Cameron, “Agathias,” 150. 5 Chabot, Synodicon orientale, text, 17–36; trans. 253–275. 6 Chabot, Synodicon orientale, text, 37–42; trans. 276–284.

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very positive towards the Christians for most of the time, and that Warahrān persecuted Christians at the beginning of his reign, persecution by Yazdgird is not supported by all the sources. There are in fact two principle and contradictory accounts of his reign within the early Greek ecclesiastical tradition provided by Theodoret and Socrates. Theodoret, in the penultimate chapter of his Ecclesiastical History, completed in the late 440s,7 after listing some events relating to Antioch in the early fifth century, notes that “at this time Yazdgird began to wage war against the churches” 8 on account of the act of a certain bishop, Abda. This bishop, we learn, spurred by religious zeal, destroyed a Persian fire temple. The king ordered him to rebuild it, but upon his refusal he had him executed and then destroyed all the churches. Cyril of Scythopolis, writing in the mid-sixth century also speaks explicitly of an anti-Christian persecution occurring at the end of Yazdgird’s reign.9 There are a number of ancient Syriac sources that appear to support this version of events, and we shall consider them in detail below. Quite a different account is provided by Theodoret’s slightly earlier contemporary, Socrates, in his own Ecclesiastical History. While summing up the background to the renewal of anti-Christian persecution in the Persian Empire he begins his account with the following: When Yazdgird, the king of the Persians, who in no way persecuted the Christians there died, his son — Vararanes by

It was certainly completed before the death of Theodosius on July 450 CE. See: Chesnut, “The Date of Composition of Theodoretʼs Church History”; Croke, “Dating Theodoretʼs Church History and Commentary on the Psalms”; Lee, “Dating a Fifth Century War”; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, 158. 8 Theodoret, HE V, 39: κατὰ τοῦτον τὸν χρόνον ἰσδιγέρδης ό περσῶν βασιλεῦς τὸν κατὰ τῶν ἐκκλησιῶν ἐκίνησε πόλεμον. 9 18.20–19.5. (Cyril of Scythopolis, 14). He claims to have received his information from Aspebetus’ own great grandson, which would distance the informant from the events somewhat. He may perhaps have made use of Theodoret’s account and filled in this detail from there. 7

28th,

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GEOFFREY HERMAN name — received the kingdom in turn. Persuaded by the Magi, he persecuted the Christians harshly, bringing to bear on them various Persian punishments and tortures.10

He continues to explain that this led to the flight of Christians to the Roman Empire. The Roman refusal to turn these fugitives over to the Persians, together with additional Roman grievances was the pretext for the renewal of hostilities between the two empires that had remained in peace for the previous 40 years.11 A few paragraphs earlier he had described the embassy to Yazdgird of the ecclesiastical emissary, Marutha of Mayferkat and the warm relations that ensued between them and between the Persians and the Romans in general. After Marutha, together with “Abda 12 bishop of Persia” are said to have cast out a demon from the Persian king’s son, Yazdgird is said to have almost embraced Christianity and only his death prevented this.13 Eustathius, an early sixth century Byzantine author was already aware that for the later period of Yazdgird’s reign there were two versions — Theodoret and Socrates, and he refrained from choosing between them, 14 and so Evagrius Scholasticus, who borrowed his account from him some decades later.15 Some later anSocr. HE VII. 18. I shall address the concerns of this war only minimally here. For advocacy of internal Byzantine court concerns behind this war see Holum, “Pulcheria’s Crusade”; for emphasis on the Persian side and the influence of Mundhir of Hira, see Shahid, Byzantium and the Arabs, 29; and Schier, “Syriac Evidence”, who emphasizes Persian dynastic instability. One piece of evidence warrants comment: the Roman legal notice recorded in Codex Justinianus (8. 10. 10). It dates to 5th May, 420 CE and organizes defensive measures, apparently against banditry and minor hostile incursions. There is nothing to indicate that it relates to Persian anti-Christian activities but rather suggests harassment of the Roman border communities, and not necessarily by Sasanian forces. Alternatively it may allude to early Roman preparations for war. 12 A variant has Abla. 13 HE VII, 8. 14 Frg 1, FHG IV, 138. 15 Evagr., HE, 1, 19 (28.8–16). 10 11

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thologists, such as Michael the Syrian and Nicephorus Callistus combined and harmonized the two, bringing Socrates’ account first, and ascribing all the persecution appearing in Theodoret’s account to the reign of Warahrān alone.16 Modern historians, however, have been more inclined to follow Theodoret.17 As for Socrates’ account, even though it offers a detailed and arguably logical progression of events, and indeed enjoyed popularity in antiquity, being translated into both Syriac and Armenian, they have viewed it as exceptional and idealic,18 and have believed that the evidence against it is “overwhelming”.19 This is despite the fact that some have found this sudden change in policy difficult to comprehend. 20 It is also despite a broad awareness among scholars of Theodoret’s rather poor reputation for precise chronology and factually reliable information.21 Many historians Chabot, Chronique de Michel le Syrien, French translation, t. II, 15– 18; Syriac text, t. 4: 172–173; Nicephorus Callistus, Eccl. Hist, XIV, ch. 19, PG, 146; 1113–20. See Gentz, Die Kirchengeschichte des Nicephorus Callistus Xanthopulus, 128. 17 See Labourt, Le christianisme, 104–118. Panaino, “La chiesa di persia e l’impero sasanide”, 802; Rist, “Die Verfolgung,” 32–33; Brock, “Christians in the Sasanian Empire,” 5. Although Schrier argues that “the rupture [between Rome and Persia] occurred only after Yazdgird’s death and the accession of Vahram” (“Syriac Evidence,” 77), he does not question the assumption that Yazdgird had already began to persecute his Christian subjects. Daryaee (Sasanian Iran, 60) however, refers to antiChristian persecution “which seems to have begun at the end of Yazdgird I’s reign, or more probably in the beginning of Wahrām’s reign.” Unfortunately he does not explain further. 18 Croke, “Dating Theodoret’s Church History,” 68–69; Van Rompay, “Impetuous Martyrs”; McDonough, “A Second Constantine.” 19 McDonough, “A Second Constantine,” 130. 20 E.g. Widengren, “The Nestorian Church,” 26. Some have sought to diminish the discrepancy by asserting that this persecution did not produce too many martyrs, or that the actions were local. However, the sources for this persecution do not support this conclusion. 21 Croke (“Dating Theodoret’s Church History”, 60) comments that for his objectives “to illustrate the essential virtues and vices of the char16

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have subsequently sought ways to account for this inconsistency in Yazdgird’s policy towards the Christians, often taking the polemical assertions of the sources at face value. Some have accused the Persian Christians of unwise provocation;22 others have blamed an alleged dramatic success in Christian missionary activity amongst the Persian nobility.23 Socrates’ version of the period is, however, by no means exceptional and nor is the evidence against it overwhelming. As for its positive appraisal of Yazdgird, it is in agreement with a number of other sources, most of which are eastern, and many apparently independent of Socrates’ account, and they should not be overlooked or dismissed so quickly. These include: 1) the eighth century Chronicon Pseudo-Dionysianum, which explicitly dates the persecution to the year 732 SE (= Seleucid Era), which was the first year of Warahrān. This source has good things to say about Yazdgird.24 2) Chronica Minora, a Syriac chronicle compiled in the seventh century, which provides evidence of unadulterated praise for Yazdgird by Roman captives who had been recaptured from the Huns by the Persians, and were now living in the region of the capital city.25 acters in his History … to consistently achieve this purpose he was unscrupulous in distorting and disregarding chronology … [61] when confronted with a situation in which Theodoret provides the only source, or a unique version, one is therefore entitled to be suspicious and cautious.” 22 E.g. Christensen, L’Iran, 275: “Les chrétiens de l’Iran ayant perdu, par leur insolence, la bienveillance de Yazdgard I, une nouvelle persécution avait été préparée avant la mort de ce roi.” Further references in Van Rompay, “Impetuous Martyrs,” 364–365. 23 Labourt, Le christianisme 105; Van Rompay, “Impetuous Martyrs?; Rubin, “The Sasanid Monarchy,” 641: “Yazdgard I had been favourably disposed towards Christians … but energetic Christian missionary activity seems eventually to have forced him to permit persecution.” McDonough (“A Second Constantine”) lately addressed what he sees as the denial of acknowledgment of a change in Yazdgird in later Christian sources. 24 Chabot, Chronicon Pseudo-Dionysianum, 193. It is a very detailed chronicle, having something to say for each year in this period. 25 Chronica Minora, I, (ed. I Guidi), CSCO 1, Scr. Syri. 1, Louvain, ܿ ‫ܟܖܣܛܝܢܐ‬ ܿ ‫ܝܙܕܓܖ‬ ܿ ܿ ‫ܘܥܠ ܩܘܒܠ ܛܝܒܘܬܐ ܕܡܠܟܐ ܛܒܐ‬ 1960, 137: ‫ܘܒܖܝܟܐ‬ ‫ܘܡܖܚܡܢܐ‬

THE LAST YEARS OF YAZDGIRD I

73

3) A sixth century eastern Syriac work on the history and martyrs of Karka de-Beth Slokh, which omits mention of any persecution under Yazdgird I even as it elaborates on some other major periods of Persian anti-Christian persecution. 26 4) The eleventh century world chronicle by Elias bar Shinaya which notes the year 732 SE as the year of Warahrān’s ascension to the throne, and 733 SE as the year of the martyrdom of Jacob Intercisus.27 5) The late sixth century Armenian Life of Marutha of Mayferkat, which refers to Kawād being good to the Christians on account of the benevolence of his “grandfather” Yazdgird.28 6) The tenth century Melkite writers, Agapius and Eutychios who know the pro-Christian Marutha traditions concerning Yazdgird and also the Persian depiction of

ܿ ̈ ܿ ܿ ܿ ܿ ‫ܫܦܝܖܬܐ‬ ‫ܝܬܝܖ ܡܢ ܩܕܡܝܬܐ ܘܟܠ ̈ܝܘܡܘܗܝ‬ ‫ܬܫܦܖ‬ ‫ܘܐܚܖܝܬܐ‬ ‫ܠܒܘܖܟܬܐ‬ ‫ܕܕܘܟܖܢܐ ܢܗܘܐ‬ ̈ ̈ ‫ܥܒܕ ܥܠ ܡܣܟܢܐ ܘܒܝܫܐ‬. It appears to be completely independent of any of

the other sources. 26 Bedjan, AMS II, 507–535. Whether it mentions the persecution of Warahrān V depends, perhaps, on how we understand the statement therein which relates that Aqabalaha healed the daughter of ‘Bahram the son of Shapur’ (516). The only historically known king called Bahram who is a son of Shapur, is Warahrān I, which is too far off. However, Tabari calls Warahrān IV the son of Shapur (Nöldeke, Geschichte, 71). As a result of this act of healing it says there that with this he persuaded the king “not to uproot churches and those that were uprooted to be rebuilt”. However, this bishop was present at the synods of 410 CE and 424 CE, and so would have been a contemporary of Warahrān V, as well, which would have him active between 25–36 years after Warahrān IV. The latter was not known for anti-Christian persecution. 27 Eliae metropolitae Nisibeni, 112. Bar Shinaya used many sources for his world chronicle, including a Syriac translation of Socrates. 28 It was translated from a Syriac original which cannot have been composed much before the end of the sixth century but also probably before the Persian devastation of the region of Martyropolis in the 580s– 90s. See Marcus, “The Armenian Life of Marutha,” 54; Fiey, “Martyropolis syriaque”, 8. Yazdgird was actually not his grandfather.

74

GEOFFREY HERMAN

Yazdgird as an evil oppressor who was killed by a mysterious horse but only state that Waharān persecuted Christians.29 Perhaps the most significant testimony concerns the church synod held between the winter of 419 CE and the spring of 420 CE30 with royal support. It strongly suggests that even at this point in time Ctesiphon maintained good relations with its Christian subjects.31 This would not leave much time for a serious bout of persecution since it took place in the midst of the last year of Yazdgird’s reign. There are other suggestive sources. Procopius views Yazdgird very positively as the paradigm of a good leader. He focuses on the peaceful relations between Rome and Persia and on Yazdgird’s consent to protect the infant Theodosius from pretenders to the

Kitāb al-unwān (see PO, 7, 8, 11, 407). For Eutychios of Alexandria see Das Annalenwerk des Eutychios von Alexandrien, ed. Michael Breydy, Lovanii, 1985, (CSCO, 471–72, Scriptores arabici, t. 44, 92–93, trans. 76– 77. Both tenth century Arabic Christian annalists, Agapius and Eutychios record this Persian perspective, alongside the achievements of Marutha in strengthening Christianity in the Persian Empire. 30 The Persian church synod was held during the 21 st year of the reign of Yazdgird, corresponding with the fifth year of the catholicate of Yahbalaha. Whilst the regal year would have begun on 9 th August, 419 CE, the synod was held in the winter capital of Seleucia-Ctesiphon, and as is stated explicitly in the proceedings, it took place in the presence of the king there (Chabot, Synodicon orientale, 277), placing the synod between the winter of 419 CE and the spring of 420 CE. The next synod, held in 424 CE under Warahrān V mentions earlier and current persecution, but in general terms, and it is not possible to infer from there whether there had been persecution under both Yazdgird and Warahrān. It refers to Yazdgird explicitly as having arrested Isaac (the catholicos) within its discourse on the earlier success of the western powers in extricating them from trouble under the Persians, but this refers to the period prior to the first synod in 410 CE. 31 Cf. Schrier, “Syriac Evidence,” 77: “even in the last year of Yazdgird’s reign Byzantium and Ctesiphon undoubtedly maintained normal, even friendly relations.” 29

THE LAST YEARS OF YAZDGIRD I

75

Byzantine throne.32 Procopius indeed remembered Yazdgird the way he, himself, had wanted to be remembered. The legend on the coins he minted — the only explicit source that provides us with contemporary and unadulterated evidence of Yazdgird’s own intentions — is quite unique among Sasanian coin legends. He had the epithet rāmšahr, “peace of the empire” inscribed upon them. 33 It was only after Yazdgird’s death, Procopius observes, that this peace was breached by the actions of Yazdgird’s son, Warahrān.34 The involvement of Marutha gave birth to legendary accounts of amity between this cleric and the Persian king. These accounts appear to have been popular and must have been in circulation close to the period we are considering since Socrates included them in his account. In no way, however, do they allude to any change in heart by Yazdgird. The adoption accounts are only attested in sources close to a century later,35 but are said by Agathias to be well known and popular. This would certainly fit better with the image of a Persian king who maintained his reputation unsullied among the Christians — at least the Christians of the Roman Empire. The Jewish evidence also indirectly supports such a positive assessment. Yazdgird is one of the few Sasanian kings to be mentioned by name in the Babylonian Talmud. Two exceptional sources portray the leading rabbis of the generation visiting this king in the royal court, trading scriptural verses with him, and enthusiastically reflecting on the reception they received.36 A further piece of evidence, albeit problematic in its details, is nevertheless On this legend see also Agathias, 4.26; Theoph. A.m. 5900 (80, de Boor); Cedren, 334c (586 Bonn); Zon. 13, 22; Michael Syr., 8, 1 (ii, 2 Chabot); Bar Hebr. I, 66 (Walllis-Budge); Chron. Ad. A 1234, 28, and also Daudpota, “The Annals of Hamzah al-Isfahani,” 71–72. On this episode see Sauerbrei, “König Jazdegerd der Sünder”; Cameron, “Agathias on the Sasanians,” 149; Börm, “Prokop und die Perser”, and many others. 33 See Daryaee, “History.” 34 Procopius, Wars, I, ii. Agathias, too, has only praise for Yazdgird (Histories, IV, 26) although for his dependence on Procopius for this period see Cameron, “Agathias”, 148–151. 35 Holum, Theodosian Empresses, 83. 36 B. Zevahim 19a; b. Ketubot 61a–b. 32

76

GEOFFREY HERMAN

highly suggestive. The eighth century Zoroastrian geographical work, Šahrestānīhā ī Ērānšahr, asserts that Yazdgird’s wife, called there Šīšīnduxt, was the daughter of the Jewish Exilarch. And she was further said to be the mother of the next Sasanian monarch, Warahrān.37 The relevance of the Jewish material from the Sasanian Empire is in its tendency, in broad strokes, to align with the Christian material in what relates to religious tolerance. In moments of heightened Zoroastrian radicalism Jews often found themselves, together with other non-Zoroastrian minorities on the receiving end.38 Yet Yazdgird I only has good reports in the Jewish sources. The other side of the coin is the Persian historiographical tradition. In this literature, admittedly not typically given to nuance, the image of Yazdgird is unequivocal and negative.39 Here, reflecting the interests of the Zoroastrian community, he is altogether condemned.40 He is said to have alienated the support of the magi and nobles and oppressed the people. He is dubbed “the sinner”,41 and believed to have been finally punished for his impiety with a wondrous and divinely instigated death.42 After his death there was a struggle for the throne. The nobles opposed the coronation of any of his sons, a fact that not only implicates them in his death but also suggests that they remained hostile to his policy to the end. Šahrestānīhā ī Ērānšahr 47, 53 (Daryaee ed., 15–16, 18). Such is the case with respect to Zoroastrian exhumation. See Herman, “Bury my Coffin Deep!” 39 Tabari, 847–850; Bal‘ami, ed. Bahār, 920–1; Y‘aqubi, I 183. 40 See, e.g. Mujmal al-tawārīkh, ed. M. Š. Bahār, Tehran, n. p. A.H. 1316, 68; Pseudo-Jāhiz, Zeki Pasha, A., Djahiz, le livre de la couronne, Caire, 1914, 163. 41 Tabari, I, 847; Šāh-nāma, VII, 264. 42 Tabari 849, Nöldeke trans, 77; Eutychius, Pococke, II, 78; Firdausi, Mohl, V, 418. Nöldeke surmises that the nobles assassinated him in less than mysterious circumstances, a suspicion supported by Christensen, L’Iran, 268, and Cameron, “Agathias,” 150. Although scholars have connected his condemnation in the Persian sources with his praise in the Christian (and Jewish) ones, the Persian sources, one should note, do not relate even indirectly to his treatment of his non-Zoroastrian subjects, nor connect their criticism of him with that matter. 37 38

THE LAST YEARS OF YAZDGIRD I

77

His son, Warahrān, who did finally succeed in gaining the throne, did so with Arab military support. He achieved this, however, according to this tradition, through befriending both the magi and the nobles in order to consolidate his position. 43 Would not lastminute “penitence”, had it occurred, have found some recognition? In sum, then, there is a thick dossier of historical sources that counters the consensus view. There are, thus, explicit and implicit arguments, in Christian and non-Christian sources that gravitate away from any change of heart by Yazdgird.44 Against this we have Theodoret’s faltering account with all its ambiguities. Indeed, a critical reading of Theodoret, undertaken by the great Bollandist, Paul Peeters, already a century ago, demonstrated very clearly how “l’évèque historien n’avait sur la persecution de Perse que des informations lointaines et inconsistantes, qui n’allaient guère au delà de ce qu’il nous donne pour un résumé.”45 Certainly this would not be the best source on which to base ourselves. It has undoubtedly been the Syriac martyrologies, to which we shall now turn, that have tipped the balance in favour of Theodoret.

SYRIAC SOURCES Eight Syriac works are relevant:46 five describe martyrs under Yazdgird;47 and three concern martyrs under Warahrān. The substance of these sources is as follows.

Tabari 843–850. I am not, of course, suggesting that all these other sources are either historically accurate or beyond reproach. They, too, have their issues. 45 Peeters, “Une Passion arménienne,” 404. This may be contrasted with Van Rompay’s positive judgment concerning the value of Theodoret’s account. 46 An additional Syriac work that condemns Yazdgird I is the Chronicle of Arbel. We find there the following: “In his time there was a persecution, as in the time of Maran Zeka, which was hard for the Christians through the crafty plots of two criminal kings, Jezdegerd and Bahram.” [16. Daniel of Arbela]. The account is very confused, however, and the credibility of the work as a whole has been the focus of much scholarly debate. For a recent discussion on this issue see Jullien, “La Chronique d’Arbèles”. 43 44

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GEOFFREY HERMAN

Narse48 This artfully written narrative tells of Narse’s unintended journey to his martyrdom.49 A priest (‫ )ܩܫܝܫܐ‬named Shapur converts a Zoroastrian, Adurparvah, and builds a church on his estate. This is accomplished however, only after Adurparvah agrees to furnish him with a document of sale for the land on which the church was to be built. An itinerant monk named Narse would visit Shapur, his relative, from time to time. Later, Adurboze, the chief magus asks the king to act against a wave of Persian conversions to Christianity amongst the nobility and freemen. Adurparvah returns to Zoroastrianism and also demands the return of his document. Shapur, however, refuses and flees with the document. The building in dispute is now converted into a fire temple. When Narse next visits he discovers a fire temple in place of the church and extinguishes the fire, throwing the vessels out. He is seized by local Zoroastrians, arrested, and sent to the capital to be interrogated by Adurboze. There he is kept for nine months until the king moves to the winter capital. He is now placed under house arrest with a Christian who deposits 400 zuz as a guarantee against flight. The king sends back an order stipulating that his denial of the accusations against him would enable his release. Otherwise he would have to gather fire from 366 sources and reconstitute the fire temple — or die. He prefers to die.

Ortiz de Urbina, Patrologia Syriaca, listing Persian martyrs sub Iezdegerd I (378–420) [sic!] includes, in addition, S, Abd al-Masih de Singar, who, in fact, is said to have been martyred in the year 390 CE. This account has been published and also exists in Armenian and Arabic versions (AB 5 1887, 5–51; AB 44, 1926, 270–341). But it is, at any rate, quite obviously very late — written under Islam, and reflects back to the time when the Persians ruled and when Jews lived in Singar as the distant past. 48 Bedjan, AMS IV, 170–180, based on Ms. Or. Oct. 1257 (now in Berlin). A small part of it is preserved in BM Rich 7200, fol. 86. A partial translation is in Hoffmann, Auszüge, 36–38. 49 This was early recognized for its literary qualities. Cf. Labourt, Le christianisme, 108–9: “une des meilleures pièces hagiographiques que contienne la literature syriaque”; Devos, “Hagiographe perse méconnu,” 304. 47

THE LAST YEARS OF YAZDGIRD I

79

Tataq50 Tataq, a devout Christian freeman from Adiabene, was the royal domesticus.51 He longed to follow the monastic lifestyle and left the royal service. The king summoned him to Seleucia where he was held in prison for four months before his final interrogation and execution. This martyrdom concludes with the description of how the brothers — that is, the monks — brought his body, together with his severed head, to the martyrium and laid it there alongside Narse. The Ten martyrs52 These ten martyrs were laymen from Bet Garmai. They were formerly Zoroastrian. They were brought before the magus Mihrshapur53 in the winter palace, and executed for refusing to return to Zoroastrianism. Abda and his companions54 The end of this account is missing. The title refers to the martyrdom of eight Christians, the superior being Abda, the bishop of Hormizd-Ardashir (in Huzestan). It starts by recounting that in the 22nd year of King Yazdgird: The nobles of the king together with the magi, who hold power, told falsehood against our people and said before the king that … in the provinces of your kingdom those Nazoreans … break your commandments and scorn your kingdom, and harm your gods, and despise the fire and water, and the bases 50

Bedjan, AMS IV, 180–184.

51

‫ܕܘܡܣܛܝܩܐ‬.

52 53

Bedjan, AMS IV, 184–188. On the identity and title of this person see Gignoux, “Éléments,”

265. Bedjan, AMS IV, 250–253. BM MS Rich 7200, fol. 105b. A partial translation can be found in Hoffmann, Auszüge, 34–35. This source appears in Armenian too, Vitae et Passiones sanctorum selectee ex Eclogariis, 2 vols, Venetiis, 1874, I, 1–5. See Peeters, “Une passion arménienne” for discussion and a Latin translation. 54

80

GEOFFREY HERMAN of the fire temples which we worship they cast down, and in no small way do they despise our law (‫)ܢܡܘܣ‬.

The king is furious. He orders the repression of the Christians, and summons them to his court. Abda and his colleagues, the first to arrive, are brought before him for questioning. Abda, the senior amongst them, denies the charges, but Hasho, a priest zealously [‫ ]ܠܒܫ ܚ ܝܠܗ ܕܐܠܗܐ‬butts in. He is rebuked for his lack of respect but nevertheless allowed to continue. He now lectures the king at length on the subordinate and non-divine nature of fire. Here the fragment ends. Shapur The account of the martyrdom of Shapur is also fragmentary, but here the beginning is missing. He is put to death by Gushnaq,55 who tries to persuade him to deny his religion. This martyr, we are told “was crowned in the month of Adar, in the 18 th year of King Yazdgird.”56 Jacob the Notary He was executed under Warahrān V. He says that Yazdgird turned against the Christians at the end of his days. He tells the king: Your father Yazdgird ruled the kingdom in peace and wellbeing for twenty one years and all his enemies everywhere were subjected and friendly to him. This was because he honoured the Christians, built churches and granted them peace. At the end of his reign, when he turned away from this beneficial policy and became a persecutor of the Christians, spilling the innocent blood of a God-fearing people, you know very well yourself of the extraordinary death he died, and his corpse

55

‫ܔܘܫܢܩ‬.

This account was unpublished and has subsequently been ignored by most scholars. For its publication see now Herman, “The Passion of Shabur.” 56

THE LAST YEARS OF YAZDGIRD I

81

was not brought to burial. You, too, be warned lest when you do the same, you shall come to that result.57

Mihrshapur58 He was a Zoroastrian convert to Christianity. He had been imprisoned for his conversion. Later, in the persecution in the second year of the reign of Warahrān he was re-arrested, and cast into a dark closed pit to die of hunger and thirst. The martyrdom of Peroz This martyrdom has two main sections. The first is a lengthy introduction which alludes, in passing, to the fact that at the end of his reign, Yazdgird undid all the good that he had earlier accomplished for the Christians. The second section concerns the era of Warahrān V.

DEVOS AND THE YAZDGIRD I MARTYRDOMS One of the more important and influential articles on this topic was written by Paul Devos in 1965. He compared four accounts: Narse, Tataq, the 10 martyrs from Bet Garmai, and Jacob the notary; and observed thematic and stylistic parallels between them. The Ten Martyrs text is explicitly attributed to a scribe called Abgar in its colophon. Three of his conclusions are particularly noteworthy and relevant to this paper. 59 Firstly, Devos speaks of an “Abgarian cycle”, claiming that all four had been composed by this scribe. Secondly, he viewed these texts to be utterly contemporary, composed

Bedjan, AMS IV, 196. MS Vatican 161, Bedjan AMS II, 535. 59 Devos, “Hagiographe,” 326–327. Devos’ feeling of having recognized an authentic, eye-witness and thoroughly contemporary piece of testimony, is palpable. He wonders whether the ‘brother’ who offers the martyr a cup of water on his journey to his execution was the author, Abgar, himself. This is, of course, a topos, and it also recurs in the martyrdom of Shapur. 57 58

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GEOFFREY HERMAN

between the years 421–424 CE.60 Finally, he claimed that this ‘cycle’ distinguishes between two periods of persecution: that of Yazdgird I is called the ‘great persecution’, as distinct from that of Warahrān V. The three accounts which concern those martyred under Yazdgird I were composed after the second persecution had already begun, whereas that of Jacob the notary was composed a little later, after peace negotiations had commenced with Theodosius in 422 CE, as suggested by the change in tone. There are, however, reasons to question whether all four accounts were written by the same hand. Jacob the Notary, for instance, seems to reflect a non-Sasanian or partisan provenance. We read there that Jacob “was strong and firm in his faith since his family was from the descendants of the Romans”.61 The extent and quality of the knowledge on the Zoroastrians differs when comparing Jacob the Notary’s account to the Narse account. Contrast Narse’s reference to the collection of fire from 366 sources, a parody on an authentic, but little known Zoroastrian ritual,62 to Jacob the Notary’s comical scene towards the end of his account. He has the Christian “brothers” dress up as magi, and join the soldiers guarding the corpse, telling them that they were sent there by the hyparch to ensure that the corpse is eaten by the birds and not by the dogs.63 Jacob the Notary states explicitly that Yazdgird changed at the very end. Jacob’s warning to Warahrān is of special interest. He reminds the king of the wondrous death which Yazdgird died, and that his corpse was never brought to burial.64 He warns the king that the same thing might happen to him. This is, of course, nothThis conclusion is accepted by a number of scholars. See, e.g. McDonough, “A second Constantine,” 130–131. 61 Bedjan, AMS IV, 192. 62 See Modi, The Ceremonies and Customs of the Parsees, 200–226, for details and references. 63 These Zoroastrian practices appear to have been known to Greek authors. See De Jong, Traditions of the Magi, 432, 440–444. For the Christian evidence see Herman, “Bury my Coffin Deep,” 37–41. 64 This, too, is a sign of distance from the Zoroastrian burial practice, cf. Herman, “Bury my coffin deep”, 34–36. 60

THE LAST YEARS OF YAZDGIRD I

83

ing short of a prophecy — in the style of vaticinium ex eventu. Although Yazdgird is said in the Persian traditions to have died in a mysterious way, nothing is heard about the disappearance of his corpse. Now precisely such a tradition does exist concerning Warahrān. Warahrān’s death, according to some Persian traditions, was in the course of a hunt in which he vanished. Tabari, for instance, relates in detail the legend that he fell into a pit whilst chasing onagers and recounts the efforts undertaken in vain by his mother to retrieve his body. 65 His body, however, was never to be found. Now the author of this piece seems to have compounded the death scenarios of Yazdgird and Warahrān. Yazdgird dies as a punishment for impiety; Warahrān’s corpse disappears. And yet there is nothing to connect these death accounts to anti-Christian persecution. The accounts on Yazdgird’s mysterious death are according to the Persian traditions which had a distinctively Zoroastrian mythological flavor.66 This author, then, has essentially absorbed the Zoroastrian understanding of his divine punishment for his oppression of them, but given it a Christian interpretation in the style of de mortibus persecutorum. If the author is indeed reading Persian legends into his account this certainly raises problems with Devos’ assumptions about this martyrdom text being practically contemporary with the events.67 Warahrān died in 438 CE, which is, of course, the earliest hypothetical date of composition. In fact, its dependence on a Persian legendary historiographical element raises a whole new set of questions concerning its dating and authenticity, while, at the same

Tabari 865. This story is also found in al-Yaqubi, Ta’rikh, I, 184; al-Masudi, Muruj, II, #612, and in detail in al-Dīnavarī, al-Akhbār al-tiwāl, 58. See too, Nöldeke, Tabari, 103, n. 3, who suggests that this tale originated in an effort to provide an alternative aetiology for his by-name, Gōr. Later works, such as Nezāmī’s Haft peykar and Amīr-e Kosrow’s Hašt behešt speak of him chasing an onager into a cave and disappearing. Firdowsi, however, says he died in his sleep. 66 Shapur Shahbazi, “The Horse that Killed Yazdagerd ‘the Sinner’.” 67 Devos does not consider whether this could be an ex eventu prophecy for Warahrān. 65

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GEOFFREY HERMAN

time it divulges the intriguing fact of familiarity with this Persian literature in eastern Christian circles. Jewish sources in fact did something comparable. The tenth century gaonic scholar, Sherira Gaon records in his Epistle the tradition found in the “annals” (‫ )ספרי זכרונות‬that Yazdgird II, who persecuted Jews, died when the Jews prayed to be saved from him and a dragon (‫ )תנין‬came and killed him.68 Thus, the Jewish sources, as Israel Lévi proposed over a century ago, transferred the popular (Zoroastrian) death story of Yazdgird I, who was good to the Jews, to Yazdgird II, who was not.69 Devos’ assumption that the sources refer to two distinct periods of persecution is based on the final paragraph in the narrative of Narse. Having described the construction of a grand martyrium under the auspices of Mar Marutha where the martyrs of Shapur II had been laid to rest, and where the corpse of Narse had now been brought, it reads as follows: And when this persecution occurred we removed the martyrs’ bones from where they were placed for fear of the magi that they not uncover them nor treat them disrespectfully …

It then relates that all the martyrs were moved to a new location, where they are now. Devos rightly stressed the contrast between the persecution described in the narrative, itself, and “this persecution” being a subsequent one. However, he identified “this persecution” with the one at the beginning of the reign of Warahrān.70 Such an interpretation, though, is hardly possible or likely. It assumes a period of peace between the (alleged) two persecutions that is not possible in the current reconstruction of events with the limited time frame allotted for Yazdgird’s (alleged) persecution. Lewin, Iggeret Rav Scherira Gaon, 95. This suggests that R. Sherira Gaon uses the term ‫ ספרי זכרונות‬to refer to Gentile historical chronicles. 69 Lévi, “La mort de Yezdegerd.” It has also replaced the horse, a peculiarly Zoroastrian tool of Divine justice with the more neutral dragon. 70 He evoked the beginning of the martyrdom of Peroz that refers explicitly to the exhumation of the dead. Exhumation of the dead was however an on-going concern in the Sasanian era, see Herman, “Bury my Coffin Deep.” 68

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This account, more likely, was composed after or during the next persecution — under Yazdgird II in the middle of the fifth century, if not even later.71 The Abda fragment is curious in a sense since “Abda the bishop of Persia” appears already together with Marutha and Isaac the catholicos in Socrates’ account as in good favour with the king. There was another famous Abda from this period — the founder of the school of Dayr Qunni, a monastery in Mesopotamia.72 Although the existence of this Syriac martyrdom on Abda might seem to confirm Theodoret’s version, it departs from it in places. Against Theodoret’s account, it does not treat the provocation of the destruction of the fire temple as the pretext for the outbreak of persecution but rather relates that a series of events, including the uprooting of multiple fire vessels, have the magi bring Devos, himself, (“Hagiographe,” 313, n. 1) notes that a theme appearing in the account of the 10 martyrs is prominent a century later in the Passion of St. Šīrīn of Karka de-Beth Slokh. Indeed the Narse martyrdom refers to a marzban, an office that features in other Syriac sources only in late fifth or sixth century works such as in the accounts of Mar Ma‘in, Mar Qardagh and Mar Pethion. This later date of composition might correspond well with an interesting detail in this account. It is generally assumed that the chief magi, Adurboze is the same Adhurbozed, mentioned in Pahlavic works and described in them as a mōbedān mōbed. In fact, one Pahlavi work describes him explicitly as the mōbedān mōbed under king Yazdgird. The trouble is that it does not indicate under which of the two relevant Yazdgirds he was the mōbedān mōbed. From the context, some Iranologists have taken the reference to be Yazdgird II (Bulsara, Tafazzoli, Pigulevskaja) and those who have preferred Yazdgird I have not based this conclusion on independent criteria but appear to have been swayed only by the assumption that the Narse martyrdom belongs to the era of Yazdgird I. See Justi, Iranisches Namenbuch, 5; Macuch, Das Sasanidische Rechtsbuch, 232–233; Gignoux, “Éléments,” 258–9. 72 In this monastery, according to the Chronicle of Seert, both Ahai and Yahbalaha resided prior to becoming catholicoi, and one of them is said to have written a vita of this Abda. He evidently died during the reign of Yazdgird I, and before the death of Yahbalaha, if we are to accept the account provided by the Chronicle of Seert. 71

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the king to launch a comprehensive persecution. But it gives the sense of having been composed beyond the borders of the Sasanian Empire. It seems not too familiar with the historical record either. The “magi and nobles” are on the best of terms with the king from the start. Apart from the Persian names of the martyrs — which may be an authentic list — it keeps the description very vague. It speaks about the fire rites in generalities, devoid of any sign of insider knowledge. It uses many Syriac words derived from Greek, such as cheimon, estixso (stoixeion), nomos, hypodiaconus, suggesting that it might have been translated from Greek, or at any rate, composed in a community that was comfortable with Greek. 73 All of this may be contrasted with the Narse narrative with its evocative Zoroastrian references. It is then most probably an artificial literary piece based on some kind of tradition. Thus the recurrence of Abda in both this account and by Theodoret does not confirm the historicity of this event since both are distant and vague. The account of the martyrdom of Mihrshabur need not detain us. It is completely fabulous in its description of the death of the martyr. And yet, if we were to relate to it as in some ways authentic, then it seems to confirm Socrates rather than Theodoret. Mihrshabur was initially arrested for converting from Zoroastrianism because “accusers” had come forth against him. He was not executed for this though, but released. This was not part of a widespread persecution of Christianity but merely the law at work. It was only in the second year of Warahrān, when that persecution began, that he was re-arrested and condemned to death.74 There are additional reasons to suspect the current Yazdgird martyrdom accounts. In the case of Tataq and the 10 martyrs from The Armenian version appears even more distant. I would like to acknowledge the kind and devoted help with this Armenian text proffered by Prof. Valentina Calzolari of the University of Geneva. 74 This text mentions that he was condemned by the same persecutor who had killed Narse and Seboxt. Evidently, the reference is to two well-known martyrs, and the proposition that this is the same Narse in the other account is very appealing. This would place Narse’s martyrdom under Warahrān and not Yazdgird. The account of Narse, as we noted, considers the chief magus involved in his case to be Adurboze. 73

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Bet-Garmai, mention of Yazdgird appears only in the title of the piece, and these accounts do not seem to be aware that the king had formerly been well disposed towards the Christians.75 The latter, in fact, focuses on Mihrshapur as the chief culprit, who is well attested elsewhere as the persecutor under Warahrān and Yazdgird II. Then there is the repetition of names — Adurparvah is the name of the Persian freeman in the Narse account, but a martyr from Bet Garmai. Adurparvah is also the name of a martyr from Tur Bara’in, from the period of Shapur II. 76 Narse of Ray is the hero of the account, but a Narse of Ray appears on the list of attendees at the synod of 420 CE. In the martyrdom of Mihrshapur, under Warahrān, his persecutor is said to have killed “Narse and Seboxt”. That persecutor was not, however, Adurboze, as appears in our Narse account, but Ohrmazdadur. There is reason to suspect the familiarity of the author with the historical reality. Tataq is a domesticus, Jacob is a notarius whilst the chief Zoroastrian persecutor Mihrshapur, is a hyparchos. Labourt hit the nail on the head when he commented, without, it would seem, a hint of irony: “il semble que la cour de Iazdgerd et de Bahrām ait été organisée à la romaine”.77 There also exists a recently published fragment of a martyrdom of a certain Shabur who, we are told at the end, “was crowned in the month of Adar, in the 18th year of king Yazdgird”.78 All the rest, the dialogue and the passion, are fairly typical of the martyrdom genre. This curious fragment does not fit scholars’ assumptions about when this persecution occurred. This text does not appear to have been written within the Sasanian Empire. It contains a Roman-Greek phrase that suggests the Roman Empire — ksestos conditum, “a pint of spiced wine” and its descriptive parts are general and offer nothing of substance to promote either its historicity or the likelihood of Sasanian provenance. This however, is not an arDevos, “Hagiographe,” 306, n. 8. Albeit an improbable date — 318 CE. AMS, II, 1–39. 77 Labourt, Le christianisme, 113, n. 4. Jacob the notary, as mentioned, was deemed firm in his faith since he came from the Roman Empire. 78 See Nöldeke, Geschichte der Perser, 75, n. 3. 75 76

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gument to remove it from the discussion, but, I believe, the reverse is the case. It is symptomatic of the genre, and thereby exemplary in conveying the manner in which some of the martyrdoms may have been composed. In its essence it is artificial or fictional, but nevertheless it contains some authentic data. It is dated to a year in the reign of a Persian king, but the date — and the king — might just be wrong.

THEMES AND ISSUES After a closer look at the sources the argument for Theodoret is considerably weakened. The Syriac martyrologies are not as contemporary as had been assumed. Some play with the details, or seem removed. If both “Jacob the notary” and the “Narse” piece cannot possibly be dated earlier than 438 CE, and Theodoret’s comments were written a decade later, we have a situation whereby the conviction that Yazdgird I persecuted Christianity most likely emerges some 20 or more years after his death. It is the distance between the key sources and the events: chronological, geographical, and political, that I would suggest deserves closer scrutiny when accounting for our data. The main theme of these sources is the destruction of a fire temple,79 and this action, itself, is perhaps the most problematic of all to reconcile with everything else we know about this period. The destruction of a fire temple is certainly a rare event for Persian Christianity but here we are to accept, with the sources, at least two occurrences in a period of unprecedented tolerance. This seems odd if not incomprehensible. The Narse narrative — that is closer to the Sasanian world — is clearly quite embarrassed by the whole affair, and is little short of a closely argued apology and cautionary tale for something that should never have happened, but only occurred through a misunderstanding. It stresses the lack of innate hostility between the kingdom and the Christian subjects, as well as the confidence of the Christians in the value of the law. As such it is essentially a Sasanian piece, and it is presumably respondThis has become for many scholars, accepting all the sources, a “series of attacks” on fire temples, cf. Gaddis, There is no Crime, 196. 79

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ing to an alternative version of the incident that may have been current. I suspect that this pre-existing version was manufactured in the Roman Empire and should therefore be considered in light of the Roman context. In this period, in fact, the question of destroying pagan sanctuaries was very much on the agenda in the Roman Empire. In 435 CE Theodosius had legislated permitting such destruction80 but for a long time it had, and would continue to be, the subject of keen deliberation within the Christian empire. 81 And this, for sure, is the theme of the two extended martyrdom texts. However, Abda, the more distant (Roman?) one, offers a more defiant Christian approach; the Narse narrative a more apologetic position. Now, it has been suggested recently that they reflect the migration of the values of Christian anti-pagan violence from the Roman Empire over to the Sasanian Empire. 82 It might, however, be more of a case of Romans pondering the subject through the example of Persia. Such a response may have arisen in the wake of the change in Sasanian benevolence towards Christians under Warahrān and Yazdgird II.

CONCLUSIONS The consensus regarding the brief period at the end of the reign of Yazdgird needs to be reassessed. The best sources supporting Yazdgird’s alleged persecution were written at least 20 years after his death. Much had changed in this period. It was a new political religious reality. There had been one, or even two wars. Persian tolerance for Christianity had dissipated and people were asking why, how, and who was responsible. It would seem that the view became current — but never dominant — that the change had begun already under Yazdgird I. This view seems to have originated in the Roman Empire, as part of a broader process of introspection. A new narrative was woven that blamed Christian anti-pagan aggression. The emergence of such accounts should therefore be Codex Theodosianus, XVI, 10, 25 — of 14th November, 435 orders the destruction of pagan temples. 81 See Gaddis, There is no Crime. 82 As advocated by Gaddis, There is no Crime, 197–198, n. 180. 80

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sought in the Roman Christian discourse on active anti-pagan aggression rather than in the Sasanian Empire.83

If, as I suspect, Yazdgird did not persecute Christians but only Warahrān, then we must rethink the development of events that led up to the escalation of conflict between Rome and Persia at the beginning of the reign of Warahrān. If, as Holum implies, Rome embarked upon a steady decline towards “crusade” in the period close to 420 CE, was the relationship between Rome’s invasion and Warahrān’s persecution one of cause or effect? 83

TO CONVERT A PERSIAN AND TEACH HIM THE HOLY SCRIPTURES: A ZOROASTRIAN PROSELYTE IN RABBINIC AND SYRIAC CHRISTIAN NARRATIVES REUVEN KIPERWASSER AND SERGE RUZER In the Sasanian Empire, where Zoroastrianism was the religion of the ruling elite, Jews and Christians shared the status of a religious minority. Even if the state’s attitude to them may be generally characterized as one of tolerance, the changing political situation — in view of the conversion of Rome to Christianity and the Christianization of formerly Zoroastrian Armenia — engendered tensions and, sometimes, dramatic shifts in policy. Having the minority-majority issue as its backdrop, this paper presents a comparative analysis of two narratives — one rabbinic (attested in Kohelet Rabbah) and the other, Syriac Christian (The Story of Yeshu‘sabran). Both narratives describe cases of Persians leaving their native tradition and embracing the minority faith — Judaism or Christianity respectively — via study of the characters of the language of the Holy Scripture and, subsequently Scripture itself. The discussion highlights the common traits and the differences in the perception of the Persian cultural model attested in our stories, and corrobo

This is a reworked version — with an added Appendix — of our study “Zoroastrian Proselytes in Rabbinic and Syriac Christian Narratives: Orality-Related Markers of Cultural Identity” which appeared in History of Religions 51.2 (2011): 197–218. We are grateful to Yaakov Elman, Geoffrey Herman, Jeffrey Rubenstein, Dan Shapira and Amram Tropper, who read earlier versions of the article and made many important suggestions.

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REUVEN KIPERWASSER AND SERGE RUZER rates them in light of the evidence provided by other available sources. The polemical strategies of construing the Persian Other and, consequently, of border drawing employed by each tradition with regard to perceived Zoroastrian emphasis on the oral path of learning are outlined. Their bearing on, inter alia, different modes of missionary “reaching out” among Jews and Christians is discussed. In the Appendix, a topos of alphabet-centered basic paideia in Syriac literary tradition is explored.

Recent research has shown an increase in interest in the possibility of actual or indirect links between Babylonian Jewry of the Talmudic period and contemporaneous Syriac Christianity.1 Geographical and cultural affinity, such as the Aramaic (Syriac) language shared by both entities, strongly suggest the possibility of such links and prompt investigation of the boundary-drawing polemical strategies employed by each side.2 The present study, however, relates to a complementary avenue of identity shaping derived from another salient feature shared by Jews, Christians, and, indeed, Manichaeans, of the period and the region — namely, their status as religious minorities within the Sasanian Empire. It thus deals with the somewhat parallel apologetic strategies employed by these two minority groups towards the empire’s dominant Zoroastrian elite. Whereas the attitude of the authorities may in general be characterized as one of tolerance, the changing political situation — i.e., the Christianization of Rome and of formerly Zoroastrian Armenians — engendered tensions and, sometimes, dramatic shifts The spectrum of existing appraisals of these links (from actual influence all the way to the Zeitgeist), the methodological problems involved and possible ways of resolving them have been recently discussed in Becker, “The Comparative Study of ‘Scholasticism’ in Late Antique Mesopotamia.” 2 See, for example, Neusner, Aphrahat and Judaism; Brock, “Jewish Traditions in Syriac Sources”; Visotzky, “Three Syriac Cruxes”; Stemberger, “Contacts between Christian and Jewish Exegesis”; Koltun-Fromm, “A Jewish-Christian Conversation”; eadem, “Aphrahat and the Rabbis”; Naeh, “Freedom and Celibacy”; Kofsky and Ruzer, “Logos, Holy Spirit and Messiah.” 1

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in policy.3 This minority-majority tension provides a backdrop for our investigation which focuses on a comparative analysis of rabbinic and Syriac Christian narratives about Persians 4 leaving their ‘natural’ and dominating tradition in order to embrace the ‘true’ minority faith — Judaism or Christianity.5 It appears that although Zoroastrianism could be perceived as equivalent to paganism, the Persians at that time exercised a considerable attraction for both Jews and Christians as an important ‘Other’. 6 In the discussion that For discussion and further bibliography, see Herman, “Bury my Coffin Deep,” 31–32. 4 Broadly speaking, Persia (or Iran) in Arsacid and Sasanian times was a region lying to the west and the east of the Tigris River, thus including today’s Iraq, Azerbaijan and parts of Afghanistan. The protagonists of the stories discussed below are perceived there as representing Iranian culture/religion. See Elman, “The Other in the Mirror,” Part 1; idem, “The Other in the Mirror,” Part 2. 5 Conversions of Iranians to Judaism and Christianity, as well as of non-Iranians to Zoroastrianism, were duly recorded; see Shaked, “Religion in the Late Sassanian Period,” 107, n. 18. It has been argued that the Jewish communities of Sasanian Babylonia contained a large number of proselytes; see, for example, Bamberger, Proselytism in the Talmudic Period, 306–309. But see Gafni, “Converts and Conversion in Sasanian Babylonia,” who limits Jewish missionary activity in the fourth century mostly to Mahoza (near Ctesiphon). A recent study by Yaakov Elman offers a fresh appraisal of the issue. At any rate, the case of Jewish proselytism discussed below belongs, at least from the point of view of the narrator, to the period preceding fourth and fifth century developments at Mahoza, see Elman, “Other in the Mirror 2,” 30–31. 6 See, for example, the Story of Yeshu‘sabran, below, and the story of the martyrdom of Tarbo (Brock and Ashbrook Harvey, Holy Women of the Syrian Orient, 73–76) discussed in Pigulevskaya, The Culture of Syrians in the Middle Ages, 193‒196, as well as in Bedjan, Histoire de Mar-Jabalaha, 210–223. As for the poignant question of conversions to Zoroastrianism, Gherardo Gnoli delivered a trenchant verdict regarding Mazdeism’s inability to give “a convincing answer to those anxieties, which were fairly common in Iran too, as can be seen by the numerous conversions to Manichaeism and Christianity” (The Idea of Iran, 159, n. 7). Alternatively, 3

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follows we ask, inter alia, whether the Jewish and Christian Syriac stories share the same stereotype of Persian cultural peculiarities and whether they confirm — and to what extent — the portrayal of a Persian provided by other available sources. Our main objective, however, will be to clarify the notions reflected in the narratives in question, of written and oral paths of learning and authority, and the raison d’être for the study of Scripture suggested there. This discussion will, in turn, inform us concerning the strategies for construing the Persian Other employed by the two minority groups.

A PERSIAN OUTSIDER AND TWO JEWISH SAGES The first narrative to be reviewed appears in a relatively late Palestinian midrash Kohelet Rabbah.7 Kohelet Rabbah 7.88 Better a patient spirit than a haughty spirit [Eccl 7:8]. A Persian (‫ )חד פרסי‬came to Rav And said to him, “Teach me the Torah!” He told him, “Say (on this) aleph.” He told him, “Who says that this is aleph? Others would say it is not!” “Say (on that) beth.” He said to him, “Who says that this is beth?” Rav rebuked him and drove him out in anger (‫)גער בו והוציאו בנזיפה‬. He went to Samuel and told him, “Teach me the Torah.” He said to him, “Say (on this) aleph.” He told him, “Who says that this is aleph?” He told him, “Say (on Shaul Shaked argued for Sasanian Mazdaism being a viable religious option (Dualism in Transformation, 2–3). See also Vööbus, History of Asceticism in the Syriac Orient, 1:223–229. 7 On this midrash, see, for example, Grünhut, Kritische Untersuchung des Midrasch Kohelet Rabbah; Wachten, Midrasch-Analyse: Strukturen in Midrasch Qohelet Rabba; Hirshman, Midrash Qohelet Rabbah; Kiperwasser, Midrashim on Kohelet, 43–72 (in Hebrew). 8 For a list of the Kohelet Rabbah manuscripts that have been taken into account, see Kiperwasser, Midrashim on Kohelet, Appendix: The Synopsis of Kohelet Rabbah, 63ff.

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that) beth.” He said to him, “Who says this is beth?” He took hold of his ear and the man exclaimed, “Oh my ear! Oh my ear!” Samuel asked him, “Who says that this is your ear?” He answered, “Everyone knows that this is my ear.” He said to him, “In the same way, everyone knows that this is aleph and that is beth.” The Persian was immediately silenced and accepted that. Hence, better a patient spirit than a haughty spirit (Eccl 7:8). Better is the forbearance that Samuel displayed with the Persian than the impatience that Rav showed towards him, for otherwise the Persian might have returned to his heathenism (‫)חזר הפרסי לסיאורו‬. It is thus about him that Scripture said, “Better a patient spirit than a haughty spirit.”

Discussion This short story is part of a larger section referring to Eccl 7:8, which contains an additional conversion narrative — that of the well-known Aquilas the Proselyte, where the concern is likewise expressed that the proselyte might revert to his earlier religious habits branded as ‘deviation’ (‫ סיאורו‬,‫)סורו‬.9 The text quoted above is somewhat elliptic; one may, however, reasonably suppose that by calling the protagonist Persian the narrator marks him as a potential convert from Zoroastrianism, since both Iranians and Jews seem to have perceived adherence to their religion as tantamount to fealty to their ethnicity.10 But why is the Persian having doubts about the letters, and why do the sages react in so violent a fashion? Moreover, what causes the Persian in the end to accept the This passage had not previously been extensively discussed by scholars, but just when the present article was nearing completion, Marc Hirshman’s volume, The Stabilization of Rabbinic Culture appeared with an up-to-date analysis of the story (101–105) to which we briefly refer below. Though having much in common with Hirshman’s analysis, we differ on some specific points. 10 See Philippe Gignoux’s remarks comparing Jewish and Zoroastrian notions of identity in his Man and Cosmos, 95; Elman, “The Other in the Mirror 2,” 30. 9

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second sage’s teaching? Even if humor was intended, what exactly is the object of the humor? While Kohelet Rabbah is a Palestinian midrash, its final redaction probably took place in the period when Jewish Babylonian traditions, both aggadic and halachic, had begun to spread to Eretz Israel and influence local literary patterns. 11 In this context, it appears to be of importance that the protagonists of our story are two Jewish Babylonian sages, Rav12 and Samuel,13 and one Iranian would-be convert. This particular narrative unit may thus bear witness to the broader phenomenon referred to above: the redactor of Kohelet Rabbah seems to have been familiar enough with traditions brought to the Land of Israel by Babylonian tradents.14 The story about Rav, Samuel and a Persian — this is how both Jews and Christians would call a native Gentile of ‘Babylonia’ — turns out to have a narrative structure similar to that characterizing the Babylonian Talmud’s genre of the conversion story 15 as attested See Kiperwasser, Midrashim on Kohelet, 243–274; idem, “Early and Late in Kohelet Rabbah: A Study in Redaction-Criticism.” 12 Abba Arikha, commonly known as Rav, of the first amoraic generation. See Albeck, Introduction to the Talmud Bavli and Yerushalmi, 170. 13 See Albeck, ibid., 172. 14 On the beginnings of Babylonian influence on Jewish Palestinian circles, see Margoliot, The Differences of Opinion, 3; Safrai, The Missing Century, 54‒55; Safrai and Maeir, “‘An Epistle Came from the West’,” 497–531; Fleischer, “Calendar of Yearly Holidays in a Piyyut by Qilliri,” 253–258 (in Hebrew); Brody, The Geonim of Babylonia, 110–111. 15 This term, common in the study of ancient Christian literature, is applied to stereotypical descriptions of conversions from Judaism or paganism to Christianity, highlighting the contrast between the former stage and the current one, usually emphasized by the metaphor of light and darkness. See Aune, The Westminster Dictionary, 111–116. Cf. Matson, Household Conversion Narratives in Acts. Alternatively, in rabbinic literature we find a significant number of stories in which a former Gentile was converted from his suro — his original gentile religion — to full membership in the Torah-centered community. For the “from darkness to light” metaphor in an early description of “conversion to Judaism,” see Pines, “From Darkness into Great Light,” 3–7, esp. 4. 11

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in b. Shab. 32b and its parallel in Avot de R. Nathan.16 There, having been rebuked by the pedantic sage, Shammai, three daring Gentiles appear before Hillel the Elder, who accepts them as converts. While the primary form of this tradition is preserved in the Babylonian Talmud, where it provides an illustration of the opposition between Shammaitic and Hillelite modes of behavior,17 Avot de R. Nathan preserves its secondary variation engaging an aphorism from the mishnaic treatise Avot.18 We will be dealing with only one of the three conversion episodes featuring in the narrative; its surviving versions read as follows: Avot de R. Natan A1519 The story is told: a certain man once stood before Shammai and said to him: “Master, how many Torahs have you?” “Two,” Shammai said, “one written and one oral.” Said the man: With the written one I trust you, with the oral one, I do not trust you. ( ‫את שבכתב אני מאמין לך את שבעל פה איני מאמין‬ ‫)לך‬.20 Shammai rebuked him and dismissed him with a reproach (‫)גער בו והוציאו בנזיפה‬. He came before Hillel and said to him: “Master, how many Torahs were given?” “Two,” Hillel said, “one written and one oral.” Said the man: “The written one I am prepared to accept, the oral one I am not prepared to accept.” He said to him: “My son, sit down.” He wrote out the alphabet for him and asked him: “What is this?” “It is aleph,’’ Although Avot d. R. Nathan is a midrash of Palestinian provenance, the late date of its composition allows for possible Babylonian influence. See Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 208–222 (in Hebrew). 17 See Rubenstein, Talmudic Stories, 150. 18 See Kister, Studies in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 133. 19 Schechter, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 60; cf. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 158. English translation follows that by Goldin, The Fathers according to Rabbi Nathan, 80. 20 An interesting pun can be observed here: ‫( אני מאמין לך‬ani maamin lekha, “I trust you”) — (eni maamin lekha, “I trust you not”). Hirshman (The Stabilization of Rabbinic Culture, 103) discerns a number of additional paranomastic elements in another rabbinic education-centered story. 16

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REUVEN KIPERWASSER AND SERGE RUZER the man said. Said Hillel: “This is not aleph but beth. What is that?” The man said: “It is beth.” “This is not beth,” said Hillel, but gimmel.” And then he said to him: “How do you know that this is aleph and this beth and this gimmel? Even as you have taken this in good faith, so take the other in good faith (‫קבל עליך‬ ‫)זו באמונה‬.

B. Shabbat 31a21 Our rabbis taught: A certain heathen once came before Shammai and asked him: “How many Torahs have you?” He said: “Two, the written Torah and the oral Torah.” “I believe you with respect to the written, but not with respect to the oral Torah (‫)שבכתב – אני מאמינך; ושבעל פה – איני מאמינך‬. Make me a proselyte on condition that you teach me the written Torah .” He rebuked him and dismissed him with a reproach (‫)גער בו והוציאו בנזיפה‬. When he went before Hillel, he accepted him as a proselyte. On the first day he taught him: Aleph, beth, gimmel daleth; on the following day he reversed the [order of the letters] to him. “But yesterday you did not teach them to me thus!” he protested. “Must you then not rely upon me? Then rely upon me with respect to the oral Torah, too.”

Avot de R. Natan B2922 The story is told of one who came to Shammai the Elder. He asked him: “Rabbi, how many Torahs have been given from heaven?” He said: “One in writing and one orally.” The man said: I only believe you about the one given in writing but I do not believe you about the one given orally (‫אני מאמינך אלא זו‬ ‫)שנתנה בכתב אבל זו שנתנה בפה איני מאמינך‬.” Shammai re-

We rely on the English translation of The Babylonian Talmud edited by R. Dr. Isidore Epstein (London: Soncino Press, 1952), 139–140. 22 Schechter, Aboth de Rabbi Nathan, 61–62 (cf. Becker, Avot de-Rabbi Nathan, 362). The English translation is based on Saldarini, The Fathers according to Rabbi Natan, 174–175, with minor changes. 21

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buked him and sent him away with a reproach. He came before Hillel and asked him: “Rabbi, how many Torahs were given from heaven?” He said: “One in writing and one orally.” The man said: I only believe you about the one given in writing but I do not believe you about the one given orally.” Hillel wrote out the alphabet for him and asked him: “What is this? He said: “Aleph.” What is this?” He said: “Beth.” Hillel asked him: Who proved to you that this is aleph and that is beth? He said: “I accepted it in faith.” Hillel said: Just as you accepted this in faith so you should accept the other in faith (‫א"ל קבלתי‬ ‫ א"ל כשם שקבלת זו עליך באמונה כך תקבל את זו‬,‫כך עלי באמונה‬ ]‫)עליך [באמונה‬. The man said: “Your impatience, Oh Shammai! (almost) made me remove my soul from the life of this world and the life of the world to come, and your patience, Oh, Hillel! Made me worthy to inherit the life of this world and the life of the world to come.

Discussion Unlike in Kohelet Rabbah, the story here is projected to a distant past and, accordingly, supplied with a Palestinian setting with patient/forbearing (anwetan) Hillel and impatient (qapdan) Shammai as the main Jewish protagonists. There is also no indication that the would-be proselyte is a Persian. Still, one may observe substantial structural overlap with the tradition discussed earlier, overlap that seems to point to a shared prototype: A potential convert begins his religious quest with a more pedantic sage and only later, having been rebuked and rejected, approaches the empathic one. It is reasonable that the stereotypical ending also belongs to the inherited traditional strata of the story. While alphabet-centered literacy might have featured prominently already in the prototypical pattern, in the Babylonian Talmud it is idiosyncratically perceived as representing knowledge of the Oral Torah. The latter has been transmitted from one generation to another, as exemplified, inter alia, in the received knowledge of the letters’ form and meaning. Not the outsider but rather the sage himself here expresses doubt in the ‘fixed identity’ of the letters; this seems, however, to have been done for didactic purposes alone. It stands to reason that the prototypical narrative nucleus in question was originally formatted with two prominent third century Babylonian opponents, Rav and Samuel, and was later transposed

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by the editors of the Babylonian Talmud to an ancient Palestinian setting with Hillel and Shammai as the protagonists. The Palestinian Kohelet Rabbah would then reflect here an earlier, Babylonian, stage in the development of the tradition which had ‘migrated’ to Palestine.23 The transformation carried out here by the Babylonian editors, namely, creating a link with much earlier Jewish authoritative figures, is typical of their redactional approach. 24 Moreover, the attribution of a comparatively recent tradition to ‘ancient’ authorities is a common trait of traditional thinking also outside of Jewish culture.25 At the same time, the broader narrative unit providing, in the Babylonian Talmud, the framework for our story remains nonattributed — a feature characteristic of late ‘stammaitic’ redaction.26 Returning to Kohelet Rabbah, the Persian there asks to be taught Torah. Even if the halakhic implications are not spelled out, it would seem to be synonymous with a request for conversion. 27 In accordance with the prototypical pattern, the prospective convert first approaches the pedantic Rav, and only afterwards, having failed, comes to the empathic Samuel. It is illuminating that from the sage’s point of view it is crystal clear that the process of Torah study must begin with a study of the letters which points to a reading-skills based education. The Babylonian Talmud parallel here provides corroborative evidence: Hillel the Elder also starts teaching the fresh convert Torah by instructing him in the Hebrew letters (“When he went before Hillel, he accepted him as a proselyte. For an opposite appraisal, see Hirshman, The Stabilization of Rabbinic Culture, 102. 24 A similar phenomenon is described by Benovitz, Talmud Ha-Igud, 441. An illuminating example of a Palestinian source that preserves a Babylonian tradition concerning Persian culture was analyzed by Rosenthal, “For the Talmudic Dictionary — Talmudica Iranica,” 48–49. 25 See Hezser, “The Codification of Legal Knowledge in Late Antiquity,” 612, 628–629, 633–636. 26 For a recent discussion, see Rubenstein, Creation and Composition, and particularly Rubenstein’s introduction to the volume and the chapter on “Criteria of Stammaitic Intervention in Aggada” (417–440). See also Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud. 27 See Finkelstein, Conversion: Halakhah and Practice, 195–198. 23

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On the first day he taught him: aleph, beth, gimmel, daleth”). In both cases, the sage himself conducts this initial phase of instruction rather than referring the convert to a school or a junior instructor. This method of first teaching even adult beginners the alphabet is a commonplace of the Talmudic narratology, as exemplified by the emphasis on the late start in the story of Rabbi Aqiva’s school training. Aqiva is said to have started his education together with his son, who was just old enough for his first school year. The narrative further describes how “the teacher wrote down the aleph beth for him (Rabbi Aqiva). And he studied it; from aleph to taw, and he learned it.”28 An early witness for this educational method is found in The Infancy Gospel of Thomas (ca 125 CE),29 where an attempt by Joseph at young Jesus’ systematic education begins with teaching him letters, which tellingly puts Jesus and his instructor on a collision course. This motif is attested in Syriac literature, too, such as in the Syriac recension of the same Infancy Gospel;30 it seems that Syriac elementary education did, in fact, start with teaching the letters31 (see Appendix).

See Avot de R. Nathan A 6 (ed. Schechter, 28–29; Goldin, 41). The same motif appears in the pair of Avot de R. Nathan conversion stories mentioned above, see Avot de R. Nathan A 15. Interesting is that Koh. R and b. Shabb. mention “saying the aleph-beth,” whereas Avot de R. Nathan speaks of “writing the aleph-beth” — the former being characteristic of Babylonian terminology; the latter of Palestinian usage. For an elaboration on the pedagogical value of learning the aleph-beth, see b. Shabbat 104a. On learning the alphabet as the initial step in the education of Jewish youth in late antiquity vis-à-vis Hellenistic culture, see Gafni, “On Children’s Education in the Talmudic Era: Tradition and Reality,” 63–78. 29 The Infancy Gospel of Thomas (IGT) 6, 14. For discussion of the surviving manuscripts, see Schneelmelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, 1, 439– 443. Deserving of notice is the proximity between the later rabbinic “Who says that this is aleph? (‫ ”)מן יימר דהוא אלף‬and “What is aleph” (‫)ܡܢܐ ܗܝ ܠܐܦ‬ that appears in the Syriac version of IGT 14. Cf. The Syriac version of The Legend of Ahikar (36). See further in the Appendix. 30 See Budge, The History of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 2:72–73. 31 See Pigulevskaya, The Culture of Syrians in the Middle Ages, 38‒41. 28

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In Kohelet Rabbah, the attempt to teach the Persian the Hebrew letter aleph encountered opposition from the potential convert. He asks a question that could sound rude or ironic but might actually have had something to do with his cultural background. His doubts concerning the lack of certitude with regard to the meaning and/or pronunciation of the letters might have reflected a situation characteristic of his native culture.32 Or alternatively, as one coming from a culture with a strong emphasis on orality, he might have been inclined to focus on the study of word units rather than letters: While the former are crucial for the transmission of a culture’s religious content, the latter are mainly of interest to scribes, who need to properly write contracts. That until the Islamic period Iranians retained strong reservations about putting things into writing is duly attested in their literary sources. Thus one learns from Denkard V 24.13 (ninth century): “The legitimacy of [the] oral tradition is thus in many respects greater than that of writing. And it is logical, for many other reasons as well, to consider the living and oral Word as more essential than the written one.” 33 We shall return to this below. Whatever the case, the intention of the Persian in the story seems clear: If everything you know about your religion is gleaned from a written text, how can you be sure that your understanding is right and not conditioned by the wrong ways of reciting the Holy Writ. The Persian thus aims to clarify a crucial issue: Is the sacral tradition of the Jews based on a trustworthy oral tradition, or do they have to rely only on an unreliable written text?

As is known, Middle Persian employs the Aramaic characters, some of which for certain historical reasons have acquired a number of readings. However, the historical background for this phonetic uncertainty remains disputed; see, for example, Huyse, “Late Sasanian Society,” 144–149. Our insecurity with regard to dating the redaction of Kohelet Rabbah should also not be overlooked. Therefore suggestions regarding the possible phonetic background of the Persian’s doubts remain hypothetical. 33 The citation is according to Huyse, “Late Sasanian Society,” 143. See Cereti, La Letteratura Pahlavi, 41–78. 32

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It is noteworthy that Kohelet Rabbah presents Rav, who, though a native of Babylonia, had spent many years in Palestine, as unprepared to relate to the amazement of the Persian and reacting angrily. On the other hand, Samuel, who seems to have been more proIranian in his cultural inclinations,34 might have properly grasped the nature of the problem. Of course, such a polar representation of the two sages’ attitudes could to a large extent derive from the ongoing rivalry between the two schools they represented. Samuel’s use of a common, albeit mildly violent, method of instruction aims at drawing the student’s attention to the undeniable certainty of his own body. Unlike the external social context, prone to change, the body is intrinsically one’s own and the pain comes from within. 35 Generally, human texts could be furnished with different, and mostly mistaken, meanings through their faulty recitation; even the letters of these texts could be mispronounced and thus attributed a false meaning by an inexperienced stranger. The letters of the holy tongue, however, have meaning immanent to them, 36 and the collective memory kept by generations of scholars is a strong guarantee that the appropriate meaning of the texts, words and letters is sustained — inter alia, everyone actually knows what aleph is. The pain in the ear of the Persian proselyte was intended therefore to illustrate the relation of the Torah letters to the Torah itself — the letters are the organs of the body of Scripture.37 Elman, “Middle Persian Culture,” 174–175. But see Hirshman, The Stabilization of Rabbinic Culture, 103, who perceives Samuel’s argument here as appealing rather to the conventional nature of the language — namely, as all agree that the ear should be called ear, the name of the letter aleph is likewise a matter of general convention. A violent reaction on the part of the instructor is also attested in the Syriac version of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, 14. 36 Weiss, “The Perception of Letters”; idem, “Three Traditions.” 37 See Weiss, “The Perception of Letters,” 106–114. Alternatively, as suggested by Amram Tropper (personal communication), the ear here may be chosen because it is a specific organ used for hearing and, thus, learning. The sage, then, wanted to emphasize that language belongs to the public sphere of common knowledge and not to the personal fancy of an individual. Just as the Persian had once trusted the teachers from 34 35

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In contradistinction to the pattern attested in Avot de R. Nathan A and B, and b. Shab. 31a, the oral Torah motif is not found in Kohelet Rabbah in this context. The letters are rather portrayed here as practical devices, transmitted by the scholarly tradition and tailored to allow for proper and sure comprehension of the written Torah. The traditional knowledge conveyed by the letters is as certain and unmistakable as the perception of one’s body. This may be one more indication of a secondary character of the letters becoming the paradigm of the faithful transmission of the traditional oral Torah-related knowledge as exemplified in the triple tradition above. Furthermore, in none of our sources is a midrashic or symbolic meaning of the letters suggested — in contradistinction to a seemingly old pattern reflected, for example, already in the Infancy Story of Thomas 6, 14, and resurfacing in later rabbinic sources.38 It may be suggested that the rabbinic story attested in Avot de R. Nathan A and B and b. Shab. 31a — ostensibly relating to a move towards conversion — also presupposes partial acceptance of the commandments. In other words, this is what the course of study imposed on the newcomer is supposed to lead to.39 The narrative, however, does not spell out this theme, focusing instead on the learning itself as the only way to become a religious insider. In Avot de R. Nathan this is emphatically linked to the oral tradition, which is elsewhere described as the “religious mystery” (‫מסטורין של‬ ‫)הקב"ה‬.40 It has been argued that in some contexts the sages’ emphasis on orality functioned as an identity marker against Christianity. The latter was perceived as adopting Written Scripture alone41 — namely, presenting its message as (a) Scripture-centered and whom he received his native education, so, too, should he now trust a “native” Hebrew speaker teaching him a new language. 38 See, for example, Eli Yassif’s critical edition The Tales of Ben Sira, 199–202 (in Hebrew). It deserves notice that the Greek of the Infancy Story of Thomas, 6 (not attested in the surviving Syriac version) and Avot de R. Nathan seem to share terminology describing the beginner’s trust (or distrust) in his instructor. 39 See Finkelstein, Conversion: Halakhah and Practice, 195–198. 40 Cf. Tanchuma (Buber ed.) Vayera 6 and Tanchuma, Vayera 5. 41 See discussion in Yuval, “The Orality of Jewish Oral Law.”

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(b) being in conflict with contemporaneous Jewish post-Scriptural oral tradition.42 Our case indicates that the issue of orality functions as an identity marker in polemical literary settings of border drawing, not only between Jews and Christians but also between Jews and other ‘Others.’43 We return to this below, highlighting the difference in the orality-related strategies employed towards Christians and Zoroastrians, respectively. We shall now turn to evidence of a different kind, a Syriac Christian composition entitled the Life of Īšō‛sabran (or Yeshu‛sabran), penned by the Catholicos Īšō‛yahb III in the mid-seventh century.44 Though referring to events that took place a few decades earlier, before the Muslim conquest, the treatise may also have been reacting to the new realities and the demise of Zoroastrian rule. 45 A comparison with the rabbinic narratives is appropriate and holds promise, since (a) as noted above, the relationship between the Syriac Christians of Mesopotamia and the Jews of Babylonia (and to a certain extent of the Land of Israel) was characterized by a closeness of both spoken and written languages, and thus shared linguistic and cultural patterns; (b) we are dealing in both cases with Bible-oriented cultures, which place high estimation on literacy; and (c) both minorities respond to challenges by the dominant Persian See, for example, Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 66–67, 71, 84. It goes without saying that the language of “mystery” employed by Jews in a conversion context might have been influenced by broader religious patterns characteristic of late antiquity. It is instructive, however, that in the rabbinic tradition quoted above this mystery aspect is already fully internalized as a core Jewish motif. Cf. Tropper, “On the Meaning of ‘You set them aside with a reed’,” 9–31, esp. 28–31. 44 Ca. 620 CE. See Chabot, “Histoire de Jésus-Sabran”; Preface and French abstract: 485–502, esp. 501; Jullien, “Parcours à travers l’Histoire d’Išo‘sabran, martyr sous Khosrau II”. See also Chaumont, “Recherches sur le clergé zoroastrien,” 63‒64; Pigulevskaya, The Culture of Syrians in the Middle Ages, 40–41; Greenfield, “Ratin Magosha”; De Jong, Traditions of the Magi, 72–73; Becker, Fear of God and the Beginning of Wisdom, 205–206 and Secunda, “Studying with a Magus,” 151–157; idem, The Iranian Talmud, 43–48. 45 As suggested by Geoffrey Herman (personal communication). 42 43

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culture, perceived as based on orality, by contrasting it to their own salient cultural traits. One should therefore expect the issue of orality to feature prominently in the minority groups’ border-drawing strategies.46 It deserves notice, even if only in passing, that somewhat similarly to what we know about Babylonian Jewry with its academies and the whole conception of religion as an educational system, contemporaneous Syriac Christians seem to have put great emphasis on ‘pedagogical ideology,’ establishing a number of outstanding centers of religious education. Recent research has duly emphasized their perception of Christianity as a form of learning. 47 The interreligious polemic was correspondingly portrayed in terms of a disputation among scholars, for example, at the imperial court of Shapur II (or I)48 or during occasional encounters in the neutral public domain — with each side supposedly representing its own school. Syriac writers tended to emphasize the difference between their school tradition and those of the Greeks, Zoroastrians and others who failed to follow the pattern established in the very beginning (in the heavenly academy) by God himself and later reestablished at various key points in the history of salvation — the schools of Abel, Noah, Abraham and Moses, the steward of the great school of perfect philosophy. 49 According to such a perception, this ideal educational pattern was eventually revived by Jesus and continued by the apostles, the school of Alexandria and so on, until the schools of Edessa and Nisibis.50 In a sense then one may see the story that follows as depicting what happens when a Persian enters a polemically disposed Syriac ‘study space.’ It should be emFor the rabbinic milieu, see, for instance, Elman, “Orality and the Redaction of Babylonian Talmud.” 47 See Becker, Fear of God, 22–31. 48 See Elman, “Middle Persian Culture,” 165–197, esp. 166–168 (following Shaked, “A Persian House of Study.” 49 See Becker, Fear of God, 99; cf. the rabbinic tradition about the academies of Shem and Ever, e.g., Gen. R. 63.10 (Theodor-Albeck eds, 693–4). 50 Cause of the Foundation of the Schools 362.13–367.79, ed. A. Scher (1906); see Becker, Fear of God, 99–100. 46

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phasized, however, that as in the rabbinic stories reviewed above, we are not dealing here with an established ‘academy of learning’ but rather with a private ‘session of study.’51 The Story of my Master Yeshu‘Sabran (‫ܕܡܪܝ‬ ‫)ܝܫܘܥܣܒܪܢ‬52

‫ܬܫܥܝܬܐ‬

At that time, as the blessed Yeshu‘sabran was dwelling at the height of righteous behavior and was walking in his mortal body upon the earth as if in heaven, the thought of martyrdom sprang up in his heart again … He applied the strength of his contemplation to martyrdom for the sake of the Messiah … “I would rather return to the house and the place of contest (‫)ܐܓܘܢܐ‬53 so that if the grace summons me, I will be found ready.” In the preparedness of the strengthened thought, he then hurried down from the solitude of the mountains to the theater of the world (‫)ܠܬܐܛܪܘܢ ܕܥܠܡܐ‬. … he thought that he should devise and put upon himself an invincible armor of the Holy Scriptures’ spiritual iron, the one that would not only catch the arrows (coming) from those who adhere to false worship but would also cause delight to the eyes of contemplation with divine knowledge. Having contemplated that, he approached the very priest who loved him (‫ )ܩܫܝܫܐ ܗܘ ܪܚܡܗ‬and was his teacher, and the priest had a young son, whose name was Yeshu‘zaka. So the blessed (Yeshu‘sabran) asked from him (the priest), saying: “If it seems good to you, oh master, Give me this youth to be my beloved brother and son54 in the capacity of teacher and instructor in 51

See discussion in Becker, “Comparative Study of ‘Scholasticism’,”

95–96. Chabot, “Histoire de Jésus-Sabran,” 523–525. Derived from the Greek ἀγών/ἀγωνία. For discussion of the imagery of contest applied to martyrdom, see, for example, Levinson, “The Athlete of Faith.” 54 The appellation “son” repeatedly used here prompted Becker (Fear of God, 205) to view the passage as indicating a kind of legal adoption of the young instructor by Yeshu‘sabran. The text, however, is not explicit 52 53

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̈ ‫ܕܟܬܒܐ‬ ̈ the divine scriptures (‫ܠܐܗܝܐ‬ ‫)ܒܛܟܣܐ ܕܝܢ ܡܠܦܢܐ ܘܡܬܪܐܢܐ‬.” The priest then answered him most lovingly, saying: “… let him therefore be for you as you requested … your wish is in all ways helpful to the community. Thus have possession of my Yeshu‘zaka as you need.” When the blessed man’s wish was granted, he immediately put the youth to the task of teaching and, when they were together, asked him: What would be right for a person to study first from the Covenant? (‫)ܡܢ ܩܝܡܐ‬. And the youth replied that one ̈ ), then their (proper) should first of all learn the letters (‫ܐܬܘܬܐ‬ vocalization (‫)ܗܓܝܢܗܝܢ‬. After that one should learn psalms (‫ )ܡܙܡܘ̈ܪܐ‬and little by little he would read all the Scriptures ̈ (‫ܟܬܒܐ‬ ‫)ܒܟܠܗܘܢ‬, and after he has been instructed in the Scriptures, he should approach their interpretation (‫ܠܘܬ ܦܘܫܩܐ‬ ‫)ܡܟܝܠ ܕܝܠܗܘܢ ܡܬܩܪܒ‬. But the blessed man said to the youth: “In the meantime, until I finish trying to learn the letters, teach me ten psalms.” He said that because he had been used to grasp orally (by word of mouth) (‫ )ܠܡܠܒܟ ܡܢ ܦܘܡܐ‬retna damgushutha (‫ܪܛܢܐ ܕܡܓܘܫܘܬܐ‬, the mumbling of the magi), as the teaching of Zoroaster is not written down in intelligible charac̈ ). And he tried to convince the youth that ters (‫ܒܐܬܘܬܐ ܕܡܠܝܠܘܬܐ‬ he would rather grasp things orally (‫)ܡܢ ܦܘܡܐ‬. And while trying to take hold of a saying he was laboring vigorously — shaking his head (‫ܡܙܥܙܥ ܩܕܠܗ‬, moving his neck back and forth) in the ̈ manner of the magi (‫ܕܡܓܘܫܐ‬ ‫)ܒܐܣܟܡܐ‬. The youth, however, did not let him do that, saying: “You should not act as the magi do, but rather stay quiet and let only your mouth speak. This way, you are going to grasp many things in a short time.” The two of them came and told the priest about (all) that. And the priest convinced him to learn the letters first, as it is from them that the reading of all the Scriptures will become possible. He became convinced, accepted that and in a few days on this, so the issue is in need of further clarification. There might have existed a Persian perception, according to which the education process should take place within the nuclear family; see Russell, Zoroastrianism in Armenia, 297.

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learned the letters and went over about ten psalms and three or four of the minor prayerful responses. He also (learned) how to arrange all the evening and morning services and frequently fulfilled his prayers with great fervor.

Discussion As in the story in Kohelet Rabbah, the instructor intends to begin with the learning of the letters of the (presumably Syriac) alphabet, whereas the newcomer — a product of a Persian cultural background — is keen on gaining knowledge of the Scriptures by means of oral instruction and memorization. In both the Jewish and Christian narratives, the stranger’s introduction to the study of the Holy Writ clearly marks an initiation of sorts. In Kohelet Rabbah, we are dealing with an undecided Judaisant contemplating the possibility of becoming a member of the rabbinic community. In the Syriac story, the course of study, although disconnected from conversion proper, is supposed to make Yeshu‘sabran fit for the future polemical battle with Zoroastrians and, eventually, martyrdom. As the beginning of the quoted passage indicates, Yeshu‘sabran had not only embraced Christianity earlier but already adopted an ascetic way of life.55 The Syriac narrative thus explicitly presents two distinct phases of the conversion process, with the first one detached from schooling in the Scriptures. In this it is at variance with the rabbinic version which relates to one foundational phase only, Torah study. Correspondingly, the status and role of the initiates in the two narratives differ considerably. The Persian of the midrash is still an outsider who, even further on, having succumbed to Samuel’s body-oriented argument, remains a shadowy figure destined mainly to highlight the vantage points of the sage’s approach. By contrast, Yeshu‘sabran is portrayed as an already accomplished Christian ascetic; moreover, he is in fact the main protagonist of the whole story, the one who is supposed to bring the Christian mission to his former Zoroastrian brethren. That an ascetic, having reached a high level of perfection, should return to the world seems to have 55

See also Chabot, “Histoire de Jésus-Sabran,” 509–517, 521–523.

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been an important topos of Syriac hagiography.56 Unlike that widespread topos, however, Yeshu‘sabran’s mission in the ‘theater of the world’ is not supposed to serve his fellow Christians but to be directed at the Zoroastrian ‘Other.’ Nothing of the kind is expected from the convert of the rabbinic tale, who, as noted, remains a marginal figure. Accordingly, the threatening Zoroastrian setting is vividly present in the Syriac story, whereas in the Jewish account it remains a dim and distant reality hinted at only in the mention of the convert’s possible relapse. Whatever the true scope of Jewish missionary activity among the Persians and the actual number of proselytes recruited,57 it may be cautiously suggested that the above difference reflects to a certain extent — in addition to the obvious difference of the genre between the rabbinic and the Syriac narratives — a difference in the ‘outreach strategies’ employed by the Jewish and Syriac Christian communities, respectively, with the former characterized by a more ‘introverted’ stance.58 The disparity in the protagonists’ status seems to have found its expression also in the measure of estrangement from the normative tradition ascribed to each. In the rabbinic source the would-be proselyte expresses substantial doubts about the reliability of the transmission of the written sacred text; moreover, a concern is voiced that he might return to his ‘former ways.’ In the Syriac story, no such heretical hesitation is ascribed to Yeshu‘sabran, who just naively believes that the oral technique of memorizing will be more effective. This is, in fact, the only point of contention, and a minor one; and the old priest’s intervention — being portrayed in friendlier terms than that of the rabbinic sages — as well as the

An illuminating example is provided by the story of Simeon of Emessa, which, though written in Greek, is of Syrian provenance. See Rydén, Das Leben des heiligen Narren Symeon von Leontios von Neapolis. 57 See Gafni, “Converts and Conversion in Sasanian Babylonia”; Elman, “The Other in the Mirror 2,” 32–33. 58 See Goodman, Mission and Conversion, 129–153. But see Elman, “The Other in the Mirror. Part 2,” where he argues that Judaism, as any other religion functioning in the Sasanian Empire, had to have converts to prove its viability in the public sphere. 56

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outcome of the episode, proves the effectiveness of the literacycentered learning. Yeshu‘sabran, therefore, asked his instructor to recite ten psalms to him and then immediately repeated them loudly while shaking his head back and forth — the custom he had inherited from his Zoroastrian milieu. He was duly reprimanded not to behave in this way but to learn Scripture as a Christian should — by relying on written texts and forgoing wild bodily movements . The narrator defines the above Zoroastrian custom of which he strongly disapproves, as retna damgushutha. It is noteworthy that the same derogatory term, referring to an emphasis on oral instruction and memorization of the text without an effort to comprehend its content, is applied in rabbinic literature — with a clear awareness of its initial Zoroastrian setting — in the context of internal polemic as the mark of lack of a proper education:59 It has been reported, if one has learnt Scripture and Mishnah but did not attend upon rabbinical scholars … R. Aha b. Jacob says he is a magus (magosha = Persian). R. Nahman b. Isaac said: The definition of R. Aha b. Jacob appears the most probable; because there is a popular saying: The magus mumbles (ratin magosha) and knows not what he says; the reciter recites and knows not what he says (‫ תני תנא‬,‫רטין מגושא ולא ידע מאי אמר‬ ‫)ולא ידע מאי אמר‬.

Our Syriac story employs the term retna damgushutha in relation to a peculiar body language Yeshu‘sabran adopts in the process of memorization — forcefully moving his head back and forth — presented here as characteristic of the magi. According to Yeshu‘sabran’s young instructor, this is incompatible with the true Christian way of learning; the human body thus showing itself as the ‘fundamental site of ritualization.’60 This boundary-marking motif is peculiar to the Story of Yeshu‘sabran where it is adduced to other expressions of general aversion toward the Persian oral

See Greenfield, “Ratin Magosha,” 69; Rosenthal, “For the Talmudic Dictionary,” 71–72. 60 Becker, Fear of God, 206. 59

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method of learning, which the Syriac narrative shares with the rabbinic sources.61 The Jewish version of a Persian’s conversion mentions neither the body language of learning nor ‘murmuring.’ Can one surmise that they were not that foreign to a Jewish audience and might even have been shared by both cultures? As for body language among the Jews, we have no clear evidence from the rabbinic literature, but one does note the witness of a relatively early Arabic author, Abū Mansūr al-Tha‘ālibī (eleventh century), according to whom the movements of the Jews at times of learning and prayer were very similar to those represented in our story as Yeshu‘sabran’s inherited Zoroastrian habits. 62 Whatever the case regarding the body language, the folk saying about the ‘murmuring of the magi’ seems to have been quite widespread and was used by rabbis elsewhere for polemically marking the non-verbal language of the Zoroastrian ‘Other.’63 A few additional features of the narrative deserve at least passing notice. First, the Scriptures of Yeshu‘sabran’s curriculum are here called ‘covenant’ (‫ )ܩܝܡܐ‬possibly indicating awareness of the ‘sons/daughters of the covenant’ notion characteristic of early Syriac Christianity64 or, alternatively, pointing to the general Christian usage of Old/New Testament terminology. Second, in contradistinction to the rabbinic narrative, the elderly sage refers Yeshu‘sabran to a junior expert (his son). Compared to the rabbinic pattern, the Syriac story is also distinguished by a strong liturgical emphasis: Prayers central to Christian worship, as well as Psalms, feature as core items on Yeshu‘sabran’s curriculum. This seems to reflect the basic learning practices, also among children, widespread in the Syriac milieu and As exemplified by b. Sotah 22a, where the verbal form of the term is employed (ratin magosha). See Greenfield, “Ratin Magosha.” 62 See Goldziher, “Arabische Äusserungen über Gebräuche der Juden beim Gebet und Studium”. 63 See Greenfield, “Ratin Magosha.” 64 See Griffith, “Monks, ‘Singles’, and the ‘Sons of the Covenant’”; Brock, “Early Syrian Asceticism”. See also Shapira, “Anuš and ‘Uθrâ Revised,” 159–160, n. 29. 61

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differs from the more sophisticated curriculum of Syriac scholastic schools.65 Before embarking on the process of Christian education, Yeshu‘sabran’s prayer praxis was limited to the incessant reciting of the Lord’s Prayer ( ‫ܬܢܝܐ ܓܝܪ ܐܡܝܢܐ ܕܨܠܘܬܐ ܗܝ ܕܡܢ ܡܪܢ ܝܠܦ ܒܟܠ‬ ‫ — ) ܙܒܢ ܠܬܫܒܘܚܬܐ ܕܐܠܗܐ‬the core of his ascetic discipline.66 Now, he memorizes a variety of prayers, which should enable him to conduct all the regular daily services. As for the main part of his curriculum, it focuses exclusively on Scripture (and its necessary interpretation),67 to be studied — seemingly in accordance with a broader practice — in the following order: (consonant) letters of the alphabet, their proper vocalization, then starting with the Psalms, the entire Scripture and, finally, the necessary interpretative traditions.68

ZOROASTRIANS CONSTRUED AS THE OTHER We have related to Jewish and Syriac Christian perceptions of Zoroastrian peculiarities. Zoroastrians, however, also exercised a strong attraction for a broader range of late antique authors who mentioned some of their salient cultural features. For instance, regarding the method of education, Greek authors tell us that Zoroastrian doctrines were still mainly being transmitted orally even

See Pigulevskaya, The Culture of Syrians in the Middle Ages, 39; Budge, The Histories of Rabban Hormizd, 1:116–117. On recitation of psalms in Egyptian monasticism and the tensions surrounding it, see BurtonChristie, The Word in the Desert, 117–128. This pattern also figures prominently in Evagrius of Pontus, whose writings were translated into Syriac and widely read in the monasteries of the East. See Sinkewicz, Evagrius of Pontus: The Greek Ascetic Corpus: Translation, Introduction, and Commentary, xxxii–xxxiv; Becker, The Fear of God, 175. See also Becker, “Comparative Study of ‘Scholasticism’,” 103. 66 On the Christian practice of “incessant prayer,” see BitonAshkelony, “Demons and Prayers.” 67 See Vidas, Tradition and the Formation of the Talmud, 186. 68 It stands to reason that what is meant by our East-Syrian author here is the written corpus of commentaries by Theodore of Mopsuestia, dubbed the Interpreter (‫)ܡܦܫܩܢܐ‬. 65

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toward the end of the Sasanian era.69 This seems to fit the Persian’s attitude both in our rabbinic story and in the vita of Yeshu‘sabran.70 Another illuminating piece of evidence may be gleaned from the Manichaean criticism of Zoroastrians — as reflected in a tenth century tractate in Arabic The Establishment of Proofs for the Prophethood of Our Master Mohammed, penned by a Mutazilite author (80a):71 Mani took up the Avesta (al-abastāq) — this being the book of Zoroaster, the prophet of the Magians, a book that is not in the language of the Persians, nor in any language at all, and nobody knows what it is. It is a mumbling.72 They (the Zoroastrians) recite the words (of the Avesta) without knowing what they mean.73 Mani claimed that he was the Messenger of Light, and he composed for them (things full of) ignorance and said: this is the interpretation (tafsir) of the Avesta. The common people wanted this, and he enjoyed great popularity among them.

One finds here a familiar emphasis on the incomprehensibility or meaninglessness of Zoroastrian (orally transmitted) sacred tradition, with an additional motif of its impenetrable ‘language’ being different from that of the Persians themselves.74 It deserves notice See De Jong, Traditions of the Magi, 446–451. For De Jong (ibid., 72–73), the vita provides “possibly the most illuminating reference to Zoroastrian religious education.” 71 The English quotation is indebted to Shlomo Pines, “The Jewish Christians of the Early Centuries of Christianity According to a New Source. Excursus 1: Two Passages Concerning Mani” in The Collected Works of Shlomo Pines, vol. 4, 277. 72 Zamzama; a term applied to the mode of recitation characteristic of the Zoroastrians (Pines, ibid., n. 13). See Sokoloff, A Syriac Lexicon, 385. 73 Literally: “what it is.” It is unclear whether the Zoroastrians are perceived here as ignorant of the meaning of the words of the Avesta or of the nature of the book itself. The two interpretations, in fact, do not exclude one another (Pines, “The Jewish Christians,” 277, n. 15). 74 According to Pines (“The Jewish Christians,” 279), who discussed the passage, “The reference to the incomprehensibility or meaninglessness 69 70

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that in the opening chapter of the early Manichaean Kephalaia75 the criticism of the unreliable scriptural basis for religious teaching is further applied to Jews and Gentiles. Mani claims here that the ancient prophets of Israel, as well as later Jesus — along with Zarathustra and Buddha — all made the fatal mistake of preaching orally, trusting their disciples to put their message into writing. According to Kephalaia, this caused multiple mistaken statements to find their way into the Jewish and Christian scriptures.76 Corroborating evidence is provided by a fifth-century Armenian author, Eznik of Kolb, who notes in his Refutation of Sects that: “Since (Zoroastrian) religion is not in writing, sometimes they say that and deceive by it, and sometimes they say this, and again mislead fools.”77 James Russell quotes evidence that the practice of exclusively oral transmission continued even among the medieval remnants of a Zoroastrian community dwelling in Armenia.78 The traditions discussed in the present study may be seen as a particular sub-group of those Persian-centered accounts, namely, the conversion/initiation stories. In our sources, as in Mani, Zoroastrians appear in the context of polemical border drawing, which focuses on issues of orality/ literacy. The rest of the distinguishing identity markers usually invoked with respect to the Persians — e.g., table manners or cleansing practices — are present neither in our stories nor in the Mani passage; at least, they are not explicitly employed for polemical self-identification.79

of the language of the Avesta … probably goes back to the Sassanid period, during which Zoroastrianism was a State religion.” 75 For English translation, see Gardner, The Kephalaia of the Teacher. 76 See discussion in Stroumsa, “The Scriptural Movement,” esp. 61– 62. 77 Mariès and Mercier, Eznik de Kolb, De Deo; Arm. text: 472, par. 192. 78 See Russell, Zoroastrianism in Armenia, 297. 79 See Herman, “Table Etiquette and Persian Culture in the Babylonian Talmud.” The banquet episode with Yeshu‘sabran brother’s cutting himself with the knife may, however, be viewed as a residue of such secondary motifs. Cf. Vidas, Tradition and the Formation of the Talmud, 192, who

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The minority polemical outlook reflected in both the Jewish and the Christian variations of the narrative emphasizes the reliance on the Holy Writ as against the dominant oral culture. Each of the two traditions is seemingly unaware of the other’s similar reliance on Scripture. Written culture is perceived by both as the higher one, its priority highlighted by being counterposed to the oral culture of the Persians, which is viewed with condescension if not derision. This is especially emphasized in our Christian source, as well as in Manichaean polemical tracts. In the period when their civilization was still flourishing, the Iranians themselves were naturally inclined to the opposite appraisal, and the idea of the utmost necessity of the written records would appear among them only later. In this sense, the rabbinic approach holds, as it were, a middle ground, voting for a compromise. The priority of ‘oral texts,’ as well as of the tradition’s oral transmission, was already embedded in the collective memory of the rabbinic class, so one cannot expect it to be completely rejected here. In this particular context, however, it is being relegated to a secondary position, whereas pride of place is reserved for the usage and veneration of the canonical written texts.

CONVERSION AND THE STUDY OF SCRIPTURE We have observed that there is at best only a somewhat loose link between the study of Scripture and conversion itself. It is noteworthy that the rabbinic conversion ceremony, as described in b. Yeb. 47a–b,80 is not primarily an initiation ritual; it is concerned neither with the spiritual state of the convert nor with turning him into a member of the Jewish community. More ancient sources seem to indicate that conversion was, rather, perceived as a technical procedure making the newcomer eligible for participation in Jewish ritual practice. An illuminating example is provided by the Mishnah: “Concerning a proselyte who converted on the day before while discussing b. Sotah 22a highlights the practice of recitation as an identifying feature of Persian culture. 80 It is somewhat curious that in the whole corpus of rabbinic literature, this seemingly important topic is discussed only once.

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Pesach, the House of Shammai say: he immerses himself and eats the paschal lamb in the evening. The House of Hillel say: one who separated from his foreskin is as one who left the grave” (m. Pes. 8:8). The procedure of preparing for participation in the ritual thus manages to turn the newcomer into a kind of newborn Jew, but that does not presuppose any ‘declaration of faith.’ Even the conversion procedure outlined later in the Talmud includes neither invoking the name of the God of Israel nor a denial of paganism by the convert. According to Shaye Cohen, the ceremony, apparently the product of the mid-second century CE, was a “vehicle by which the rabbis attempted to regulate and formalize what until then had been an entirely personal and chaotic process.” 81 Rabbis therefore felt the need, at least in some cases, to append a certain ‘organizing component’ that would serve as a meaningful marker of the change in the status of the convert — i.e., becoming a lawful participant in Jewish sacral activities. As for a reconstruction of the conversion procedure in earlier, Second Temple times, the later tannaitic evidence highlights participation in the sacrifice as the crucial marker of the newcomer’s acceptance.82 All available rabbinic sources — both tannaitic and amoraic — agree that in the days of the Temple, converts were required to bring an offering to the altar.83 Cohen argues convincingly that only much later, in post-talmudic times, were some wellknown formal components of the initiation ritual introduced, such as the appearance of a witness before a rabbinical court. 84 One may suppose that with only the rudimentary elements of an established halakhic conversion procedure in place, aggadic-type narratives would develop tailored to provide, as it were, a complementary symbolic replacement. Our rabbinic stories introducing the motif of Torah study may thus be viewed in the context of that search for symbolic replacement. As highlighted above, in the Syriac narrative, too, (and even more explicitly) the study of Scripture does Cohen, “The Rabbinic Conversion Ceremony,” 203. See Porton, The Stranger within Your Gates, 134–139. 83 Ibid. 84 As evidenced in a later post-talmudic tractate Gerim; see Cohen, “Rabbinic Conversion,” 189–191 and 203. 81 82

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not constitute the conversion procedure, itself, but is, rather, a metaphorical confirmation of the truly new religious stance, which is now buttressed as being irreversible.

CONCLUSION Even if the possibility cannot be completely excluded of a literary interdependence of the rabbinic and Syriac traditions under discussion, we are inclined to believe that the evidence points rather to an underlying common topos. This topos might have had its origin in a story of a wonder-child refusing to follow the ordinary course of elementary study; but in our narratives it already functions in the context of religious initiation. The Persian newcomer is portrayed in both Jewish and Christian narratives as one who rejects the ‘trivial’ course of education based on the knowledge of written letters. In both cases, the initiation of the outsider is achieved via a private ‘study session’ rather than through a school-based course of education. The narratives bear witness to the boundary-drawing strategies employed by the two minority groups to define their identity with respect to a dominant culture commonly perceived as founded on orality.85 In this context, the study of Scripture stands out as a shared marker of their self-definition. Along the similarities in portraying the ‘Persian Other,’ corroborated by other available sources, meaningful nuances in appraising the emphasis on oral tradition may be discerned.86 Whereas both Jews and Christians are inclined to present the exclusively oral Zoroastrian culture as ‘lower’, the Analyzing the passage from b. Sotah 22a, Vidas introduced into the discussion an additional internal (!) direction of the polemic — namely, against those within the community of the faithful (here, the Jews but in other contexts also Syrian Christians) who adopted the cultural patterns of the Persians (Vidas, Tradition and the Formation of the Talmud, 192). See note 79 above. It is undoubtedly an interesting avenue of investigation, but the narratives focused upon in the present study do not allude to such an appraisal. 86 For discussion of a different type of conversion stories taking place in a non-Sasanian setting, see, Fernandez-Ardanaz, “La narratio nella letteratura di conversione.” 85

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Jews are less extreme about this, allowing, even in an explicitly polemical context, for a greater measure of interconnection between the written and oral paths of learning — in accordance with their notion of the two Torahs complementing one another. This internal tension present in the Jewish version of the conversion/initiation narrative may be provisionally contextualized within broader cultural trends: a long period of oral composition and transmission of the Babylonian Talmud taking place against the background of a ‘pervasive orality’ characteristic of Babylonia, as contrasted with the greater prevalence of written transmission in the Greco-Roman cultural realm.87 It is of interest that in both rabbinic and Syriac narratives the study of Scripture functions as a marker of the irreversibility of the spiritual/religious transformation. The Syriac story also emphasizes the polemical function of a Scripture-centered education, which is supposed to provide ammunition in disputations with Zoroastrians. This motif is conspicuously absent from the rabbinic narrative — a fact that may reflect the difference in modes of missionary outreach among Jews and Christians. A number of recent studies have highlighted the emphasis on oral tradition as an important identity marker in the late antique Jewish polemic with Christianity.88 Our investigation shows that in a dissimilar context — with Zoroastrians and not Christians as the ‘Other’ — the strategy of identity marking employed by the Jewish side was different.89 Although not completely abandoning orality — elsewhere posited as the true mystery of God! — it stressed inAs suggested in Elman, “Orality and the Redaction of the Babylonian Talmud,” 52–99. See also idem, “Middle Persian Culture,” 176–180; Brody, The Geonim of Babylonia, 156–161; Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, 62–63. The method of the Jerusalem Talmud to arrange material has been discussed in light of wider Roman cultural patterns in Hezser, “The Codification of Legal Knowledge in Late Antiquity,” 583– 584. 88 See, for example, Stroumsa, “The Scriptural Movement,” 61–64; Yuval, “The Orality of Jewish Oral Law.” 89 Regarding the typology of the Other in rabbinic literature, see Hayes, “The ‘Other’ in Rabbinic Literature.” 87

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stead the prime importance of the ability to read the written tradition, an ability based on letter-centered literacy,90 as the distinguishing feature towards what was being perceived as characteristic of Persian culture. The rabbinic conversion narratives discussed in this study thus highlight the relative nature of the stances taken in polemical contexts — even when they pertain to such a core issue as the centrality of the Oral Torah. When interacting with Persian culture, Jewish self-perception focuses on the written nature of its religious heritage, as opposed to when it faces Christianity and embraces the self-image of an orality-oriented tradition. The Syriac initiation narrative, presenting an unabashedly anti-oral stance, provides an instructive backdrop to the mixed strategy employed in the rabbinic variant.

APPENDIX A: MANA HI ALAF (WHAT IS ALAPH?) As noted, the ‘conflict stories’ of acquiring literacy as based on the study of the letters may have been connected to a traditional Aramaic plot of a wonderchild elementary education. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas was mentioned in this context. In this appendix we aim to highlight the Aramaic-Syriac character of the narrative behind the story of Joseph’s attempts at Jesus’ schooling in the Infancy Gospel, which might in turn have stemmed from an even more ancient folklore pattern. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas (IGT) has reached us in a variety of versions, of which the Greek (represented by two recensions designated A and B) and the Syriac are usually seen as the main ones; they both fortunately contain a variety of stories about Jesus attending school. We shall therefore limit our discussion to these two versions. A number of suggestions with regard to the relationship between them have been raised. Whereas Peeters sought to trace them all back to an original Syriac text form, 91 other

See Hirshman’s remark (The Stabilization of Rabbinic Culture, 103) that “this insistence on reading is all the more remarkable if we are to recall that Talmudic culture is self-consciously oral.” 91 See Peeters, Evangiles Apocryphes. 90

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scholars did not see this proposal as tenable.92 All, however, agree about the independent importance of the Syriac version despite the fact that it survives in a late manuscript.93 The following analysis does not solve the general conundrum, but indicates that as far as the narrative unit in question is concerned the Syriac version might have preserved an earlier variant of the tradition. The relevant passages from the Syriac IGT are quoted below: IGT Syriac 6–8 … that he may learn to be fond of children of his years, and may honor old age … and Zaccheus said to Joseph: “I will teach him (Jesus) whatever is proper for him to learn” (‫ܐܢܐ ܡܠܦ‬ ‫)ܠܗ ܡܕܡ ܕܘܐܠ ܠܗ ܠܡܐܠܦ‬. And he made him go into the school (‫ )ܐܠܣܟܘܐܠ‬and upon entering he was silent. But Zaccheus the scribe began to tell him (the letters) from Alaph (‫ܫܪܝ‬ ‫ )ܠܡܐܡܪ ܠܗ ܡܢ ܠܐܦ‬and repeated for him the whole alphabet many times (‫)ܬܢܐ ܗܘܐ ܠܗ ܟܠ ܗܝ ܟܬܝܒܬܐ‬. And he said to him that he should answer and repeat after him; but he was silent. Then the scribe became angry and struck him with his hand upon his head (‫)ܘܡܚ ܝܗܝ ܒܝܕܗ ܥܠ ܪܫܗ‬. And Jesus said: “A smith’s anvil, being beaten, can learn, and it has no feeling; but I am able to say those things which are spoken by you, with knowledge and understanding.” The scribe answered and said: This (child) is something great …”

IGT Syriac 14 And Joseph when he saw that he (Jesus) was clever (‫)ܣܟܘܠܬܢ‬ he wished to teach him the letters (‫ ;)ܕܢܠܦܝܘܗܝ ܣܦܪܐ‬and he brought him into the house of a scribe (‫ )ܠܒܝܬ ܣܦܪܐ‬and the scribe said to him: “Say alaph,” (‫ )ܐܡܪ ܠܐܦ‬and Jesus said it (‫)ܘܐܡܪ ܝܫܘܥ‬. And the scribe next wanted him to say beth, and Jesus said to him: “Tell me first what alaph is (‫)ܡܢܐ ܗܝ ܠܐܦ‬, See the discussion in Schneelmelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, 439–441. 93 See Schneelmelcher, ibid. 92

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REUVEN KIPERWASSER AND SERGE RUZER and then I will tell you concerning beth (‫ܘܗܝܕܝܢ ܥܠ ܒܝܬ ܐܡܪ‬ ‫)ܠܟ‬. And the scribe took him and beat him (‫ ;)ܘܡܚ ܝܗܝ‬and immediately he fell down and died; and Jesus went to his family. 15. But a(nother) scribe said to Joseph: “Hand him over to me, and I will teach him.” And Jesus entered into the scribe’s house (‫)ܠܒܝܬ ܣܦܪܐ‬. And took a scroll (‫ )ܟܪܟܐ‬and was reading not those (things) that were written, but great wonders (‫ܠܘ‬ ̈ ‫ܬܕܡܖܬܐ ̈ܖܒܪܘܬܐ‬ ‫)ܗܠܝܢ ̈ܕܟܬܝܒܢ ܐܐܠ‬.

Judging by the substantial differences in the Syriac variants of the Jesus’ schooling narrative attested in par. 6 (6–8) and pars. 14 and 15 respectively, they might have reflected a number of independent basic traditions. In one of the traditions, Zaccheus, a pedantic teacher, insists on repeatedly reading aloud the whole alphabet from beginning to end and demands from his student to recite it after him. The offending silence of the student causes an outburst of Zaccheus’s anger. He strikes the disciple “with his hand upon his head”, but the latter humbly and patiently teaches his teacher a lesson: one should not apply violent methods to intelligent students. And Zaccheus learns the lesson. In another narrative unit, another teacher who is no less pedantic applies the character-bycharacter method of memorization. This time the student is not silent but instead is actively involved, questioning, already from the second letter, the instructor’s expertise in the subject matter. Similarly to the former pattern, the teacher strikes the student, but this time he is immediately punished by death. We are thus dealing with two variants of a story that features Jesus as a ‘wonder-child’ in which a pedantic teacher — applying different pedagogical methods — either mends his ways or dies. The appearance of this doublet seems to be justified from the compiler’s point of view by differing contexts within the overall narrative of the IGT, in which its two halves are incorporated. A certain artificiality of the incorporating effort itself indicates its urgency. Whereas in the first case the need to teach Jesus proper behavior arises in the wake of his violence to his wards (and Joseph’s violence towards Jesus); the second attempt to teach him the alphabet is explained as provoked by Jesus’ miraculous contribution to his father’s carpenter trade. In our mind, the somewhat uneven integration of these traditions into the Syriac version points to a

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relatively early phase of formation of its literary form from basic oral elements. One may further note that the “(tell me first) what alaph is” seems to have reflected an existing convention between the narrator and his intended audience and thus was in no need of elaboration or explanation despite what may be perceived as its somewhat elliptic character. Whatever the intention of the question, the narrative unit in par. 14 shows no sign of ascribing the letters a symbolic or whatever other sublime meaning. The third story told in par. 15 is invoked in the Infancy Gospel as it now stands to explain Jesus’ refusal to learn the letters in the preceding episode. In our view, however, it seems to have originally represented one more independent narrative tradition where the crux of the conflict is closer to the one underlying the vita of Yeshu‘sabran — namely the tension between text-oriented and oral knowledge. Here, Jesus refuses to follow what seems to be another traditional method of education with the teacher reading verse-byverse from Scripture while the student is supposed to reiterate after him. Instead, the wonder-child suggests a (prophetic?) interpretation of Scripture unearthing its wondrous hidden meanings. It deserves notice that all the above alternative methods of education: memorization of the alphabet letter by letter; memorization of the alphabet as a whole; and verse-by-verse memorization, are also referred to in rabbinic sources.94 As noted, the Greek version is represented by two rescensions, but the version presented below reflects recension A, the fuller one, which contains all three narrative units, attested in the Syriac (meaningful variants in recension B will be relegated to footnotes):95 IGT Greek 6 A man named Zaccheus, a teacher, was standing there and he heard, in part, Jesus saying these things to his father. He was greatly astonished that he said such things, since he was just a See Avot de Rabbi Natan A 6 p. 29 and 8 p. 37 and see and compare Deut. Rabba 8, ed. Lieberman, 115, b. Gittin 70a. See Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, 75–79. 95 See Schneelmelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, 440. 94

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REUVEN KIPERWASSER AND SERGE RUZER child. 2 And after a few days he approached Joseph and said to him, “You have a smart child (παιδίον φρόνιμον ἔχεις) and he has a mind (νοῦν ἔχει). Come, hand him over to me so that he may learn writing (γράμματα). I will give him all understanding with the letters (μετὰ τῶν γραμμάτων πᾶσαν ἐπιστήμην), and teach him to greet all the elders and to honor them as grandfathers and fathers and to love his peers.” 3. He told him all the letters from alpha to omega plainly, with much discussion (μετὰ πολλῆς ἐξετάσεως). But Jesus looked at Zaccheus the teacher and said to him: “You do not know the alpha according to nature (κατὰ φύσιν), how do you teach others beta? You hypocrite! First, if you know it, teach the alpha, then we shall believe you about beta.” Then he began to question the teacher about the first letter and he could not answer him. 4. Many heard as the child said to Zaccheus, “listen, teacher, to the order of the first element (τὴν τοῦ πρώτου στοιχείου τάξιν) and pay attention to this, how it has lines, and a central mark, which goes through the two lines you see, (they) converge, go up, again come to head, become the same three times, subordinate, and hypostatic, isometric … (thus) you know the lines of alpha.”

IGT Greek 14–15 14 When Joseph saw the mind (τὸν νοῦν) and age of the child that he was growing up, he again wished him not to be ignorant of letters (ἄπειρον τῶν γραμμάτων). And he took him and gave him to another teacher (ἑτέρῳ διδασκάλῳ). But the teacher said to Joseph. “First I will teach him Greek, and then Hebrew (τὰ ἑλληνικά ἔπειτα τὰ ἑβραϊκά).”96 For the teacher knew the child’s learning and feared him. Nevertheless

Cf. recension B 7, where the language of learning is still defined as Hebrew, whereas the names of the letters clearly indicate Greek: “Γράψας δὲ ὁ Ζακχαῖος τὴν ἀλφάβητον ἑβραϊστί καὶ λέγει πρὸς αὐτόν Ἄλφα … βῆτα.” 96

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he wrote the alphabet and taught him for many hours, but Jesus did not answer him. 2. Then Jesus said to him, “If you really are a teacher, and you know the letters well, tell me the power of alpha (τοῦ ἄλφα τὴν δύναμιν) and I will tell you that of beta.” The teacher was angered and hit Jesus on the head. The child was hurt and cursed him. Immediately the teacher fainted, falling up on his face. 3. The child returned to the house of Joseph. 15. After some time there was another teacher, a good friend of Joseph. He said to him: “Bring the child to me at school (εἰς τὸ παιδευτήριον) maybe by flattery (μετὰ κολακείας) I can teach him letters.” Joseph said, “If you dare, brother, take him with you.” He took him with fear and much anxiety, but the child went with pleasure. Jesus went boldly into the school and found a book (βιβλίον) lying on the lectern, and taking it, did not read the letters (τὰ γράμματα) in it, but opened his mouth and spoke by the Holy Spirit and taught the Law (πνεύματι ἁγίῳ καὶ ἐδίδασκε τὸν νόμον) to those standing nearby. A great crowd gathered and stood listening to him. They were astonished at the beauty of his teaching and the eloquence of his words, that being a babe he could say such things.

Already in the Greek version of the first narrative one finds what seems to be further elaboration and embellishment reflecting a Greek-speaking philosophically inclined milieu. Jesus is described as a smart boy who ‘has a mind’. A simple repetition of the alphabet is ‘appended’ with ‘much discussion’ and the whole process is presented as aiming at acquiring the ‘understanding of the letters.’ Unlike the Syriac version, the instructor here comes out as much more sophisticated. The Greek author further embellishes the basic story by replacing the parable of the smith’s anvil with the motif of the ‘philosophical’ knowledge of the letters according to their ‘nature’ with Jesus delivering a full-fledged lecture on the topic. The Greek version in par. 14 also presents itself as more developed than its Syriac parallel — with a telling and clearly second-

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ary clarification of the curriculum that includes both Greek 97 and Hebrew. Here, too, Jesus demands from the instructor to tell him about the ‘essence’ of the letters, defined this time as their ‘power’. It is of interest that the Greek editor overlooks the difference between the two methods of schooling apparent in the Syriac narrative — one more possible indication of its secondary character. Secondary embellishments in a similar vein can be easily discerned in the passage cited from par. 15. It should also be noted that unlike the Syriac story with its meaningful difference between the first and the second teachers — with the former painted as one who gets the lesson — the Greek version has already moved forward on the way to creating a stereotyped portrait of all of Jesus’ instructors. We have observed a number of basic alternative patterns related to the initial schooling of Jesus found in the IGT narrative. Their earlier forms attested in the Syriac version seem to have been further developed in the Greek recensions. One may reasonably suppose that the Infancy Gospel here builds upon an earlier stratum of oral Jesus-as-wonder-child stories. An indication, even if indirect, for an ancient folk character of at least some elements of those stories may be discerned in the fable appearing in the Syriac version of The Wisdom of Ahiqar,98 where it is not a young boy but a wolf who is brought to school to be taught the alphabet (8.36): “They made him [the wolf] go into the school house (‫ܘܬܘܒ ܐܥܠܘܗܝ‬ ‫ ;)ܠܒܝܬ ܣܦܪܐ‬the master/teacher (‫ )ܪܒܗ‬said to him: ‘alaph, beth (‫)ܠܐܦ ܒܝܬ‬.’ [But] the wolf said: ‘kid, lamb (‫)ܓܕܝܐ ܦܐܪܐ‬.”’99 It is difficult to decide which pattern of the study, letter-byletter, or the recitation of the whole alphabet from beginning to end, is meant in this tradition by ‫ܠܐܦ ܒܝܬ‬. Whatever the case, the wolf is characteristically reluctant to learn the letters, preferring to Cf. “litteras gentilicias” of the Latin version here (see Tischendorf, Evangelia Apocrypha, 176). 98 A new consensus arising in recent decades sees Aramaic as the original language of the Ahiqar story, see Lindenberger, “Ahiqar”, 481. The wolf-episode, however, is absent from the surviving fragments of the Aramaic text from Elephantine. 99 According to British Museum Add. 7200=S1. See Conybeare, Harris and Lewis, The Story of Ahikar, 127. 97

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focus on the (hidden) content which is really of interest to him. Following Aaron Demsky, we may say that the narrator here shows himself to be aware of the potential of learning the alphabet for popular literacy. In the narrative, it is the wolf that recognizes this potential as handy for constrcting words to designate his extraliterary goals — namely the preferred entries on his meat diet. 100 One may thus tentatively suggest the following genesis of the literary motif in question. In the beginning of the process, certain realities of the traditional schooling patterns, centered on the learning of alphabet, might have been employed for creating didactic fables of the kind found in the Wisdom of Ahiqar and describing an attempt to educate a hapless ‘first-grader’. The further developments would include two distinctive patterns. On the one hand, the letter-centered-education motif was transformed into a litmus test for revealing the protagonist’s sublime knowledge and true powers and in this form integrated into the mirabilia-story about the education of a child of divine origin.101 On the other, it was adjusted by the narrators of the conversion stories, the Syriac Christian and the rabbinic Jewish one, to the education of adult outsiders. The relationship between these two offshoots warrants further investigation.

See Demsky, “School Texts”, 365. In light of surviving Armenian and Arabic versions (see Conybeare et al., The Story of Ahikar, lxxxvi), the original Syriac tradition of the wolf’s response might have referred to the three — not two — first letters of the alphabet, Alaph, Beth and Gamal: ‫( ܐܡܪܐ ܓܕܝܐ ܒܟܪܣܝ‬lamb and goat in my belly). 101 The mythological background of the Jesus infancy stories and comparison to other idealized presentations of children in antiquity is not our task here; this is an interesting topic that has naturally attracted the attention of scholarship. See, for example Aune, “Heracles and Christ”; Thundy, “lntertextuality, Buddhism and the Infancy Gospels.” 100

THE COLOGNE MANI CODEX AND THE LIFE OF ZARATHUSHTRA ALBERT DE JONG Even though Manichaeism presented itself as something new, this novelty remains curiously absent from most studies of this important religion from late antique Mesopotamia. On the contrary: most scholars attempt to locate its origin in a single, earlier, tradition (previously Zoroastrianism, currently Christianity), or resort to the problematic concept of “syncretism” to explain why it does not fit either of these options. This article takes a closer look at the ways in which important Christian and Zoroastrian narratives were used in the construction of a life fit for a prophet. Two generations ago, most scholars believed that Manichaeism belonged primarily to the Iranian religious world,1 even though its praxis encompassed much that Zoroastrians, as far as we know, would have found odious. Renouncing marriage is a sin in Zoroastrianism, and so are fasting and other activities that will cause a person to experience excessive grief or discomfort. Dietary laws are virtually absent from Zoroastrian practice, 2 and the religion cannot really be said to have taken a firm and uncompromising stance against the use of violence between men. 3 What caused Manichaeism to be considered Iranian by earlier scholars was chiefly the The classical statement, building on the works of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule, is Widengren, Mani and Manichaeism. 2 Gignoux, “Dietary Laws”; De Jong, “Animal Sacrifice,” 135–137. 3 On the contrary: the fight against evil, including the fight against evil people, is a duty, and killing evil people or thwarting their designs in other ways is highly praised in the Avesta and the Pahlavi books. 1

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Manichaean myth, which includes many aspects that would find their most natural origin in an Iranian setting. Most modern scholars have abandoned the Iranian interpretation of Manichaeism and now seem to favour an interpretation of that religion as being part of the traditions of Christianity. 4 Again, while some aspects of Manichaean writings and practice would find their most natural explanation from a Christian background, there are others for which such a background is less illuminating. The choice we are presented with, in both cases, remains one that requires almost total commitment to either option. One either believes that Manichaeism is a strange kind of Zoroastrianism, or that it is a strange kind of Christianity. There is hardly any middle ground, and this explains — at least up to a point — the otherwise astonishing reluctance many scholars have shown to accept the serious intentions with which Manichaeism presented itself as a new religion. A brief comparison with Islam, while admittedly hardly original, may perhaps illuminate the point. There has been a long tradition in the European perception of Islam to see it as a bastard off-shoot of Christianity. This tradition begins in the Middle Ages with the invention of the legend that Muhammad was, originally, a Christian.5 It has been with us ever since, to be revived occasionally, but it has always been confronted with massive opposition, on various grounds. Some of these are political and need not bother us at present; others, however, have to do with more serious This interpretation has a long prehistory. The earliest full-fledged expression of it is Burkitt, Religion of the Manichees, followed by Waldschmidt & Lentz, Stellung Jesu. Even before the discovery and publication of the Cologne Mani Codex, the Christian ‘matrix’ of Manichaeism was stressed firmly by Brown, “Diffusion of Manichaeism”; since then, confidence has grown among many researchers that the Christian background of Manichaeism is that religion’s ‘primary’ context. For overviews of recent work, see Bermejo Rubio, “Factores Cristianos en el Maniqueísmo”; Van Oort, “Manichaeism”; Coyle, “Jesus, Mani, and Augustine”; BakerBrian, Manichaeism, all with copious references. For a critique, see De Jong, “Re-Orienting Manichaean Origins”; id. Religies zonder traditie. 5 See, for the context, Tolan, “Anti-Hagiography”; Hotz, Mohammed und seine Lehre. 4

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questions about how to do history. This has taught us that Christianity, Judaism and whatever we can reconstruct of traditional Arabian community religions are preconditions for the rise of Islam on the Arabian peninsula in the seventh century, but that none of them individually, nor all of them combined, can explain the rise of Islam.6 This, I would posit without hesitation, equally applies to Manichaeism, a religion that needs to be understood as a new religion that took shape, or, indeed, was designed, in a particular setting, early Sasanian Babylonia. It was designed by an individual who was fully aware of the fact that the world that surrounded him knew a plurality of competing religions.7 This is why I think we should also reject the temptation of interpreting Manichaeism as a syncretistic religion, at least if one understands by that troubled term something like an unconscious process of acculturation. There are other problems with the concept of ‘syncretism’, chiefly that it falsely suggests that there are religions that are, somehow, pure, which we know is not the case,8 but in this case we are still a long way from fully realizing the importance of the fact that Mani deliberately and explicitly welded elements from the religions he knew, with the important and still unexplained exception of Judaism.9 See now Howard-Johnston, Witnesses to a World Crisis. Evidence for this comes especially from the famous lists of the merits of the Manichaean religion, known from both the western and the eastern Manichaean traditions; see the passage from the Coptic Kephalaia in Gardner & Lieu, Manichaean Texts, 265–268 (using the concept of “churches” to refer to the religions); and the Middle Persian version of (probably) the same text in Klimkeit, Gnosis on the Silk Road, 216–217 (using the concept of dēn, “religion/revelation”). 8 See the balanced discussion in Kraft, “To Mix or not to Mix,” 143–150. 9 This is not to deny that there are Jewish elements in Manichaean texts (see Reeves, Jewish Lore), but in many cases, these Jewish elements will have appeared in these texts because they were also Christian ones; the point made here is that Judaism is nowhere included in the “churches” or “traditions” of the world, nor is Moses to be found in the lists of prophets. 6 7

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Much can be gained, I think, from a comparison with current theories about the origins of the religion of the Mandaeans, which seems to be a case of parallel development — a blend of Zoroastrian, Jewish, Christian and absolutely unique elements — but in this case without the explicit intention of doing so. There surely is some relation here between the coherence and uniformity of several key aspects of Manichaeism as opposed to the state of chaos which Mandaean theology, at least based on Mandaic texts, seems to present.10 This chaos is balanced by a high degree of coherence in the social and ritual domains of the Mandaean religion, aspects that have often been neglected in favour of ever more detailed and bewildering study of Mandaic literature.11 There are, thus, two religions that took shape or originated in Parthian and Sasanian Babylonia. One of them, Manichaeism, quickly grew to be a world religion, conquering the hearts and minds of countless people from Spain to China, but eventually disappeared. The other one, Mandaeism,12 remained confined to its place of origin, small and isolated, but managed to survive to the present, even though its current situation is extremely precarious. Reflection on the rise of these two religions, which I believe to be interconnected, have opened our eyes to the crucial fact that the religious world of Sasanian Babylonia was one of extreme diversity. This state of chaos is immediately evident when one compares Kurt Rudolph’s systematic overview of Mandaean history and Mandaean rituals (Rudolph, Die Mandäer I-II) with his interpretation of Mandaean theology (Rudolph, Kosmogonie). See De Jong, “Peacock,” 309–310, for references to these discussions. 11 The chief exception is Drower, Mandaeans of Iraq. 12 Opinions on the origins of the Mandaeans are notoriously divided, with a large group of scholars advocating an origin of Mandaeism in firstcentury Palestine, followed by a migration of the (proto-)Mandaeans to Mesopotamia, and a smaller number of scholars advocating an origin in Mesopotamia itself. For our purposes, this discussion is less relevant, for all agree that the religion took its current shape in Mesopotamia. See, for competing perspectives, Rudolph, Die Mandäer I; Macuch, “Anfänge der Mandäer”; id., “Origins of the Mandaeans”; Müller-Kessler, “The Mandaeans”; Buckley, Great Stem of Souls, 297–341. 10

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There are several aspects to the study of Sasanian Babylonia that worry me, and before I get to my real subject, I would like to point them out. The first is the total uncertainty we are facing as to who actually lived in the area. Most dramatically, I think, we do not know what to call them. This problem is caused by the fact that most seemingly acceptable terms — Mesopotamians, Babylonians, Assyrians — are already spoken for by much earlier peoples; the same is true, of course, for Aramaeans, but I shall come to that problem in a moment. There are other problems with the terms Syrian and Arab, because we do not know what they actually mean, either in Classical literature or in the epigraphic record. 13 So, out of embarrassment, many scholars use circumlocutions, most often “speakers of Aramaic”, since the epigraphic record suggests that Aramaic was the most widely spoken language. This is at least partly due, of course, to the prevalence of the “epigraphic habit”14 of those who used this language, against which one should maintain the anepigraphic habit of the Iranian inhabitants of the area. At least, then, we have one marker of the supposed majority of the inhabitants of the area: it is language. Since they themselves rarely, if at all, show awareness of the fact that the language they spoke was somehow related to their “identity”, they are only rarely identified as such for long and are more familiar to us in their fragmented state. In this state, they are divided, astonishingly, over a number of religious identities: ‘pagans’, Jews, Christians, Mandaeans, and Manichaeans (with the Zoroastrians excluded as not using the Aramaic language). Here, at least, we are on somewhat firmer ground, even though most of these groups — Manichaeans, Mandaeans and ‘pagans’ —

See, for example, Nöldeke, “ΑΣΣΥΡΙΟΣ ΣΥΡΙΟΣ ΣΥΡΟΣ”; id., “Namen der aramäischen Nation”, for ‘Syrians’ and ‘Aramaeans’, and Millar, Roman Near East, 510–515, for ‘Arabs’ and for a more general discussion of the problems. 14 MacMullen, “Epigraphic Habit”; Meyer, “Explaining the Epigraphic Habit”; the concept is widely used also for the Near Eastern context, especially in Millar’s Roman Near East. 13

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did not use these labels for themselves.15 This is perhaps important to stress, especially if we would want to include the possibility that some of these groups connected their religious identity with something that comes close to nationhood. This would not, obviously, apply to Christians and Manichaeans, but it might and probably did apply to pagans, Jews and Mandaeans. All of this mainly serves to underline the difficulties we are facing in thinking about “identity” in Sasanian Babylonia. It is one thing to claim that these “speakers of Aramaic” were the majority of the population — we do not know, but it is likely — but accompanying this notion is one that is much more dangerous and historically problematic. This is the idea that these speakers of Aramaic were indigenous to the area, supposedly in contrast with the Iranians, who came there as an occupying force, but did not (truly) belong there.16 According to Sheldon Pollock, to whose devastatingly brilliant book on Sanskrit I am very much indebted, “indigenous” means only “that point beyond which we cannot historicize”: In the case of the ‘pagans’ this is obvious, for this category is wholly produced by a Christian view of society and religion; Manichaeans referred to themselves by a variety of terms, most often drawn from the other religions among whom they lived (the church, the religion, see above, n. 7); Mandaeans refer to themselves (in their texts) most often as “souls”, or “chosen ones of righteousness” and similar terms, but these texts (like the Manichaean ones) often show more interest in the inner division of the communities. 16 This point was stressed ad nauseam by scholars like Gilles Quispel and Jacob Neusner in their crusades against taking an Iranian presence in the area into account. See, for example, Quispel, “Mani”; Neusner, “How much Iranian”; id. History of the Jews of Babylonia I, 16; 31. It is also the basis of Peter Brown’s much-acclaimed study, “Diffusion of Manichaeism” (followed by Millar, Roman Near East, 502–503). The genealogy of this type of reasoning (for this particular setting) can be traced to the influential works of George Rawlinson, e.g. Parthia, 35: “[…] they (i.e. the Parthians, A.J.) never to any extent amalgamated with the subject peoples, but continued for centuries an exclusive dominant race, encamped in the countries which they had overrun” (= id. Sixth Oriental Monarchy, 26). 15

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[These] conceptual problems […] comprise a failure to see culture rather as a historical process, but as a unitary, selfsufficient, ever-pregiven thing; a failure to grasp the “indigenous” as anything more than the moment on a timeline prior to the particular transformation one is studying and falsely generalized across history or, better put, as the point prior to which it proves impossible to historicize the acquisition of the cultural trait in question. What the history of transculturation at work in the Sanskrit cosmopolis demonstrates every step of the way, however, is that all culture really is transculture. Indigenism is to the history of culture what creationism is to the history of the cosmos.17

Ironically, of course, in the case of the cultures of Parthian Mesopotamia, we can in fact historicize far beyond the cultural transformations we are studying and it remains true to say that none of the named communities of the area are “indigenous” to it. Contrasting “local” culture with that of the “Parthians”, therefore implies a rejection even of the possibility that the various peoples in the western parts of the Parthian Empire participated in “Parthian culture”. Over the past three years, I have been busy gathering evidence for this Parthian culture in Mesopotamia, and in each and every case I have been taking up — Edessa, Hatra, Armenia, Adiabene, Babylonia itself, Mesene — I faced the same situation: that whenever something looks Greek or Roman, it no longer needs any explanation; simply identifying it is enough. Whenever anything looks neither Greek nor Roman, it is usually hailed as “indigenous” or “local” and only if one is absolutely forced to admit it, it might be Iranian. This is not based on any conspiracy (although in the case of Armenia and of the so-called Assyrian Christians, it is partly a political matter of aligning with the West), but seems to be based on the intellectual and academic backgrounds of most scholars drawn to the area and to the subject. With religious materials, the case is almost the same: something that is manifestly Christian or Jewish is already explained by having been labeled thus; something that is neither is likely “indigenous” unless, again, one can prove 17

Pollock, Language of the Gods, 533.

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beyond any doubt that it might be Iranian. This static and, ultimately, unhistorical view of Parthian and Sasanian Mesopotamia is largely responsible for the problems with the interpretation of the “new” religious identities in the area (Manichaeism and Mandaeism) outlined above. When the Cologne Mani Codex18 was successfully deciphered — in 1969, a truly monumental achievement — its spectacular contents were almost defenseless against the urgent need of students of Manichaeism to decide a number of controversial cases. The publication of the first studies of the Codex had been preceded by an influential article by Peter Brown on the ‘Diffusion of Manichaeism in the Roman Empire’, and the Codex seemed to confirm many of the things Brown had been arguing: that Manichaeism was not Iranian, but “indigenous”, and that it drew its inspiration chiefly from Christianity. The chief defender of an Iranian interpretation of Manichaeism at the time was Geo Widengren, who more than once put his considerable talents to the service of, let us say, erratic theories. Thus the Codex not only came to be seen increasingly as having solved a number of problems, but concomitantly came to be seen, more or less (for the language used is always slippery), as a historical document. The two aspects — its problem-solving qualities and its historical information — are intertwined, of course, and the fact that there appeared to be another source that could confirm both (the Fihrist of al-Nadīm) emboldened some scholars even more into hailing the Codex as the final solution to almost all problems. That required taking some of its passages as giving us more or less historical information — for anything else would threaten its problem-solving capacities. There was a need to see the text as early — even though the physical codex was not — as “indigenous/original” — even though the Greek of the codex was not — and as a text containing historical information on the early stages of Mani’s life and on his immediate background.19 First publication Henrichs & Koenen, “Ein griechischer ManiKodex”; critical edition Koenen & Römer, Kölner Mani-Kodex. 19 The introduction to the text by Gardner and Lieu is a good example: “The belief in an early link between Manichaeism and Mandaeism was seriously challenged by the documentary evidence provided by the Cologne Ma18

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One of the most spectacular developments in this respect was the way in which the appearance of the name of Alchasaios in the text — twice, as a known authority among the Baptists — was used. First of all, the occurrences of a similar name — Alaxsa — on a Parthian fragment20 (without any context) — and al-Hasih in the Fihrist were recorded, which in my opinion should lead to the conclusion that the CMC and al-Nadim basically go back to the same literary authority — an early version of Mani’s life.21 This name quickly led to the similar name of Elchasai whose movement — if there ever was one — had been the subject of occasional academic interest since the publication of a book by Wilhelm Brandt in 1912.22 Brandt saw the movement of Elchasai as a new Jewish religion, calling him a Religionsstifter. That particular interpretation barely survived him and it was only in the nineteen-eighties that two new books about Elchasai appeared, with diametrically opposed conclusions. The first, by Luigi Cirillo,23 proposed to combine all texts we have on Elchasai and his purported followers, more or less uncritically, in order to put as much flesh onto the subject as possible. For Cirillo, therefore, there was something factual about an Elchasaite movement, which he interpreted as a Jewish-Christian Baptist sect, confirmation for whose existence he found in the Cologne Mani Codex. The other book, by Gerard Luttikhuizen,24 reduced the evidence to a series of disparate statements by a small number of heresiographers, with no immediately evident connection between them. Luttikhuizen went further — probably too far — in suggesting that the variety of names of this supposed authority should not immediately be taken to mean that they all

ni Codex […]. This tiny parchment codex contains a biographical account of Mani in Greek compiled from the witness accounts of his earliest disciples.” (Gardner & Lieu, Manichaean Texts, 30; emphasis added, A.J.). 20 Sundermann, Mitteliranische manichäische Texte, 19. 21 As argued in De Jong, “Re-Orienting Manichaean Origins,” 83– 86; and see especially De Blois, “New Light.” 22 Brandt, Elchasai. 23 Cirillo, Elchasai e gli Elchasaiti. 24 Luttikhuizen, Revelation of Elchasai.

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referred to the same person, let alone to a movement inspired by the ideas of that person. In spite of its largely positive reception, Luttikhuizen’s arguments did not really achieve what he had set out to prove. In fact, many modern scholars seem to take for granted the “fact” that Mani grew up in, and rebelled against, an Elchasaite community. I have gone into this matter at length elsewhere and I see little merit in this particular suggestion.25 But even if all other scholars were right, that still does not mean that the evidence from the Christian heresiographers should guide us in interpreting the Manichaean evidence. The claim that the CMC provides us with historical information about the historical Mani has remained curiously uninspected, however. Descriptions of the life of Mani offer us a strange mixture of an intense and elaborate focus on some dates and events, with large gaps in between. It has long been realized (although rarely explicitly) that the crucially important narrative of Mani’s incarceration and death was heavily influenced by the Christian narrative of the capture and execution of Jesus. The influence of the Christian narrative on the Manichaean one is made explicit in the Coptic Manichaean Recitation about the Crucifixion contained in the Manichaean Homilies.26 This narrative seems to go so far as to identify several of the steps in Mani’s trial with similar patterns in the Christian story. One of the strange facts mentioned, for example, is the inability of Kerdir, the priest who is behind the execution of Mani, to access the king directly. The Zoroastrian priests bring their accusation to Kerdir, Kerdir brings it to the synkathedros, together they bring it to the magistor and he is the one who can bring it before the king. Mani, by contrast, has direct access to the king, something we shall come to in a moment. It seems naïve not to suspect that the complicated narrative of Jesus’ capture and the accusation before the Sanhedrin, with his appearances before Annas and Kaiaphas, the Sanhedrin, and all this before his direct inter-

De Jong, “Re-Orienting Manichaean Origins,” 83–87. Pedersen, Manichaean Homilies, 42–85; Gardner & Lieu, Manichaean Texts, 79–88. 25 26

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rogation by Pilate, has somehow been reproduced in this story. 27 To conclude from it, as some have done, 28 actual structures of the early Sasanian legal procedures would currently seem to me to be unacceptable. This much is, I believe, more or less generally accepted. Things seem to be different, however, when it comes to the early stages of the life of Mani, those actually reported on by the Cologne Mani Codex.29 For in spite of the optimistic interpretation of one of the codex’s first editors, Ludwig Koenen, that the CMC “is a work that makes Mani’s life as parallel to the life of Jesus as possible”,30 it has proven extremely difficult to make precisely that case. Some have tried to do so by pointing out the many lexical parallels between expressions in the Codex and those known from early Christian literature, but this has remained rather unsatisfactory. When it comes to the narrative of the Codex — and it is a text with a point to make, and a story to tell — there is virtually nothing in the narration of Mani’s life that resembles Jesus traditions from the Gospels. This, I fear, is one of the reasons why so many scholars seem to have concluded, that if it is not Christian, it is most likely historical and this is what actually happened. It has, as a result, escaped the notion of many scholars that there are remarkable narrative parallels between the life of Mani as told in the CMC and the life of Zarathushtra, one of the most important Zoroastrian stories and one of the stories we actually know

Many elements of the story are doubtless lifted from the New Testament narrative: when Mani enters the city of Belapat the people ask “Who is this person who has entered the city?” (Pedersen, Manichaean Homilies, 45 l. 12; cf. Matthew 21:10–11); Mani’s dead body is wept over by three women (Pedersen, Manichaean Homilies 59 ll. 3.17; cf. Luke 24:10– 11). 28 Hinz, “Mani and Kardēr.” 29 The extant text of the Cologne Mani Codex does not include the narrative of the prophet’s death. 30 Koenen, “Manichaean Apocalypticism,” 295; cf. also Franzmann, Jesus in the Manichaean Writings, 21–26 on the (quite hypothetical) notion of imitatio Christi in Manichaean texts. 27

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to have been current in Manichaeism.31 More particularly, I think it will be useful to look at the topos of the appearance of the prophet before the king, widely attested in Parthian and Sasanian Mesopotamia and much less en vogue West of the Euphrates, as a possible reflection of the appearance of Zarathushtra at the court of king Vishtaspa, with the attendant notion that the conversion of the king equals a conversion of his realm. Before discussing this topos, however, it will be useful to look at some other episodes in Mani’s life and the Zarathushtra traditions. In the life of Zarathushtra,32 there are all kinds of miracles attending the conception of his mother and the birth of Zarathushtra himself. None of this is reflected in the CMC, the beginning of which is in a very fragmentary state. In the Fihrist, it is only said that his mother had several dreams in which the future greatness of her son revealed itself, but the main point of the Manichaean story is the fact that the boy Mani was taken away by his father at a very early age, to live with a community of Baptists, whom we know to

Direct traces of the narrative of Zarathushtra and Vishtaspa are not common in Greek and Latin texts; these frequently have their own versions of Zoroaster’s life and a unique role for Hystaspes, see De Jong, Traditions of the Magi, 317–323 for Zoroaster, and Boyce & Grenet, A History of Zoroastrianism III, 376–381 for Hystaspes (with references). The fact that the story is reflected in Coptic and Iranian Manichaean texts, however, suffices for our purposes: it was clearly known among the Manichaeans. See the passage from the Coptic Kephalaia (12.15–20) in Gardner & Lieu, Manichaean Texts, 263: “from the advent of Buddha and Aurentes up to the advent of Zarathustra to Persia, the occasion that he came to Hystaspes the King” (emphasis added, A.J.); and the famous Parthian lines “A peaceful sovereign [was] King Vištāsp, [in Aryā]n-Waižan; […] The sovereign’s queen, Khudōs, … received the Faith”, in Henning, “Book of the Giants,” 73–74. For other Manichaean passages mentioning Hystaspes, see Dictionary of Manichaean Texts I, 183, s.v. Hystaspes. 32 There is, surprisingly, no recent study of this narrative or of its (many) sources; see, therefore, the otherwise wholly antiquated attempt of Jackson, Zoroaster; for the Middle Persian versions (based partly on lost portions of the Zand of the Avesta), see Molé, Légende de Zoroastre. 31

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have been a Christian community. 33 There was never any role to be played in the story by the prophet’s mother — which is not so strange in a religious community that frowns upon bodily realities at least for its circle of chosen ones. Life among the Baptists was a long-drawn process of agony for Mani who resented their silly laws and pointless washings. It was only to be endured because Mani had been informed by his Heavenly Twin that it would end soon and how he could attempt to inflict as little harm as possible to his soul.34 There is a similar pattern in the life of Zarathushtra, where his childhood setting is described as one consisting of being surrounded by evil sorcerers and devil-worshippers (who represent the religion of his father), with Zarathushtra himself trying not to be involved in any of their evil rituals.35 At a certain crucial moment, Mani is told by his Heavenly Twin that the time has come to preach his message and he comes into conflict with the Baptists and is cast out of the community. 36 This induces an almost moving moment of despair in the young prophet, who complains: Where shall I go then? All religions and sects are adversaries of the good … How then, if these people (i.e. the Baptists) have given me no room to accept the truth, will the world, its princes or its teachings receive me … How shall I speak before the kings and … of this world and the leaders of the religions? For see, they are mighty and exercise power with their wealth, their

But not, according to the present writer, an Elchasaite community, nor a “Jewish-Christian” one; see De Jong, ‘Re-Orienting Manichaean Origins,” 83–87. 34 The relevant passages from the CMC can conveniently be consulted in Gardner & Lieu, Manichaean Texts, 47–50. 35 The locus classicus is Dēnkard 7.3.1–50 (Molé, Légende de Zoroastre, 28–39), with the famous attempts of the sorcerers to persuade Zarathushtra’s father to have the boy killed, and Zarathushtra’s refusal, as a sevenyear old boy, to have an evil sorcerer perform rituals in his house. 36 For the whole episode, see Gardner & Lieu, Manichaean Texts, 49– 66. 33

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This passage is, almost up to its wording,38 reminiscent of the famous lines of Yasna 46, where Zarathushtra — according to the traditional explanation, which is the one that should guide us at the moment — utters words of despair for being cast out of his land and his family, the united opposition of the evil priests and rulers of the land and his despair of ever winning an audience with a mighty patron: (To) which piece of land shall I (go to) graze (my cattle)? Where shall I go to graze (them)? They keep (me) away from (their) family and tribe. The community which I wish to join does not satisfy me Nor (do) the deceitful tyrants of the land. How shall I satisfy thee, O Wise Ahura? I know wherefore I am lacking in vigour, O Wise One. (It is) on account of the scantiness of my cattle stock, And because I am one of few men (only). I complain to Thee. Look hither, O Ahura, Extending (such) support as a friend would grant a friend. Look upon the vigour of good thought, (inspired) by truth.39

In both cases, too, a crucial transformation takes place at a royal court to which the prophet goes in order to have an audience with CMC 101.102; Gardner & Lieu, Manichaean Texts, 65–66. Translations of the Gathas are notoriously diverse and there is considerable debate over the interpretation of almost all Gathic verses. 39 Y. 46.1–2 in the translation of Humbach, Gāthās of Zarathushtra; see also the translation of West, Hymns of Zoroaster: “What land for refuge, where am I to go for refuge? They set me apart from clan and tribe; I am not pleased with the communities I consort with, nor with the region’s wrongful masters. How am I to please Thee, Mindful Lord? I know why I am ineffectual, Mindful One; because of my poverty in cattle and poverty in men. I complain to Thee: look to the matter, Lord, affording support as a friend would to a friend; behold the potency of thought that is good through Right.” 37 38

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the king, Vishtaspa in the case of Zarathushtra, Shapur in the case of Mani. Here again, it must be acknowledged, the Codex fails us, either by not mentioning the royal audience, or by its fragmentary state. There are significant differences, moreover, for the royal audience is preceded, in the Manichaean case, by extensive travels with some success, whereas in the Zoroastrian myth, the court of Vishtaspa is the last refuge. There is, of course, the further historical difference that Vishtaspa was converted by Zarathushtra, whereas Shapur most obviously did not become a Manichaean, and one of his successors was actually responsible for Mani’s death. The idea of a prophet going to the king of the land to preach his message is so familiar to most, that few people have even attempted to inquire after its origins. It is not clearly part of Christian traditions from Palestine or the Graeco-Roman world, nor do we find there the notion that if the king converts, so does his entire realm. But these ideas are omnipresent in the Christian nations of what I would like to refer to as the “Parthian commonwealth”.40 There are, as usual, differences in these cases, some of which are important, but they do not seem to disturb the general picture. First of all, there is the long story of the conversion of King Tirdat IV41 of the Armenians through the activities of St Gregory the Illuminator.42 Gregory, who is given a fictional Parthian background, goes to work at King Tirdat’s court, but comes into conflict with the king over his refusal to worship the goddess Anahit. He is tortured brutally, and eventually cast into a very deep pit, to

On my understanding, the “Parthian commonwealth” refers to those parts of the world that were within the cultural and political orbit of the Parthian Empire, but the majority of whose inhabitants did not speak Iranian languages: parts of Syria, Mesopotamia, Armenia, and Georgia to the West, and (for some subjects) the world of the Kushans to the East. 41 To some, he is Tirdat III, but the writer follows the reconstruction of Toumanoff, “Third-Century Arsacids” (building on the research of Hagop Manandyan). 42 The fullest version of the narrative is found in one of the oldest Armenian texts, the History of the Armenians of Agathangelos (Thomson, Agathangelos). 40

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perish there.43 A widow in the nearby palace, however, is instructed in a dream to throw a loaf of bread into the pit every day and this way Gregory survives for thirteen years, while his enemies believe him to be long dead.44 At this point, the narrative shifts to include a secondary story, that of Saint Hripsime, a Christian virgin who flees the Roman Empire to escape the unwanted attention of the emperor Diocletian. She seeks refuge in Armenia, but King Tirdat is informed of her beauty by Diocletian and, in turn, traces her whereabouts and seeks to seduce her himself. She fights the king like a man for seven hours and ends victorious. After a long instruction by her fosterer Gaiane, Hripsime fights the king again and once again defeats him, so that her execution, together with that of her fosterer and a number of other martyrs, becomes inevitable.45 The king is punished for his deeds by being transformed into the shape of a boar. 46 Like a boar, he roams the fields and reed-beds, wallowing in the mud. His sister is told in a dream that only Gregory, who is still living in the pit, can save the king. Gregory is fetched and preaches to the king and his court, gives them a report of a vision he had and instructs them to honour the virgins they had executed with chapels. The king is thus slowly, but unceasingly, released from his animal features and with his baptism, the conversion of Armenia to Christianity is reached almost immediately: Agathangelos §§ 49–68 (debate between Gregory and Tirdat over the worship of the gods); §§ 69–122 (Gregory’s torture and imprisonment in the pit). The latter episode (being cast into a bottomless pit) is wellknown from Parthian epic traditions preserved in later Persian texts, especially from Ferdowsi’s story of Bizhan and Manizhe. 44 Agathangelos § 124 (in the story of Bizhan and Manizhe, the hero Bizhan is likewise cast into a bottomless pit, and survives only from a dole of food thrown into the pit by his beloved Manizhe, even though she is reduced to abject poverty). 45 Agathangelos, §§ 137–210. 46 The text of Agathangelos itself (§ 212) makes the connection between Tirdat’s punishment and that of Nebuchadnezzar in the book of Daniel (Dan 4:12–13), although the choice of the boar as Tirdat’s incarnation is particular to this text. 43

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[…] they were all the more willing and anxious to learn and study the new doctrine, and as ignorant men to be instructed and edified in this preaching. They came from every part and region of Armenia; in great numbers they excitedly arrived at the opened source of the grace of the knowledge of Christ. For in the province of Ayrarat, at the royal residence, there flowed forth for the Armenian house of T‘orgom the grace of the preaching of the gospel of God’s commandments.47

In Georgia, we find a similar story, this time with a heroine, St. Nino, who first converted the queen and then the king of the Iberians, following which the nation of the Iberians became a Christian one. The story of St. Nino is inextricably interwoven with the narrative of the conversion of Armenia, for Nino is presented as one of the companions of Hripsime. She escapes the cruel fate suffered by Hripsime and the other martyrs and makes her way to Kartli, the eastern part of Georgia. This is described as a bastion of “paganism” ruled by a king called Mirian (Mirian III according to some). In contrast to some of the other narratives, Nino does not make her way to the royal court — the king is absent, anyway, because he has gone to Greece to fight the emperor Constantine – but goes to the city of Mtskheta, there to destroy the idols of the gods and prepare the way for Christianity. One of her first converts is a Jew named Abiathar and the story has a remarkably double image of the king: at times, he allows Nino to preach Christianity, and at times (under the influence of the devil) he promises to stamp this “Roman” religion out of existence. Through a series of miraculous cures and her renown for piety, Nino is eventually visited by the queen (Nana), who is suffering from an illness. She cures the queen, who then converts to Christianity — awaiting a similar conversion of her husband. This comes about only slowly, however, and it involves yet another series of miraculous events, especially an eclipse of the sun, with the king — wandering alone — being Agathangelos, § 776 (trans. Thomson). The remainder of the book tells of the destruction of Armenia’s Zoroastrian temples; this part is extremely valuable for the history of Zoroastrianism, but not so much for the present article. 47

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struck by fear and praying to the God of Nino. At the end, he embraces Christianity and urges the king of the Romans to send him priests so that he can be baptized — and with him, again, the entire nation of the Kartvelians converts to the new religion.48 In Edessa, we have two separate clusters of stories: the first comes from the Acts of Thomas, an early Christian apocryphal work that literally bristles with Parthian epic topoi.49 In this composite work, two narratives of (attempted) royal conversions stand out. The first shows Thomas visiting the court of King Gudnaphar — just like Mani, to gain permission to spread his religion in his realm, not to actually convert the king. There is also a real royal conversion towards the end of the Acts, in this case of a prince named Bezhan and the King Mazdai. The other text has to do with Edessa’s claim to have been the first kingdom to accept Christianity. This claim is supported by the text known as the Doctrina Addai, which is now known to be fairly late and to have been composed at least partly in opposition to a Manichaean presence in Edessa.50 The Doctrina Addai story begins differently, with King Abgar of Edessa asking Jesus to come to his domains, but it continues in the conventional manner with the appearance of the apostle Addai, the conversion of the king and his nobles and with them of the whole kingdom of Edessa. Now there must be reason, I submit, why these stories are so common in these parts of the world and not (really) to be found in the west. The easiest solution, I think, is to see in them local reflections of the most crucial narrative of Zoroastrianism: the appearance of Zarathushtra at the court of King Vistaspa, which heralds

The main narrative is to be found in the text known as The Conversion of Kartli, which is included in the composite work The History of Kartli, and attributed to Leonti Mroveli (eleventh century). See Thomson, Rewriting Caucasian History, 84–153, for the translation of the Georgian text (and its Armenian reworking), and Rapp, Studies in Medieval Georgian Historiography, for the complicated history of these Georgian compositions. 49 Klijn, Acts of Thomas; for the context, see Bremmer (ed.), Apocryphal Acts of Thomas. 50 Desreumaux, Histoire du roi Abgar ; id., “La figure du roi Abgar.” 48

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the beginning of the Zoroastrian conquest of the world of the Iranians. As long as scholars continue to treat the Iranian presence in Mesopotamia as a foreign intrusion, which does not merit too much interest, such a scenario — that various religions make use of a crucial Zoroastrian narrative to account for the origins of their own organizations — will strike most colleagues as contrived. It has recently become clear, however, how crucially important Parthian epic traditions were in all parts of the Parthian commonwealth.51 Armed with that knowledge, I think the time has come to recognize that in the Manichaean project of designing a life fit for a prophet — which is what the CMC accomplishes, at least partly — the prophet’s death may have been Christian, but his early life is clearly of Iranian inspiration.

See especially Herman, “Ahasuerus”; id., “Iranian Epic Motifs”; Frenschkowski, “Parthica Apocalyptica.” 51

DYNAMICS OF CHRISTIAN ACCULTURATION IN THE SASANIAN EMPIRE: SOME IRANIAN MOTIFS IN THE CAVE OF TREASURES

SERGEY MINOV This article deals with the Cave of Treasures, a Syriac Christian composition composed in the Sasanian Empire during the sixth or early seventh century. This work is examined as a salient witness to the process of Christian-Iranian acculturation in Late Sasanian Iran. This article focuses on two particular themes: the tripartite ouranological scheme that includes the mythological notion of ‘Rapithwin’; and the portrayal of the three Magi who visited Jesus soon after his birth. The manner, in which these two subjects are handled by the author of the Cave, demonstrates that he was deeply rooted in the world of Iranian culture and did not hesitate to introduce into his version of biblical history those of its elements that he found useful. Using the critical apparatus of postcolonial cultural studies reveals in the Cave subversive literary strategies that reflect the values and aspirations of a Christian minority group seeking to engage the dominant culture of the Sasanian Empire. The long and rich history of a Christian presence in the territories controlled by Iranians can be traced back as early as the second century.1 Characterized by dramatic changes of fortune, it has attracted considerable attention by scholars. Yet, much of the previFor a general introduction into the history of Christianity in Iran during antiquity, see Asmussen, “Christians in Iran”; Labourt, Le christianisme. 1

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ous scholarship on Christianity in the Sasanian empire has revolved around one of the two main axes: theological developments among the Syriac-speaking Christians of Iran, i.e. the process of formation of the distinctive ‘Nestorian’ doctrine; or their fortunes in history. In what concerns the latter, the main focus has usually been on the doleful history of persecutions waged by Sasanian rulers against their Christian subjects. While this interest is quite understandable and legitimate, one of its detrimental side-effects is that it can make one fall all too easily into the trap of forming a rather distorted picture of the Christian minority’s place within Iranian society of Late Antiquity, where the dominant motifs would be those of isolationism and staunch antagonism. The focus on the audacious experience of the ‘Persian martyrs’ has made scholars overlook other, positive aspects of Christian interaction with Iranian society and culture. As a result, the problem of Christian-Iranian acculturation has received remarkably scant attention in previous scholarship.2 It has only been during the last decade that this situation has begun to change and we see a substantial increase of scholarly interest in the integrative dimension of Christian-Iranian interaction in the context of the Sasanian empire. Several recent works explore this avenue of inquiry. Thus, Joel Walker, in his study of the early seventh-century Life of Mar Qardagh, has demonstrated how Sasanian epic tradition influenced the work of a Syriac Christian hagiographer.3 The fundamental research on linguistic borrowing from Middle Persian into Syriac by Claudia Ciancaglini provides rich evidence of the familiarity of Syriac Christians with different aspects of Iranian culture.4 Richard Payne, in his doctoral dissertation, shows how during the sixth and seventh centuries the East-Syrian elites of the Sasanian empire attempted to articulate their Christian identity in terms of Iranian society and strived to participate in Iranian social practices.5 These are but a few examples of the many recent scholarly contributions that touch upon diverse aspects of Among the rare exceptions, one should note Taqizadeh, “Iranian Festivals,” and Widengren, Iranisch-semitische Kulturbegegnung. 3 Walker, Legend of Mar Qardagh, esp. 121–163. 4 Ciancaglini, Iranian Loanwords. 5 Payne, Christianity and Iranian Society. 2

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the profound influence exercised by Iranian culture upon the Syriac-speaking Christians.6 One of the preliminary observations to be made on the basis of these studies is that acculturation was an important part of the strategic reaction of the Syriac-speaking Christian minority to their continuous exposure to the dominant Iranian culture within the confines of the Sasanian empire. Accordingly, the cumulative effect of the recent research underscores the need for a more balanced view of the relations between the Christian minority of the Sasanian empire and the large Iranian society and its culture, one that places greater emphasis on the positive aspects of Christian-Iranian interaction. Looking for analogies, what comes to my mind is the major methodological paradigm shift that has been taking place in the field of Jewish-Christian studies during recent decades. The traditional view of Jewish history under Christian rule during Late Antiquity and Middle Ages as historia lacrimosa with the dominant leitmotifs of oppression and survival has given way to more complex models that take into account the processes of cultural integration of Jews into Christian societies and mutual influences between the minority and majority cultures.7 The time has come for a similar adjustment to be systematically carried out in the focus of research on Christian communities in the Sasanian empire. Further analytical efforts are necessary in order to conceptualize this minority group not only as powerless victims of the hostile regime, but as active agents of history, who participated in a wide range of social, political and cultural processes that took place in Iranian society and whose stand vis-à-vis the dominant culture was far from being limited to that of antagonism and denunciation. In this study I would like to contribute to this goal by addressing the issue of Syriac Christian acculturation to Iranian culture as See Hutter, “Mār Abā and the Impact of Zoroastrianism”; McDonough, Power by Negotiation; Suermann, “Bedeutung und Selbstverständnis”; Schilling, Die Anbetung der Magier; Jullien, “Christianiser le pouvoir”; Becker, “Martyrdom, Religious Difference, and ‘Fear’.” 7 Cf. Boyarin, Border Lines; Yuval, Two Nations; Elukin, Living Together; Chazan, Reassessing Jewish Life. 6

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reflected in the work known as the Cave of Treasures (hereafter referred to as CT). This composition was written in Syriac in the Sasanian-controlled part of northern Mesopotamia at sometime between the middle of the sixth century and the beginning of the seventh. It belongs to the loosely defined category of ‘rewritten Bible’ and offers a particular version of Christian Heilsgeschichte, where the accounts of both the Old and the New Testaments are creatively merged into a new cohesive narrative that starts with the creation of the world and ends with the Pentecost. This new version of sacred history features a number of remarkable innovations that are not found in the canonical narratives and that serve the peculiar agenda of the CT’s author. It is not easy to situate this text within the variegated world of Syriac-speaking Christianity of Late Antiquity. However, some internal and external considerations, such as the affinity of the exegetical traditions used by the author and the history of the work’s reception, suggest that its author belonged to a WestSyrian, i.e. miaphysite, milieu.8 Through careful reworking of the canonical version of the biblical past, the author of CT strives to forge and promote a distinctive version of Christian identity, tailored specifically to the needs of his Syriac-speaking community. There are several major lines along which he rewrites the biblical narrative to achieve that purpose. One of them is the strong anti-Jewish bias that characterizes the composition as a whole. Another line finds its expression in the great emphasis placed by the author on specifically Syriac themes and images. The third important aspect of the reshaping of biblical material by the author of CT is his close engagement with Iranian culture. The two main avenues of its expression are polemic against Zoroastrianism and creative appropriation of several Iranian themes and images.

For a critical edition of the text, accompanied by a French translation, see Ri, La Caverne des Trésors. For general information, see Ri, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors; Leonhard, “Observations on the Date.” In my doctoral dissertation I offer an in-depth re-examination of the issues related to the CT’s dating and milieu; see Minov, Syriac Christian Identity, ch. 2. 8

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Due to the limitations of space, I cannot discuss here all the Iranian traditions that appear in CT. 9 In what follows, I shall focus on two representative cases that demonstrate the high degree of the author’s acculturation to Iranian culture, namely the ouranological system found in CT I.8–9, and the portrayal of the Magi from the Gospel of Matthew in CT XLV–XLVI.10

OURANOLOGY In the first chapter of CT, the author offers a paraphrase of the biblical account of the six days of creation. When it reaches the second day of creation, the text is as follows (CT I.8–9): And on the second day God made the lower heaven, and called it ‘firmament,’ — in order to make it known that its nature is not like the nature of these heavens which are above (it), and that in its appearance it is different from these (heavens) that are above it. They are (likewise) — the highest heaven is of fire, and the second is of light, and this lowest one is of Rapithwin. Because it has the dense nature of water, it has been called ‘firmament’.11

In this passage the author of CT presents an ouranological scheme that presupposes three heavens – the highest heaven, of ‘fire’ (‫)ܢܘܪܐ‬, the middle one, of ‘light’ (‫)ܢܘܗܪܐ‬, and the lowest one, of ‘Rapithwin’ (‫)ܪܦܝܛܘܢ‬. This cosmological account differs noticeably from the biblical story of creation, as it appears in the first three chapters of Genesis, and has no parallels elsewhere in the Bible. At the same time, several aspects of this scheme suggest that it reflects the auFor a full discussion of this material, see Minov, Syriac Christian Identity, ch. 4. 10 In most cases the Syriac text of CT is quoted according to the work’s best textual witness OrA, i.e. ms British Museum Add. 25875, as reflected in the apparatus of Ri’s edition. The English translation is based on Budge, Book of the Cave of Treasures. 11 OrA: ‫ ܕܢܘܕܥ ܕܠܘ‬.‫ܘܩܪܗ ܪܩܝܥܐ‬ ̇ ‫ܘܒܝܘܡܐ ܕܬܪܝܢ ܥܒܕ ܠܐܗܐ ܠܫܡܝܐ ܬܚܬܝܬܐ‬ 9

̇ ‫ܒܚܙܬܗ ܡܢ ܗܠܝܢ ܕܠܥܠ‬ ̇ ‫ ܐܢܝܢ‬.‫ܡܢܗ‬ ‫ ܘܦܪܝܫܐ ܗܝ‬.‫ܟܝܢܐ ܕܗܠܝܢ ܫܡܝܐ ܕܠܥܐ ܠܝܬ ܠ ̇ܗ‬ ̈ ‫ ܘܗܝ‬.‫ܕܐܝܬܝܗ ܢܘܪܐ‬ ̇ ‫ ܡܛܠ‬.‫ ܘܗܕܐ ܬܚܬܝ̈ܬܐ ܕܪܦܝܛܘܢ‬.‫ܕܬܖܬܝܢ ܢܘܗܪܐ‬ ‫ܡܢ ܫܡܝܐ ܥܠܝܬܐ‬ ̈ .‫ ;ܕܐܝܬ ܠ ̇ܗ ܟܝܢܐ ܠܒܝܕܐ ܕܡܝܐ ܐܬܩܪܝܬ ܪܩܝܥܐ‬ed. Ri, La Caverne des Trésors, 4–6.

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thor’s familiarity with some indigenous Iranian cosmological and mythological ideas. The first remarkable feature of this passage is the tripartite ouranological system, which is not found in the biblical cosmological accounts. It should be noted that the threefold division of the celestial world was not a particularly widespread cosmological idea among the Jewish and Christian authors of antiquity. Among Jewish sources, this system seems to be implied in several pseudepigraphical works, such as1 Enoch (14:8–25), the Testament of Levi (2:6–10), the Apocalypse of Sedrach (2:3–5), and 3 Baruch.12 However, in none of these works is this system presented in an explicit and unambiguous way. Even more important for our present discussion is that, apparently, none of these works was known to the Syriac-speaking Christians of Late Antiquity.13 In such relatively late rabbinic compositions as Midrash on Psalms (114.2) the tripartite division of heaven is mentioned as a possibility alongside bipartite and sevenfold ones.14 However, generally speaking, it seems that throughout the corpus of intertestamentary Jewish writings, as well as in the rabbinic literature, the sevenfold system was the most prevalent ouranological framework in use.15 As to the Christian cosmological tradition, the tripartite system of the heavenly world might be implied in the New Testament, See Kulik, 3 Baruch, 319–329. On 1 Enoch, see Morray-Jones, “Paradise Revisited,” 203–205. 13 The situation with 1 Enoch is somehow different from the rest of these texts, as there are several parallels to this apocryphon found in Syriac sources (see Brock, “Fragment of Enoch”; Bhayro, “Karshuni (Christian Arabic) Account”; Reeves, “Enochic Motif in Manichaean”). Yet, these parallels can hardly amount to the proof for 1 Enoch having been known to Syriac Christians first-handedly, not to speak of the existence of a Syriac translation of this work. 14 Ed. Buber, Midrasch Tehillim, v. 3, 471. 15 Cf. 2 Enoch 3–31; Apoc. Mos. 35:2; Quest. Ezra A 19–21; the apocryphal ‘book of Baruch’ apud Origen, De Princ. II.3.6; b. Ḥagigah 12b; Pirke de-Rabbi Eliezer 19; Pesikta Rabbati 5:7; Avot de-Rabbi Nathan A 37. For more references and discussion, see Collins, “Seven Heavens”; Schäfer, “In Heaven as It Is in Hell,” 238–252; Kulik, 3 Baruch, 313–315. 12

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when in 2 Cor 12:2,4 Paul refers to his heavenly ascent and says that he was taken up to “the third heaven” (τρίτου οὐρανοῦ), which is identified with Paradise. However, due to the concise nature of this reference, it is by no means certain that the heaven reached by the apostle was the highest and last one. Moreover, this passage should not be taken as an immediate predecessor of the ouranological scheme of CT I.8–9 because of the apparent identification of the third heaven with Paradise in 2 Corinthians, which contradicts the cosmological system of CT, where these two locations are not identical. Furthermore, while a number of early Christian authors make use of the sevenfold ouranology, the tripartite system seems to be virtually absent from the Christian writings that predate CT. 16 When it comes to the Syriac Christian tradition prior to the date of composition of CT, no explicit mention of the tripartite celestial system is found there either.17 It is not attested in the Commentary on Genesis and Hymns on Paradise by Ephrem the Syrian, nor does it appear in the Homilies on Creation by Narsai, a fifth-century EastSyrian poet. It seems that in the Antiochene exegetical school, and in the East-Syrian tradition that is dependent upon it, it was the bipartite division of the heavenly world that was mostly in use.18 Cf. Ascension of Isaiah 6:13, 7:13; Apoc. Paul 29; Gos. Barth. 1:17; Clem. Alex., Strom. IV.25.159; Apocalypse of the Seven Heavens (on which see Bauckham, “Apocalypse of the Seven Heavens”). 17 See Ten Napel, “‘Third Heaven’ and ‘Paradise’”. A description of Mary’s ascent to the ‘heavenly Jerusalem,’ found in the sixth century Syriac version of Transitus Mariae (ed. Wright, “Departure of my Lady Mary,” ‫ܡܙ‬-‫[ ܡܗ‬Syr.]; 156–157 [tr.]), might be interpreted as implying a tripartite division of the heavenly world. However, it might alternatively be interpreted as reflecting a bipartite ouranology, with the heavenly Jerusalem constituting the highest part of the second heaven. Furthermore, the description of the heavenly world in Transitus has nothing in common with the passage from CT, so that there is no reason to suspect a literary connection between the two sources. 18 Cf. Theodoret, Quaest. in Gen. 11; Cosmas Indicopleustes, Top. Christ. II.20–23, III.55, VII.8–9. See on this Ten Napel, “‘Third Heaven’ and ‘Paradise’,” 57, 60‒61. 16

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In light of all this evidence it seems unlikely that in his use of the tripartite ouranology the author of CT was dependent on one of the late ancient Jewish or Christian cosmological speculations, as they are known to us. In order to determine possible sources for the tripartite division of heaven in CT, we shall turn to the ancient Near Eastern sources. It is there, among ancient Mesopotamian and Iranian cosmological speculations, that we find imagery of the celestial world being divided into the three heavens that provides us with the background relevant to the passage from CT.19 One of the earliest explicit mentions of the sky being divided into three levels is attested in Akkadian sources. For example, in KAR 307, a religious explanatory text in Neo-Assyrian script from Assur, dated to the first millennium BCE, the following ouranological description is offered (ln. 30–33): The Upper Heavens (šamû elûti) are luludānītu-stone. They belong to Anu. He settled the 300 Igigi inside. The Middle Heavens (šamû qablûti) are saggilmud-stone. They belong to the Igigi. Bel sat on the high dais inside, in the lapis lazuli sanctuary. He made a lamp of electrum shine inside. The Lower Heavens (šamû šaplûtu) are jasper (ašpuu). They belong to the stars. He drew the constellations of the gods on them.20

An identical tripartite division of the heaven associated with the same stones and deities is found in AO 8196, a late-Babylonian compendium of astrological, astronomical, and religious information.21 The tripartite division of the heavenly realm is attested also in ancient Iranian and Indian sources, where it might not have been original but rather have developed through contact with Mesopotamian culture. The earliest examples of this kind come from the Avesta. There the basic structure of the heavenly world is presentFor an overview and analysis of these traditions, see Panaino, “Uranographia Iranica I”; Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, 8–15. 20 Text and tr. from Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, 3–4. 21 See Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, 3–4. 19

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ed as divided into three levels: the heaven of stars; the heaven of the moon; and the heaven of the sun, upon which the spheres of the ‘Endless Light’ (Avest. anaγra raocå; Pahl. asar rošnīh) or Paradise (Avest. garō.nmāna-; Pahl. garōdmān) are superimposed.22 These cosmological traditions have been gathered and examined by Antonio Panaino, who demonstrated that although one finds more developed divisions of the sky into five, six or even seven spheres in some later Avestan (Rašn Yašt, Hādōxt Nask) and Pahlavi (Bundahišn) works, the basic ouranological scheme that underlies these accounts is still the tripartite one. 23 In the Zoroastrian world-view, the tripartite division of the heavenly world was closely related to the eschatological belief that the soul of a righteous man during its post-mortem heavenly ascent has to pass through the three levels in order to arrive at the highest divine realm of Paradise.24 As has been convincingly argued by Panaino, the threefold ouranological scheme of Iranian sources developed under the impact of ancient Mesopotamian cosmological speculations. 25 This accords well with what we know about the deep influence exercised by Mesopotamian civilization, beginning with the pre-Achaemenian period, upon such areas of material and intellectual culture of the Iranian world as science, religion, the arts, writing, law, administrative and political organization.26 There is another aspect of the ouranological scheme of CT I.8-9 that makes its Iranian background even more obvious, namely the mention of ‘Rapithwin’ in connection with the lowest heaven. The rarely attested Syriac term rapīṭwin (‫)ܪܦܝܛܘܢ‬, used by the author of CT to characterize the biblical firmament, is an Iranian loan-

22

Cf. Yasna I.16; II.11; III.18; Gāthās III.6; Vendīdād VII.52; XI.1–2,

10. See Panaino, “Uranographia Iranica I,” esp. 205–209. See Bousset, “Die Himmelsreise der Seele”; Gignoux, “L’enfer et le paradis,” 224–227; Panaino, “Uranographia Iranica I,” 208. 25 See Panaino, “Uranographia Iranica I,” 218–221. 26 See on this Gnoli, “Babylonia, II”; Panaino, “Mesopotamian Heritage”; Widengren, Mesopotamian Elements. 23 24

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word.27 It is based on the Middle Persian noun rapīθwən (from Avest. rapiθwina-, adj. ‘of midday’),28 which refers to the period of day that starts at midday, as well as to the mythological figure that personifies it. The figure of personified Rapithwin features prominently in the Zoroastrian mythological system and ritual.29 According to Zoroastrian cosmological and calendrical beliefs, as expressed in Bundahišn and some other works, during the seven months of summer, when the spirit of Rapithwin is above the earth, a day is divided into five parts. On the other hand, during the months of winter a day has only four parts, because Rapithwin descends under the earth, keeping it warm and moist in order to sustain the roots of trees and sources of water.30 The notion of Rapithwin in Zoroastrian tradition was not limited only to such literary texts as Bundahišn and, thus, known exclusively to the educated elite of priests. There is ample evidence that Rapithwin was a part of Zoroastrian ritual practice. It was a religious duty of every Zoroastrian, priest and layman alike, to celebrate Rapithwin twice each year — to mark its symbolic return from the underground realm back to heaven at the beginning of spring and its departure at the beginning of winter. 31 The festival in honor of Rapithwin was one of the seven high days of the Zoroastrian year. It followed directly Frawardīgān and, thus, constituted a part of the Nowrūz (i.e. New Year) celebrations, the greatest festival of the Zoroastrian calendar.32 This festival appears to have been instituted in the pre-Sasanian period, since it is attested in such anThe first scholar who recognized the Iranian origins of this word was Götze, Die Schatzhöhle, 46–47. See also Ciancaglini, Iranian Loanwords, 256–257, who gives ‫ܪܦܢܛܝܘܢ‬, rpnṭywn, as the main Syriac form for this loanword, although the correct form ‫ ܪܦܝܛܘܢ‬does exist and is attested in the ms. OrA of CT. 28 See Bartholomae, Altiranisches Wörterbuch, 1509. 29 See Boyce, “Rapithwin”; Krasnowolska, Some Key Figures, 101–113. 30 Cf. Iranian Bundahišn III.21–23; XXV.9, 12, 15–17. 31 Cf. Nērangestān II.31; ed. Kotwal and Kreyenbroek, Hērbedestān and Nērangestān, Vol. 3, 136–141. 32 See Boyce, “Rapithwin,” 204–205. 27

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cient sources as the Avestan Nērangistān and the lost Huspāram Nask.33 As a part of the Nowrūz celebration the yasna of Rapithwin was recited, where Rapithwin is evoked. Rapithwin was, in fact, summoned in a liturgical framework even more frequently. Thus, during the spring and summer seasons Rapithwin was evoked on a daily basis. According to Zoroastrian tradition, the twenty-four hour day was divided into the five watches (Mid.-Pers. gāh) that corresponded to the five Gathas (Avest. gāθā-), i.e. the five modes of song from Avesta that form the core of the great Zoroastrian liturgy. Among these watches, the one lasting from the mid-morning to mid-afternoon was dedicated to Ardwahišt, one of the Ameša Spentas, i.e. the six great benevolent deities of the Zoroastrian pantheon, and was associated with Rapithwin. Several Zoroastrian sources relate that at this period of the day the special ‘Gatha of Rapithwin’ dedicated to this deity, should be recited.34 All this demonstrates that Rapithwin played an important role in the Zoroastrian religious system. At the same time, awareness of this mythological figure among the non-Iranians was by no means widespread. It does not appear in the majority of surviving works by Western and Eastern Christian authors that deal with Persia and its religion. To the best of my knowledge, there is only one composition besides CT where Rapithwin is mentioned, the Syriac cosmological tractate ascribed to Dionysius the Areopagite. This text was first published by Marc-Antoine Kugener, and soon after, by Giuseppe Furlani.35 It does not belong to the original Greek corpus of Pseudo-Dionysian writings, but was originally composed in Syriac, most likely, during the sixth century. 36 There are several features See Boyce, “Rapithwin,” 215. Cf. Vaeθā Nask: “At the time of Rapiθwin [one shall worship] Best Holiness, i.e. one [shall] recite the Gāh of Ašavahišt” (ed. Humbach and Jamaspasa, Vaeθā Nask, §102, 51); Iranian Bundahišn III.22. On the figure of Ardwahišt, see Boyce, “Ardwahišt”. 35 Kugener, “Un traité astronomique et météorologique”; Furlani, “Cosmological Tract by Pseudo-Dionysius”. 36 See Kugener, “Un traité astronomique et météorologique,” 140– 141. 33 34

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shared by this text and CT, which indicate that the author of the Pseudo-Dionysian treatise was acquainted with CT or came from the same cultural milieu. One of these features is the author’s reference to Rapithwin. In his description of the ‘mountains of the north’ he relates that “on the crystal stones of these mountains descends that amazing rapīṭwin”.37 Furthermore, one can infer that the notion of Rapithwin was not widely known among the Syriacspeaking Christians from the fact that the loan-word rapīṭwin posed a considerable difficulty for the later copyists of CT, who, as it seems, were not aware of its Persian origins.38 In CT I.8–9 Rapithwin is associated with the lowest among the three heavens, the one called ‘firmament’ ( ‫)ܪܩܝܥܐ‬. This ‘firmament,’ in its turn, is said to have the ‘nature of water’. By asserting that, the author of CT follows a tradition, which was already wellestablished among the Syriac Christian writers, of interpreting the ‘firmament’ (‫ ָ)ר ִקיע‬of Gen 1:6–8 as being made of water.39 We find this idea expressed by the author of Pseudo-Clementines when he offers an exposition of the biblical cosmogony and comments on the material from which the firmament was made. According to Pseudo-Clementines, it was ‘stretched out’ (distenditur) from the water in the middle of the first heaven and earth, which was “congealed as if with frost and solid as crystal” (quasi gelu concreta et crystallo solidata) and because of that, it received the name of ‘firma-

37

̈ ‫;ܘܥܠ ܗܠܝܢ‬ ̈ ‫ܟܐܦܐ ܕܩܪܘܣܛܠܘܣ ܕܗܠܝܢ‬ ‫ܛܘܖܐ ܢܚ̇ܬ ܪܦܢܛܝܘܢ ܗ̇ܘ ܬܡܝܗܐ‬

Furlani, “Cosmological Tract by Pseudo-Dionysius,” 250 [Syr.], 261 [tr.]. 38 In its correct form this noun is attested in only one manuscript of CT – OrA, while in all the rest it is corrupted to a greater or lesser degree. Cf. OrM ‫ ̈ܐܖܦܛܘܢ‬, OrELOPSU ‫ܐܘܦܛܘܢ‬, OrV ‫ܪܐܘܦܛܘܢ‬, OrH ‫ܐܪܦܝܢܛܘܢ‬, Ocabcd ‫ܪܘܦܢܛܝܘܢ‬. Two early translations of CT into Arabic present us with corrupt forms of this word as well – ‫( ذرونيقون‬ed. GIBSON 1901, ٤) and ‫روقيطون‬ (ms. Mingana Syr. #32 apud Ri, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors, 118). It is noteworthy, that in order to make the word comprehensible to the readers, the scribe of OrM resorted to inner-textual glossing, explaining it as ‘a kind of glass’ (‫)ܓܘܢ ܙ ܓܘܓܝܬܐ‬. 39 This notion also has parallels in Rabbinic sources; cf. Gen. Rab. 4:2,7 (Theodor–Albeck ed. 26, 30).

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ment’.40 A similar explanation for the origins of the ‘firmament’ (‫ )ܐܪܩܝܥܐ‬of Gen 1:6–8 is offered by Ephrem, who, in the Commentary on Genesis, relates that it was “pressed together from the waters” (‫ܡܢ‬ ̈ ).41 Later on, this interpretation of the firmament’s ‫ܡܝܐ ܐܬܪܩܥ ܗܘܐ‬ creation is used by Narsai in his Homilies on Genesis.42 The idea of heaven consisting of or containing a body of water is biblical (cf. Gen 1:6–7; Ps 104:3, 148:4) and goes back, ultimately, to the cosmological tradition of the ancient Near East. The idea of heaven made of water appears already in the Akkadian sources, where Marduk builds the heavens out of the watery corpse of the slain monster Tiamat, or where the Akkadian word for ‘heaven’ (šamê) is etymologized as ša mê ‘of water’.43 Even closer parallels to the association of the lowest of the three heavens with water in CT are found in the Iranian cosmological tradition, where it was specifically the lowest heaven that was regarded as having the watery nature. Thus, such a Young Avestan text as Rašn Yašt, while describing the journey of the yazata Rašnu through different parts of the world, mentions his heavenly ascent that starts with the lower heaven of stars, which is described as having the ‘nature (or: seed) of the waters’ (Avest. afš.ciθra-).44 This notion is also attested in several later Pahlavi texts. For example, in the Iranian Bundahišn (VII.2–3) all fixed stars are divided into the three groups and the lowest group is said to be comprised of the stars of a ‘watery nature’ (Mid.-Pers. āb-čihrag).45 This association of the lowest part of heaven with water, explicit in Iranian sources, might also be rooted in the ancient Mesopotamian cosmological speculations. According to the above mentioned Akkadian text KAR 307, the lowest heaven was thought to Rec. I.27.3; ed. Rehm, Die Pseudoklementinen. II, 24. Comm. in Gen. I.17; ed. Tonneau, Sancti Ephraem Syri in Genesim, 17; tr. Mathews and Amar, St. Ephrem the Syrian, 87. 42 Hom. in Gen. I.49–52; II.297–319; III.143–144); ed. Gignoux, Homélies de Narsaï, 528–529, 574–575, 592–593. 43 See Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, 262–263. 44 Yašt XII.29. On this phrase, see Panaino, Tištrya, v. 1, 92–93. 45 Ed. Anklesaria, Zand-Ākāsīh, 86-87. See on this Panaino, “Uranographia Iranica I,” 208–209. 40 41

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be made from jasper (ašpû). Through the ancient near-eastern and the classical sources one finds references to several varieties of jasper, which could be grayish-green, sky-blue, rose-colored, yellow or purple.46 Relevant for our case is that in the Akkadian text Abnušikinšu there is a description of the two varieties of jasper. One is likened to ‘the clear sky’ (šamê zakuti), having the appearance of the bright blue sky whereas another is likened to ‘a rain cloud’ (urpat riḫṣi), having the appearance of an overcast grayish sky.47 The connection between the lowest heaven and water shared by CT and Zoroastrian sources strengthens even further the hypothesis of Iranian origins for the tripartite ouranological scheme in CT I.8–9. However, the exact reason for Rapithwin being associated by the author of CT with the lowest heaven is still obscure, as none of the surviving Zoroastrian sources provides us with information concerning the exact location of Rapithwin during the summer period, when he stays above the earth. A possible explanation for this connection may be found in the fact that both these cosmological elements are associated, in one way or another, with water. While the watery nature of the lowest heaven in Iranian cosmology has already been discussed, Rapithwin is also related to this element as he keeps “the water of the springs” warm during the five months of winter, when he stays under the earth.48 Yet, a more likely rationale for the association of Rapithwin with the lowest part of heaven can be deduced from the function performed by this mythological figure within the overall system of Zoroastrian cosmology. As has been mentioned above, the main function of Rapithwin during the summer season is to provide warmth to the world and “ripen the fruit of trees” (bar ī draxtān pazāmēd).49 Throughout this season Rapithwin is said to be present “above the ground” (bar bālāy-i zamīn bāšad).50 Since the

See Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, 13–14. See Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, 14. 48 Iranian Bundahišn XXV.15; ed. Anklesaria, Zand-Ākāsīh, 208–209. 49 Iranian Bundahišn XXV.16; ed. Anklesaria, Zand-Ākāsīh, 208–209. 50 Persian Rivāyat; ed. Unvala, Dārāb Hormazyār’s Rivāyat, v. 1, 122, ln. 5; 123, ln. 7–8; 124, ln. 4–5; 138, ln. 2–3. 46 47

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lowest heaven is located most closely to the earth, such a spatial arrangement for Rapithwin makes perfect sense. Given the unique character of the association of Rapithwin with the lowest heaven CT I.8–9, a question arises whether this element was an integral part of the Iranian ouranological tradition upon which the author of CT relied, or if it was introduced into that scheme by him? The former scenario seems more likely. As noted above, Rapithwin was closely associated with the divinity Ardwahišt, who in its turn has a strong connection to the physical element of fire, which belongs to him and in which he is immanent.51 This brings into the foreground the igneous aspect of Rapithwin’s nature, which is understandable, given his main function as the provider of heat for the underground realm during the winter season. This characteristic of Rapithwin makes apparent internal logic that underlies the cosmological scheme presented in CT I.8– 9, where each of the three heavens is associated with a particular kind of fire.52 This inner consistency of CT’s ouranology suggests that our author relied on some local version of Iranian cosmological tradition that was current during the Sasanian period in the region where he lived, but was not preserved in the later Zoroastrian sources. That would not be impossible given the fact, acknowledged by scholars, that Pahlavi sources reflect only one of several streams that existed within Zoroastrianism in pre-Islamic Iran, namely the ‘orthodox’ version of that religion, which survived the Arab conquest as it was preserved and promoted by Zoroastrian clergy.53 There is additional evidence that seems to be congruent with this hypothesis. It is provided by several rabbinic writings, the earliest of which is Genesis Rabbah, an amoraic midrashic collection, Cf. Yasna XXXI.3; XXXIV.4; XLIII.4. See on this Boyce, “Ardwahišt,” 389. 52 The identification of the upper heaven with ‘fire’ (‫ )ܢܘܪܐ‬may go back to the ancient Mesopotamian cosmological lore, since luludānītustone, from which the upper heaven was made according to the Akkadian sources, quoted above, was described as reddish in color. See Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, 10. 53 See Shaked, Dualism in Transformation, 95–98. 51

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redacted in Palestine somewhere around the turn of the fifth century. In the part that deals with the first chapters of Genesis, an opinion attributed to Rav is cited whereby the Hebrew word for ‘heaven’ (šāmayim) of Gen 1:8 is understood as composed of two different Hebrew nouns, ‘fire’ (’ēš) and ‘water’ (mayim). This etymology is followed by another tradition in the name of Rav, transmitted by R. Abba b. Kahana, according to which God created the ‘firmament’ of Gen 1:6–8 by bringing these two antagonistic elements together and mixing them forcefully.54 These two traditions appear together, although anonymously, in the Babylonian Talmud as well.55 According to these sayings, the element of fire is an essential component of the ‘firmament’ of Gen 1:8. Such an understanding of the nature of heaven constitutes a close parallel to the connection of the ‘firmament’ with Rapithwin in CT I.8–9. These two ouranological traditions, Jewish and Syriac-Christian, can be understood in the context of Iranian cosmological lore, where the heat-providing spirit of Rapithwin was considered to be a permanent part of the heavenly realm in the primeval world, before it was corrupted by Ahriman.56 Important for this argument is the Babylonian provenance of the rabbinic tradition, as it is ascribed to Rav, a firstgeneration amora, who was active in Babylonia during the first decades of the third century.57 There is no reason to doubt the Babylonian origins of these sayings on the grounds of their appearance Gen. Rab. 4:7: ‫ ר' אבא בר‬,‫ רב אמר אש ומים‬.‫ויקרא אלהים לרקיע שמים‬ ‫ ; כהנא מש' רב נטל הקב"ה אש ומים ופתכן זה בזה ומהן נעשו שמים‬ed. Theodor and 54

Albeck, Midrash Bereschit Rabba, v. 1, 31. 55 Cf. b. Ḥagigah 12a. In distinction from the midrash, the Bavli transmits this tradition as a baraitha, i.e. an anonymous Tannaitic statement. This might reflect the tendency on the side of the early Babylonian amoraim and stammaim to ascribe to Rav Tannaitic authority (cf. b. Ḥullin 122b; b. Eruvin 50b; b. Ketubot 8a; see on this Kalmin Sages, 44–45, n. 1). 56 Cf. Iranian Bundahišn III.22: “for He (i.e. Ohrmazd) knew that when the Adversary would arrive the day would be divided into these five periods, whilst before the advent of the Adversary, there was eternal midday, that is, the Rapithwin”; ed. Anklesaria, Zand-Ākāsīh, 45. 57 On Rav see Neusner, History of the Jews in Babylonia, v. 2, 126–134, 180–187.

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for the first time in the Palestinian source. We know of a number of Babylonian Rabbis, including Rav’s immediate disciples or their disciples, such as R. Abba b. Kahana, who moved from Babylonia to Palestine and through whom the traditions of early Babylonian masters entered Palestinian Rabbinic sources.58 All this raises the possibility of regarding the words of Rav not only as an example of skillful word-play of which Rabbis were masters, but as a reflection of his acquaintance with Iranian cosmological ideas. If accepted, this interpretation would strengthen the image of Rav as closely acquainted with Iranian culture, drawn by some scholars, 59 as well as deepen our general knowledge of the impact of Iranian culture on Babylonian Rabbis.60

PORTRAYAL OF THE MAGI In two chapters of CT (XLV–XLVI) we are presented with an eẍ tended narrative on the New Testament Magi (‫ܡܓܘܫܐ‬ ). They are introduced as one of the groups among the inhabitants of Persia, who become disturbed as they have witnessed the appearance in the sky of a new bright star within which the image of “a maiden carrying a child” with “a crown set upon his head” is depicted. The Magi, portrayed as experts in astronomy, consult their books, including one entitled “The Revelation of Nimrod,” from which God’s providential plan of Christ coming to be born in Judea becomes apparent to them. Carrying out their part of this plan, the Magi, who are said to be three in number, travel to the “mountains of Nod.” There they take three gifts from the “cave of treasures,” — gold, frankincense and myrrh, which were brought out of Paradise by Adam and deposited there. With these gifts the Magi travel to Bethlehem in Judea, where they find the infant Jesus, worship him and offer him the gifts. The Magi’s story concludes with their On the migration of Babylonian Jews to Palestine during Late Antiquity see Schwartz, “Aliya from Babylonia”; Idem., “Babylonian Commoners”. On Babylonian traditions in the Palestinian Rabbinic sources, see Sussman, “‫ושוב לירושלמי נזיקין‬,” 71–72, n. 72; 131–132, n. 179. 59 See Elman, “Middle Persian Culture,” 193–194. 60 See Herman, “Ahasuerus,” esp. 283–288; Elman “Middle Persian Culture”; Secunda, “Reading the Bavli in Iran.” 58

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acknowledgment of Jesus as God and their departure to their homeland. This narrative is based ultimately on Mt 2:1–12, but contains a considerable amount of non-biblical material. In what follows I shall discuss those extra-canonical features in the Magi’s portrayal that place a particular emphasis on their Iranian background. The origins and number of the Magi The Gospel of Matthew (2:1–12) is the only document within the New Testament corpus that narrates a story about certain “wise men from the East” (Gr. μάγοι ἀπὸ ἀνατολῶν), who came to Judea following the star in order to worship the new-born king of the Jews, and to offer him the gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Through the centuries, these mysterious Eastern visitors have captured the imagination of many Christians and were brought to life through a rich tradition of the Magi’s representation in literature and art.61 The word μάγοι, employed by the Gospel’s author to describe these men, had a wide range of meanings in Greek. This noun could indicate ‘members of the Persian priestly caste,’ or ‘any possessor or user of supernatural power.’ Alternatively it could, properly-speaking, refer to ‘magicians and sorcerers,’ or, figuratively, ‘a deceiver or seducer’.62 The question of which of these meanings was intended by the author of the Gospel has occupied more than one generation of scholars.63 However interesting this question may be, it is less relevant for our study than the problem of the translation and reception of Mt 2:1–12 in the Syriac tradition. In all Syriac versions of the New Testament, from the Old Syriac Gospels up to that by Thomas of Harkel, the Greek μάγοι of Mt 2:1–12 ̈ is translated as mgūšē (‫ܡܓܘܫܐ‬ ), the Syriac word that refers only to For a general overview of traditions about the Magi, see Kehrer, Die Heiligen Drei Könige; Élissagaray, La légende des Rois Mages; Trexler, Journey of the Magi. 62 See Delling, “μάγος, μαγεία, μαγεύω,” 356–358. 63 See Luz, Matthew 1–7, 101‒116; Delling, “μάγος, μαγεία, μαγεύω,” 358; Powell, “Magi as Kings”; Idem., “Magi as Wise Men.” 61

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members of the Persian priestly caste.64 That the Greek word μάγος was not by default translated with the Syriac mgūšā can be seen from the Peshitta version of Acts 13:6 and 13:8, where it is rendered as ḥarāšā (‫)ܚܪܫܐ‬, ‘magician, sorcerer’. It is possible that the translators of Mt 2:1–12 into Syriac wanted to remove any ambiguity present in the Greek μάγος and to identify the Eastern visitors as Zoroastrian priests in an unequivocal manner. Later on, this identification became standard in the Syriac Christian tradition, where the figure of the Magi became exceedingly popular.65 As to the origins of the Magi, it is related in CT XLV.12 that they come from the “East” (‫ )ܡܕܢܚܐ‬and, more specifically, in CT XLV.5 — from “the land of Persia” (‫)ܐܪܥܐ ܕܦܪܣ‬.66 The New Testament account of the Magi provides no exact information on their homeland, save the brief mention that they came “from the East” (ἀπὸ ἀνατολῶν). By the sixth century a number of solutions for the problem of the “East” of Mt 2:1 had been developed within the Christian exegetical tradition. The most popular among them was understanding this geographic term as referring to ‘Persia,’ developed apparently under the influence of Iranian connotations of the noun ‘Magi’.67 Occasionally, however, the Magi were thought to come from ‘Arabia,’ ‘Babylon’ or even ‘Ethiopia’.68 By connecting the Magi to ‘Persia,’ the author of CT followed a tradition of inter-

Ed. Kiraz, Comparative Edition of the Syriac Gospels, v. 1, 15. On the word’s meaning, see Sokoloff, Syriac Lexicon, 707. 65 On the Magi in Syriac tradition, see Monneret de Villard, Le leggende orientali; Witakowski, “The Magi in Syriac Tradition”; Debié, “Suivre l’étoile à Oxford.” 66 Ed. Ri, La Caverne des Trésors, 362, 366. 67 Cf. Clement of Alexandria, Protr. V.65.1, Strom. I.15; Origen, Cels. I.24; Basil of Caesarea, Hom. in Chr. gen. 5; John Chrysostom, De beato Philogonio. VI.4; Cyril of Alexandria, Ad. Isa. LIX.12. 68 For ‘Arabia,’ cf. Justin, Dial. cum Tryph. 77.4, 78.2, 88.1, 106.4; Epiphanius, De fide 8.1; see on this tradition Maalouf, “Were the Magi from Persia”. For ‘Babylon,’ cf. Balai, Madrasha on the Dedication of the Newly-Built Church in Qenneshrin 49, 51, 54, 59; ed. Overbeck, S. Ephraemi Syri, Rabulae, 256–257. For ‘Ethiopia,’ cf. Caesarius of Arles, Serm. 194.1. 64

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pretation of Mt 2:1 that was already centuries old, and which was especially popular among the Syriac-speaking Christians.69 In CT XLV.19 the author lists the Magi while mentioning their names and regions under their authority. It is apparent from this list that the Magi were three in number. This stands in contrast with the view, much more common among the Syriac-speaking Christians, whereby there were twelve Magi. One of the earliest Syriac sources to express such a view is the so-called Revelation of the Magi, an extended apocryphal narrative embedded into the WestSyrian Chronicle of Zuqnin (VIII CE) that might go back to the fifth or even fourth century.70 The antiquity of this tradition is confirmed by its appearance in the Opus Imperfectum in Matthaeum, an anonymous fifth-century Latin commentary on the Gospel of Matthew. The author of this work recounts the story of the twelve Magi and their gifts, relying upon an apocryphal book, ascribed to Seth, as his source.71 There is no other Syriac Christian source that predates or is contemporary to CT that has three Magi, and it is not clear whence the author of CT got this number. In light of our hypothesis of the West-Syrian origins of CT, it might be reasonable to regard this motif as one of the ‘Western’ exegetical traditions that reached the author of CT’s via the miaphysite network. 72 Another possibility would be that our author was influenced by the iconography of Nativity and Adoration scenes that usually include a depiction of the three Magi. There are several artistic representations Cf. Jacob of Serugh, Memra on the Nativity (ed. Bedjan, S. Martyrii, qui est Sahdona, 786), Memra on the Star that appeared to the Magi (ed. Bedjan, Homiliae selectae Mar-Jacobi, v. 1, 86, ln. 3; 87, ln. 11; 97, ln. 16; 114, ln. 1); Simeon the Potter, Hymns on the Nativity V.2 (ed. Euringer, “Die neun ‘Töpferlieder’,” 228); Pseudo-Ephremian Soghitha on Mary and the Magi IV.4–8, 49, 52 (ed. Beck, Des heiligen Ephraem des Syrers Hymnen de Nativitate, 210, 216 [Syr.]). 70 See Landau, “The Revelation of the Magi in the Chronicle.” For later Syriac traditions on the twelve Magi, see Witakowski, “The Magi in Syriac Tradition.” 71 PG 56, col. 637–638. 72 See Minov, Syriac Christian Identity, ch. 2, where I discuss the possibility of a West-Syrian provenance of CT. 69

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of the three Magi that come from Syria or Mesopotamia. One such example is the scene of the adoration of the Magi on a sixthcentury slab from Rasm al-Qanāfez.73 This scenario is supported further by the later Syriac author Jacob of Edessa, who while defending the opinion that the number of the Magi was twelve, mentions iconographic representations featuring the three Magi as the source of an alternative view.74 The royal status of the Magi Another remarkable feature of the Magi narrative in CT is that they are represented as “kings, the sons of kings” (‫) ̈ܡܠܟܐ ̈ܒܢܝ ̈ܡܠܟܐ‬.75 No royal features are attributed to the Magi in the canonical story and it is only in the later tradition of Christian exegesis that we find them invested with such dignity.76 The depiction of the Magi as ‘kings,’ although attested in Christian tradition beginning with the second century, was not particularly widespread during Late Antiquity. One of the earliest expressions of the notion of the Magi’s royal status is found in the writings of Tertullian, who on several occasions offers a messianic interpretation to the verses of Psalms that feature “the kings of Arabia and Saba” and their offerings (Ps 72:10–11, 15) as referring to the visit by the Magi, and he even ob-

See Nasrallah, “Bas-reliefs chrétiens inconnus,” 45–48. Cf. also the scene of the Magi’s Adoration on the two incense burners from Qamishli (VI–VII CE), described by De Jerphanion, “Un nouvel encensoir syrien,” 308, fig. 3–4, and from Takrit (VIII–IX CE), described by Harrak, “Incense Burner of Takrit”. For numerous examples of representations of the three Magi in the Western Christian, i.e. Greek and Latin, art of Late Antiquity, see Leclercq, “Mages.” In the Armenian tradition, the three Magi feature in the scene of the Adoration from the E ǰmiacin Gospels, which date from the late sixth or early seventh century, on which see Mathews, “Early Armenian Iconographic Program,” 205–206. 74 Letter (# 14) to John of Litarba. The relevant fragment was published by Nestle, Brevis linguae syriacae grammatica, ‫ܦܕ‬-‫ܦܓ‬. 75 CT XLV.18; ed. Ri, La Caverne des Trésors, 368–369. 76 On the development of this tradition, see Powell, “Magi as Kings.” 73

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serves that “the East regards the Magi almost as kings.”77 Yet, such an early attestation notwithstanding, this view of the Magi’s identity did not become particularly influential in the Latin Christian tradition until the Middle Ages. As to the literary sources, it is only in the first half of the sixth century that we come across an en passant mention of the royal status of the Magi in a homily on the Epiphany by Caesarius of Arles (ca. 470–543 CE).78 It should be noted, however, that even for Caesarius the royal association is not an essential element of the Magi’s image. This can be seen from the laconic and impersonal way in which it is introduced by the author, as one among other opinions that exist, as well as from the fact that no royal imagery is evoked in other writings of Caesarius where the Magi are mentioned.79 The marginal character of the Magi’s royal aspect in the Christian tradition of Late Antiquity is further confirmed by the data provided by Christian art, where the scene of the adoration of the Magi was one of the most popular subjects.80 The first images of the Magi’s visit, attested already in the second century, are found in the catacombs of Rome. By the fourth century, this scene had become very popular. The earliest artistic representations of the Magi in frescoes, mosaics and sculptures would usually render them featuring general orientalizing traits such as the Phrygian cap, an oriental style chlamys or chiton, and anaxyrides.81 Their iconography often is modeled on that of the triumphal monuments of imperial Rome, where representatives of the defeated barbarian nations Adv. Marc. III.13.8 — Nam et magos reges habuit fere oriens; ed. Kroymann, “Q. S. Fl. Tertvlliani Adversvs Marcionem,” 525. This sentence as well as an identical interpretation of Ps 72:10,15 also appear in Adv. Iud. IX.12. 78 Sermo 139.2 — Illi Magi tres reges esse dicintur; PL 39, col. 2018. 79 Cf. Serm. 113.2; 194.1; tr. Mueller, Saint Caesarius of Arles, v. 2, 159; v. 3, 35–36. 80 Most of the artistic representations of the Magi from antiquity are conveniently collected by Leclercq, “Mages.” For analysis of the early iconography of the Magi, see Vezin, L’adoration et le cycle; Deckers, “Die Huldigung der Magier”; Trexler, Journey of the Magi, 21–38. 81 See Vezin, L’adoration et le cycle, 65–70. 77

DYNAMICS OF CHRISTIAN ACCULTURATION

171

were depicted presenting gifts, especially golden crowns. One of the best known representations of the Magi that illustrates this tendency is that of the sixth-century mosaic from the basilica church of Sant’ Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna.82 Nevertheless, representation of the Magi as kings, so popular in the European art of the Middle Ages, was unknown to the late antique and early Byzantine traditions of Christian art.83 It was only in the tenth century that Christian artists of the Latin West began to use royal features, such as crowns, to represent the Magi.84 Notwithstanding Tertullian’s statement about the East regarding the Magi as kings, no such imagery seems to be found in the surviving Greek Christian writings from Late Antiquity. While a messianic interpretation of Ps 72:10–11 [LXX 71:10–11], where the bringing of gifts by “the kings of Arabia and Saba” ( βασιλεῖς Ἀράβων καὶ Σαβα) was regarded as a prefiguration of the Magi’s visit, becomes quite popular among the Greek-speaking Christian exegetes beginning with the fourth century,85 it had no recognizable impact on how the Magi were perceived in the Eastern Christian imagination. In the Syriac Christian tradition prior the time of CT, the situation is almost the same. It is remarkable that the majority of ancient Syriac writers who mention the Magi or address Mt 2:1–12 do not employ royal imagery at all. Ephrem, in those of his Hymns on the Nativity, where the story of Mt 2:1–12 is repeatedly evoked, characterizes the Eastern visitors only as mgūšē.86 In the Syriac See Von Simson, Sacred Fortress, 89–95. See Trexler, Journey of the Magi, 35–36, 46. 84 See Vezin, L’adoration et le cycle, 71–72. 85 See on this below. 86 Cf. Hymns nos. 22–24; ed. Beck, Des heiligen Ephraem des Syrers Hymnen de Nativitate, 109–127 [Syr.]. The phrase ‫ ̈ܡܠܟܐ ܪܗܝܒܝܢ‬, that appears in Hymn 26.2 (ed. Beck, Des heiligen Ephraem des Syrers Hymnen de Nativitate, 133 [Syr.]) and could be taken as related to the Magi, should be understood in light of the poetic parallelism employed by Ephrem in this stanza as referring to the malevolent local rulers of Judaea, such as Herod. To avoid ambiguity, it would be better to translate it not as “kings are hastening” (tr. McVey, Ephrem the Syrian, 206), but as “kings are disquiet82 83

172

SERGEY MINOV

Commentary on Diatessaron, ascribed to Ephrem, there is an extended discussion of the Magi’s visit, where they are consistently referred to as mgūšē and, at some point, are likened to the prophets, but they are never represented as ‘kings’.87 No royal characteristics are attributed to the Magi in the many poems on the Nativity composed by Jacob of Serug, one of the most prolific Syriac poets of Late Antiquity.88 In one of these poems Jacob numbers the Magi among ̈ ̈ the “wise men of the Assyrians” (‫ܕܐܬܘܖܝܐ‬ ‫ܚܟܝܡܝܗܘܢ‬ ).89 In another of Jacob’s work, the Homily on the Star that appeared to the Magi, besides the regular mgūšē the most common way to refer to them is “the ̈ ‫)ܐܝܙ‬,91 who chiefs of Persia” (‫) ̈ܖܝܫܝ ܦܪܣ‬90 or “messengers” (‫ܓܕ ܐ‬ represent the kingdom of Persia,92 but are not kings themselves. Likewise, Jacob’s older contemporary Narsai never refers to the Magi as ‘kings’ in his Homily on the Nativity, where considerable space is devoted to their story. 93 No mention of the Magi’s royal status is found in various other Syriac works from Late Antiquity that feature the Magi, such as the Madrasha on the Dedication of the Newly-Built Church in Qenneshrin by Balai (V CE),94 the Hymns on the ed/alarmed”. Cf. also the Soghitha on Mary and the Magi, attributed to Ephrem, where the envious “local kings” (‫ ) ̈ܡܠܟܐ ܕܐܪܥܐ‬are mentioned in the context of the Magi’s visit (ed. Beck, Des heiligen Ephraem des Syrers Hymnen de Nativitate, 214, ln. 32 [Syr.]), as well as Jacob of Serug’s Homily on the Star of the Magi (ed. Bedjan, Homiliae selectae Mar-Jacobi, v. 1, 99, 144) and the Syriac version of Pseudo-Eusebian On the Star (ed. Wright, “Eusebius of Caesarea on the Star,” ‫[ ܝܙ‬Syr.], 163 [tr.]). 87 Cf. Commentary on Diatessaron II.18‒25; tr. McCarthy, Saint Ephrem’s Commentary, 68–73. For a discussion of this tradition, see De Halleux, “L’adoration des Mages”. 88 Ed. Bedjan, S. Martyrii, qui est Sahdona, 720‒808; ed. Rilliet, Jacques de Saroug, 538–549. 89 Ed. Bedjan, S. Martyrii, qui est Sahdona, 786. 90 Ed. Bedjan, Homiliae selectae Mar-Jacobi, v. 1, 86, ln. 3; 87, ln. 11; 97, ln. 16; 114, ln. 1. 91 Idem, 120, ln. 7; 133, ln. 11; 134, ln. 5; 139, ln. 13; 142, ln. 5. 92 Cf. Bedjan, Homiliae selectae Mar-Jacobi, v. 1, 114, ln. 7–14. 93 Ed. McLeod, Narsai’s Metrical Homilies, 52–59. 94 Esp. ln. 49–66; ed. Overbeck, S. Ephraemi Syri, Rabulae, 256–257.

DYNAMICS OF CHRISTIAN ACCULTURATION

173

Nativity by Simeon the Potter (VI CE),95 Pseudo-Ephremian Soghitha on Mary and the Magi.96 In the Syriac version of Pseudo-Eusebian On the Star the Magi are introduced as “the worshippers of fire” ̈ ), sent by the “king of Persia” (‫ )ܡܠܟܐ ܕܦܪܣ‬to deliver (‫ܣܓܕܝ ܠܢܘܪܐ‬ the gifts to Jesus.97 One of the rare cases where the Magi’s royal status is mentioned in Syriac sources from Late Antiquity is found in the Testament of Adam. In the ‘Prophecy’ section of this apocryphal composition, where Adam foretells to Seth the future coming of Christ, he mentions the Magi, while characterizing them as “the sons of kings” (‫) ̈ܒܢܝ ̈ܡܠܟܐ‬.98 Stephen Robinson, the editor of the Testament, dates its ‘Prophecy’ part to the third century. 99 However, there are some reasons to suspect that this particular tradition is a later addition. These considerations are based on the evidence provided by the Syriac versions of another apocryphal work, the Transitus Mariae, where the part of the Testament that mentions the Magi is quoted. We have at our disposal two early manuscripts of the Transitus, from the fifth and sixth century. It is remarkable that while in the sixth-century Syriac version of this work the Magi are called “the sons of kings” (‫) ̈ܒܢܝ ̈ܡܠܟܐ‬, the fifth-century version contains no such description.100 Another early mention of the Magi’s royal status is found in the writings of Isaac of Antioch, a fifth-century Syriac poet. In his still unpublished Homily on the Magi who Came from the East, preserved in the sixth-century manuscript Vatican Syriac 120, we come across a scene of the Magi’s interrogation by Herod, during which 95

233.

Esp. V, VII–VIII; ed. Euringer, “Die neun ‘Töpferlieder’,” 228–

Cf. ln. 8, where they are called “the chiefs of Persia” (‫;) ̈ܖܝܫܝ ܦܪܣ‬ ed. Beck, Des heiligen Ephraem des Syrers Hymnen de Nativitate, 210 [Syr.]. 97 Ed. Wright, “Eusebius of Caesarea on the Star,” ‫[ ܝܘ‬Syr.], 162 [tr.]. 98 Testament of Adam 3:7 (Recension #1 and 3); ed. Robinson, Testament of Adam, 64–65, 100–101. 99 Robinson, Testament of Adam, 151. 100 For the sixth-century Syr. Transitus, see Wright, “Departure of my Lady Mary,” ‫[ ܟܙ‬Syr.]; 145 [tr.]; for the fifth-century — Lewis, Apocrypha Syriaca, ‫[ ܣܚ‬Syr.], 41 [tr.]. 96

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SERGEY MINOV

they entreat the king not to be mistaken for Persian spies and reveal their true identity, claiming that “we are from the chiefs of Persia, and even kings and sons of kings”.101 Although there is still much work to be done on Isaac’s corpus and on the place of this homily within it, in the meantime it would not be unreasonable to suggest the second half of the fifth century as the earliest likely date of the Magi’s description in royal terms in the Syriac Christian tradition. The names of the Magi The royal identity of the Magi is strengthened even further, as all three of them are represented as bearers of characteristically Iranian royal names. In CT XLV.18–19 the author describes the Magi in the following way: These are the kings, the sons of kings, who bore the offerings to the King: Hormizd of Makhōzdi, the king of Persia, who was named ‘king of kings’ and who used to dwell in the lower Azerbaijan, and Yazdgird, the king of Saba, and Pērōz, the king of Sheba, which is in the East.102

A certain difficulty for establishing the Magi’s names is presented by the existence of many textual variants for each of them. In my translation I follow the reconstruction of these names that has been offered by Carl Bezold, in his German translation of CT.103 The name of the first Magus is, perhaps, the most problematic of all. Its two main variants in the manuscripts of CT are “Hormizd” or “Hormizdād”.104 Both of these theophoric names, de101

‫ ;ܡܢ ̈ܖܫܐ ܪܦܪܣ ܐܝܬܝܢ ܐܦ ̈ܡܠܟܐ ܘܒܢ̈ܝ ̈ܡܠܟܐ‬ms. Vatican Syriac 120,

f. 199r. It is homily #106 in the list of Mathews 2003. I thank Dr. Kristian Heal for drawing my attention to this text. ̈ ‫ܒܢܝ‬ ̈ ‫ܐܢܘܢ ܕܛܝܢܝܢ ܗܘܘ‬ ̈ ‫ ̈ܡܠܟܐ‬.‫ܩܘܖܒܢܐ ܠܡܠܟܐ‬ 102 OrA: ‫ ܗܘܪܡܝܙܕܕ‬.‫ܡܠܟܐ‬

‫ ܗ̇ܘ ܕܡܠܟ ̈ܡܠܟܐ ܡܫܬܡܗ ܗܘܐ ܘܝܬܒ ܗܘܐ ܒܐܕܘܪܓܝܢ ܡܢ‬.‫ܕܡܟܘܙܕܝ ܡܠܟܐ ܕܦܪܣ‬ .‫ ܘܦܪܘܙܕ ܡܠܟܐ ܕܫܒܐ ܗ̇ܝ ܕܒܡܕܢܚܐ‬.‫ ܘܐܙܕܓܪ ܡܠܟܐ ܕܣܒܐ‬.‫ ;ܠܬܚܬ‬ed. Ri, La

Caverne des Trésors, 368. 103 See ed. Bezold, Die Schatzhöhle, v. 1, 57. 104 Textual variants: OrABDMO ‫ܗܘܪܡܝܙܕܕ‬, OrEHLPSU ‫ܗܘܪܡܙܕܕ‬, OrCOcd ‫ܗܘܪܡܝܙܕ‬, OrV ‫ܗܘܪܡܝܙܟܪ‬, Occ ‫ܗܘܪܡܐܕܪ‬.

DYNAMICS OF CHRISTIAN ACCULTURATION

175

rived from Ohrmazd, the highest deity of Zoroastrianism, are attested in the original Iranian sources.105 Accordingly, it is difficult to decide which of these two forms should be preferred. The form ‘Hormizd’ seems to be a more likely option. This choice is based on the fact that the two other Magi bear distinctively royal names. While we know of several Sasanian kings named Hormizd106 there are no examples of the personal name ‘Hormizdād’ borne by an Iranian monarch. On the other hand, it is noteworthy that in the historiographical work of Agathias of Myrina the names of kings Hormizd I and II are spelled as Ὁρμισδάτης.107 The name of the second Magus does not present particular difficulties and should be without doubt established as “Yazdgird”.108 Its meaning is also theophoric — ‘made by god’. We know of three Sasanian kings that bore this name — Yazdgird I (r. 399–421), Yazdgird II (r. 438–457), and Yazdgird III (r. 632–651), the last ruler from the Sasanian dynasty.

See Justi, Iranisches Namenbuch, 7–9; Gignoux, Noms propres sassanides, 98, 137–139. An attempt to reconstruct the original name of the first Magus as Hormizd-farr by Joseph Marquart, who interpreted the Magi’s names in the light of the Iranian names of the three envoys sent by Nimrod to Balaam according CT XXXV.18–21 (Marquart, “Untersuchungen zur Geschichte,” 7), is seriously flawed by his reliance on the limited textual base of Bezold’s edition of CT and, thus, can hardly be accepted as satisfactory. 106 There were five Sasanian kings that bore this name: Hormizd I (r. 272–273), Hormizd II (r. 303–309), Hormizd III (r. 457–459), Hormizd IV (r. 579–590), Hormizd V (r. 630–632). 107 See Hist. IV.24.5; IV.25.1; ed. Keydell, Agathiae Myrinaei historiarum, 154. 108 Textual variants: OrABCDOPSV ‫ܐܙܕܓܪ‬, OrEHLMU ‫ܐܙܪܓܕ‬, Ocabc ‫ܐܙܕܥܝܪ‬, d Oc ‫ܝܙܕܓܪܕ‬. Cf. this name spelled as ‫ ܝܙܕܓܪ‬and ‫ ܐܝܙܕܓܪܕ‬in other Syriac sources. For the references see Gignoux et alii, Noms propres syriaques, 143– 144, nos. 453a–j. For examples of this name in Iranian sources, see Justi, Iranisches Namenbuch, 148–149; Gignoux, Noms propres sassanides, 189–190. 105

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SERGEY MINOV

The form of the third Magus’ name also varies considerably in different manuscripts of CT.109 Given the fact that with the exception of ‫ ܦܝܪܘܙ‬none of these variants has parallels in the corpus of indigenous Iranian onomastics, the form “Pērōz” (‘victorious’) seems to be most likely the original form of this name.110 There were two Sasanian monarchs who bore this name — Pērōz I (r. 459–484) and Pērōz II (d. after 661). It seems reasonable to accept a suggestion made by Witold Witakowski that the rule of Pērōz I, the first Sasanian king bearing this name, might serve as a terminus post quem for the story of the Magi in CT.111 This tradition of the Magi’s names has no parallels in other sources from Late Antiquity and is unique to CT. It is completely independent of the contemporary Western tradition, where the Magi were named Gaspar, Melchior and Balthasar.112 A legitimate question arises about the reason behind the attribution of these particular Sasanian royal names to the Magi in CT. One might attempt to find a common denominator that would bring together three Sasanian kings bearing these names and, thus, throw light upon the author’s choice. One answer to this question could be that the author of CT named the Magi after those Sasanian kings who ruled recently and therefore would be easily recognized by his intended audience. One possible configuration of three Sasanian kings, whose names correspond to those of the three Magi, has been offered by A. Wirth. He suggested that the prototypes of the Magi in CT were the three following Sasanian monarchs, who ruled consecutively from the middle to the second half of the fifth centuTextual variants: OrAELOPSUV ‫ܦܪܘܙܕ‬, OrBCD ‫ܦܝܪܘܙ‬, OrH ‫ܦܪܘܙܕܕ‬, OrM ‫ܦܪܘܕܕ‬, Oca ‫ܦܘܪܙܕܢ‬, Ocd ‫ܦܪܘܙܕܢ‬. 110 For examples of the name Pērōz and its derivates in Iranian sources see Justi, Iranisches Namenbuch, 247–251; Gignoux, Noms propres sassanides, 147–148; Gignoux, Noms propres sassanides ... Supplément, 55. Marquart’s attempt to derive the name of the third Magus from the Persian name Farr-vindād (Marquart, “Untersuchungen zur Geschichte,” 4) is too arbitrary to be useful. 111 Witakowski, “The Magi in Syriac Tradition,” 815–816. 112 For the references and discussion, see Metzger, “Names for the Nameless,” 80–81. 109

DYNAMICS OF CHRISTIAN ACCULTURATION

177

ry, Yazdgird II (r. 438–457), Hormizd III (r. 457–459) and Pērōz I (r. 459–484).113 There is, however, another possible common denominator that seems to provide a better solution to the problem of the Magi’s names. The author’s choice of these particular names might be determined by the positive attitude towards Christianity of those Sasanian kings who bore them. This explanation certainly fits the first Magus, whose name might be understood as alluding to Hormizd IV (r. 579–590). This Sasanian king, during whose reign the author of CT might well have lived, pursued a policy of religious tolerance towards Christians and hindered attempts of the Zoroastrian clergy to launch anti-Christian persecution.114 The second Magus, whose name might be derived from Yazdgird I (r. 399–420 CE), conforms to this pattern as well. Reviled by the non-Christian Persian and Arabic sources as ‘a sinner,’ for the greatest part of his rule this king treated his Christian subjects favorably, legalizing public Christian worship in Persia and sponsoring the first synod of the Church of the East. 115 Although the last year of Yazdgird’s reign saw a renewal of anti-Christian persecution, this fact did not blacken the king’s image in the later Christian tradition, where the negative aspect of his rule was often deemphasized, whether through disregard, explanation or justification.116 The case of the third Magus is most problematic. The only Sasanian king who could serve as the prototype for him was Pērōz I. In distinction from Hormizd IV and Yazdgird I, loyalty of this king to the official Zoroastrian religion was staunch and unquestionable. He is said to have initiated persecution against the Chris-

Wirth, Aus orientalischen Chroniken, 203, n. 2. See Shahbazi, “Hormozd IV.” On the policy of Hormizd towards Christians of his empire, see Labourt, Le christianisme, 200–203; Christensen, L’Iran sous les Sassanides, 442–443. 115 See Labourt, Le christianisme, 87–103; Christensen, L’Iran sous les Sassanides, 269–273. 116 See on this McDonough, “Second Constantine”; cf. Geoffrey Herman’s paper in this volume. 113 114

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SERGEY MINOV

tians of his empire. 117 Yet, the existing evidence on the policy of Pērōz towards Christians is contradictory. Thus, in a number of East-Syrian sources the king is presented in a positive light, mainly on account of his role as the patron of Barṣauma of Nisibis.118 In the Chronicle of Arbela it is even stated about Pērōz that “although he was a pagan, he greatly helped the Christians during his lifetime”.119 This positive picture of the reign of Pērōz seems also to be supported by the Martyrdom of Gregory Pīrān-Gušnasp, a late sixthcentury hagiographic work, where it is reported that the Christians of Iran enjoyed a period of peace “from the reign of king Pērōz until the tenth year of king Khusrau”.120 While Stephen Gerö might be right in his refusal to accept the reliability of these two sources as witnesses to the real policy of Pērōz towards Christians,121 important for our argument is that at least some Iranian Christians during the sixth century saw nothing wrong in the image of Pērōz as a king, who was favorably disposed to the Christian minority. Another aspect of the Magi’s portrayal in CT that deserves attention is their association with particular geographical regions. The first Magus, Hormizd, is characterized as “the king of Persia” (‫ )ܡܠܟܐ ܕܦܪܣ‬and, in order to reinforce this claim, he is given the distinctively Iranian royal title ‘king of kings’, ‫ ܡܠܟ ̈ܡܠܟܐ‬in Syriac, which is a calque of the Persian šāhān šāh. The origins of Hormizd are related to ‫ܡܟܘܙܕܝ‬, the toponym (or, possibly, patronym) that seems to be difficult to identify with any degree of certainty. 122 Another toponym connected with Hormizd is easily recognizable, 117 118

36‒37. 119

See Gerö, Barṣauma of Nisibis, 17–20. See Labourt, Le christianisme, 149–150; Gerö, Barṣauma of Nisibis,

̈ ‫ܠܟܖܣܛܝܢܐ ܒܚ‬ ̈ ‫ܝܘܗܝ‬ ‫ ;ܐܦܢ ܚܢܦܐ ܐܝܬܘܝ ܗܘܐ ܣܓܝ ܥܕܪ ܗܘܐ‬ed. Mingana,

Sources syriaques, 67, ln. 36–37.

‫ ;ܡܢ ܡܠܟܘܬܗ ܕܦܝܪܘܙ ܥܕܡܐ ܠܫܢܬ ܥܣܪ ܕܟܘܣܪܘ ܡܠܟܐ‬ed. Bedjan, Histoire de Mar-Jabalaha, 348, ln. 13–15. 121 See Gerö, Barṣauma of Nisibis, 20. 122 Textual variants: OrABCDELMSUVOcd ‫ܡܟܘܙܕܝ‬, OrOP ‫ܡܘܙܕܝ‬, OrH ‫ܡܟܘܙܝܢ‬. I see no compelling reason to accept Marquart’s emendation of this hapax into the relative clause ‫ܕܗܘ ܡܙܕܝ‬, “who is Mazdai” (Marquart, “Untersuchungen zur Geschichte,” 7). 120

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179

since it derives as a calque from “Ādurbādagān,” the Middle Persian name for the province of Azerbaijan.123 There could be several reasons to mention Azerbaijan in connection with the Sasanian king. As was demonstrated above, Azerbaijan served as the religious center of the Sasanian empire, since the principal royal sanctuary of Ādur Gušnasp was located there, to which every newly crowned Sasanian monarch had to pay homage. Moreover, the city of Ganzak, the capital of the province, functioned as an important center of Sasanian administration.124 In fact, the puzzling phrase that Hormizd “used to dwell (‫ )ܝܬܒ ܗܘܐ‬in lower Azerbaijan,” which stands in contradiction with the preeminent status of Seleucia-Ctesiphon as the official capital of Sasanian empire, might be explained as a reflection of Ganzak being used at times as the place of winter residence by Iranian rulers.125 While the association of Hormizd with Persia does not present particular problems, the mention of “Saba” and “Sheba” as the kingdoms of the two other Magi is in need of explanation. It would be counterproductive to look for a connection between those historical Sasanian kings, who bore the names Yazdgird and Pērōz, and these geographic regions, located in Arabia. Rather, as has been suggested by Witakowski,126 this association should be understood as a result of a purely literary development, serving as an example of the embedded exegesis of the following messianic prophecy from Psalm 72:10–11: The correct form is found in OrP ‫ ܐܕܘܪܒܓܢ‬and Ocd ‫ܐܕܘܪܒܝܓܢ‬. Mani is said to visit Ganzak during one of his missionary journeys (see Cologne Mani Codex 121,4–15). It was to this city that the Catholicos Mar Aba I was sent to be kept under house arrest by Khusro I. On this affair, see Labourt, Le christianisme, 181–185; Payne, Christianity and Iranian Society, 169–179. 125 Thus, Strabo in Geogr. XI.13.3 relates about the Parthians that “their royal summer palace is situated in a plain at Gazaca” (βασίλειον δ’ αὐτῶν θερινὸν μὲν ἐν πεδίῳ ἱδρυμένον Γάζακα); ed. Jones, Geography of Strabo, v. 5, 304–305. 126 Witakowski, “The Magi in Syriac Tradition,” 815. The first scholar who noticed this scriptural allusion seems to have been Marquart. See Marquart, “Untersuchungen zur Geschichte,” 2. 123 124

180

SERGEY MINOV The kings of Tarshish and of the isles will bring him offerings. The kings of Sheba and Saba will offer gifts. And all kings will bow down before him, and all nations will worship him.127

The author of CT was not the first Christian writer to read Mt 2:1– 12 in the light of Ps 72:10–15. Here he follows a well-established tradition of christological interpretation of this Psalm. As noted above, Tertullian was among the earliest exegetes, who interpreted Ps 72:10–15 as referring to the visit and the gifts of the Magi. By the fourth century this understanding of Ps 72:10–15 became widespread throughout the Greek-speaking part of Christendom. Athanasius of Alexandria in the Expositions on the Psalms interprets “the gold of Arabia” in Ps 72:15 as referring to the Magi’s offerings.128 This exegetical tradition appears in the works of such later Alexandrian exegetes as Didymus the Blind (Comm. in Zech. III.305) and Cyril of Alexandria (Commentary on Isaiah IV.4), as well as in the Dialogue of Timothy and Aquila (10.3), an anti-Jewish composition located by scholars within an Alexandrian milieu.129 Such an approach to Ps 72:15 was not the exclusive feature of the Alexandrian exegetical school. It is also found in the works of such writers from Palestine and Asia Minor as Eusebius of Caesarea (Comm. in Psalms; PG 23, col. 813), Pseudo-Epiphanius’ Book of Testimonies (§16),130 and Amphilochius of Iconium (Oratio IV.7). Such a wide distribution of this exegetical tradition makes it difficult to establish with certainty how it reached the Syriac-speaking milieu of CT.131 Putting aside 127

̈ .‫ܘܕܓܙܖܬܐ‬ ̈ Peshitta: ‫ ̈ܡܠܟܐ ܕܫܒܐ‬.‫ܩܘܖܒܢܐ ܢܝܬܘܢ ܠܗ‬ ‫̈ܡܠܟܐ ܕܬܪܫܝܫ‬

128

Καὶ δοθήσεται αὐτῷ χρυσίον Ἀραβικὸν, δηλοῖ σαφῶςἃ προσήνεγκαν

̈ .‫ܘܕܣܒܐ‬ .‫ ܘܟܠܗܘܢ ܥ̈ܡܡܐ ܢܦܠܚܘܢܝܗܝ‬.‫ ܘܢܣܓܕܘܢ ܠܗ ܟܠܗܘܢ ̈ܡܠܟܐ‬.‫ܩܘܖܒܢܐ ܢܩܪܒܘܢ‬ οἱμάγοι δῶρα; PG 27, col. 325.

Ed. Varner, Ancient Jewish-Christian Dialogues, 158–159. Ed. Hotchkiss, Pseudo-Epiphanius Testimony, 34–35. 131 It should be noted, however, that no such interpretation of Ps 72:10–15 is attested in the commentaries on Psalms from the Antiochene tradition — those by Theodore of Mopsuestia and Theodoret of Cyrrhus and such later East-Syrian works as the Commentary on Psalms by Ishodad of Merv. This might serve as an additional example of the dissimilarity between CT and East-Syrian exegetical tradition, on which see Minov, Syriac Christian Identity, 54–80. 129 130

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the possibility of its oral circulation or of direct acquaintance by the author of CT with these Greek works, one might point to the Syriac translation of Athanasius’ Expositions that was in existence already by the sixth century as a plausible source of inspiration for our writer.132 The dress of the Magi As the story of the Magi advances, we come across the following description and explanation of the peculiar manner in which the Magi were dressed during their visit to Bethlehem (CT XLVI.3–4): Now the Magi are called ‘Magi’ because of the garb of Magianism, which the pagan kings used to wear whensoever they offered up a sacrifice and brought offerings to their gods. They used two different kinds of apparel: that of royalty — inside, and that of Magianism — outside. Likewise also those who went up to Christ prepared to offer their gifts were arrayed in the two kinds of apparel.133

As in the case of the Magi’s names, no similar tradition about this peculiar manner of their dress is attested in any other ancient Christian source. Neither do ancient Greco-Roman and oriental sources provide explicit descriptions of Iranian kings being clothed in two distinct kinds of attire, royal and priestly, during their participation in Zoroastrian rites. The unique character of this tradition calls for close attention and obliges us to try to grasp the message conveyed by means of this imagery. One solution has been offered by Witakowski. He suggests that the Magi’s description in CT XLVI.3–4 should be understood as a purely literary development. By combining these two kinds of garment the author of CT “makes an effort to reconcile the tradi132

See ed. Thomson, Athanasiana Syriaca. Part IV, 143 [Syr.], 116

133

̈ OrA: ‫ ܕܠܒܝܫܝܢ ܗܘܘ‬.‫ ܡܛܠ ܐܣܟܝܡܐ ܕܡܓܘܫܘܬܐ‬.‫ܡܓܘܫܐ ܕܝܢ ܐܬܩܪܝܘ‬ ‫ܐܦܢ‬

[tr.].

̈ ‫̈ܡܠܟܐ‬ ̈ ‫ ܕܐܡܬܝ ܕܥܒܕܝܢ ܕܒܚܬܐ ܘܡܩܪܒܝܢ‬.‫ܚܢܦܐ‬ ‫ ܢܗܘܘܢ ܡܬܚܫܚ ܝܢ‬.‫ܩܘܖܒܢܐ ܐܠܠ ̈ܗܝܗܘܢ‬ ̈ ‫ ܗܟܢܐ ܐܦ‬.‫ ܒܗ̇ܘ ܕܡܓܘܫܘܬܐ ܡܢ ܠܒܪ‬.‫ ܒܗ̇ܘ ܕܡܠܟܘܬܐ ܡܢ ܠܓܘ‬.‫ܒܬܪܝܢ ܐܣܟܝܡܝܢ‬ ̈ ‫ܠܒܘܫܐ ܡܛܝܒܝܢ ܗܘܘ ܕܢܩܪܒܘܢ‬ ‫ ܒܬܪܝܗܘܢ‬.‫ܗܢܘܢ ܕܣܠܩܘ ܗܘܘ ܨܝܕ ܡܫܝ ܚܐ‬ ̈ .‫ ;ܩܘܖܒܢܝܗܘܢ‬ed. Ri, La Caverne des Trésors, 372–374.

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tion of their being kings with Matthew’s term magoi”.134 This explanation provides an obvious, but only partial solution to the problem because it does not analyze this unique tradition in the context of the general literary strategy of CT. It explains how the double image of the Magi’s dress came into existence, but not why the author of CT decided to make this effort. There are compelling reasons to regard this aspect of the Magi’s depiction as something more than merely an ingenious invention of an exegetically oriented mind, whose sole purpose was to resolve an apparent contradiction. Although in his work our author relies upon the existing tradition of scriptural exegesis, he is far from being an antiquarian who collects different opinions about biblical figures. We do find in CT examples of different exegetical traditions being ‘reconciled,’ as for example in the case of the threefold characteristic of Adam as king, prophet and priest.135 However, such examples demonstrate that the author of CT felt it necessary to ‘reconcile’ only those traditions that would advance his agenda. Thus, in the case of Adam his threefold status is conditioned by the author’s supercessionist antiJewish theology, according to which after the coming of Jesus the Jewish people were deprived of the gifts of kingship, prophecy and priesthood.136 Furthermore, instead of ‘reconciling’ those exegetical traditions that could not be integrated into his version of biblical history, the author of CT was perfectly able to ignore or explicitly reject them.137 In light of all that, the reason for the author’s choice to preserve both aspects of the Magi’s identity, priestly and royal, is still in need of explanation. Witakowski, “The Magi in Syriac Tradition,” 815–816. Cf. CT II.18; XLVIII.29. Each of the three traditions circulated separately in Jewish and Christian exegesis before the time of CT. 136 Cf. CT XLVIII.29; L.13–14; LII.17. For an analysis of this and other anti-Jewish arguments in CT, see Minov, Syriac Christian Identity, ch. 3. 137 Cf. his rejection of the interpretation of the “sons of men” of Gen 6:1–9 as angels (CT XV.4–8); the rejection of the idea of Hebrew as the primeval language (CT XXIV.11); polemic against the Melchizedekians (CT XXX.11–17); disagreement with the incorrect genealogy of the Twelve Tribes (CT XXXIII.1). 134 135

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As has been demonstrated above, the tradition of the Magi’s royal identity in the late antique Near East had a rather marginal status. Among the ancient Christian sources that have survived, the author of CT is the first writer who develops on this foundation a consistent and fully-fledged image of the Magi. My suggestion would be that the unique dual royal-priestly image of the Magi in CT is a result not only of the author’s reliance upon the previous tradition of New Testament exegesis, but of his acquaintance with indigenous Iranian ideas on monarchy as well. Parallels provided by Iranian sources oblige us to consider seriously the possibility that the author of CT refashioned the traditional image of the Magi in light of the prevalence in Sasanian political discourse ideology of an inseparable connection between church and state. One of the first scholars to comment upon the possibility of an Iranian background for the description of the Magi’s dress in CT was Geo Widengren.138 According to him the double apparel of the Magi is related to the ancient Iranian idea of sacred kingship. This notion was conveyed in a most visible manner through the dress-code of Iranian kings, who from Achaemenid times used vestments distinguished by the combination of red and white colors, thus indicating the union in the person of the king of the two highest offices of Indo-European society, that of the warrior-class and that of the priestly caste. Widengren’s thesis, although basically correct, is in need of certain adjustment. Similar to many other ancient cultures, the Iranian peoples considered the institution of kingship to be in intimate connection with the realm of the divine.139 The origins of the principle of royalty were traced back to the beginning of the world, as it was believed to have been created by Ohrmazd himself.140 There has been See Widengren, “Sacral Kingship,” 254. For an overview of ancient theories of kingship, see Oakley, Kingship, The Politics of Enchantment. On sacral kingship in Sasanian Iran, see Widengren, “Sacral Kingship”; Choksy, “Sacral Kingship”; Daryaee, “Kingship in Early Sasanian Iran”; Panaino, “King and the Gods,” esp. 216–227. 140 Cf. Dēnkard III.289; for the Pahlavi text and French translation of this passage, see Molé, Culte, mythe et cosmologie, 48–49. 138 139

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SERGEY MINOV

prolonged debate among Iranists over the exact meaning of the Middle Persian formula kē čihr az yazdān, found in official Sasanian inscriptions and coins as a characteristic of the king.141 Regardless whether this formula should be understood as a claim by kings of direct divine descent or as an expression of their iconic resemblance to gods, it functions as a public assertion for Zoroastrian divinities to be the ultimate source of Sasanian royal power. There is evidence of cultic activity by Iranian kings and their participation in sacrificial ceremonies.142 Thus, in Philostratus’ account of the visit to the Parthian court by Apollonius of Tyana, it is the king who is represented as carrying out the ritual of horsesacrifice in the presence of the Magi.143 Occasionally, one comes across the quality of magus being attributed to Sasanian kings. For example, in the Syriac Romance of Julian, Shapur II is referred to as “the great king, magus and mighty god”.144 According to Agathias of Myrina, the founder of the Sasanian dynasty, Ardashir, was “a devotee of the magian religion and an official celebrant of its mysteries.”145 Similarly, George Synkellos reports about Ardashir that “he was a Magus” (ἦν δὲ μάγος), while explaining how the Magians became powerful in Persia.146 On the basis of this and similar evidence, Panaino comes to the conclusion that Sasanian monarchs

For a balanced treatment of this problem most recently, see Panaino, “King and the Gods,” 227–246. 142 See Widengren, “Sacral Kingship,” 251–254. 143 Philostratus, Vita Apollonii I.29–31; ed. Jones, Philostratus, v. 1, 104–109. 144 ‫ ;ܡܠܟܐ ܪܒܐ ܡܓܘܫܐ ܘܐܠܗܐ ܬܩܝܦܐ‬ed. Hoffmann, Iulianos der Abtruennige, 182, ln. 28. The epithet alāhā (“god”) looks strange in this context and, most likely, is a result of too literal a rendering of the Persian title bay (‘god,’ ‘lord’) by the Syriac-speaking author of the Romance; see Panaino, “King and the Gods,” 222, n. 71. 145 Hist. II.26.3 — ἦν δέ γε οὗτος τῇ μαγικῇ κάτοχος ἱερουργίᾳ καὶ αὐτουργὸς τῶν ἀπορρήτων; ed. Keydell, Agathiae Myrinaei historiarum, 75; tr. Frendo, Agathias, 60. 146 Ed. Mosshammer, Georgii Syncelli Ecloga, 440. 141

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“behaved as natural members of the clergy with a different function and with a number of proper privileges”.147 Given the extreme scarcity of evidence on actual Zoroastrian ritual practice during the Sasanian period in general and on the cultic duties performed by the king in particular, it is hard to validate or disprove Panaino’s claim. Important for our argument is that at least in the realm of discourse religious devotion and close collaboration with the priestly caste were considered to be essential characteristics of the Sasanian monarch. On this base a well-attested doctrine of concordat between the Sasanian state and Zoroastrian religion developed.148 This fundamental principle of Sasanian political ideology is expressed in a memorable manner in the Letter of Tansar, a composition of Sasanian origin, from the second half of the sixth century that was preserved only in the late Persian translation made from Arabic. The Letter’s author states that “Church and State were born of the one womb, joined together and never to be sundered.”149 Similar statements are also scattered throughout various Zoroastrian texts written in Pahlavi. Thus, it is proclaimed in the third book of Dēnkard that “kingship is built on religion, and religion on kingship” and that “kingship and religion, religion and kingship are [fellow-] countrymen to each other”.150 The author of Dēnkard puts forward Zoroaster as a paradigm of this union, when he praises the prophet for the two sublime qualities that were combined in his person – “the Kayanian glory” (kayān xwarrah), that is, the glory of kingship, and “the glory of priesthood” (hērbed xwarrah).151 Another exemplary embodiment of these two qualities is Yima, the mythical king of the primeval Paradise, in whom like in Panaino, “King and the Gods,” 233. On this notion, see Zaehner, Dawn and Twilight, 296–299; Shaked, Dualism in Transformation, 31–40. Most of the relevant primary sources are collected in Molé, Culte, mythe et cosmologie, 37–58. 149 Tr. Boyce, Letter of Tansar, 33. 150 Dēnkard III.58 — pad awēšān xwadāyīh abar dēn, dēn abar xwadāyīh winārdagīh … xwadāyīh dēn [ud] dēn xwadāyīh [ham-]dehān; text and translation apud Shaked, Dualism in Transformation, 39. 151 Dēnkard VII.3.46; for the Pahlavi text and French translation of this passage, see Molé, La legende de Zoroastre, 36–39. 147 148

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Zoroaster “the glory of lordship” (xwarrah ī xwadāyīh) is united with “the glory of Good Religion” (xwarrah ī weh dēn).152 In light of all this evidence, it seems very likely that the author of CT might be aware of the double royal and priestly function of kingship in Sasanian Iran, while molding his description of the Magi’s vestments, and consciously evoking this imagery in order to express even more emphatically the Iranian identity of the New Testament Magi. The Magi’s anticipation of Jesus There is one more manifestation of the Magi’s Iranian background to be discussed. It comes into view in CT XLVI.8, where the following account of what the Magi expected to see, when they came to the new-born ‘king of the Jews,’ is offered: Thus did they think that they would find in the Land of Israel, a royal palace, and couches of gold with carpets laid upon them, and the king and the son of the king arrayed in purple, and hastening soldiers and companies of royal troops, and nobles of the kingdom paying him honor by presenting gifts, and furnished tables with food fit for the king, and delicacies in rows, and male servants and maidservants serving in fear.153

This description contains a number of characteristic features that indicate that the ceremony of Iranian royal audience is the basic pattern after which the Magi’s expectations are modeled. The institution of royal audience had a great significance in the system of government in ancient Iran and was regarded as an indispensable element of the monarch’s office. 154 While the author of CT explicitDēnkard III.129; for the Pahlavi text and French translation apud Molé, Culte, mythe et cosmologie, 37–38. 153 OrA: ‫ܗܟܢܐ ܡܣܬܒܪ ܗܘܐ ܠܗܘܢ ܕܡܫܟܚ ܝܢ ܗܘܘ ܒܐܪܥܐ ܕܝܣܪܝܠ ܦܠܛܝܢ‬ 152

̈ ‫ܒܡܝܠܬܐ‬ ̈ ‫ܡܫܘܝܢ‬ ̈ ‫ ܘܡܠܟܐ ܘܒܪ ܡܠܟܐ ܟܕ‬.‫ܘܐܡܐܠ‬ ‫ ܟܕ‬.‫ ܘܥ̈ܣܬܐ ܕܕܗܒܐ‬.‫ܕܡܠܟܘܬܐ‬ ̈ ̈ ̈ ‫ ܘܪܘܖܒܢܐ ܕܡܠܟܘܬܐ‬.‫ ܘܚ ̈ܝܠܘܬܐ ܘܣܕܖܐ ܕܦܠ ̈ ܚ ܝ ܡܠܟܐ ܟܕ ܪܗܝܒܝܢ‬.‫ܡܬܟܪܟ ܒܦܪܦܘܪܘܢ‬ ̈ ̈ ̈ ‫ܘܦܛܒܓܐ ܟܕ‬ ‫ܘܦܬܘܖܐ ܕܡܐܟܠܬܐ ܕܡܠܟܐ ܟܕ ܡܬܩܢܝܢ‬ .‫ܒܡܘܗܒܬܐ‬ ‫ܟܕ ܡܝܩܪܝܢ ܠܗ‬ ̈ ̈ .‫ ܘܥܒܕܐ ܘܐܡܗܬܐ ܕܡܫܡܫܝܢ ܒܕܚܠܬܐ‬.‫ ;ܣܕܝܪܝܢ‬ed. Ri, La Caverne des Trésors, 374– 376.

154

On this ceremony, see Khaleghi-Motlagh, ““Bār (Audience).”

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ly sets the Magi’s image of Jesus against the background of the royal court by mentioning the “royal palace” (‫)ܦܠܛܝܢ ܕܡܠܟܘܬܐ‬, in addition to this general remark, there are several more specific elements in his description of this setting that betray its Iranian origins. ̈ ), One such element is the “couches of gold” (‫ܥܖܣܬܐ ܕܕܗܒܐ‬ which refers to the ceremonial couch or throne that were used by the king and the magnates of Iran and Armenia during feasts and banquets. We find this luxurious object mentioned already in the younger Avesta, when in the hymn addressed to the goddess Aši the couches with “golden feet” (zaranyapaχšta.pāδāŋhō) are listed among the rewards of those who offer her yasna.155 Later on, Josephus relates that one of the exclusive privileges of the Parthian kings was “to lie down on a bed of gold” (ἐπὶ κλίνης χρυσῆς καθεύδειν).156 The “golden couch” (ZḤByn bzmy) is mentioned in the context of a banquet scene in that part of the Middle Persian inscription of the Sasanian high-priest Kerdir from Sar Mašhad, where he describes his heavenly vision.157 This object features prominently in the images of royal banquets, a very popular motif in Sasanian silverwork. In many of these scenes the king is depicted sitting alone or with a consort on a couch.158 Another noteworthy element of CT XLVI.8 that brings to mind the imagery related to the setting of Iranian royal audience or banquet is the mention of the “carpets/mattresses” (‫ ) ̈ܡܝܠܬܐ‬that are spread upon the couches. These mattresses, called in Middle Persian wistar(ag) were a particularly important element of the

Yašt 17.9; apud Bailey, Zoroastrian Problems, 6. Ant. XX.67; ed. Thackeray et alii, Josephus., v. 9, 424. 157 Ed. Gignoux, Les quatre inscriptions, 91, §25 [Pahl.], 96 [tr.]. I have translated the Middle Persian noun bazmy as ‘couch’ and not as ‘throne,’ as would suggest Gignoux’ French translation ‘trône,’ following the lead of Nina G. Garsoïan, who renders its Armenian cognate bazmakan as “banqueting-couch, feasting-couch”; see Garsoïan, Epic Histories, 515. 158 Cf. the silver plates in Ghirshman, “Notes iraniennes,” 60–61, 63, 66–67. See also Dentzer, “L’iconographie iranienne.” 155 156

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adornment of the royal throne during Sasanian times.159 A vivid description of this item of luxury can be found in al-Ṭabarī’s History, in the description of the audience given by Khusro II Parvīz (r. 591–628), when he was held in captivity by his own son. While visited by a military commander, the imprisoned monarch is said to be “seated on three Khusrawānī rugs woven with gold, which had been laid on a silken carpet, and he was lolling back on three cushions likewise woven with gold.”160 Like the royal couch, this accessory also features prominently in the scenes of the royal banquet on Sasanian silverwork, where the couch upon which the king sits is usually covered with several mattresses.161 An additional detail bearing the connotations of Iranian kingship is the “purple” (‫)ܦܪܦܘܪܘܢ‬, in which the baby Jesus was supposed to be wrapped. An important part of the Iranian dress-code, purple color distinguished the clothes of the warrior-class to which king and nobility belonged, beginning from Median and Achaemenian times.162 This practice continued during the Sasanian period as well, as one comes across several examples of Persian kings as well as their soldiers dressed in red.163 Thus, Eunapius, in the story about a meeting between Shapur II (r. 309–379) and the Greek philosopher Eustathius, refers to the king’s “purple (περιπορφύρους) and bejewelled attire”.164 Emperor Julian, while describing the PerSee Sperber, “On the Unfortunate Adventures,” 91–93; Shaked, “From Iran to Islam,” 77–79. As has been pointed out by Geoffrey Herman, one should distinguish between mattresses, upon which the king sat, and cushions, against which he leaned; see Herman, “Story of Rav Kahana,” 74. 159

‫وكان كسرى جالسا على ثلثة انماط ديباج خسرواني منسوج‬ ‫من ذهب قد فرشت على بساط من ابريسم متّكئا ّ على ثلث وسائد‬ ‫ ;منسوجة بذهب‬ed. De Goeje et alii, Annales quos scripsit Abu Djafar, v. I.2, 160

1048; tr. Bosworth, History of al-Ṭabarī. Vol. 5, 385. 161 See Ghirshman, “Notes iraniennes,” 60–61, 63, 67. 162 See Reinhold, History of Purple, 18–20; Shahbazi, “Clothing,” 723– 735. 163 See Tafazzoli, Sasanian Society, 1. 164 Eunapius, Vitae sophist. VI.5.8; ed. and tr. Wright, Philostratus and Eunapius, 396–397.

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sian army, speaks about their “raiment adorned with gold and purple (ἁλουργέσι)”.165 Similar descriptions are found in Zoroastrian sources, such as Dēnkard, where the attire suitable for a warrior is described as “the garment which is red (suxr) and wine-coloured (may-gōn), adorned with all kinds of ornament, with silver and gold, chalcedony, and shining ruby”.166 Moreover, some of the images employed in CT XLVI.8 suggest that the author, while constructing this fictitious scene, might have had in mind not an ordinary royal audience, but one of those ceremonies that were performed with much greater pageantry during Nowrūz and Mihragān, the two most important festivals of the Zoroastrian year.167 There were two different kinds of royal audience that were held during these holy days: the private audience for the reception of foreign dignitaries and the Persian nobility; and the public audiences intended for the reception of other members of Iranian society.168 One of the elements that make one think of such a festival ̈ ) to be offered by the setting is the mention of the “gifts” (‫ܡܘܗܒܬܐ‬ ̈ “nobles of the kingdom” (‫)ܪܘܖܒܢܐ ܕܡܠܟܘܬܐ‬. The presentation of gifts to the Sasanian monarch by his subjects of every rank, from foreign rulers down to commoners, constituted one of the central elements of these two festivals.169 As related in the Book of the Crown, ascribed falsely to al-Jāḥiz, “it is proper to offer to the king presents on Mihragān and Nowrūz, and the reason for this is that ̈ ) arthey divide the year”.170 The mention of “delicacies” (‫ܦܛܒܓܐ‬ 165 Julian, Orat. II.63B; ed. and tr. Wright, Works of the Emperor Julian, v. 1, 168–169. 166 Dēnkard III.192.3; apud Tafazzoli, Sasanian Society, 1. 167 On these festivals see Boyce, “Iranian Festivals.” 168 See Khaleghi-Motlagh, “Bār (Audience),” 733. 169 See Boyce, “Iranian Festivals,” 799–803; Ehrlich, “Celebration and Gifts.”

‫ومنحق الملك هدايا المهرجان والنيروز والعلة فى ذلك انهما‬ ‫ ;فصلا السنة‬ed. Zéki Pasha, Djâḥiẓ. Le Livre de la Couronne, 146. This 170

phrase opens a section that describes the exchange of gifts between king and his subjects during these two festivals. For a French translation, see Pellat, Le livre de la Couronne, 165–168.

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ranged on the tables also indicates the possible festival context of this imaginary audience. During both Nowrūz and Mihragān it was customary to offer the king particular sorts of food, associated with each of these festivals — the new milk and cheeses for the former and ripe fruits and nuts for the latter. 171 To eat sugar candies as an auspicious omen for the New Year was another ancient Iranian custom.172 Thus, according to the Book of Beauties and Antitheses, another pseudo-Jāḥizian work, on the days of Nowrūz Iranian kings were offered to eat “white sugar with fresh Indian nuts pared”.173 There was also a tradition of putting on the king’s table seven different sorts of grain during this festival.174 *** Having observed the close connection established by the author of CT between the Magi of the Gospel of Matthew and several ideas and images characteristic of the Iranian royal culture, we are faced with the question of the motive for such a peculiar and innovative reinterpretation of these biblical figures. First of all, it should be noted that the story of the Magi has an important narrative and theological function within the overall framework of the Christian history of salvation advanced by the author of CT. The three Iranian kings serve as indispensable mediators who channel God’s promise of universal salvation given at the very beginning of human history, in the Old Testament, to its fulfillment in the New Testament. It is through them that our author is able to flesh out the abstract idea of the unity of two testaments into a coherent and vivid narrative. By delivering to the infant Jesus the three symbolic gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh, the Magi confirm his status as the ‘Last’ or ‘New’ Adam and signal See Boyce, “Iranian Festivals,” 802. See Carter, “Royal Festal Themes,” 192. 173 ‫ ;سكّر ابيض وجوز هندوى مقشّر‬ed. Van Vloten, Le Livre des ّ beautés, 362. 174 Cf. Pseudo-Jāḥiz, Book of Beauties; ed. Van Vloten, Le Livre des beautés, 361; al-Dimašqī, Cosmography IX.8; ed. Mehren, Cosmographie de Chems-ed-Din, 278. 171 172

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the commencement of his redemptive ministry, bringing thus the circle of Heilsgeschichte to its completion (cf. CT XLV.13–15).175 The considerable attention paid to the figures of the Magi, as well as their thoroughly positive portrayal that culminates in the confession of Jesus as God (cf. CT XLVI.19–26), agrees also with the consistent anti-Jewish agenda that was pursued by the author of CT, whose supersessionist theology required an example of good Gentiles in order to cast a deeper shadow over the unbelieving Jewish people.176 Another avenue for understanding the particular attention paid to the Magi in CT is provided by the notion of ‘local patriotism,’ that is, a marked propensity for putting additional emphasis on and treating positively those themes or figures that are related in one way or another to the regional context of the author or of his intended audience.177 This tendency is a salient feature of the manner in which the author of CT reworks biblical narrative. It comes most visibly to the fore when he speaks about the primacy of the Syriac language (cf. CT XXIV.9–11; LIII.20–27) or treats favorably the biblical figure of Nimrod (cf. CT XXIV.24–25; XXVII.6–11; XLV.7–11).178 One should add to these examples also the case of the Magi, whose origins in the “East,” in the “land of Persia,” would naturally make the Christians of these regions regard them as their compatriots and representatives, and, as a consequence, hold them in high esteem. However, these conceptual angles alone do not suffice to account for several unique features of the Magi’s portrayal in CT, such as the use of the names of Sasanian monarchs and other distinctively Iranian royal attributes, which set the author of CT apart These offerings were taken by Adam from Paradise after his expulsion and deposited in the “cave of treasures” (cf. CT V.17; XIII.6; XVI.14, 21; XLV.12). 176 On this aspect of CT, see Minov, Syriac Christian Identity, 123–167. 177 On this phenomenon among the Jews and Christians of antiquity, see Pearce and Jones, “Introduction”; Gafni, “Expressions and Types”; Grosby, “Category of the Primordial.” 178 See on this Minov, Syriac Christian Identity, chs. 4–5, as well as Minov, “Cave of Treasures and Formation.” 175

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from the majority of late antique Syriac and other Christian writers who dealt with the Magi. When taken seriously, this emphasis on the royal identity of the Magi in CT raises the question of a possible political dimension behind this narrative. Appeal to the figures of the Magi was one of the popular means of legitimizing earthly lordship during the Middle Ages, both in the Latin West and in the Byzantine East.179 When, however, we turn to Late Antiquity, it seems that the Magi were only rarely used for such a purpose in the Christian political discourse of this epoch. There are but few instances of politically charged utilization of the Magi’s figures from this period. One such instance is found in the works of Augustine. In one of his sermons for Epiphany, Augustine uses this festival as an occasion to implore earthly kings to “have a pious and filial fear” of Jesus, while extolling the Magi as the models of such behavior.180 In addition to that some scholars point to a possible political message implicit in the image of the Magi from the sixth-century mosaics in the San Vitale church in Ravenna. In the mosaic panel in the apse of this church, an image of Theodora, the wife of emperor Justinian, is found with the Magi’s picture on the embroidered border of the empress’ chlamys. As has been suggested by Natalia Teteriatnikov, the figures of the Magi were consciously adopted by the royal couple in order to enhance their image as wealthy donors to the church. 181 Another explanation for the Magi’s appearance on the empress’ vestment has been offered by Matthew Canepa, suggesting that this iconographical detail should be analyzed in the context of RomanPersian rivalry and understood as an effort to assert visually “the subjection of Iranian religion and sovereign to the Roman religion — Christianity”.182 See Trexler, Journey of the Magi, 44–75; Geary, Living with the Dead, 243–256. 180 Serm. 200.2; PL 38, col. 1029–1030; tr. Hill, Saint Augustine, 83–84. For an analysis of this passage, see Powell, “Magi as Kings,” 475–478. 181 Teteriatnikov, “‘Gift Giving’ Image,” 382. 182 Canepa, Two Eyes of the Earth, 120. For a non-political interpretation of the Magi on Theodora’s dress, see McClanan, Representations of Early Byzantine, 133–134. 179

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Comparing the Magi’s image in CT with these attempts of their political deployment, one should take into account the different socio-political context of the author of CT and his community. The manner in which the biblical figures of the Magi functioned in the political discourse of the Late Roman empire, which had adopted Christianity as its official religion, would not be the same as that of the Sasanian state, where Christians formed a minority group, persecuted or, at best, tolerated. When we turn to the Iranian milieu, it becomes apparent that the peculiar interpretation of the Magi in CT should be examined in light of the discursive tendency to Christianize Sasanian rulers exhibited by their Syriac-speaking subjects. This phenomenon has recently been analyzed by Christelle Jullien, who defines it as “un processus graduel de mutation du roi barbare en un allié ou tout au moins en un souverain favorable aux chrétiens”.183 It finds expression in a number of Syriac literary sources, written within the confines of the Sasanian empire during the sixth and early seventh centuries, where several Iranian monarchs are extolled as enlightened, or even Christian, kings, whose rule is divinely sanctioned. To give one of the most outspoken examples of this attitude, one might mention the Acts of the Synod of Mar Aba I (5405–52 CE) that took place in the year 544 CE, where king Khusro I is extolled as a “second Cyrus” (‫)ܟܘܪܫ ܕܬܪܝܢ‬, through whom Christ conveys many benefits upon his Church.184 While in her article Jullien limits herself mostly to the EastSyrian sources and does not take into consideration the material provided by CT, the treatment of the Magi in this work deserves to be regarded as another expression of this tendency. This is supported by the fact that for the author of CT it was important to give the Magi not just any Iranian names, but such names that were characteristic of Sasanian kings. This was notwithstanding the obvious anachronism involved in such naming, since the Sasanian dynasty commenced two hundred years after Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem. Jullien, “Christianiser le pouvoir,” 120. See also McDonough, “Second Constantine”; Schilling, Die Anbetung der Magier. 184 Ed. Chabot, Synodicon orientale, 69–70 [Syr.], 320 [tr.]. 183

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There is an additional consideration that might shed further light on the difference between the socio-cultural role performed by the Magi’s figures in CT and in the Western Christian tradition. Taking into account that in the Sasanian empire Christians constituted a disempowered minority group, it seems epistemologically justified to analyze the Magi material in CT using the optics of postcolonial theory. The Magi’s portrayal in our work is an amalgam of different elements, some of which belong to the culture of the Christian minority, while others are borrowed from the dominant culture of Sasanian Iran. An illuminating way to approach the socio-political dimension of the Magi narrative in CT is to conceptualize it in terms of the critical theory of domination and subordination developed by James Scott. 185 In accordance with Scott’s analysis of different patterns of domination and resistance, the Magi’s image in the context of the Christian empire could be considered as belonging to the realm of a ‘public transcript.’ That is to say, they constitute a part of the public performance of mastery and command by the dominant class. The latter’s symbolic subjugation to Jesus through identification with the Magi was aimed to bolster the emperors’ own self-image as justified in their position of dominance over their Christian subjects and, thus, to legitimate the existing social order. On the contrary, in the different political context of the non-Christian Sasanian empire, where CT was composed, it seems justifiable to regard the Magi’s identification with the world of Iranian kingship as an element of a ‘hidden transcript,’ i.e. a discourse “that represents a critique of power spoken behind the back of the dominant.” 186 The hidden transcript is one of the “hidden forms of resistance” to ideological dominance that are created by subordinate groups and are intended first and foremost for inner consumption. The application of this analytical approach to the description of the Magi in CT is warranted, first, by the fact that we are dealing with a text that was produced by a subordinate minority group and, second, because our author does consciously See Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance. For an attempt to apply Scott’s insights to the ancient world see the works collected in Horsley, Hidden Transcripts. 186 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, xii. 185

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choose to engage the dominant majority culture by using its symbols and images. Analyzing the Magi narrative of CT as a part of the “hidden transcript,” forged by the author in order to engage the dominant Iranian culture, one might discern the two main interpretative strategies of subversion that he employs toward that goal – reinterpretation of the Magi’s identity from Zoroastrian priests to Sasanian kings and their conversion to Christianity. The first strategy has been already examined in detail above. As to the second, the author of CT introduces an elaborate story of the Magi’s conversion into the canonical narrative of the Epiphany (CT XLVI.19–26). Having offered the infant Jesus their gifts, the Magi stay with him for three more days. During this time they witness a magnificent spectacle of the angelic host descending from heaven and singing before Jesus the threefold Sanctus of Isaiah 6:3. This angelophany has the immediate effect upon the Eastern visitors, and buttressed even more by Scriptural prophecies (Isaiah 7:14 and 9:6), brings them to believe in Christ.187 The Magi’s conversion culminates in a public act of recognition of Jesus as God. Performed at the conclusion of their visit it is represented as a cultic act of ‘worshipping’.188 The subversive power of these strategies lies, first of all, in the fact that by presenting the Magi not so much as Zoroastrian priests but as Sasanian kings, the author of CT marginalizes the religious aspect of their identity, while subjugating it to the secular aspect. He stresses explicitly (CT XLVI.3–4) that although it might seem that the New Testament Magi were members of the Zoroastrian priestly caste, their true identity was that of Iranian monarchs. This shift in the Magi’s identity aims to dissociate the venerated scriptural figures and, by extension, Sasanian kings from Zoroastrianism, the official religion of the Persian empire, no compromise

187

sors, 380.

CT XLVI.21 (OrA) — ‫ ;ܘܗܝܡܢܘ ܒܡܫܝ ܚܐ‬ed. Ri, La Caverne des Tré-

In CT XLVI.26 the author uses the verb ‫ܣܓܕ‬, ‘to worship,’ analogous to the Greek προσκυνέω, in order to describe the Magi’s respectful reaction toward the infant Jesus. 188

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with which was possible for the author of CT.189 This dissociation of the Sasanian monarchy from Zoroastrianism is strengthened even more and finally sealed by the act of the Magi’s conversion. The author of CT dresses the Magi in the Sasanian garb only in order to ‘baptize’ them. The purpose of this double-staged reinterpretation of the scriptural figures is clearly apologetic as it conveys the idea that Iranian kings had acknowledged Jesus already a long time ago. Accordingly, an implied message of the Magi’s story in CT is that it presents the option of conversion to Christianity for Sasanian kings not as innovation or adoption of foreign religion, but as a legitimate return to the faith of their forefathers. It is hard, thus, to miss the subversive political dimension of this reinterpretation of the Magi’s figures, which is fueled by the dream of royal conversion and of a new Sasanian Constantine that was ever present in the psyche of the Christians of Iran.190 Finally, it should be noted that the author of CT is not the only example of politically-charged deployment of the Magi in the late antique Near East. There are at least two more ancient sources where a similar connection is forged between these scriptural figures and the Sasanians. Thus, Barhebraeus, a thirteenth-century West-Syrian scholar, reports in the Ecclesiastical Chronicle a story about the religious dispute that supposedly took place between the already mentioned sixth-century East-Syrian catholicos Mar Aba I and Sasanian king Khusro I.191 During this dispute, the king, who acts as a spokesperson for the West-Syrian theological position, brings forward a number of arguments meant to prove the divine nature of Jesus and the right of Mary to be called the ‘mother of God’. Among the proofs offered by the king, who turns out to be well-versed in the One can see that from the open polemic against several aspects of Zoroastrian religion that our author wages elsewhere in his work; cf. CT XXVII.12–16 for polemic against close-kin marriage and CT XXVII.17-22 — against divination and astrology. 190 See on this Jullien, “Christianiser le pouvoir,” 127–131. 191 Ed. Abbeloos and Lamy, Gregorii Barhebræi Chronicon, v. 3, col. 91– 95. For an English translation of this story and discussion see Casartelli, “Two Discourses of Chosroës.” 189

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New Testament, is that “our fathers the Magi, unless they knew that he who was born from the virgin in Bethlehem is God, would not have come from the East to worship him and would not have brought him the offerings”.192 There are serious reasons to doubt the historicity of the story about the meeting between the king and catholicos, which clearly betrays a West-Syrian bias as it includes several stock motifs of anti-Nestorian polemic. However, even if one discards the whole story as fictional, its building blocks may still be useful for the reconstruction of the discursive world of the Syriac-speaking Christians under Sasanian rule. As far as our case is concerned, it is remarkable that whoever among the Syriac Christians invented this story, he found it rhetorically persuasive to present the Sasanian king as acknowledging the Magi of the New Testament being his ancestors, even if he did that for the sake of polemics. Another story that evokes the motif of Persians identifying themselves with the Magi of the Gospel of Matthew appears in the Greek composition known as the Letter of the Three Patriarchs. This apologetic document in defense of icons, addressed to the Byzantine emperor Theophilus (r. 829–842 CE), was allegedly written in the year 836 CE in Jerusalem by the three eastern patriarchs — Christopher of Alexandria, Job of Antioch and Basil of Jerusalem.193 Among other arguments and stories about the miraculous power of icons this letter recalls an incident from the times of the Persian conquest of Palestine in the year 614 CE, in which we are informed that when the Sasanian army took over the city of Bethlehem, it was only by miracle that the church of the Nativity was not destroyed. The miracle was brought about by the image of the Magi in the scene of Adoration on the mosaic that was located on the western part of the basilica’s exterior façade. It was the spontaneous reaction of the Persian conquerors to this image that made them spare the building:

̈ ̈ ‫ܘ‬ 192 ‫ܡܓܘܫܐ ܬܘܒ ܠܐܘܐܠ ܝܕܥܘ ܕܐܠܗܐ ܗܘ ܕܐܬܝܠܕ ܡܢ ܒܬܘܠܬܐ ܒܒܝܬ‬ ‫ܐܒܗܝܢ‬ ̣ ̈ .‫ ܘܩܪܒܘ ܠܗ ܩܘܖܒܢܐ‬:‫ ܐܠ ܐܙܠܘ ܠܣܓܕܬܗ ܡܢ ܡܕܢܚܐ‬.‫ ;ܠܚܡ‬ed. Abbeloos and

Lamy, Gregorii Barhebræi Chronicon, v. 3, col. 93. 193 The text was edited by Munitiz et alii, Letter of the Three Patriarchs. See also Brubaker and Haldon, Byzantium in the Iconoclast Era, 279–280.

198

SERGEY MINOV When they gazed at the pictures of their compatriots the Persian astrologers and Magi, they stood in awe before their picture, as if these were still alive, and out of reverence and love for their forefathers they preserved this great church intact and completely unharmed for their sake.194

It seems certain that the author of the Letter did not invent this story, but borrowed it from some older source which is unknown to us. However, as in the case of the account from Barhebraeus’ Chronicle, one may wonder whether this story possesses any historical value. It is doubtful that the Letter should be trusted when it ascribes the production of the mosaics of the church of the Nativity to the initiative of the empress Helen, the mother of Constantine. Some scholars suggest that these mosaics were made later, as a part of the project of the basilica’s renovation carried out under Justinian.195 Even more suspicious is the miraculous story itself, not only on account of the unlikely aesthetic reaction ascribed to the Persians, but also because it is not supported by any other Christian source on the Byzantine-Persian conflicts during the seventh century. Yet, its historical unreliability notwithstanding, I believe that this story, like the one transmitted by Barhebraeus, still retains its value as a witness to the close connection between the New Testament Magi and Sasanian Persians that emerged as an important element of the symbolic discourse in the Christian culture of the late antique Near East. When read alongside these stories, the account of the Magi in CT provides us with an insight into the peculiar version of sociopolitical imaginaire that had crystallized among the Christians of the Roman-Persian contact zone during Late Antiquity. Living under the constant threat of the Sasanian military machine, they were 194

ἐλθόντης ἐπὶ τὴν ἁγίαν πόλιν Βηθλεὲμ, καὶτὰς τῶν ὁμοφύλων ἀστρολόγων καὶ μάγων Περσῶν τὰς εἰκόνας θεασάμενοι, αἰδοῖ καὶ ἀγάπῃ τῶν προγόνων ὡς ζῶντας αἰδεσθέντες τοὺς γεγραμμένους, ἀλώβητον καὶ ἀσίναντον τῆς οἱασοῦν βλάβης, τὸν μέγιστον αὐτοῖς ναὸν διετήρησαν; ed. and tr. (modified)

Munitiz et alii, Letter of the Three Patriarchs, 42–43. 195 See Clermont-Ganneau, “La prise de Jérusalem,” 139–140. See also Vincent and Abel, Bethléem, 127–128.

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looking for a means of domesticating the hostile super-power, even if on a symbolic level. One of such means was the dissemination of stories in which the sworn enemies of Christian faith are transformed into its friends, as they recognize themselves in the mirror provided by the canonical figures of the Magi. It was the combination of the Magi’s Iranian pedigree with their liminal position in the New Testament history of salvation that made it possible for the Christian imagination of late antique Syria-Mesopotamia to deploy them as a catalyzer that facilitated symbolic transformation of the Sasanian rule from a hostile and alienating oppressor into an obedient and respectful patron of Christianity.

CONCLUSION The two cases of Iranian influence upon the author of CT that were examined above demonstrate beyond any doubt that he was deeply rooted in the world of Iranian culture and did not hesitate to introduce into his version of biblical history those of its elements that he found useful. In the first example, the appearance of the rare Persian loanword rapīṭwin in the ouranological scheme of CT I.8–9 suggests that the whole tripartite division of the heavenly realm in this passage was introduced by the author under the influence of Iranian cosmological notions. This cosmological tradition is not the only instance of the author of CT incorporating distinctively Iranian ideas and images into his work.196 Together with these examples, it indicates a relatively high degree of acculturation to the Iranian culture that was attained by the author of CT and, by implication, by his community. This confirms the suggestion, made at the beginning of the article, that acculturation was an indispensable part of the Syriac-speaking Christian minority’s stand vis-à-vis Iranian culture in the context of the Sasanian empire. Cf. the notion of the cosmic mountain that surrounds the earth, where Paradise is located (CT III.15), the story of the heavenly crown of Nimrod (CT XXIV.25), and the tradition about the Zoroastrian firetemple Ādur Gušnasp in Azerbaijan (CT XXVII.4–5). These traditions are analyzed in Minov, Syriac Christian Identity, ch. 4. 196

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It should be noted, however, that the attitude of CT’s author towards Iranian culture was not limited to that of quiescent adoption. The selective inclusion of Iranian traditions comprises only one pole of the wider spectrum at the opposite end of which we find straightforward rejection of those aspects of Iranian religion and culture that seem to be especially objectionable to our author. On several occasions he polemicizes against such Iranian customs as the institute of close-kin marriage and various divinatory practices, especially astrology.197 This brings us to the second part of the paper, that is, the Iranian background of the Magi’s image in CT. On the one side, it was possible to demonstrate the author’s deep indebtedness to the imagery and concepts rooted in the world of Sasanian royal ideology. On the other, reading the Magi narrative of CT through the critical lenses of postcolonial cultural studies allows it to be understood differently. It is seen as a subversive literary strategy that reflects the values and aspirations of a Christian minority group seeking to engage actively the dominant culture of the Sasanian empire. The figure of the Magi provided the author of CT with an opportunity to address, albeit in a covert manner, the complicated issue of relations between the Christian minority and the Sasanian state. This makes the case of the Magi’s portrayal in CT especially interesting. This is because it falls somewhere in the middle of the range of our author’s different attitudes to Iranian culture, between its positive and negative extremes. The treatment of the Magi in CT offers us an example of a more sophisticated and nuanced approach among the Christians of Persia toward the symbols of imperial culture, which goes beyond the simplistic dichotomy of adoption/rejection and, thus, indicates a more advanced level of acculturation. By inventive rewriting of the canonical Magi narrative, the author of CT creates a discursive space that enables him to re-negotiate the meaning of Christian identity in the context of the Late Sasanian empire. These two cases of Iranian influence upon the author of CT provide us with a glimpse into the complicated dynamics of acculturation behind this work and, thus, enrich our understanding of 197

Cf. above, n. 189.

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the diverse cultural processes that characterized relations between the Syriac-speaking Christian minority and the dominant Iranian culture in the Sasanian empire. It is hoped that this contribution will lead to a more sustained and methodologically articulate discussion of Christian-Iranian interaction during Late Antiquity. Following the lead of the scholars mentioned at the beginning of this paper, it strives to demonstrate that paying serious attention to this problem should form an important venue for future research on Syriac Christianity.

ZECHARIAH AND THE BUBBLING BLOOD: AN ANCIENT TRADITION IN JEWISH, CHRISTIAN, AND MUSLIM LITERATURE RICHARD KALMIN This paper analyzes late antique and early medieval Jewish, Christian, and Muslim traditions about the murder of Zechariah, a priest and a prophet, in the inner sanctum of the Temple. It argues that the earliest recoverable version of the story is a Christian text composed in Hebrew and preserved in late antique rabbinic literature. In addition, it contributes to the ongoing scholarly analysis of the relationship between rabbinic literature on the one hand, and Syriac, Arabic, and Ethiopic literature on the other. In the process, the relationship between ancient and early medieval Christianity, Islam, and Judaism is reevaluated. Surprising parallels emerge between late antique rabbinic literature and Ethiopian Christian commentaries on the New Testament. They provide evidence of unexpected commonalities between rabbinic literature, particularly the Bavli, and seventh–thirteenth century CE Syriac and Arabic literature composed in Persia, Mesopotamia, and Syria. The latter served as a crucial link between Ethiopian Christian literature and the literature of the ancient world. This study examines Jewish, Christian, and Muslim traditions about a murder in the Temple of Jerusalem and the fate of the victim’s blood after death. The accounts examined here range chronologically and geographically from the first century CE in Syria until the thirteenth century in what is modern-day Iraq. Our goal is not to identify the original version of the tradition from which all subsequent versions developed, since if such an Ur-text ever existed it is no longer possible to reconstruct. Rather, our goal is to build on earlier scholarly insights into the existence of clearly distinguishable Palestinian and Babylonian rabbinic versions of the story and how 203

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the story’s meaning changed over time, and to contribute to the ongoing scholarly analysis of the relationship between the various rabbinic compilations of late antiquity, as well as between rabbinic literature on the one hand, and Syriac, Arabic, and Ethiopic literature on the other. In the process, we will reevaluate the relationship between ancient and early medieval Christianity, Islam, and Judaism. We will find surprising parallels between late antique rabbinic literature, and Ethiopian Christian commentaries on the New Testament, which are evidence of unexpected commonalities between rabbinic literature, particularly the Bavli, and seventh‒thirteenth century CE Syriac and Arabic literature composed in Persia, Mesopotamia, and Syria, which served as a crucial link between Ethiopian Christian literature and the literature of the ancient world. We will argue that the story, consisting of a Hebrew core to which were added several Aramaic phrases, was originally a nonrabbinic story1 incorporated into Palestinian rabbinic compilations,2 and from there, apparently, into the Bavli. The non-rabbinic character of the Hebrew core will be shown by its anomalous character within rabbinic literature, and confirmed in part by parallels in Christian sources.3 Rabbinic receptivity to non-rabbinic materials has been noted before, but the Bavli has been particularly prominent in these discussions,4 and it is significant that we find such receptivity in Palestinian rabbinic corpora. When we use the term “originally” throughout this study, we refer to the most original version of a story we are presently capable of reconstructing. 2 To be specific, the earliest version of the story is in the Yerushalmi and Pesikta de-Rav Kahana, and from there it was incorporated into several contexts in Kohelet Rabbah and Eikhah Rabbah. See the discussion below. 3 I say confirmed “in part” because it is possible that the closest Christian parallels are in fact dependent on the rabbinic versions, although the fact that the closest Christian parallels appear to derive from or share the most in common with a version of the story that precedes the versions presently found in rabbinic corpora argues in favor of a stronger expression of this claim. 4 See Kalmin, Jewish Babylonia, 149–67 and passim; idem, “‘Manasseh Sawed Isaiah with a Saw of Wood’”; idem, “Problems in the Use of the 1

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The version of the tradition that most concerns us in the present study depicts the murder in the Temple of a priest named Zechariah. Several scholars speak of the Christian appropriation of the Jewish story of the murder of Zechariah ben Jehoiada, and its transformation into a story of the murder of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist. 5 Others speak of the “mistaken combination” of the Chronicler’s account of Zechariah who was killed in the Temple with the story about Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist.6 Given what we have been learning lately about the relatively fluid boundaries between Judaism and Christianity in the early centuries of the Common Era, however, it is on the one hand impossible to tell whether the story originated in Christian or Jewish sources,7 and on the other hand it is unlikely that so many ancient authors are guilty of the amateurish mistakes attributed to them by modern scholars. In addition, given what we are learning about the role of orality in shaping the traditions of diverse religious communities of the Middle East in late antiquity, it is more likely that Jews and Christians drew upon a common storehouse of traditions and motifs to construct similar but not identical narratives, than that one community consistently appropriated or misappropriated the literature of the other. The different versions of the story represent crystallizations of diverse oral performances that drew upon a common treasury of motifs, themes, and characters, put to differ-

Bavli,” 177–78; and idem, “The Miracle of the Septuagint,” 241–53; Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud; Zellentin, Rabbinic Parodies; and Bar-Asher, Literary Analogies in Rabbinic and Christian Monastic Sources. 5 See, for example, Dubois, “La mort de Zacharie,” 36; and Schwemer, Studien, vol. 2, 294. 6 See, for example, Kalimi, “The Story About the Murder of the Prophet Zechariah,” 253–54. 7 See the literature cited in n. 4, above. See also Cowley, “The ‘Blood of Zechariah’,” 296; and idem, Ethiopian Biblical Interpretation, 65–70; and Boyarin, Border Lines, passim.

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ent uses in different cultures, bearing the unique stamp placed upon them by individual storytellers.8

THE “PURE” PALESTINIAN VERSIONS OF THE ZECHARIAH NARRATIVE

The rabbinic story of the Israelites’ murder of Zechariah in the Jerusalem Temple, and the bubbling blood that refuses to rest until the avenging of Zechariah’s murder, has been abundantly treated by modern scholars, especially in the past several decades. 9 Pinhas Mandel greatly advanced our ability to understand the story by refining Joseph Heinemann’s insight that it survived in two primary versions. Mandel argues persuasively that one of the versions is Palestinian, in Hebrew, and the second is Babylonian, in Aramaic. The Palestinian version survived in its “purest” form, with the least contamination from the Bavli, in the Yerushalmi and the Pesikta de-Rav Kahana.10 The earliest rabbinic compilation to record the general outlines of the story is the Tosefta, redacted during the third century CE.11 This version of the story blames Temple priests for the murder of an unnamed priest on the ramp leading to the altar in the Temple. It illustrates the moral bankruptcy of the Temple priesthood, one of the rabbis’ favorite themes, but it does not explicitly

See, for example, the essays by Elizabeth Shanks Alexander, Dan Ben-Amos, Yaakov Elman, Steven Fraade, and Martin Jaffee in Oral Tradition 14, No. 1 (1999). See also Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, passim. 9 See, for example, Blank, “The Death of Zechariah in Rabbinic Literature”; Heinemann, Aggadot ve-Toldoteihen, 31–39; Amaru, “The Killing of the Prophets: Unravelling a Midrash,” 166–70 and 178–80; Mandel, “HaSipur be-Midrash Eikhah: Nusah ve-Signon,” 33*–34*, 165–73, and 96*– 98*; Swartz, “Bubbling Blood and Rolling Bones,” 224–31 and 238–41; and Kalimi, The Retelling of Chronicles in Jewish Tradition and Literature, 261– 68. 10 Mandel, ibid; and idem, Midrash Eikhah Rabati, vol. 1, 195. 11 See t. Yoma 1:12 (unnamed priest) (=t. Shevu‘ot 1:40). See also the parallel versions in Sifrei Bemidbar, ed. Horowitz, 222 (unnamed priest); y. Yoma 2:2 (39d) (unnamed priest); and b. Yoma 23a (unnamed priest). 8

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link the priests’ debased moral state to the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple. A version of the story in later rabbinic compilations, the Yerushalmi and the Pesikta de-Rav Kahana,12 refers to the victim as Zechariah and implicates the entire Israelite people in his murder. Several statements about the wickedness of the people of Jerusalem introduce this version of the story, and it is evident that the Jerusalemites are a pars pro toto representing the Israelite people as a whole. The version of the Pesikta is as follows: (1) “[Alas, she has become a harlot. The sinful city that was filled with justice,] where righteousness dwelt, [but now murderers]” (Isa 1:21).13 (2) Said R. Yudah son of R. Simon, “A person never stayed overnight in Jerusalem with sin in his hand. How was this? The daily morning offering atoned for sins committed at night, and the daily evening offering atoned for sins committed during the day. In any event a person never stayed in Jerusalem with sin in his hand. What is the scriptural source? ‘Where righteousness dwelt’” (Isa 1:21). (3) “But now murderers” (Isa 1:21). Behold they have become murderers. They killed Uriah the priest (Jer 26:23); they killed Zechariah. (4) R. Yudan asked R. Aha, “Where did they kill Zechariah? In the Israelite courtyard or in the women’s courtyard?” [R. Aha] said to him, “Not in the Israelite courtyard and not in the women’s courtyard, but in the priests’ courtyard.” (5) And they did not treat his blood like the blood of the gazelle, like the blood of the deer, or like the blood of the bird. In those cases it is written, “And if any Israelite or any stranger who resides among Y. Ta‘anit 4:7 (69a–b); and Pesikta de-Rav Kahana, ed. Mandelbaum, 257–58. In many contexts in Palestinian midrashic compilations, however, the story of Zechariah is a later addition, copied from the Bavli. See Mandel, “Ha-Sipur be-Midrash Eikhah,” 166–70. 13 All biblical translations in this article are based on the HebrewEnglish Tanakh: The Traditional Hebrew Text and the New JPS Translation (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1999), with changes where necessary. All translations of rabbinic sources are my own. 12

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them hunts down an animal or a bird that may be eaten, he shall pour out its blood and cover it with earth” (Lev 17:13). But here [in the case of Zechariah, it is written], “For the blood she shed is still in her. She set it upon a bare rock. She did not pour it out on the ground to cover it with earth” (Ezek 24:7). Why all this? “She set her blood upon the bare rock so that it was not covered, so that it may stir up [My] fury to take vengeance” (Ezek 24:8). (6) Israel committed seven sins that day. They murdered a priest and a prophet and a judge, and they shed innocent blood, and they profaned the name [of God], and they defiled the [Temple] courtyard, and it was the Day of Atonement14 that fell on the Sabbath.15 (7a) [Hebrew:] And when Nebuzaradan16 ascended [to Jerusalem], the blood began to boil. (7b) [Nebuzaradan] said to them, “What kind of blood is this boiling?” (7c) They said to him, “It is the blood of bulls and sheep and rams that we used to offer on the altar.” See Epiphanius, Panarion 26, 12, 1–4 (GCS 25), 290–92. According to Epiphanius, who flourished in fourth-century Palestine, roughly at the same time and place as the redaction of the Yerushalmi and the Pesikta de-Rav Kahana, Genna Marias, a text he characterizes as Gnostic, relates the murder of the prophet and High Priest Zechariah in the Temple on the Day of Atonement. Epiphanius, therefore, knows a Christian tradition that combines the story of the murder of Zechariah with one of the traditions that introduce the Palestinian rabbinic version of the story. 15 See also Eikhah Rabbah 4:16, where parts 1–6 above are based on Lamentations 4:13: “It was for the sins regarding her prophets, the iniquities regarding her priests; those who had shed in her midst the blood of the just.” JPS translates: “It was for the sins of her prophets, the iniquities of her priests, who had shed in her midst the blood of the just.” The Zechariah story follows in Eikhah Rabbah 4:16, but it is a later addition to the midrashic compilation copied for the most part from the Bavli. See n. 12 above. 16 Pesikta de-Rav Kahana’s version of this story renders the name consistently as Nebuzar Adan. Because other rabbinic compilations render it consistently as Nebuzaradan, I do so here as well for purposes of clarity. 14

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(7d) Immediately he sent and they brought bulls and rams and sheep and slaughtered them before [the blood]17 but the blood still boiled. And when [the Israelites] did not confess to him, he took them and suspended them on the scaffold.18 (7e) [The Israelites] said, “Since the Holy One, blessed be He wants to claim this blood from us [we will reveal it to you]. It is the blood of a priest and a prophet and a judge who prophesied about us all of the things that you are doing. We stood over him and killed him. (7f) Immediately he took 80,000 young priests and killed them upon [the blood] until the blood reached the grave of Zechariah. (8a) What is the scriptural proof text?19 (8b) “They were lawless, and blood touched blood” (Hos 4:2).20 (7g) But still the blood boiled. (9) [Aramaic:] At that moment [Nebuzaradan] rebuked [Zechariah]. He said to him, “What do you think?21 Do you want us to kill your entire nation on your account?”22 Evidently Nebuzaradan sacrifices the animals to induce the blood to stop boiling. Perhaps he reasons that the blood boils because he destroyed the Temple and the Israelites therefore can no longer offer sacrifices. Alternatively he reasons that the old sacrificial blood boils because of new Israelite sins that can no longer be atoned for, or maybe simply in protest at the fact that Israel can no longer maintain its cultic relationship with God. When new sacrifices fail to stop the blood from boiling, Nebuzaradan knows that the Israelites are lying. The Bavli (see below) appears to rewrite this part of the story to make Nebuzaradan’s motivations more easily comprehensible. See also the account of Tabari, below. 18 He tortures them to induce them to confess. See Lieberman, “Roman Legal Institutions in Early Rabbinics and in the Acta Martyrum,” 13–15. 19 Parts 8a–b were very likely a later addition to the text. Mandelbaum’s base text, ms Oxford 151, renders this question in a mixture of Hebrew and Aramaic. Mss Oxford 152 and Safed render the question entirely in Hebrew, and mss Oxford 2339, Parma 261, and a genizah fragment render the question entirely in Aramaic. The Yerushalmi lacks this question as well as the scriptural verse quoted in part 8b in response to the question. 20 I translate the verse according to its midrashic meaning. 21 See Mandelbaum, Pesikta de-Rav Kahana, 259, notes on line 3. 17

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(7h) [Hebrew:] At that moment the Holy One, blessed be He was filled with compassion and said, “If this one [i.e., Nebuzaradan], who is flesh and blood, cruel, here today and gone tomorrow, is filled with compassion for my children, I, about whom it is written, ‘For the Lord your God is a compassionate God; He will not fail you nor will He destroy you’ (Deut 4:31), how much the more so [should I have compassion for My children]?” (7i) At that moment the Holy One, blessed be He motioned to that blood and it was swallowed in its place.

Several scholars claim that the Zechariah referred to in this passage is Zechariah ben Jehoiada,23 killed by order of King Joash according to 2 Chronicles 24:17–22: But after the death of Jehoiada, the officers of Judah came, bowing low to the king; and the king listened to them. They forsook the House of the Lord God of their fathers to serve the sacred posts and idols; and there was wrath upon Judah and Jerusalem because of this guilt of theirs. The Lord sent prophets among them to bring them back to Him; they admonished them but they would not pay heed. Then the spirit of God enveloped Zechariah son of Jehoiada the priest; he stood above the people and said to them, “Thus God said: Why do you transgress the commandments of the Lord when you cannot succeed? Since you have forsaken the Lord, He has forsaken you.” They conspired against him and pelted him with stones in the court of the House of the Lord, by order of the king. King Joash disregarded the loyalty that his father Jehoiada had shown to him, and killed his son. As he was dying, he said, “May the Lord see and requite it.”

See Jeremiah 40:2–4 for a biblical source for this text’s partly sympathetic portrayal of Nebuzaradan. 23 Heinemann, Aggadot ve-Toldoteihen, 31‒38; Scholter, Israel Murdered its Prophets, 76; Amaru, “Killing of the Prophets,” 160–70; and Becker, “Die Zerstörung Jerusalems bei Matthäus und den Rabbinen,” 63. 22

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While the biblical account above describes the murder of Zechariah by stoning, the continuation (see below) refers to “the blood of the son of Jehoiada the priest,”24 which may have formed the basis for the rabbinic narrative’s emphasis on blood. It is far from unambiguous, however, that the rabbinic story’s Zechariah should be understood as the Chronicler’s Zechariah ben Jehoiada. Scholars have noted, for example, that the rabbinic story ignores the Chronicler’s explicit description of the divine punishment that Joash suffered as a result of his murder of Zechariah.25 Immediately after the account of Zechariah’s murder, 2 Chronicles 24:23–25 describes Joash’s punishment as follows: At the turn of the year, the army of Aram marched against [Joash]; they invaded Judah and Jerusalem, and wiped out all the officers of the people from among the people, and sent all the booty they took to the king of Damascus. The invading army of Aram had come with but a few men, but the Lord delivered a very large army into their hands, because they had forsaken the Lord God of their fathers. They inflicted punishments on Joash. When they withdrew, having left him with many wounds, his courtiers plotted against him because of the blood of the son26 of Jehoiada the priest, and they killed him in bed.

Scholars have suggested several explanations for what might have motivated the rabbis to ignore the Chronicler’s explicit description of the crime and punishment of Joash, and to blame instead the entire Israelite people and seek out a new punishment: the destruction of the first Temple and the slaughter of 80,000 young priests.27 The Masoretic text refers to “the blood of the sons of Jehoida,” but Kalimi, Retelling of Chronicles, 37, argues that the reading of the Septuagint and the Vulgate (“the blood of the son”) is preferable since the Bible describes the murder of only one son. 25 See, for example, Heinemann, Aggadot ve-Toldoteihen, 32. 26 See n. 24 above. 27 See, for example, Amaru, “Killing of the Prophets,” 178–80. See also Schwemer, Studien, vol. 2, 297 and 300. 24

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It is possible, however, that the rabbinic story (parts 7a–i, 8a–b, and 9) is one of a large number of legends that circulated in ancient Palestine about the murder in the Temple of a variety of different figures named Zechariah (see above). 28 Perhaps the significance of the name, Zechariah: “God Remembers,” and/or “Remember God,” provides a key to the significance of the name in these diverse contexts,29 or perhaps “Zechariah” was chosen simply because Zechariah was a standard name for priests in ancient Jewish literature.30 It may be a mistake, therefore, to insist on identifying this character as a specific Zechariah in the absence of compelling proof. It is important to note, furthermore, that it is not until the Byzantine period, in the fourth or fifth century, that we find in any text explicit identification of the murdered priest, Zechariah, as Zechariah ben Jehoiada (see below).

ANALYSIS OF THE “PURE” PALESTINIAN RABBINIC VERSIONS

The story in Pesikta de-Rav Kahana is almost entirely in Hebrew, with the notable exception of part 9, which is in Aramaic: 31 The Similar stories were also told about priests with names other than Zechariah. See, for example, Josephus, Antiquities 11.297–301, for his account of the murder of the priest Jeshua in the Temple, an outrage that Josephus claims led to the defilement of the Temple and to the Israelites’ enslavement by the Persians. See also Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 2.23.11–18, who relates the account of Hegesippus (second half of the second century) of the stoning in the Temple of James, brother of Jesus. 29 See also Dubois, “La mort de Zacharie,” 36–38; and HasanRokem, Web of Life, 170. 30 See Schwartz, “Ha-Im Hayah Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai Kohen?,” 37–39. 31 There is also one uncertain section in Aramaic (part 8a), a rhetorical question asking for scriptural proof that the blood of the slain priests reached the grave of Zechariah, which is probably a late, post-redactional addition to the text. As noted by Friedman, “Al Derekh Heker ha-Sugya,” in Perek ha-Ishah Rabbah ba-Bavli, 30, with respect to the Bavli, manuscript variants are one important indication of later provenance. While it is uncertain whether or not the same rule applies to Palestinian corpora such as 28

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change in language from Hebrew to Aramaic and back again raises the possibility that part 9 is a later addition to the text.32 Strengthening this possibility is the fact that removal of part 9 solves a problem in the text. To appreciate this fact it is necessary to examine the passage in detail, which at first glance appears to be rendered incoherent by removal of the Aramaic passage. Without the Aramaic, Nebuzaradan kills the young priests (part 7f); the narrator informs us that the blood continued to boil (part 7g); and immediately thereafter God reasons a fortiori (part 7h) that if the cruel Babylonian general had compassion, how much the more so should God Himself. It will be helpful to reproduce this portion of the story, minus the Aramaic: (7f) Immediately [Nebuzaradan] took 80,000 young priests and killed them upon [the blood] until the blood reached the grave of Zechariah. (7g) But still the blood boiled. (7h) At that moment the Holy One, blessed be He was filled with compassion and said, “If this one, who is flesh and blood, cruel, here today and gone tomorrow, is filled with compassion for my children, I, about whom it is written, ‘For the Lord your God is a compassionate God; He will not fail you nor will He destroy you’ (Deut 4:31), how much the more so [should I have compassion for my children]?”

Does removal of the Aramaic phrase yield a more coherent narrative? In one significant sense the answer is “yes,” since the Aramaic creates some tension in the story. In part 7e the Israelites inform Nebuzaradan that the blood is boiling because God wants to punish the Israelites, while in part 9 Nebuzaradan addresses Zechariah as if he is responsible for the blood continuing to boil ([Aramaic:] At the Pesikta, it is at least a likely possibility. I consider this case “uncertain” because the question is in Aramaic in only some versions of the Pesikta (see n. 19 above) and it is missing altogether from most other Palestinian versions of the story. 32 Friedman, ibid., 25–26. The absence of manuscript variants makes it likely that it was added to the story at a relatively early stage of the narrative’s formation, before the Pesikta’s final redaction.

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that moment [Nebuzaradan] rebuked [Zechariah]. He said to him, “What do you think? Do you want us to kill your entire nation on your account?”). The Aramaic addition, therefore, creates a rough spot in the narrative that makes it difficult to fully comprehend. 33 According to the Hebrew text minus the Aramaic, however, God describes Nebuzaradan as having compassion for the Israelites (part 7g) right after the Babylonian general killed 80,000 young priests, and it is difficult to understand how this can be viewed as “compassion.” If we understand God in part 7h as referring to Zechariah rather than to the Israelites, however, then our problem is solved. According to this reading, God says: “If this one, who is flesh and blood, cruel, here today and gone tomorrow, is filled with compassion for my son [i.e., Zechariah], I, about whom it is written, ‘For the Lord your God is a compassionate God; He will not fail you nor will He destroy you’ (Deut 4:31), how much the more so [should I have compassion for my son]?” God refers to Nebuzaradan’s persistent attempts to make the blood stop boiling, characterizing his actions as “compassion” for the murdered Zechariah, since the Babylonian general wants the blood to be absorbed in the ground, thereby achieving peace and reconciliation, rather than continue forever in its unsettled state. Seen in this light, it makes perfect sense that God’s very next move is to “signal to the blood” to be absorbed into the ground, ending Zechariah’s torment. Supporting this interpretation is the fact that part 4, one of the statements introducing the story in the Yerushalmi and the Pesikta, states explicitly that the Israelites’ failure to “bury” the blood of Zechariah contributed greatly to the heinousness of their crime, infuriating God and inciting Him to take vengeance against His sinful people. This interpretation requires a tiny emendation of the text, removing one yud from the word “My children” (bet, nun, yud, yud) so that it can be read in the singular: “My child,” or “My son” (bet, nun, yud). This is a particularly slight emendation because the word I wish to translate as “My child” (bet, nun, yud) can mean both “My child” (in which case it would be pronounced beni), or “My chilIt is possible, of course, that the story depicts the Babylonian general as unable to grasp the fact that God is completely in control. 33

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dren” (in which case it would be pronounced banay), since the difference between “My child” and “My children” in Hebrew can be impossible to distinguish orthographically, with the consonants identical and only the vowels distinguishable, and neither the Pesikta de-Rav Kahana nor the Yerushalmi were written with vowels.34 Once Nebuzaradan’s Aramaic rebuke of Zechariah was added to the text, requiring the interpretation that God and Nebuzaradan were being compassionate towards the Israelites (“My children”), the extra yud was added to clarify the text, since the word banay must refer to the plural (“My children”) rather than the singular (“My son”). The (hypothesized) original, completely Hebrew version of the story,35 therefore, ended with God stopping the slaughter not because He decided to be compassionate toward the Israelites, but because He decided to be compassionate toward Zechariah. Perhaps the lesson according to this version is that Israel’s sins were too terrible to be forgiven, or perhaps that Israel, by killing her prophets, had removed the mechanism by which she traditionally achieved forgiveness. The prophets of old interceded with God on Israel’s behalf, enabling her relationship with God to end in something other than total disaster, but with the traditional prophets gone that arrangement was no longer in effect. The “original” Hebrew story, therefore, did not depict a “bloodthirsty” Zechariah, who refuses to be placated by the slaughter of thousands of Israelites, but a tragic Zechariah, who is powerless to act on his own behalf. If we object that it is unlikely that a rabbinic text would deliver such a message, we must counter that rabbis only transmitted the story with the Aramaic passage, which changes the story’s message radically. It is unclear exactly what kind of storyteller would have been interested in creating the hypothesized Hebrew story (but see below), but it is undeniable that the perspectives and creative efforts of many ancient groups and individuals perished through neglect. While Christians did not necessarily have a hand The same is true of nearly all classical rabbinic texts. Or, to be more precise, the most original version of the story that we can presently reconstruct. 34 35

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in the creation of the Hebrew story (but see below), they certainly constitute a conspicuous example of a group (or, more precisely, groups) that at some point in their history undoubtedly composed texts in Hebrew and had a view of the relationship between Israel and its God that differed radically from standard rabbinic views and that closely approximated the view described here. The addition of the Aramaic phrase in part 9, in which Nebuzaradan directly addresses Zechariah’s blood, appears to be motivated in part by (1) exegetical considerations, to explain how God could describe the Babylonian general as compassionate right after he tortures and murders thousands of Israelites. In addition, the Aramaic was probably added (2) to change the story from one in which God refuses to have mercy upon the Israelites to a story in which God does ultimately have compassion for them. Perhaps the Aramaic was also added (3) to increase the drama of the narrative, by creating a direct confrontation between Nebuzaradan and Zechariah and by enabling Zechariah to display a certain amount of independent motivation. Addition of the Aramaic phrase also appears to be motivated (4) by the desire to distance God from full responsibility for the deaths of thousands of Israelites. As noted, Nebuzaradan’s Aramaic statement to Zechariah contradicts the Hebrew story’s clear message that from beginning to end God alone determines the actions of the blood and therefore the fate of the Israelites. With the Aramaic addition, God’s reaction to Nebuzaradan’s rebuke appears to be a powerful endorsement of the general’s belief that Zechariah is partly responsible for the behavior of his blood and therefore for the harshness of the Israelites’ punishment. God desires to punish the Israelites for shedding innocent blood, but with the Aramaic addition it is Zechariah who determines the severity of the punishment. At the same time, however, the Aramaic addition depicts a God who needs a murderous Gentile intercessor to convince Him to stop the slaughter of His people, so whoever added the Aramaic rebuke appears to have powerfully conflicted feelings about the role of God in the world and the character of God’s relationship to the Israelites. With the addition of the Aramaic, the story still delivers a stunning message: that in this day and age, God rarely intervenes to stop devastation because the Israelites killed their prophets, whose job it had been to check the force of God’s righteous anger against His sinful people. Instead of the great

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prophets of old, who could be counted on to argue with God on Israel’s behalf, the Israelites now depended on strangers, whose “mercy,” if it could be counted on at all, might be won at the price of massive slaughter, making the effectuation of God’s compassion in the world far more difficult than it had ever been. Still, even in this hostile, uncertain world, it is words and a change of mind and heart rather than bloodshed that succeed in arousing God’s compassion.36 If we are correct in our reconstruction of the “original” Hebrew story, we may have another reason to believe that the Zechariah mentioned in 2 Chronicles is not the original protagonist, for one of the most prominent features of the Chronicler’s Zechariah is his call for vengeance at the story’s climax: “May the Lord see and requite it.” Perhaps part 9 was added, in fact, by transmitters of the story who were convinced that Zechariah was Zechariah ben Jehoiada. Perhaps with this identification came the need to make Zechariah’s desire for vengeance a significant part of the plot, as it unmistakably was in Chronicles. We should not press this point too far, however, since the storyteller(s) did not feel bound to incorporate other prominent features of the biblical narrative, and it is not at all clear why they included certain features and ignored or contradicted others. We will see below that several rabbinic versions of the story, both Palestinian and Babylonian, post-dating the versions of the Yerushalmi and the Pesikta but nevertheless still deriving from late antiquity, depict God and/or Nebuzaradan addressing Zechariah’s blood and expressing concern that it receive its due.37 It is, in fact, a common idea in biblical, second-Temple, and classical rabbinic sources that innocent blood shed by man is offensive to God, who will surely avenge it, and we find other cases in which innocent

For the latter point about discourse versus blood, see Matthew Kraus, “Zechariah’s Blood and the Destruction of the Temple: An Anthropological Reading of Lamentations Rabbah 23,” paper delivered at the 2007 conference of The Society of Biblical Literature in San Diego. 37 See the discussion of the versions in Eikhah Rabbah, Kohelet Rabba, and the Bavli, below. 36

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blood cries out until it is avenged.38 Job 16:18, for example, quotes Job’s anguished plea: “Earth, do not cover my blood; Let there be no resting place for my outcry.” M. Sanhedrin 6:5 quotes R. Meir saying: “If God is troubled at the blood of the wicked that is shed, how much the more so at the blood of the righteous.39 These facts further support my claim that a late antique rabbinic author could tell a story in which the protagonist’s concern for a dead man is expressed through solicitude for the fate of his blood and concern that it receive a “decent burial.” Surprisingly, an Amharic commentary on Matthew 23:35 further supports this claim. Matthew 23:35 reads as follows: Therefore I am sending you prophets and wise men and teachers. Some of them you will kill and crucify, others you will flog in your synagogues and pursue from town to town. And so upon you will come all the righteous blood that has been shed on earth, from the blood of righteous Abel to the blood of Zechariah son of Berekhiah,40 whom you murdered between the Temple and the altar.

The Amharic commentary reads as follows: (1) Another says, “He was comparing the accusation of the blood of the one with the other, for the blood of Abel said, ‘Cain my brother killed me,’ and the blood of Zechariah remained bubbling for seventy years.” For the same image and idea in classical Greek sources, see Aeschylus, Choephori, Garvie, ed. lines 66–74 and 152–56. See there, 64: “Because of blood drunk up by the nurturing earth the avenging gore lies solid and does not flow away.” “Most painful ruin prolongs the guilty one (i.e., puts off his punishment) till he be full of all-sufficient disease.” And 65: “Just as there is no remedy for the violation of virginity … so it is impossible to purify or wash away the stain of murder.” See also 82–85 there. 39 See also Genesis 4:10; Isaiah 26:21; Ezekiel 24:7–8; Job 16:18; Assumption of Moses 9:6–7; 1 Enoch 47:1–4; Matthew 25:35; and Genesis Rabbah, ed. Theodor and Albeck, 216. See also the discussion below. 40 For variants of this name, see Kalimi, Retelling of Chronicles, 49–50. 38

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(2) Another says, “When the angel took Enoch to show him the place of souls, he [Enoch], having seen among many souls one soul separated by itself, crying out and making accusations, asked him [the angel], saying, ‘Whose soul is this?’ He replied, ‘The soul of Abel, whom Cain killed, will accuse him until the time when his seed will perish from the face of the earth in the water of the flood’ (1Enoch 22:6–7). Similarly, the blood of Zechariah remained bubbling throughout seventy years. The king was called Titus; seeing it, he asked what it was. People said to him, ‘There was a good priest, and they put him to death unjustly.’ [He asked], ‘What can be done for it, so that it cease its bubbling?’ They said to him, ‘[It will cease] if they put to death relatives of those who put him to death.’ When he [Titus] had about seven of Herod’s relatives brought and put to death for it, it ceased bubbling.”41

Clearly there are striking similarities between the rabbinic story and the Amharic commentary. Most notably, the rabbinic and Ethiopian traditions share in common the motif of the blood that bubbles until the arrival of a foreign leader. And significantly for our purposes, the Ethiopian story implies that Titus is motivated by compassion for Zechariah but not for the Israelites when he puts to death the seven relatives, as is shown by his question: “What can be done for it, so that it cease its bubbling?”, which corresponds to our understanding of Nebuzaradan’s actions in the “original” rabbinic story. In addition, the soul of Abel, “separated by itself and crying out,” appears to be suffering and will continue to suffer until the murder has been avenged, and the text explicitly states that Zechariah’s blood is similar to Abel’s soul. Roger Cowley contends that it is unlikely that there is a direct connection between the rabbinic and the Ethiopian commentaries, 42 but it is possible that the similarities noted above indicate that rabbinic sources on the one hand, and the Syriac and Arabic commentaries upon which the Wängel Qəddus (Addis Ababa, 1916), 163. See Cowley, “The ‘Blood of Zechariah’,” 293, who translates the text from a manuscript in his possession. 42 Cowley, “The ‘Blood of Zechariah,’” 296; and idem, Ethiopian Biblical Interpretation, 87 and 92–93. 41

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Ethiopian sources are based, on the other, drew upon a common storehouse of themes and motifs.43 Supporting this conclusion is the work of Abu al Faraj ‘Abdallah ibn al-Tayyib, a Christian who wrote in Arabic and flourished in Baghdad during the first half of the eleventh century, and whose commentary was an important source used by the Ethiopian Christians.44 According to Sebastian Brock, through Ibn al-Tayyib’s Arabic commentaries “the East-Syrian exegetical tradition reaches the later Coptic and Ethiopian traditions,”45 and Cowley describes Ibn al-Tayyib’s influence on Ethiopian exegetical tradition as “very pervasive.”46 Ibn al-Tayyib writes that Herod killed Zechariah, and his blood cried out and bubbled for 58 years until Titus avenged it.47 Ibn al-Tayyib’s version of the story, therefore, like the Ethiopian commentary and our hypothesized rabbinic story, depicts Zechariah’s suffering blood avenged by a sympathetic Gentile king. Ibn Mas’ud (d. 652), Ibn al-‘Abbas (d. 686), and al-Suddi (d. 745), seventh- and eighth-century authors of histories and commentaries on the Koran, similarly depict Nebuchadnezzar killing tens of thousands of Israelites to induce God to stop the bubbling blood of John the Baptist, murdered according to legend by an Israelite king. They make no mention of the Gentile king’s compassion for the Israelites as a motive for stopping the blood from boiling, but only the need to avenge the murder of John the Baptist.48 Just as clearly, however, there are striking differences between the rabbinic story and the Amharic commentary. The major differences are the explicit identification of Zechariah’s murderer in the See also the discussion below. See Cowley, “The ‘Blood of Zechariah,’” 295 and 299; and idem, Ethiopian Biblical Interpretation, 87 and 92–93. 45 Brock, A Brief Outline of Syriac Literature, 94. 46 Cowley, Ethiopian Biblical Interpretation, 387. See also Faultless, “The Two Recensions,” 178. 47 See Cowley, “The ‘Blood of Zechariah’,” 294–96 and 298. 48 See Schützinger, “Die arabische Legende von Nebukadnezar und Johannes dem Täufer,” 113–41, especially 114–17, 128, and 132–34; and Wheeler, Prophets in the Quran, 295–96. See also The History of Al-Tabari, vol. 4, The Ancient Kingdoms, trans. Perlmann, 103–6. 43 44

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Ethiopian account, the number of years that the blood boiled, and the specification of seven relatives killed by Titus to avenge Zechariah’s murder. In the Palestinian version of the rabbinic story, furthermore, the blood continues to boil even after Nebuzaradan slaughters the priests, prompting God to intervene and put a stop to the slaughter. In the Ethiopian story, in contrast, the blood stops boiling immediately after Titus kills the seven relatives, with no explicit intervention by God. These distinctions serve as a warning against overly facile use of the Christian story as a hermeneutical key for understanding the rabbinic story. Significantly, however, the absence of God from the Ethiopian commentary and from Ibn al-Tayyib has an exact parallel in the Babylonian rabbinic version of the story. An eleventh-century Arabic work by Abu-Raihan Muhammad b. ‘Ahmad Albiruni (d. 1048), also makes no mention of God: Alma’mun b. ‘Ahmad Absalami Alharawi saw in Jerusalem some heaps of stones at a gate, called the Gate of the Column; they had been gathered so as to form something like hills and mountains. Now people said that those were thrown over the blood of John the son of Zacharias, but that the blood rose over them, boiling and bubbling. This went on until Nebukadnezar killed the people and made their blood flow over it, then it was quiet.49

We will argue below that the Babylonian version presupposes the activity of God behind the scenes, and it would not be surprising if the same is true of the Arabic,50 Syriac,51 and Ethiopian accounts. Sachau, Chronology of Ancient Nations, 297. See also Sack, Images of Nebuchadnezzar, 44–45. 50 See also the discussion of the account in Tabari, below. 51 Solomon Akhlat, writing in Syriac in the early thirteenth century in what is modern-day Iraq, also tells the story with no explicit mention of God. See Budge, The Book of the Bee, 86: “When they could not find John [the Baptist], they killed Zechariah his father between the steps and the altar. They say that from the day when Zechariah was killed his blood bubbled up until Titus the son of Vespasian came and killed 300 myriads of Jerusalem, and then the flow of blood ceased.” See also Barb, “St. 49

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In any event, given all we are learning about the frequency with which the Bavli and non-rabbinic corpora made use of common sources and literary motifs,52 we should not ignore this significant parallel between the Arabic, Syriac, Ethiopian and Babylonian rabbinic versions of the story, a parallel absent from the purely Palestinian rabbinic versions of the narrative.53 Significantly, the conclusion of the Ethiopian story is modeled after the biblical story of David, Saul, and the Gibeonites in 2Sam 21:1–14. In the biblical story, God informs King David that a lengthy famine afflicted Israel because King Saul had “put some Gibeonites to death” (2Sam 21:1). David asks the Gibeonites how he can “make expiation, so that you may bless the Lord’s own people?” (2Sam 21:3), and the Gibeonites demand that seven of Saul’s male relatives be handed over to them, “and we will impale them before the Lord in Gibeah of Saul” (2Sam 21:6). David complies, the Gibeonites kill Saul’s relatives, and God ends the famine. The Ethiopian story, therefore, uses the biblical story of the Gibeonites as a model for the vengeance that will calm Zechariah’s restless blood. Interestingly, we will see below that the rabbis as well, both in the Yerushalmi and Bavli, develop the biblical account of David, Saul, and the Gibeonites in a manner strikingly similar to Zacharias the Prophet and Martyr,” 50–52, and the Coptic translation of Cyril of Jerusalem’s fourth century, Discourse on the Cross, in Budge, Miscellanious Coptic Texts, cvi, 778, and 785. 52 See the references cited in n. 4, above. 53 Also worthy of mention in this context are the following distinctions between the Ethiopian and the rabbinic traditions: (1) In the rabbinic story, the Israelites give evasive answers until Nebuzaradan slaughters thousands of priests, prompting them to admit that it is the blood of “a priest and a prophet and a judge” who they unjustly killed. In the Ethiopian story, in contrast, unnamed “others” immediately inform Titus that the Israelites unjustly killed a good priest; (2) In the rabbinic story, Nebuzaradan kills the priests on his own initiative; in the Ethiopian story, Titus acts only after receiving advice from the unnamed “others”; and (3) In the rabbinic story, Nebuzaradan randomly kills a huge number of priests; in the Ethiopian story, Titus kills seven relatives of Zechariah’s murderers. See also the discussion below.

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the rabbinic accounts, both Palestinian and Babylonian, of the blood of Zechariah. 54 We will expand below on the significance of this additional commonality between Ethiopian Christian and late antique rabbinic literature. Further complicating our efforts to understand the relationship between the rabbinic and Ethiopian accounts is the uncertain chronology of the Ethiopian commentaries. Roger Cowley, an expert on these commentaries, contends that while they were compiled in relatively recent centuries, they undoubtedly contain much older traditions, and their importance for shedding light on ancient traditions from other cultures should not be underestimated.55 To quote Cowley: “I see [the Ethiopian commentaries] as inheritors of much non-Ethiopian exegetical activity of the second to thirteenth centuries A. D., and (while distinctly Ethiopian in their present forms) as parallel to medieval exegesis in other countries.”56 If Cowley is correct, then just as the testimony of a medieval rabbinic commentator, or the version of an ancient tradition preserved in a medieval rabbinic anthology, is valuable57 testimony regarding the text and the interpretation of the ancient tradition, so too we should not dismiss the importance of the Ethiopian commentaries, especially given the fact that they drew so heavily on seventh‒ thirteenth century Syriac and Arabic commentaries, which in turn drew heavily on late antique commentators such as Theodore of Mopsuestia and John Chrysostom, and also given the convergence of what would appear to be independent parallels that they share with the rabbinic Zechariah and Gibeonite accounts.

See, however, the important discussion of Cowley, Ethiopian Biblical Interpretation, 11–24 and 65–93, especially his cautious formulation on 66 and 92–93. 55 See Cowley, The Traditional Interpretation of the Apocalypse of St John, 23; and idem, Cowley, “The ‘Blood of Zechariah’,” 297. 56 Cowley, Ethiopian Biblical Interpretation, viii. See also 11–62, there, where Cowley discusses the relationship between the Ethiopian commentaries and earlier Christian and Muslim sources, many of them late antique. 57 Although hardly unimpeachable. 54

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THE NARRATIVE IN THE BAVLI Detailed examination of the Zechariah story in the Bavli sheds further light on the relationship between Nebuzaradan’s rebuke and the remainder of the story. The “rough spot” we discerned in the “pure” Palestinian versions, attributable, we argued, to the later addition of Nebuzaradan’s Aramaic rebuke, is missing from the Bavli’s version, since in the Bavli there is no tension between conflicting explanations of the slaughter of the Israelites. Nevertheless, language change confronts us in the Bavli as well, and supports the claim that Nebuzaradan’s rebuke is a later addition. Several versions of the Bavli formulate the rebuke entirely in Hebrew, such that in the Bavli as well this passage stands out in what is for the most part a Babylonian Aramaic story.58 One of these versions is ms Yad Harav Herzog 1 of b. Sanhedrin 96b, considered to be the “best” manuscript of Bavli Sanhedrin.59 Significantly, this manuscript exhibits several features of the “pure” Palestinian versions of the story, and its version of the story is confirmed by an important genizah fragment.60 We read there: (1) [Aramaic:] [Nebuzaradan] saw the blood of Zechariah that it was boiling and rising. (2) [Nebuzaradan] said to [the Israelites], “What is this?” (3) They said to him, “It is the blood of sacrifices that we offered before the Holy One, blessed be He.” (4) He brought the blood of bulls and deer. He compared it but it was not the same. He brought all kinds of blood. He compared it but it was not the same.61 Many versions of the Bavli, however, formulate the rebuke partly in Hebrew and partly in Aramaic. See the discussion below. 59 See Sabato, Ketav-Yad Temani, 3, 333–43, and passim. 60 Sabato, ibid., 17 and 304–5, notes that a genizah fragment, T-S Misc. 26.55, resembles ms Yad ha-Rav Herzog 1 in most respects. I thank Professor Sabato for providing me with a photograph of the genizah fragment, which confirmed his published remarks. 61 Regarding the importance of comparing the appearance of different kinds of blood in Babylonian rabbinic culture, see Secunda, Dashtana, 61–152. 58

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(5) He said to them, “If you tell me, it is well, but if not, I will comb your flesh with combs of iron.” (6) They said to him, “Since you spoke to us thus, how can we hide it from you? We had a prophet [and] a priest62 who rebuked us for the sake of heaven. We did not accept what he said; rather we rose against him and killed him [Hebrew:] on a Day of Atonement that fell on the Sabbath.”63 (7) [Aramaic:] He said to them, “I will appease him.” (8) He brought the Great Sanhedrin, slaughtered [them] over [the blood] but it did not rest. [He brought] the Lesser Sanhedrin, slaughtered [them] over [the blood] but it did not rest. [He brought] 80,000 young priests, slaughtered [them] over [the blood] but it did not rest. He brought children from the schoolhouse, slaughtered [them] over [the blood] but it did not rest. He brought young boys and elders,64 slaughtered them over it but it did not rest. He brought young men and virgins, slaughtered them over it but it did not rest.65 Mss Munich 95, Vatican 130, of b. Gittin 57b, and the Hebrew epitome in ms JTS ENA 2089.6 lack “and a priest.” Mss Vatican 140 of Gittin 57b and mss Florence II-I-9, Munich 95, and Karlsruhe-Reuchlin 2 of Sanhedrin 96b all have it. 63 This Hebrew phrase is missing from all other versions of the Bavli, both in Gittin and Sanhedrin. The genizah fragment, T-S Misc. 26.55, is illegible in this spot. 64 Or “old men.” 65 Manuscript variants of this passage in b. Sanhedrin 96b are as follows: (1) ms Munich 95: Nebuzaradan kills “our rabbis… a total of 94,000”; (2) ms Karlsruhe-Reuchlin 2 reads like ms Munich 95, but adds “children (dardekei) of the schoolhouse” in the margin; (3) ms Florence III-9: “our rabbis… children (dardekei) of the schoolhouse… a total of 91,000;” and the Hebrew epitome of the story in ms JTS ENA 2089.6: “He brought the Great Sanhedrin and the Lesser Sanhedrin… children (tinokot) of the schoolhouse… young men and virgins.” The genziah fragment, T-S Misc. 26.55: “He brought the Great Sanhedrin… the Lesser Sanhedrin… children (tinokot) of the schoolhouse,” followed by the slaughter of another group, whose identity cannot be determined since the text is illegible. Manuscript variants of the text in b. Gittin 57b are as follows: (1) ms Vatican 140: “He brought the Great Sanhedrin and the Less62

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(9) [Hebrew:] [Nebuzaradan] said to him, “Zechariah, Zechariah, the good ones among your people I have destroyed. Is it your desire to destroy them all?”66 (10) Immediately the Holy One, blessed be He signaled to [the blood] and it was swallowed.67 (11) He thought to repent and applied an a fortiori argument to himself, saying, “If Israel, who violated the law by killing one person, [was punished severely], I,68 who destroyed so many Jews, how much the more so [will I be punished severely]?” (12) [Aramaic:]69 [Nebuzaradan] said, “If the Holy One blessed be He wants to destroy His House and put the blame on me, 70 how much the more so [will I be punished severely]? (13) He fled, caused a rift in his family,71 and converted.

er Sanhedrin… children (tinokot) of the schoolhouse… young men and virgins”; (2) ms Munich 95: “the Great and Lesser Sanhedrin… children (tinokot) of the schoolhouse”; (3) ms St. Petersburg-RNL Evr. I 187: “the Great and Lesser Sanhedrin… young men and virgins… children (tinokot) of the schoolhouse”; and (4) ms Vatican 130: “the Great and Lesser Sanhedrin… young men and virgins.” Kalimi, Retelling of Chronicles,” 263, observes the echoes of 2Chr 36:17 in this context: “Therefore he brought up against them the king of the Chaldeans, who slew their young men with the sword in the house of their sanctuary, and had no compassion on youth, maiden, elder, or greybeard, but delivered them all into his hand.” Clearly the various rabbinic versions have put a variety of different spins on the biblical verse. 66 The reading of part 9 in T-S Misc. 26.55 is: [Hebrew:] “Zechariah, the good… I have destroyed. Is it your will that I destroy all of them?” That is, Nebuzaradan’s rebuke is entirely in Hebrew, and the parts that are legible match ms Yad ha-Rav Herzog 1 completely. 67 Mention of God signaling to Zechariah is missing from all other versions of the Bavli (including T-S Misc. 26.55), both in Gittin and Sanhedrin. The reading in these other versions is “Immediately [the blood] rested,” or some slight variant thereof. See the discussion below. 68 Literally, “that man.” 69 T-S Misc. 26.55 also reverts to Aramaic here. 70 Literally, “wipe His hand on that man.” 71 See Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, 932.

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As noted, this story is rendered in Babylonian Aramaic, with the exception of some notable sections in Hebrew. In part 6, the phrase “on a Day of Atonement that fell on the Sabbath,” is in Hebrew, and the same idea in almost the identical phraseology is recorded in one of the passages introducing the Zechariah story in the Palestinian versions, but it is attested in no other version or manuscript of the story itself, either Babylonian or Palestinian.72 The fact that the Hebrew phrase interrupts a Babylonian Aramaic story appears to mark it as a later addition, a phenomenon I have noted in other contexts,73 and which scholars have long been aware of where Megillat Ta‘anit is concerned.74 As noted, modern scholars are very familiar with the phenomenon of additions to Hebrew texts identified as later additions by their formulation in Aramaic,75 but evidently the same phenomenon is found, albeit less frequently, in the case of Hebrew additions to Aramaic texts. It is unclear exactly when the addition was made, but the fact that it was apparently added based on a tradition originating in Palestinian corpora, and that it is only in one manuscript of the Bavli (along with ms JTS ENA 2089.6, which records a Hebrew abridgement of the story), suggests that it was added at a relatively late date, probably postredactionally.76 Interestingly, the addition was made to the Bavli on the basis of a tradition in Palestinian compilations, a phenomenon that scholars have likewise noticed before, albeit with relative infrequency.

72

See also Targum Eikhah to Lamentations 2:20. See also n. 63

above. See Kalmin, “Hillel and the Soldiers of Herod,” 112–17; and idem, Jewish Babylonia, 43–50. See also Mandel, “Aggadot ha-Hurban: Bein Erez Yisrael le-Bavel,” 141–50, especially 148, n. 29. 74 See, for example, Noam, Megillat Ta’anit, 19–36. 75 See, for example, Friedman, “Al Derekh Heker ha-Sugya,” 25–26. 76 See Friedman, ibid., 30. For another example of a Hebrew postredactional addition to an Aramaic original, see the story involving Rav Hiyya bar Ashi in b. Qiddushin 81b (“All the days of that righteous man he fasted until he died of that death”) and Fraenkel, “Remarkable Phenomena,” 59–60; and Naeh, “Freedom and Celibacy,” 73. 73

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Part 10 is also in Hebrew, and it also preserves a feature of the Palestinian versions of the story found in no other Babylonian version: “Immediately the Holy One, blessed be He signaled to [the blood] and it was swallowed.” As earlier scholars have noted, in other manuscript versions of the story in the Bavli there is no explicit mention of God (see above), 77 although we will argue below that the Babylonian versions of the story understood God as active “behind the scenes.” In other manuscript versions of the Bavli the story reads here simply: “Immediately [the blood] rested,” or a slight variation thereof. 78 According to ms Yad Harav Herzog 1, even the Babylonian version explicitly mentions God, although we are probably confronted here with a second addition to the manuscript based on pure Palestinian versions, expressing the same idea in exactly the same words.79 The most important Hebrew passage in this manuscript and in the genizah fragment, however, is part 9: “[Nebuzaradan] said to him, ‘Zechariah, Zechariah, the good ones among your people I have destroyed. Is it your desire to destroy them all?’” We concluded above that the later provenance of Nebuzaradan’s rebuke in the Yerushalmi and the Pesikta is indicated in part by the change of language from Hebrew to Aramaic. The later provenance of Nebuzaradan’s rebuke in the Bavli is apparently also indicated by a change of language, but from Aramaic to Hebrew. This conclusion is supported by the fact that Eikhah Rabbah 2:480 and 4:1681 also See, most notably, Heinemann, Aggadot ve-Toldoteihen, 38. See also n. 67 above. 79 Part 11 is also in Hebrew, both in ms Yad ha-Rav Herzog 1 and in T-S Misc. 26.55, and while it is unquestionably different from the pure Palestinian versions of the story, it utilizes, like the Palestinian versions, an a fortiori argument. Part 11 thus appears to be modeled on the Palestinian versions, but in its context in the Bavli it serves to prepare the audience for part 13’s Babylonian motif (rendered in Babylonian Aramaic) of the conversion to Judaism of the cruel foreign leader who had come to destroy the Israelites. See n. 125, below. Part 11’s character as a later formulation may be indicated by the fact that it is preserved very differently in a parallel version. See n. 82, below. 80 Based on Lamentations 2:2. 77 78

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preserve the Bavli’s version of the story, for the most part in Babylonian Aramaic, and in these contexts as well Nebuzaradan’s rebuke of Zechariah is in Hebrew, again in contrast to most of the rest of the story.82 If these texts (ms Yad HaRav Herzog 1; the genizah fragment; and Eikhah Rabbah 2:4 and 4:16) preserve the correct Babylonian reading of part 9, then we have another case of a later addition to an Aramaic story marked as such by its Hebrew formulation. There are other notable features of the Bavli’s version of the story that distinguish it from the Palestinian versions. For example, the Bavli augments the number of people killed by Nebuzaradan, and describes his slaughter of successive groups of Israelites. We observe here the Babylonian characteristic of emphasizing the imBased on Lamentations 4:13. Pinhas Mandel graciously made available to me transcriptions of the first printed edition (Constantinople) and ms Cambridge of Eikhah Rabbah 2:4; and mss Casanatense (=Buber edition), Parma, and London of Eikhah Rabbah 4:16. See also Mandel, “Ha-Sipur be-Midrash Eikhah,” 33*–34*, 165–73, and 96*–98*. The Hebrew conclusion, most of which corresponds closely to ms Yad ha-Rav Herzog 1 of the Bavli, is as follows: (1) [Hebrew:] [Nebuzaradan] said to [Zechariah], “Zechariah, the good ones among your people I destroyed. Is it your will that all of them be destroyed? (2) Immediately [the blood] rested. (3) Nebuzaradan thought about repentance, saying, “One who destroys the life of a single Jew, thus it written concerning him, ‘Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed’ (Gen 9:6). I, who killed so many people, how much the more so [will my blood be shed by man]?” (4) Immediately the Holy One, blessed be He, was filled with compassion and signaled to the blood and it was swallowed in its place. Part 4 of this Hebrew conclusion is actually a shortened version of the Palestinian ending of the story, according to which at some stage a scribe awkwardly stitched together the Palestinian and Babylonian descriptions of the coming to rest of the blood (parts 2 and 4), minus the divine a fortiori argument explaining why God should be compassionate. 81 82

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portance of rabbis,83 since according to all versions Nebuzaradan begins by killing either “our rabbis” or the Great Sanhedrin and the Lesser Sanhedrin,84 which the rabbis conceive of as having been dominated by rabbis. Children of the school house are also slaughtered en masse according to most versions,85 and we know from other contexts that it was the task of these children to study scripture, the most basic building block of the rabbinic curriculum of study.86 As noted, some scholars make much of the fact that God is not mentioned explicitly in the Babylonian version of the story. 87 Nebuzaradan’s conversion at the conclusion of the Babylonian version, however, makes sense only if we understand him to have been impressed by the power of the Jewish God, and we should be careful not to read too much into God’s ostensible “absence” from the story. If God played no role, then Nebuzaradan’s conversion is only evidence of his mistaken belief in the power displayed by God in punishing the Israelites. If Nebuzaradan is mistaken, then the motif of the murderous enemy of the Jews converting to Judaism no longer serves to demonstrate the superiority of the Jewish God to the human power of the enemy, one of the rabbis’ favorite themes.88 God’s “absence” from the Bavli’s version of the story, I would argue, is nothing other than a common Babylonian Jewish storytelling device, which we encounter likewise in the biblical book of Esther as well as in numerous Babylonian rabbinic stories. Much has been made about God’s absence from the book of EsSee, for example, Kalmin, Jewish Babylonia, 34‒35 and passim. See n. 65 above. 85 See n. 65 above. 86 See Goodblatt, Rabbinic Instruction in Sasanian Babylonia, 108–9; and Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, 68–72 and 75–84. 87 These scholars do not note the exceptional nature of ms Yad haRav Herzog 1. 88 Regarding part 12 of b. Sanhedrin 96b, see Sabato, Ketav-Yad Temani, 149. This statement is problematic in its present context, however, since it implies that Nebuzaradan converts in order to avoid committing the horrible sin of destroying God’s Temple. However, the text in b. Sanhedrin 96b prior to the Zechariah story already described in detail his destruction of the Temple. 83 84

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ther, but here as well, I would argue, the absence is a storytelling device, perhaps indicating that God’s presence in the story, just like His presence in daily life, is not explicit, but rather needs to be inferred. While final conclusions cannot yet be drawn, future studies will perhaps reveal the extent to which this is a Babylonian rabbinic, and perhaps a Persian or Mesopotamian storytelling device, which distinguishes Babylonian from Palestinian rabbinic culture, and/or Persia and Mesopotamia from the Greek and Roman world.

A LATER VERSION OF THE STORY: PALESTINIAN AND BABYLONIAN ELEMENTS COMBINED Some Palestinian versions of the story have an additional Aramaic line, and once again the change in language very likely indicates a later addition by storytellers or tradents.89 According to this addition, found in Kohelet Rabbah 3:16 and 10:4 and Eikhah Rabbah 4:13,90 when Nebuzaradan first arrives on the scene God tells the blood that “the time has come for your cause91 to be collected.” According to this addition as well, God and Zechariah share responsibility for the deaths of the Israelites. God informs the blood that its time to seek vengeance has arrived, and without its peculiar behavior the Babylonian general would have noticed nothing amiss. This second Aramaic addition is thus very much in keeping with Nebuzaradan’s Aramaic rebuke of Zechariah, which is the only other indication in the story that Zechariah is also responsible. In addition, Kohelet Rabbah 3:16 bears closer examination because it incorporates Palestinian and Babylonian elements of the story and thus confirms, at least in this one case, Reuven Kiperwasser’s characterization of the “mixed” nature of Kohelet Rabbah.92 See also Mandel, “Ha-Sipur be-Midrash Eikhah,” 170–73 and 96*–98*. 90 See Eikhah Rabbah, ed. Buber, 149. 91 Some versions read diatiki, “will, testament, or document,” but see Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic, 148. 92 Kiperwasser, Midrashim on Kohelet, 247–50 and passim. Compare Mandel, “Ha-Sipur be-Midrash Rabbah,” 170–71 and n. 95 on 97*. For a similar phenomenon, see the story of R. Eliezer and the heretic in b. 89

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Phrased differently, Kohelet Rabbah’s “mixed” character reinforces our characterization of certain elements of the Zechariah story as Palestinian and other elements as Babylonian. The text is as follows:93 (1) [Hebrew:] When Nebuzaradan came up to destroy Jerusalem, the Holy One, blessed be He signaled to that blood94 and the blood began to bubble. (2) The Holy One, blessed be He, said [Aramaic:] to the blood, “The time has come for your cause to be collected.” (3) When [Nebuzaradan] saw it, [Hebrew:] he said to them, “What kind of blood is this boiling?” (4) They said to him, “It is the blood of bulls and sheep and rams that we slaughtered and offered [on the altar].” (5) He brought bulls and sheep and rams, and slaughtered them upon [the blood], but it was not quiet and it did not rest. Immediately he brought [the Israelites] and suspended them on a scaffold. (6) He said [Aramaic:] to them, [Hebrew:] “Tell me what kind of blood this is. If not, [Aramaic:] I will comb you with a comb of iron.”95

‘Avodah Zarah 16b–17a; t. Hullin 2:24; and Kohelet Rabbah 1:8(3); and Kalmin, “Christians and Heretics in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity,” 156–58. Compare Schäfer, Jesus in the Talmud, 41–51 and 158–62; and Boyarin, Dying for God, 27, neither of whom take account of the tendency of Kohelet Rabbah to incorporate features of the Bavli. 93 I translate according to ms Vatican 271. 94 The printed edition of Kohelet Rabbah 3:16 reads here “that it should bubble up for 252 years, from Joash until Zedekiah. What did they do? They swept upon it all [kinds of] dirt and did [to it] all [kinds of] tricks but it did not rest.” Ms Vatican 271 and all versions of Eikhah Rabbah 4:13 lack this material. It is clearly problematic, since there is an obvious contradiction between the statement that God signaled to the blood to begin boiling when Nebuzaradan came up to destroy Jerusalem, and the statement that it bubbled for 252 years, from Joash to Zedekiah, i.e., for two and a half centuries before Nebuzaradan arrived. 95 See the discussion of the Babylonian features of the text, below.

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(7) [Hebrew:] They said to him, “Since the Holy One, blessed be He wants to claim his blood from our hands, we will reveal it to you.” They said to him, “A priest, a prophet, and a judge prophesied about us all of the things that you are doing to us. We did not believe him and we stood over him and killed him because he reproved us.” (8) Immediately he brought 80,000 young priests and slaughtered [them] upon [the blood] but it did not stop. And the blood burst forth and broke through until it reached the grave of Zechariah. He also brought the Great Sanhedrin and the Lesser [Sanhedrin] and slaughtered [them] upon [the blood] but it did not rest. (9) At that moment, that wicked man [i.e., Nebuzaradan] came and shouted at [Aramaic:] the blood and said to it, “What sort of person are you, and why do you think that your blood is more [important] than their blood. Do you want us to destroy your entire nation on its account?” (10) [Hebrew:] At that moment, the Holy One, blessed be He was filled with compassion and said, “If this one, a wicked man son of a wicked man, and cruel, who came up to destroy My house, was filled with compassion for them, I, about whom it is written, ‘The Lord, the Lord, a God compassionate and gracious’ (Ex 34:6), and it is written concerning Me, ‘The Lord is good to all, and His compassion is upon all His works’ (Ps 145:4), how much the more so [should I have compassion for them]?” (11) At that moment the Holy One, blessed be He signaled to that blood and it was swallowed in its place.

Most of this version is in Hebrew and conforms closely to the purest Palestinian forms of the tradition. As noted, however, this version contains a brief scene at the beginning of the story (in which God signals to and addresses Zechariah’s blood), that is not found in the purest Palestinian versions, nor is it found in the Bavli. This brief scene is most likely another later addition to the story that further develops the characters and complicates their interaction. I refer to parts 1–2 above: (1) [Hebrew:] When Nebuzaradan came up to destroy Jerusalem, the Holy One, blessed be He signaled to that blood and the blood began to bubble. (2) The Holy One, blessed be He, said [Aramaic:] to the blood, “The time has come for your cause to be collected.”

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Parts 1–2 indicate that it is God who gives permission to Zechariah to take vengeance, although part 2 depicts God as ceding much of the agency to Zechariah by identifying the vengeance as his, and later on in the story it would appear to be Zechariah who determines the severity of the vengeance until God finally brings it to a halt (parts 9–11). While this version of the story leaves no doubt that God is ultimately in control, it further attests the tendency to remove God from responsibility for the full severity of the punishment of the Israelites. In addition, parts 1-2 clearly view the bubbling of Zechariah’s blood as something that he desires, since it attracts Nebuzaradan’s attention and is the means by which Zechariah avenges his murder. Parts 1–2, therefore, portray God’s concern for Zechariah when they depict Him granting permission to the dead man to give vent to his rage against his murderers. Parts 1–2, therefore, preserve something of the original Hebrew story’s understanding of the relationship between God and Zechariah. At the same time, however, parts 1–2 clearly understand God in part 9 to be referring to the compassion He wishes to show the Israelites by putting a stop to their slaughter. It is likely that the Aramaic in part 2 was added after the Aramaic addition of Nebuzaradan’s rebuke to Zechariah (part 9), since there are no versions that have the former addition but not the latter. As noted, Kohelet Rabbah 3:16’s version of the story differs from the “purest” Palestinian version in that it has occasional phrases and elements of the Bavli’s version, and it thus conforms exactly to Kiperwasser’s characterization of traditions in Kohelet Rabba vis-à-vis those in the Bavli. It conforms to the Palestinian version of traditions, but at some point during its transmission, editors and/or copyists added motifs and phrases from the Bavli. We find traces of the Bavli’s version in the Aramaic phrase in part 6: “I will comb you with a comb of iron,” which corresponds almost word-for-word to the Bavli’s: “I will comb your flesh with combs of iron.” Even more tellingly, Kohelet Rabba’s account of Nebuzaradan’s murder of Israelites (part 8) has two stages, similar to the Bavli’s account, which in most versions describes the slaughter in more than one stage. The Greater and Lesser Sanhedrin is the second group killed according to Kohelet Rabba, while either “our rabbis” or “the Greater and Lesser Sanhedrin” is the first group killed according to the Bavli. Kohelet Rabba, therefore, like

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the Bavli albeit to a lesser extent, emphasizes the role of sages, and as noted, in earlier research we found this tendency to be characteristic of the Bavli in general.96

THE MURDER OF ZECHARIAH IN NON-RABBINIC TRADITIONS: WHICH ZECHARIAH IS IT?97 Turning to non-rabbinic accounts, we find a variety of different traditions regarding the identity of the Zechariah murdered in the Temple. Matthew 23:35, for example, identifies him as Zechariah ben Berechiah, the last minor prophet. 98 Other Christian sources identify him as Zechariah the father of John the Baptist.99 It bears emphasizing that while the Masoretic text renders the name as “Zechariah son of Jehoiada the priest” in 2Chr 24:20, the Septuagint renders the name as “Azariah son of Jehoiada.”100 Perhaps the Christian sources relied on the Septuagint’s version of the name, and therefore could not identify the Zechariah murdered in the

See also Targum Sheni to Esther 1:3, which, like Kohelet Rabbah 3:16, incorporates features of both the Palestinian and Babylonian rabbinic versions. See also Targum Eikhah to Lamentations 2:20, which, while very brief, includes a motif found only in Palestinian rabbinic versions of the story and preserves no traces of uniquely Babylonian motifs. For the text of the latter Targum, see Sperber, ed., Kitvei ha-Kodesh ba-Aramit, 145. See also Komlosh, Ha-Mikra be-Or ha-Targum, 90, who dates the Targum to the seventh century, although there is as yet no scholarly consensus on this issue. 97 In addition to the texts cited below, see the Martyrium Lugdunum (ca. 177 CE), recounted by Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 5.1.3‒10, trans. Kirsopp Lake, 406–11. See also von Campenhausen, “Das Martyrium des Zacharias,” 383–86; Schwemer, Studien, vol. 2, 294–321; Davies and Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew, 318–19; and Kalimi, Retelling of Chronicles, 43–54, 57–59, and 68–71. 98 See also Becker, “Die Zerstörung Jerusalems,” 59–72. 99 Compare Kalimi, “The Story About the Murder of the Prophet Zechariah,” 248–60; and Becker, “Die Zerstörung Jerusalems,” 63–65. 100 See McAfee Moss, The Zechariah Tradition and the Gospel of Matthew, 115. 96

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Temple as Zechariah ben Jehoiada.101 This explanation, however, does not explain why Targum Eikhah also identifies the murder victim as Zechariah ben Berekhiah.102 Even more importantly, for reasons noted above it is unlikely that we can determine at present whether Christian versions of the Zechariah story derived from Jewish versions or vice versa. All we can say for certain is that a legend circulated in antiquity about the murder of a priest in the Temple. According to some traditions the priest was unnamed and according to others he was named Zechariah. A variety of ancient traditions, some Jewish and some Christian, identified this Zechariah as a specific individual from Israel’s ancient or recent past. Matthew 23:35, it will be recalled, mentions the murder of Zechariah son of Berekhiah in the Temple. Significantly, Luke 11:50–51 also mentions the murder of “Zechariah” in the Temple near the altar, but provides no patronymic, thereby precluding specification of which Zechariah he has in mind. Matthew and the rabbis disagree about the chronology of events, but they agree that the murder of Zechariah led to the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple. The rabbis have the first Temple in mind, however, and Matthew the second Temple. Josephus, in Jewish War 4.5.4, describes the murder of yet another Zechariah in the Temple. According to Josephus, this murder did not directly lead to the destruction of the Temple, but it was one of many similar actions by the Judaeans, and by the Zealots in particular, that had this disastrous effect. The text of Josephus is as follows: Having now come to loathe indiscriminate massacre, the Zealots instituted mock trials and courts of justice. They had determined to put to death Zacharias, son of Baris, one of the most eminent of the citizens. The man exasperated them by his pronounced hatred of wrong and love of liberty, and, as he was also rich, they had the double prospect of plundering his property and of getting rid of a powerful and dangerous oppoSee Origen, Commentary on Matthew 10:18, concerning Matt 13:57 (GCS 40, 609). 102 See n. 96 above. 101

ZECHARIAH AND THE BUBBLING BLOOD nent. So they issued a peremptory summons to seventy of the leading citizens to appear in the Temple, assigning to them, as in a play, the role, without the authority, of judges; they then accused Zacharias of betraying the state to the Romans and of holding treasonable communications with Vespasian. They adduced no evidence or proof in support of these charges, but declared that they were fully convinced of his guilt themselves and claimed this as sufficiently establishing the fact. Zacharias, aware that no hope of escape was left him, as he had been treacherously summoned to a prison rather than a court of justice, did not allow despair of life to rob him of liberty of speech. He rose and ridiculed the probability of the accusation, and in a few words quashed the charges laid against him. Then, rounding upon his accusers, he went over all their enormities in order, and bitterly lamented the confusion of public affairs. The Zealots were in an uproar and could scarce refrain from drawing their swords, although they were anxious to play out their part and this farce of a trial to the close, and desired, moreover, to test whether the judges would put considerations of justice above their own peril. The seventy, however, brought in a unanimous verdict for the defendant, preferring to die with him rather than be held answerable for his destruction. The Zealots raised an outcry at his acquittal, and were all indignant with the judges for not understanding that the authority entrusted to them was a mere pretence. Two of the most daring of them then set upon Zacharias and slew him in the midst of the Temple, and exclaiming in jest over his prostrate body “Now you have our verdict also and a more certain release,” forthwith cast him out of the Temple into the ravine below. Then they insolently struck the judges with the backs of their swords and drove them from the precincts; sparing their lives for the sole reason that they might disperse through the city and proclaim to all the servitude to which they were reduced.103

103

See also Josephus, Antiquities 11.7.1.

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Josephus, like Matthew but unlike the rabbis, depicts the murder of Zechariah taking place while the second Temple stood. The Protevangelium of James 23–24, a Christian text probably composed during the second century,104 describes the murder in the Temple of still another Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist:105 (1) Herod, though, kept looking for John, and sent his agents to Zechariah serving at the altar, with this message for him: “Where have you hidden your son?” (2) But he answered them, “I am a minister of God, attending to His Temple. How should I know where my son is?” (3) So the agents left and reported all this to Herod, who became angry and said, “Is this son going to rule over Israel?” (4) And he sent his agents back with this message for him: “Tell me the truth. Where is your son? Don’t you know that I have your life in my power?” (5) And the agents went and reported this message to him. (6) Zechariah answered, “I am a martyr for God. Take my life. The Lord, though, will receive my spirit because you are shedding innocent blood at the entrance to the Temple of the Lord.” (7) And so at daybreak Zechariah was murdered, but the people did not know that he had been murdered. (8) At the hour of formal greeting the priests departed, but Zechariah did not meet them and bless them as was customary. And so the priests waited around for Zechariah, to greet him with prayer and to praise the Most High God. (9) But when he did not show up, they all became fearful. One of them, however, summoned up his courage, entered the sanctuary, and saw dried blood next to the Lord’s altar. And a voice said, “Zechariah has been murdered. His blood will not be cleaned up until the avenger appears.”

Dubois, “La mort de Zacharie,” 23; Hock, Infancy Gospels, 11–12; and North, “Reactions in Early Christianity,” 260. 105 See also Chapman, “Zacharias, Slain Between the Temple and the Altar,” 398. See also Epiphanius, Panarion 25.12 (GCS 25.290–92). 104

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(10) When he heard this utterance he was afraid and went out and reported to the priests what he had seen and heard. And they summoned up their courage, entered, and saw what had happened. The panels of the Temple cried out, and priests ripped their robes from top to bottom. They didn’t find a corpse, but they did find his blood, now turned to stone. They were afraid and went out and reported to the people that Zechariah had been murdered. When all the tribes of the people heard this, they began to mourn, and they beat their breasts for three days and three nights. (11) After three days, however, the priests deliberated about whom they should appoint to the position of Zechariah. The lot fell to Simeon. This man, you see, is the one who was informed by the holy spirit that he would not see death until he laid eyes on the Anointed in the flesh.106

Like the Zechariah of Matthew, Luke, and the rabbis, the Protevangelist’s Zechariah was murdered in a very sanctified part of the Temple, near the altar. In addition, in the Protevangelium as in the rabbinic version, the blood of Zechariah figures very prominently, with its tangible presence remaining as a testament to the murderer’s guilt, to be expunged only when the murder has been avenged. Interestingly, however, unlike Josephus, Matthew, Luke, and the rabbis, the Protevangelist faults only specific individuals, namely the king and his soldiers (who, of course, are doing the king’s bidding), rather than the entire Israelite people. Finally, unlike the rabbinic versions and unlike Luke and Matthew and to a lesser extent Josephus, there is no indication in the Protevangelium that this murder will lead to the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple. The Bordeaux Pilgrim, who wrote in 333 CE, also knows of a Zechariah murdered in the Temple, close to the altar. He likewise does not specify which Zechariah he has in mind: And on the Temple Mount itself where the Temple was that Solomon built, the blood of Zecharias on the marble pavement before the altar is poured there, you would say… today. 106

See Hock, Infancy Gospels, 72–77.

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In this account as well Zechariah’s blood is a prominent motif, and is a tangible presence centuries after it was shed. The blood does not bubble as in the rabbinic story, but neither has it coagulated or turned to stone as in several Christian versions. Instead it looks like fresh blood, as if it had been “shed today.” Another Christian version of the story, Lives of the Prophets 23:1, explicitly involves Zechariah ben Jehoiada, and this version likewise does not connect Zechariah’s murder to the destruction of the Temple. There is controversy about the dating of Lives of the Prophets, but I am convinced by David Satran’s claim that the text was composed in a late antique context, in the fourth or fifth century.108 If Satran is correct, this text may indicate that it is not until the Byzantine period that the story about the murder of Zechariah in the Temple was taken to refer to Zechariah ben Jehoiada,109 and other identifications of Zechariah persisted long after this identification was made. Targum Sheni to Esther 1:3 also identifies the murdered Zechariah as Zechariah ben Jehoiada, and while the dating of this Targum is uncertain, it is certainly not pre-Byzantine. The Lives of the Prophets 23:1 reads as follows: Zechariah was from Jerusalem. He was the son of Jehoiada the priest. He is the one whom Joash the king of Judah killed by the side of the altar. They poured out his blood; i.e., [they] beItinerarium Burdigalense 589.7–592.7 (apud P. Geyer and O. Cuntz, eds., Itineraria et alia geographica [CCL 175; Turnhout: Brepols, 1965), 14– 16. 108 Satran, Biblical Prophets, 118 and passim. 109 See also Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History 9.17 (ed, Bidez/Hansen GCS 50, 407f.), who describes the discovery (in Caphar Zechariah, “the Village of Zechariah”) of the relics of the martyr Zechariah ben Jehoiada, which is accompanied by the discovery by a monk, also named Zechariah, the superior of a nearby monastery, of a “non-canonical” Hebrew book that described the death of Joash’s beloved son as punishment for his murder of the biblical Zechariah. 107

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ing the family of David, at the front portal. The priests took him and buried him with his ancestors. From that time on apparitional signs were occurring in the sanctuary, and the priests were no longer able to see a vision of the angels of God. They did not receive a report from the Holy of Holies, they could not inquire of the ephod, and they could no longer deceive the people with obscurities as before.110

This account also emphasizes the blood of the slain priest. The text assigns full responsibility to the Israelite king and does not claim that the murder led to the destruction of the Temple, but rather to a weakening of the power of the Jerusalem priesthood. Interestingly, it makes no mention of the punishment inflicted on Joash according to 2 Chronicles. The text does not make clear why only the Jerusalem priests were punished for the actions of the king, and perhaps the claim is that Joash’s actions resulted in a weakening of God’s relationship with the Israelites, in the form of the priests’ inabilities to discern the will of God. Moving later and further east, to Baghdad in the ninth and tenth century, we find that Tabari, a Muslim author who wrote in Arabic, transmits several versions of the tradition. He relates one version in the name of Ibn al-‘Abbas, a second in the names of Ibn Mas’ud, Ibn al-‘Abbas, and al-Suddi, (see above), and a third version in the name of Ibn Ishaq (d. 767).111 According to the versions See also Satran, Biblical Prophets, 128. The earliest reference to the murder of Zechariah in Mesopotamian Christian sources appears to be that of Ephrem in his commentary on the Diatessaron. See McCarthy, Saint Ephrem’s Commentary on Tatian’s Diatessaron, 62–63. Leloir, Éphrem de Nisibe, 68, thinks this passage is an interpolation. See also Schwemer, Studien, Vitae Prophetarum, vol. 2, 283–321 and 73*–75*. The Cave of Treasures 47:12–17, composed in Mesopotamia perhaps as early as the sixth century, also narrates the murder in the Temple, near the altar, of Zechariah the father of John the Baptist. The dating of this text is an open question. See Kugel, The Bible as it Was, 574; but see, now, Sergey Minov’s study in this volume. 111 See History of Al-Tabari, 103–11. See also Schützinger, “Die arabische Legende,” 113–41, especially 114–17, 128, and 132–34; and Elad, Medieval Jerusalem and Islamic Worship, 122–23. 110

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reported by Tabari, the Israelites murdered John the Baptist rather than his father, Zechariah. The version that Tabari reports in the name of Ibn Ishaq bears striking resemblances to the Babylonian rabbinic account, but also to the versions in Christian texts. Tabari’s affinities with the Babylonian rabbinic tradition are significant, since he traveled in his youth to the vicinity of Palestine and it is theoretically possible that he encountered rabbinic traditions there. At least in this one instance, the Palestinian versions of the tradition appear to have made no impression on him:112 (1) As for Ibn Ishaq’s version, we learned it from Ibn Humayd– Salamah–Muhammad b. Ishaq: The Israelites flourished after that, meaning, after their return from Babylonia to Jerusalem. They transgressed, and God sent messengers to them. Some of them were rejected, some slain, until the last prophets sent to them were Zechariah, John (the Baptist), the son of Zechariah, and Jesus, the son of Mary. They were descended from David. John’s lineage is Zechariah b. Iddo b. Meshullam b. Zadok b. Nachshon b. David b. Solomon b. Meshullam b. Zedekiah b. Berechiah b. Shefatiah b. Fakhor b. Shallum b. Jehoshaphat b. Asa b. Abiah b. Rehoboam b. Solomon b. David. (2) When God took Jesus from their midst to heaven, they slew the Baptist. Some say when they killed the Baptist, God sent against them a Babylonian king called Khardus.113 He marched against them with a Babylonian host and entered Palestine. When he defeated them, he summoned one of his military chieftans, a man addressed as Nabuzaradhan the executioner, to whom he said, “I have sworn by my deity that if I defeat the people of Jerusalem, I shall kill them until their blood flows amidst my encampment, and until I find none to kill.” The king commanded Nabuzaradhan to slay them until such was done.

See History of Al-Tabari, 108–11. See also Kalmin, “Manasseh Sawed Isaiah with a Saw of Wood,” where I draw the same conclusion about another tradition reported by Tabari with parallels in the Bavli and Yerushalmi. 113 According to Perlmann, History of al-Tabari, vol. 4, 109, n. 294, “Khardus” is Herod. 112

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(3) Nabuzaradhan entered the temple. He stood over the spot where they used to offer their sacrifices; and he found blood there that was boiling. (4) He asked them, “O Children of Israel, why is this blood boiling? Tell me about it and do not conceal anything.” (5) They said, “It is the blood of a sacrifice which we had offered and which was not accepted from us; and therefore it is boiling, as you see. We have offered sacrifices for 800 years, and the sacrifice has always been accepted, except this one.”114 (6) He said, “You have not told me the truth.” (7) They replied, “If things were as they used to be, it would be accepted; but we have been deprived of kingship, prophecy, and inspiration, and that is why this sacrifice of ours was not accepted.” (8) Nabuzaradhan slew 770 of their leaders on that spot, but the blood did not calm down. Upon his order 700 of their young men were brought and slaughtered over the blood, but it did not calm down. He ordered that 7000 of their sons and their spouses be slain there, but the blood did not cool. (9) When Nabuzaradhan saw that the blood was not calming down, he said to them, “O children of Israel, woe unto you. Tell me the truth, and endure for the sake of your Lord. For a long time you have been in possession of the land, acting in it as you please. [Tell me], before the last of you is slain, male or female.” (10) When they saw the gravity of the mayhem, they told him the truth, “This is the blood of a prophet of ours who often sought to forewarn us of divine wrath. Had we been obedient to him, he would have guided us. He used to tell us about you, but we did not believe him. We killed him, and this is his blood.” (11) Nabuzaradhan then asked, “What was his name?” (12) They answered, “John, the son of Zechariah.” (13) He exclaimed, “Now you have told me the truth. That is why your Lord is taking revenge upon you.”

Tabari’s account here differs from both the purest Palestinian rabbinic version and the Bavli’s version. In this and in other contexts, the relationship between Tabari’s account and the accounts of the rabbis is not entirely clear. 114

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(14) When Nabuzaradhan perceived that they had told him the truth, he prostrated himself and said to those around him, “Lower the gates of the city, remove from it those who were here of the host of Khardus.” (15) He remained with the Israelites. Then he exclaimed, “O John son of Zechariah, my Lord and your Lord knows the affliction suffered by your people on your account. Be calm now, by God’s grace, before I exterminate your people.” (16) Then the Baptist’s blood subsided so that Nabuzaradhan stopped the killing, saying, “I believe in the God of the Children of Israel. I sincerely believe in Him; I know for sure that He is the only God. No other deity can there be beside Him. Had He any associate, heaven and earth would not hold together. It would be wrong for Him to have a son. May He be blessed, sanctified, praised, glorified, the King of Kings who rules the seven heavens with knowledge and wisdom, strength and power; He who spread out the earth and set therein firm mountains for eternity. Thus it befits my Lord to be, and His realm to be.” (17) It was revealed to a leader of the remnant of the prophets that Nabuzaradhan was a sincere habur–habur in Hebrew is a new convert.115 (18) Nabuzaradhan told the Israelites, “Khardus, the enemy of God, ordered me to slay so many of you that your blood should flow amidst his encampment. I cannot disobey him.” (19) They told him, “Do as you were ordered.” (20) Upon his command, they dug a trench. He ordered that horses, mules, asses, cattle, sheep, and camels in their possession be placed there and slaughtered, and that blood be made to flow throughout the camp. Upon his order the corpses of the people who had been slain Perlmann, History of al-Tabari, vol. 4, 110, n. 296, observes that the Arabic habr means a Jewish scholar. Geoffrey Herman suggested to me that when Tabari writes that “ḥabur in Hebrew is a new convert,” he is probably not referring to ḥabr — the common Arabic for a rabbi, since this is a well-known term. Rather, it appears that the diacritics of the Arabic have been incorrectly placed, and the root referred to is gyr, refering to ger or giyura, that is, a convert. The misplacement of diacritic vowels in “foreign” words in Arabic is a common phenomenon. 115

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were thrown over the slaughtered animals, so that Khardus was certain that the trench was filled with dead Israelites. (21) When the blood reached his camp, he sent to Nabuzardhan the message, “Stop, their blood has reached me. I have been revenged for what they have done.” (22) Whereupon he left for Babylonia after almost annihilating the Israelites. It was the last calamity that God brought upon them. (23) God said to his prophet Muhammad, “And we decreed for the Children of Israel in the Book… And we have made Gehenna a prison for the unbelievers.”116 The divine “perchance” [found in the extended passage] has come true. The first calamity was at the hand of Nebuchadnezzar and his hosts. Then God caused “the turn” and the final calamity struck them — Khardus and his hosts. It was the greater of the two calamities, the one in which their land was destroyed, their men slain, and their women and progeny taken prisoner. God says, “To destroy utterly that which they ascended to.”

There are obvious differences between Tabari’s and the Bavli’s versions, as well as between Tabari’s account and those in Christian sources, and it is difficult in many instances to determine whether these differences are due to deliberate tampering by Tabari (or by the Muslim authors from whom he drew), or to the likelihood that he was drawing upon a partly shared, but partly different fund of traditions and motifs. Perhaps the most striking commonality between Tabari and the rabbis, which distinguishes his version from most of the Christian versions,117 is the fact that the blood boils. Tabari’s version, in contrast to both the rabbinic and the Christian versions, features John the Baptist’s blood and Zechariah figures hardly at all. While certainty on this issue is not possible, it is likely that Tabari took a tradition about Zechariah and turned it into a tradition about his much more prominent son, John the Baptist, who his readers According to Perlmann, History of al-Tabari, vol. 4, 111, n. 298, this is a citation of Qur’an 17:4–8. 117 The exceptions are the commentaries of Ibn al-Tayyib and the Ethiopian Christians. See above, and also Cowley, “The ‘Blood of Zechariah,’” 293 and 298. 116

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would more likely be familiar with.118 Also distinctive to Tabari’s account is the fact that while the general is named Nabuzaradhan, in conformity with the rabbinic account, Tabari’s narrative is set during the time of King Herod and Jesus Christ, in conformity with most Christian versions. Tabari’s identification of John the Baptist’s father as “the son of Iddo,” and the presence of “Zechariah b. Berekhiah” on his lengthy genealogy may be an attempt by Tabari to reconcile his account with the New Testament’s tradition of the identity of Zechariah, since as noted, Matthew’s Zechariah is the son of Berekhiah, the minor prophet, who is said in Zechariah 1:1 to be the grandson of Iddo. As noted, Tabari’s account resembles the Bavli a good deal more than the Palestinian version. The Palestinian version, it will be recalled, has the general kill 80,000 young priests, and when that fails to stop the blood he rebukes Zechariah, which motivates God to apply an a fortiori argument to himself and to signal to the blood to stop boiling. According to the majority of versions in the Bavli, in contrast, Nebuzaradan kills different groups of Israelites one after the other: (1) the Great Sanhedrin; (2) the Lesser Sanhedrin; (3) 80,000 young priests; (4) children from the schoolhouse; (5) young boys and elders; and “young men and virgins.”119 While Tabari’s list is not identical to either account, it clearly has more in common with the Bavli’s, since according to Tabari, Nabuzaradhan kills (1) “770 of their leaders”; (2) “700 of their young men”; and (3) “7000 of their sons and spouses.” The resemblance with the Bavli’s version is even closer if we posit a mistake in the Arabic manuscripts whereby the number of leaders might have been 70, which corresponds to the number of men comprising the Sanhedrin. This fits better the parallel with the Bavli and makes the numerical progression consistent, with the numbers steadily increasing, instead of decreasing and then increasing.120 Also resembling the Bavli is Tabari’s assertion that Nabuzaradhan became a sincere convert, confessing his belief in the God of the children of Israel. Clearly, Tabari’s general is much more pious than the rabbis’, and See also Schützinger, “Die arabische Legende,” 138–40. See n. 65 above, however, for manuscript variants. 120 I owe this observation to Geoffrey Herman. 118 119

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he is evidently a prototype of a righteous, orthodox Muslim, who becomes devoted to the God of the Israelites and knows that the Christians are wrong to assert that God has a son. But perhaps the most striking similarity between the Bavli and Tabari is the fact that the blood stops boiling in response to the words of the Babylonian general rather than in response to a signal from God, as is the case in the Palestinian rabbinic versions. True, in Tabari’s version, in part O, the general beseeches the blood to “Be calm now, by God’s grace,” according to which it is explicit that the general calls upon God to effectuate his plea that John’s blood stop boiling, but we have seen that according to the Bavli God must be understood as active behind the scenes. In addition, it remains the case that the immediate impetus for the blood to rest is the general’s plea rather than any explicit action on God’s part, which conforms to the Bavli’s version.121

THE BABYLONIAN AND PALESTINIAN RABBINIC VERSIONS: THE CONVERSION MOTIF As noted, among the most noticeable distinctions between the Babylonian and Palestinian versions of the Zechariah story is the conversion motif found only in the Bavli: “He fled, caused a rift in his family, and converted.”122 In addition, in all versions of b. Gittin 57b and b. Sanhedrin 97b, immediately following the Zechariah story, a tradition describes Nebuzaradan as one of several enemies of the Jewish people who end up converting to Judaism: (A) A Tanna taught: [Hebrew:] Na’aman was a partial proselyte.123 Nebuzaradan was a sincere convert. Some of the descendants of Haman taught [or studied] Torah in Benei Berak. Some of the descendants of Sisera taught children Torah in Jerusalem. Some of the descendants of Sennacherib taught Torah in public. (B) [Aramaic:] And who were they? Shemaya and Avtalion. See also Perlmann, History of al-Tabari, vol. 4, 104–6. See Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, 932. 123 A “ger toshav.” In rabbinic parlance this term means that he renounced idolatry but did not fully convert. 121 122

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This tradition is introduced by a technical term presumably indicative of Palestinian, Tannaitic origin.124 To the best of my knowledge, however, this ostensibly Palestinian tradition has no parallel in Palestinian rabbinic compilations, reducing the likelihood that it originated in Palestine.125 We find a strikingly similar complex of motifs, however, in a story preserved elsewhere in the Yerushalmi. This account, about the biblical Gibeonites, has a Babylonian parallel, but judging from the provenance of the rabbis quoted by name throughout the discussion in both the Bavli and the Yerushalmi, it originated in Palestine and was imported to Babylonia. 126 This text, found in both the Bavli and the Yerushalmi,127 is similar to the Bavli’s Zechariah narThe term, Tanna, usually introduces a brief Hebrew comment based on a Tannaitic statement, generally a mishnah or a baraita. Sometimes, however, this term introduces a brief comment based on an amoraic statement, including a statement attributed to a Babylonian amora. See, for example, b. Sanhedrin 43a. In such instances, it can hardly be maintained that the term introduces Tannaitic material, and it is even difficult to make the case that it introduces Palestinian material. See Dikdukei Soferim: Gittin, ed. Feldblum, notes on line 19, for two manuscripts that render the term as “Our rabbis taught.” 125 Yisraeli-Taran, Aggadot ha-Hurban, 24–28 and 106–8, correctly observes, furthermore, that the motif of the murderous foreign leader who intends to destroy the Jews or the Israelites but ends up worshipping the Israelite God or converting to Judaism is characteristic of Babylonian Jewish literature, attested already in Daniel 2:46–47 and 3:31–33. For the same motif elsewhere in Jewish literature composed outside of the land of Israel, see Eddy, The King is Dead, 190–91; and Humphreys, “A Life-Style for Diaspora: A Study of Tales of Esther and Daniel,” 221–23. 126 Final conclusions about the story’s provenance must, however, await more detailed analysis. 127 B. Yevamot 78b–79b and y. Qiddushin 4:1 (65b–c) (= y. Sanhedrin 6:4 [23d]). For our purposes, the relevant part of this text is the following: R. Abba bar Zemina in the name of R. Hoshaya, “Sanctification of [God’s] name is greater than profanation of [God’s] name. Regarding profanation of [God’s] name it is written, ‘Do not leave [the executed criminal’s] body hanging on a tree’ (Deut 21:23). And regarding sanctifica124

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rative not only in ending with conversion, but also because it depicts those who convert doing so on the basis of an a fortiori argument. And even though the Palestinian Zechariah story does not end with conversion, it does, like the Bavli’s narrative, end with an a fortiori argument (by God, who convinces Himself he should have compassion on the Israelites). Even further, the text about the Gibeonites depicts them seeking vengeance against the descendants of Saul, as “payment” for Saul’s murder of seven Gibeonites, which corresponds to Zechariah seeking vengeance against the Israelites for murdering him.128 The similarities do not end there, however. The rabbinic text about the Gibeonites clearly disapproves of their insistence on vengeance, depicting it as earning the disapproval of King David; Ezra; the rabbis; and God Himself; but at the same time, this text upholds the right of the Gibeonites to insist on vengeance; and to demand that it take the form of the death of several of Saul’s descendants. Similarly, the Zechariah story in its Palestinian and Babylonian versions insists on Zechariah’s prerogative to demand vengeance from the Israelites, depicting it as conforming to the will of God; and yet the story in both versions disapproves of his exercise of this prerogative, which earns him the tion of [God’s] name it is written, ‘… from the beginning of the harvest until rain from the sky fell on [the bodies]’ (2Sam 21:10). This teaches that [the sons of Saul] were hanging from the sixteenth of Nisan until the seventeenth of Marheshvan [i.e., for five months]. And passers-by would say, ‘What sin did these commit to warrant the suspension of the usual standards of justice [according to which a dead body cannot be left hanging overnight]?’ And they would answer them, ‘Because they mistreated insincere converts.’ [The passers-by] would say, ‘If they, who did not convert for the sake of heaven, see how the Holy One, blessed be He demanded [recompense for] their blood, how much the more so for one who converts for the sake of Heaven. There is no God like your God and no nation like your nation. We must cleave to you [i.e., we must convert to Judaism].’ And many people converted at that time.” For further discussion of the Yerushalmi’s version, see Kalmin, “Midrash and Social History,” 137–42. 128 See the discussion of the Ethiopian version of the Zechariah story, above.

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rebuke of Nebuzaradan for his excessive harshness, a rebuke that God Himself endorses.129 We observed above that the Ethiopian commentary on the book of Matthew makes it explicit that the actions of the Gibeonites vis-à-vis Saul serve as the prototype for Zechariah’s vengeance against his murderers, evidence of a significant connection between the rabbinic and Ethiopian traditions, very likely mediated by Syriac and Arabic literature, although I have yet to find an explicit Syriac or Arabic parallel in the form of a tradition resembling the vengeance of the Gibeonites.

SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS We observed that despite the claims of several modern scholars, there is no reason to assume that the Christian tradition postdates and is an adaptation of the rabbinic tradition of the murder of Zechariah (or vice versa). Rather, given what we know now about the relationship between Judaism and Christianity in these early centuries, it is likely that both literatures were drawing on a common fund of oral traditions, the common feature being that a person, often named Zechariah but sometimes unnamed or assigned another name, was murdered in the Temple. The Temple, therefore, formerly the locus of the daily maintenance of God’s relationship with His people, became the site where this relationship was severed, or at least severely tested. Our analysis of the various rabbinic versions of the Zechariah story supported Pinhas Mandel’s conclusion that the story survived in clearly distinguishable Palestinian and Babylonian versions. Attentiveness to changes in language revealed the presence of later additions to the story that at times dramatically altered its meaning. In fact, we found multiple additions to the story, marked in Palestinian compilations by their formulation in Aramaic and in the Bavli by their formulation in Hebrew. This study thus further proves that storytellers and tradents sometimes formulated later additions to Aramaic traditions in Hebrew to distinguish the editorial addition from the earlier Aramaic core of the text. We also Either explicitly, in the Palestinian versions, or implicitly, in the Babylonian version. 129

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found evidence that additions were made to the “best” manuscript of Bavli Sanhedrin, in all likelihood post-redactionally, based on the Palestinian Talmud. This phenomenon has been noted by scholars in the past, but much less frequently than the opposite phenomenon, namely additions to the Yerushalmi on the basis of the Bavli. We also found evidence to support a recent theory, contested by some scholars, regarding the character of Kohelet Rabba as a “mixed” text, i.e., a Palestinian compilation that was emended based on versions of texts in the Bavli. We also found that Tabari, a Muslim scholar from Baghdad who wrote in the ninth and tenth centuries, drew his rabbinic source material from the Babylonian Talmud, or from a source much closer to the Bavli than to the Yerushalmi, despite the fact that he spent part of his youth traveling in the vicinity of Palestine, where he might have had access to Palestinian rabbinic literature. In addition, we concluded that the (hypothesized) original, Hebrew version of the story was probably composed by nonrabbis, as indicated by its strikingly non-rabbinic conception of the relationship between the Jewish people and God. Earlier studies have yielded evidence of such receptivity to non-rabbinic traditions primarily in the Bavli, and it is significant that this study found evidence of it in Palestinian compilations. Significantly, however, the non-rabbinic tradition appears in rabbinic corpora only with an Aramaic addition that softens somewhat its anomalous character, although even with this Aramaic addition its message can aptly be characterized as “stunning.” Finally, we found a surprising connection between rabbinic literature and Ethiopian Christian literature. While it is conceivable that the Ethiopians drew this material directly from Jewish sources, we concluded that it was more likely that their source for this material was Syriac and Arabic commentaries on the New Testament written in Persia, Mesopotamia, and Syria between the seventh and thirteenth centuries. The parallels between the Jewish, Christian, and Muslim versions of the story, we concluded, were evidence of the porous boundaries between these groups, in late antiquity and into the Middle Ages.

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Adam H. Becker is an Associate Professor of Religious Studies and Classics at New York University. His research focuses primarily on the cultural history of the Syriac tradition in late antiquity and the early Islamic period. He has published on Christian schools in late antique Mesopotamia, the reception of Greek philosophy and Greek patristic thought in the Syriac milieu, Syriac martyr acts, and Jewish-Christian relations in antiquity. His book on the interaction between American evangelical missionaries and members of the Church of the East (the “Nestorians”) in Iran in the nineteenth century will appear in 2014. Peter Bruns is Professor of Church History and Patristic Studies at the University of Bamberg, Germany. He is also the director of the research centre for Christian-Oriental Studies at the Catholic University of Eichstätt. His research interests include Syriac sources of the history of Eastern Christianity, Catechetical Homilies of Theodore of Mopsuestia, treatises of Aphrahat, and the Church History of John of Ephesus. Isaiah Gafni holds the Sol Rosenbloom Chair of Jewish History at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He is interested in ancient Jewish history, with a focus on the history of the Jews in Babylonia in the Parthian and Sasanian eras. His books include The Jews of Babylonia in the Talmudic Era – A Social and Cultural History (Hebrew), Jerusalem 1990; and Land, Center and Diaspora – Jewish Constructs in Late Antiquity, Sheffield 1997. Geoffrey Herman received his doctorate from the Hebrew University in Jerusalem in 2006 (The Exilarchate in the Sasanian Era). He has published extensively on Babylonian Jewry in the Sasanian era, most recently A Prince without a Kingdom (Mohr Siebeck, 2012). His research focuses on the interaction between Jews, Christians and Zoroastrians in the Sasanian Empire. 297

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Albert de Jong (Ph.D. Utrecht, 1996) is professor of Comparative Religion in the University of Leiden. He works on the history of religions in the Iranian world, with special interest in Zoroastrianism, Manichaeism and the religion of the Mandaeans. He has published widely in these fields and is currently finishing the first volume of a projected two-volume study of the religious history of the Parthians, based on the Nachlass of Mary Boyce. Richard Kalmin holds the Theodore R. Racoosin Chair of Rabbinic Literature at the Jewish Theological Seminary, where he has taught since 1982. He is the author of many books and articles on the interpretation of rabbinic stories, ancient Jewish history, and the development of rabbinic literature. His publications include the award-winning Jewish Babylonia between Persia and Roman Palestine (Oxford University Press, 2006) and Sages, Stories, Authors, and Editors in Rabbinic Babylonia. He has been a visiting professor at Hebrew Union College, Union Theological Seminary, and Yale University, and a faculty fellow at the University of Michigan and the Institute of Advanced Studies at Hebrew University. Reuven Kiperwasser received his doctorate from Bar Ilan University in Israel in 2005 (The Midrashim on Kohelet: Studies in their Formation and Redaction). He currently lectures in Rabbinics and Midrash at the Open University in Israel. His research interests include Talmudic literature, and the dialogue between Iranian mythology, Syriac Christian storytelling, and Talmudic narrative. Recent publications include “Body of the Whore, Body of the Story and Metaphor of the Body,”Introduction to Seder Qodashim. A Feminist Commentary on the Babylonian Talmud V. Ed. by Tal Ilan, Monika Brockhaus and Tanja Hidde, Mohr Siebeck: Tübingen 2012, 305–319; “IranoTalmudica II: Leviathan, Behemoth and the “Domestication” of Iranian Mythological Creatures in Eschatological Narratives of the Babylonian Talmud,” (with Dan D.Y. Shapira), Shoshanat Yaakov: Ancient Jewish and Iranian Studies in Honor of Yaakov Elman, Steven Fine and Shai Secunda (eds.), Brill: Leiden 2012, 203–236; and “The Immersion of Baallei Qerain,” JSQ 19, 4 (2012), 311–338(28). Sergey Minov received his doctorate from the Department of Comparative Religion at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 2013 (Syriac Christian Identity in Late Sasanian Mesopotamia: The Cave of Treasures in Context). He currently has an Alexander von Humboldt

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

299

Foundation fellowship at the Freie Universität in Berlin. His research interests focus on the history and culture of Syriac Christianity, Jewish-Christian relations in the Near East in late antiquity, Jewish and Christian biblical exegesis and apocryphal literature. He has recently published: “The Story of Solomon’s Palace at Heliopolis,” Le Muséon 123:1–2 (2010), 61–89; and ““Serpentine” Eve in Syriac Christian Literature of Late Antiquity,” in: D. V. Arbel and A. A. Orlov (eds.), With Letters of Light: Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls, Early Jewish Apocalypticism, Magic, and Mysticism in Honor of Rachel Elior (Ekstasis 2; Berlin / New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2010), 92–114. Serge Ruzer received his doctorate from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 1996 (Biblical Quotations in the Old Syriac Gospels: Peshitta Influence and Hermeneutical Constraints) and teaches in its Department of Comparative Religion. He is also a Research Fellow at that University’s Center for the Study of Christianity. His research focuses on the Jewish background of the New Testament and on early Syriac Literature. Among his publications are: The Sermon on the Mount and Its Jewish Setting [Paris, 2005], edited jointly with H.-J. Becker; Mapping the New Testament: Early Jewish Writings as a Witness for Jewish Biblical Exegesis (Leiden, 2007) and, with Aryeh Kofsky, Syriac Idiosyncrasies: Theology and Hermeneutics in Early Syriac literature (Leiden, 2010).

INDEX (PRE-MODERN) NAMES Aba Mar I, 179, 193, 196 Abbahu, Rabbi 44 Abaye 35 Abba Arikha see Rav Abba b. Kahana, R. 164, 165 Abba bar Zemina, R. 248 Abd al-Masih 78 ‘Abdâ, (Mâr) 56, 57, 68, 69, 70, 79–81, 85, 86, 89 ‘Abdâ, Rabban, bishop of Susiana 58 Abdischo 53, 54 Abel 106, 218–19 Abgar (scribe) 81 Abgar (king) 146 Abiah 242 Abiathar 145 Abraham 106 Acacius 68 Adam 165, 173, 182, 191 Addai 146 Ādur Gušnasp 179, 199 Adhurbozed 85 Adûrhôrmîzd 61, 62 Adurboze 78, 85–7 Adurparvah 78, 87 Agapius 73, 74 Agathias of Myrina 75, 175, 184 Aha, R. 207 Aha b. Jacob, Rav 111 Ahai 59, 85

Ahiqar 126 Ahriman 61, 63, 64, 164 Ahura Mazda (Hormizd) 14, 55, 61–4, 142, 164, 175, 183 Akiva, Rabbi 33, 101 Alaxsa 137 Alchasaios 137 Anahit 143 Annas 138 Aphrahat (Aphraates) 2, 44–5, 48 Apollo 54 Apollonius of Tyana 184 Aqabalaha 73 Aqilas 31, 95 ‘Aqqebschmâ 51 Ardashīr 23, 184 Ardwahišt 159, 163 Asa 242 Aši 187 Aspebetus 69 Athanasius of Alexandria 180, 181 Augustine 192 Aurentes 140 Avtalion 247 Azariah son of Jehoiada 235 Baba ben Buta 36–7 Babai 53 Bahrâm V Gôr, see Warahrān V Balaam 175

301

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JEWS, CHRISTIANS AND ZOROASTRIANS

Balai 172 Balthasar 176 Bar Shinaya, Elias 68, 73 Bardaisan 49, 50 Barhebraeus 196, 198 Barsauma of Nisibis 178 Basil of Jerusalem 197 Behman 63 Behnâm 54 Bel 54 Beldok 54 Belti 54 Ben Azzai 41 Berechiah 242 Bezhan 146 Bizhan 144 Buddha 115, 140 Caesarius of Arles 170 Cain 218–19 Christ see Jesus Christopher of Alexandria 197 Constantine 50, 145, 196, 198 Cyril of Alexandria 180 Cyril of Jerusalem 222 Cyril of Scythopolis 69 Cyrus 193 Dâdû 55 David 222, 241, 242, 249 Didymus the Blind 180 Dimi, Rav 35 Diocletian 144 Dionysius the Areopagite 159 Elchasai 137 Enoch 219 Ephrem 48, 155, 161, 171, 172, 241 Epiphanius 208 Eunapius 188 Eustathius 188 Eutychios of Alexandria 73, 74 Evagrius Scholasticus 70 Evagrius of Pontus 113

Ever 106 Eznik of Kolb 115 Ezra 249 Fakhor 242 Farr-windād 176 Gaiane 144 Gamaliel, Rabban 31 Gaspar 176 George Synkellos 184 Gîwargîs 53 Gregory the Illuminator, St. 143, 144 Gudnaphar 146 Gushnaq 80 al-Hasih 137 Haschû 56–9, 80 Hegesippus 212 Helen 198 Herod 171, 219–20, 238, 242, 244–46 Hillel the Elder 97–100 Hille, House of 117 Hiyya bar Ashi, Rav 227 Hormizd, see Ahura Mazda Hormizd, king of Makhzōdi 174 Hormizd (magus) 178, 179 Hormizd I 175 Hormizd II 175 Hormizd III 175, 177 Hormizd IV 175, 177 Hormizd V 175 Hormizd-farr 175 Hosea 58 Hoshaya R. 248 Hripsime, St. 144–5 Hypatius 49 Hystaspes 140 Iddo 242, 246 Isaac (catholicos) 85 Isaac of Antioch 173–4 Ishodad of Merv 180 Īšō‘yahb III 105

INDEX Israel 215 Jacob Intercisus 73 Jacob the Notary 80–2, 87, 88 Jacob of Edessa 169 Jacob of Sarus 172 James, brother of Jesus 212 Jehoiada 210–11 Jehoshaphat 242 Jeshua 212 Jesus 101, 106, 115, 120–7, 138– 39, 146, 149, 165–66, 173, 181–82, 186–88, 190–93, 195–96, 212, 242, 246 Joash 210–11, 232, 240, 241 Job 218 Job of Antioch 197 John Chrystostom 223 John, son of Zacharias 221, 243–44 John the Baptist 205, 220, 235, 238, 241, 242, 245–46 Joseph 101, 120–2, 124–5 Josephus 187, 212, 238, 239 Judah, Rav 40 Julian 188 Justinian 30, 192, 198 Kaiaphas 138 Kawād 73 Kerdir 18, 23, 138, 187 Kewân 54 Khardus see Herod Khudōs 140 Khusro I 23, 178, 179, 193, 196 Khusro II Parvīz 188 Kronos 54 Lazarus 62 Mani 4, 48, 114–5, 129–47, 179 Manizhe 144 Maran Zeka 77 Marcion 48 Mardak 161

303 Marutha of Mayferkat 70, 73–5, 84, 85 Mary 155, 196, 242 Matthew 238 Mazdai 146 Meir, Rabbi 35, 218 Melchior 176 Meshullam 242 Michael the Syrian 71 Mihrshapur (magus) 79, 87 Mihrshapur (martyr) 81, 86–7 Miles 52 Mirian (III) 145 Moses 106, 131 Muhammad 130, 245 Na’aman 247 Nabuzaradhan see Nebuzaradan Nachshon 242 Nahman bar Isaac, Rav 43, 111 Naihormazd Radh 61 Nana 145 Narsai 50, 155, 161, 172 Narse (martyr) 78–9, 81–2, 84–9 Narse of Ray 87 Nebuchadnezzar 144, 208, 220– 21, 245 Nebuzaradan 208–10, 213–17, 219, 221–22, 224, 226, 228–34, 242–47, 250 Nicephorus Callistus 71 Nimrod 165, 175, 191, 199 Nino, St. 145–6 Noah 106 Ohrmazd see Ahura Mazda Ohrmazdadur 87 Pâpâ, Mâr 52 Paul 58, 155 Peroz (martyr) 53, 81, 84 Pērōz, king of Sheba 174, 179 Pērōz I 176–8 Pērōz II 176 Philostratus 184

304

JEWS, CHRISTIANS AND ZOROASTRIANS

Pilate 139 Pirkoi b. Baboi 46 Procopius 74–5 Qardâgh 53 Rapithwin 158–9 Rashi 40–1, 43 Rav 94–6, 99–100, 103, 164–5 Rava 41 Rehoboam 242 Sâbâ 52, 54 Saddoq 54 Safra, Rav 45 Samuel 40, 42, 94–6, 99–100, 103 Sarah 60 Saturn 54 Saul 222, 249–50 Seboxt 86–7 Sennacherib 247 Seth 173 Shabur (martyr) 68, 80–1, 87 Shallum 242 Shammai 97–100, 117 Shapur (priest) 78 Shapur I 14, 106, 143 Shapur II 48, 51, 84, 87, 106, 184, 188 Shefatiah 242 Shem 106 Shemaya 247 Sherira Gaon 84 Simeon 239 Simeon of Emessa 110 Simon, R. 207 Sisera 247 Sīsīnduxt 76 Socrates 67, 69–73, 75, 85–6 Solomon 239, 242 Somoe 30 Tabari 68, 73, 83 Tacitus 33 Tarbo 93

Tarfon, Rabbi 38 Tataq 79, 81, 86–7 Tertullian 169, 180 Theodora 192 Theodore of Mopsuestia 113, 180, 223 Theodoret 57, 59–60, 67, 69– 72, 77, 85–6, 88, 180 Theodosius 69, 74, 82, 89 Theophilus 197 Thomas 146 Tiamat 161 Tirdat III 143 Tirdat IV 143–44 Titus 219–22 T‘orgom, House of 145 Uriah 207 Valentin 48 Vararanes see Warahrān V Venus 54 Verethragna–Eber 54 Vespasian 221, 237 Vishtaspa 4, 140, 143, 146 Warahrān I 73 Warahrān IV 73 Warahrān V 53, 68–9, 71–7, 80– 4, 86–7, 89–90 Yahbalaha 68, 85 Yazdgird I 4, 55, 57–9, 67–90, 175, 177 Yazdgird II 47, 55, 84–5, 87, 89, 175, 177 Yazdgird III 175 Yazdgird, king of Saba 174, 179 Yeshu‘sabran 107–12 Yeshu‘zaka 107–8 Yoma 185 Yohanan, Rabbi 40 Yudan, R. 207 Yudah, R. 207 Zaccheus 121–4 Zacharias son of Baris 236

INDEX Zadok 242 Zarathushtra (Zoroaster) 4, 12, 115, 139–43, 146, 185–6 Zechariah 5, 203–51 Zechariah (monk) 240 Zechariah ben Jehoiada 205, 217, 235–6, 240

305 Zechariah, father of John the Baptist 205, 235, 238, 241–2 Zechariah, son of Berekhiah 218, 235–6, 246 Zedekiah 232, 242 Zera, Rabbi 38 Zeus 54 Zurwān 48, 63

TOPONYMS Adiabene 79, 135 Ādurbādagān (see, too, Azerbaijan) 179 Afghanistan 93 Alexandria 106 Americas, Spanish and Portuguese 22 Amid 68 Antioch 50, 69 Arabia 167, 169, 171, 179 Arabian peninsula 131 Aram 211 Armenia 91, 135, 143, 144, 145, 187 Aryān-Waižan 140 Asia Minor 180 Ayrarat 145 Azerbaijan 93, 174, 179, 199 Baghdad 251 Belapat 139 Benei Berak 247 Bet Garmai 79, 81, 87 Bethlehem 165, 181, 193, 197 Caphar Zachariah 240 China 132 Ctesiphon 45, 74, 93 Damascus 211 Dayr Qunni 85 Edessa 19, 106, 135, 146 Egypt 22

Elephantine 126 Ethiopia 167 Euphrates 33, 44, 140 Ganzak 179 Gazaca (see Ganzak) 179 Georgia 143, 145 Gibeah of Saul 222 Greece 145 Hatra 135 Hormizd-Ardashir 58, 79 Huzistan 58, 79 Israel, Land of (see, too, Palestine) 38, 40, 186 Italy 29, 30 Jerusalem 19, 197, 207, 208, 210, 211, 221, 232, 233, 239, 240, 241, 242, 247 Jordan, River 38 Judea 165, 166, 171 Judah 210, 211, 240 Karkâ (de-Beth Slokh) 54, 55, 73, 85 Kartli 145 Mahoza 45, 93 Makhōzdi 174 Martyropolis 73 Mesene 135 Mtskheta 145 Nisibis 2, 48, 106 Nod 165

306

JEWS, CHRISTIANS AND ZOROASTRIANS

Palestine 3, 28, 35, 165, 180, 197, 212 Qamishli 169 Rasm al-Qanāfez 169 Ravenna 171, 192 Ray 87 Rome 16, 24, 32, 170 Saba 169, 171, 174, 179, 180 Sardis 30, 34 Sar Mašhad 187 Seleucia 79

Seleucia-Ctesiphon 52, 59, 74, 179 Sheba 174, 179, 180 Singar 78 Spain 20, 22, 29, 30, 132 Susiana 58 Syria 143, 169, 199, 203, 251 Takrit 169 Tarshish 180 Tirgris 93 Tur Bara’in 87 Usha 31

SOURCES Hebrew Bible Genesis 1:6–8 1:8 4:10 6:1–9 9:6

160–61, 164 164 218 182 229

Exodus 34:6

233

Leviticus 17:13

208

Jeremiah 26:23 40:2–4

207 210

Ezekiel 24:7 24:8

208, 218 208, 218

Hosea 4:2

209

Zachariah 1:1

246

Deuteronomy 4:31 21:23

210, 213, 214 248

Ecclesiastes 7:8

94–95

2Samuel 21:1–14 21:10

222 249

Lamentations 2:20 4:13

227–8 208, 229

Isaiah 1:21 6:3 7:14 9:6 26:21

207 195 195 195 218

Daniel 2:46–7 3:31–33 4:12–13

248 248 144

Job 16:18

218

INDEX Psalms 72:10 72:10–11 72:10–15 72:15 104:3 145:4

170, 171 169, 179 180 169, 170 161 233

307 148:4

161

2Chronicles 24:17–22 24:20 24:23–25 36:17

210 235 211 226

Luke 11:50–51 24:10

236 139

Acts 13:6 13:8

167 167

2Corinthians 12:2, 4

155

New Testament Matthew 2:1 2:1–12 13:57 21:10–11 23:35 25:35

167, 168 166, 167, 171, 180 236 139 218, 235–6 218

Oriental Sources Acta Martyrum Syriacum (ed. Bedjan) II, 1–39 87 II, 266 52 II, 363 52 II, 397–441 54, 60 II, 507–535 54, 73 II, 519–20 55 II, 522 55 II, 535 81 II, 559–603 60 II, 604–631 60 II 576 47 II 578 47 II 579 47 II 592 48 II, 635–680 54 IV, 141–163 55 IV, 170–80 78 IV, 180–84 79 IV, 184–88 79

IV, 192 IV, 196 IV, 218–221 IV, 250–53

82 81 55 57, 79

Agapius Kitāb al unwān 7, 8, 11, 407

74

Agathangelos 49–68 69–122 124 137–210 212 776

144 144 144 144 144 145

Aphrahat (Demonstrations) IX, 7 48 XIV, 49 48 XVIII, 8 48 XXIII, 3 48

308

JEWS, CHRISTIANS AND ZOROASTRIANS

AO (tablet number at Musée Louvre) 8196 156 Arbel Chronicle 16

77

Chronica Minora (ed. Guidi) 137 72 Al-Dimašqī Cosmography (ed. Mehren) IX, 8 190

Athanasius Expositions (ed. Thomson) IV, 143 181

Dīnavarī Al-Akhbār al-tiwāl 58

83

Balai Madrasha on the Dedication of the Newly Built Church in Qenneshrin 49 167 49–66 172 51 167 54 167 59 167

Eliah bar Shinaya 112

73

1Enoch 14:8–25 47:1–4

154 218

2Enoch 3–31

154

Ephrem Comm. on Genesis I:17

161

Bal‘ami (ed. Bahār) 920–1

76

Bar Hebreus Ecclesiastical Chronicle (ed. Abbleoos-Lamy) 3, col. 93 197 3Baruch

154

Hymns on the Nativity 22–24 171 26.2 171 Eutychius (ed. Pococke) II, 78 76

Cause of the Foundation of the Schools (ed. Sher) 362.13–367.79 106

Firdausi (ed. Mohl) Shahname V, 418

Cave of Treasures

Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Syriac) 6–8 121 14 121–22

149–201

Chron. Ad. A. 1234 (ed. WallisBudge) 28 75 Histoire de Mar-Jabalaha (Bedjan ed.) 348 178 402 12

76

Isaac of Antioch Homily on the Magi who came from the East, MS Vat. 120, f. 199r 173–174 Jacob of Sarug Homily on the Star that appeared to the Magi (ed. Bedjan)

INDEX

309

172 172 172 172 172 172 172 172 172

Pseudo-Dionysianum (ed. Chabot) 193 72

Nativity (ed. Bedjan) 720–808 172 786 172

Pseudo-Jāḥiz Book of Beauties (ed. Van Vloten) 361 190

John of Ephesus Eccl. Hist. III, VI, 20

Simon the Potter Hymns on the Nativity (ed. Euringer) V 173 VII–VIII 173

v. 1.86 v. 1.87 v. 1.97 v. 1.114 v. 1.120 v. 1.133 v. 1.134 v. 1.139 v. 1.142

23

KAR (Keilschrifttexte aus Assur religiösen Inhalts) 307 156 Masudi Muruj II, 612

83

Michel the Syrian (ed. Chabot) IV, 172–3 71 VIII, 1 75 Mujmal al-tawārikh (ed. Bahār) 1316 76 Narsai Homily on the Nativity (ed. McLeod) 52–59 172

Pseudo-Ephrem Soghitha on Mary and the Magi (ed. Beck) ln. 8 173 Commentary on the Diatessaron II.18–25 172

Synodicon orientale (ed. Chabot) 277 74 Tabari History I, 843–50 I, 847–50 I, 86 I. 103–11 2 I, ii, 1048

77 76 83 412 188

Qur‘an 17:4–8

245

Y‘aqubi Ta’rikh I, 183 I, 184

76 83

Agathias Histories II, 26.3 IV.24.5

184 175

Greek and Latin Sources Aeschylus Choephori (Ed. Garvie) 66–74 218 152–56 218

310

JEWS, CHRISTIANS AND ZOROASTRIANS IV, 26

75

Amphilochius of Iconium Oratio IV.7 180 Apocalypse of Sedrach 2:3–5

154

Apoc. Mos. 35:2

Cosmas Indicopleustes Top. Christ. II.20–23 155 III.55 155 VII.8–9 155

154

Cyril of Alexandria Ad. Isa. 59.12

167

Apoc. Paul 29

155

Comm. on Isaiah IV.4

180

Ascension of Isaiah 6:23 7:24

155 155

Assumption of Moses 9:6–7

218

Augustine Serm. 200.2 Basil of Caesarea Hom. In Chr. Gen. 5 Caesarius of Arles Serm. 113.2 139.2 194.1

Cyril of Scythopolis 18.20–19.5 69 Dialogue of Timothy and Aquila 10.3 180

192

Didmus the Blind Comm. in Zech. III.305

180

167

Epiphanius De fida 8.1

167

Panarion 25:12 26, 12, 1–4

238 208

Eunapius Vitae sophist. VI.5.8

188

170 170 167

Clement of Alexandria Protr. V.65.1 167 Strom. I.15 IV.25.159

167 155

Codex Theodosianus XVI, 10, 25

89

Cologne Mani Codex 101.102

142

Eusebius Comm. in Psalms PG 23 col. 813 180 Eccl. Hist 2:23.11–18 5:1.3–10

212 235

Eustathius Frg 1, FHG IV, 138 70

INDEX

311 Comm. Math 10:18

236

De Princ. II.3.6

154

Philostratus Vita Apollonii I.29–31

184

Procopius Wars I, ii

75

Protoevangelium James 23–24

238

Pseudo-Clementines Rec. I:27.3

161

Pseudo-Epiphanius Book of Testimonies 16

180

236

Quest. Ezra A 19–21

154

Julian Orat. II.63B

189

Justin Dial. cum Tryph. 77.4 78.2 88.1 106.4

Socrates Eccl. Hist. VII, 8 VII, 18

70 70

167 167 167 167

Sozomen Eccl. Hist. 9:17

240

Lives of the Prophets 23:1

240

Strabo Geography XI.13.3

179

Tertullien Adv. Iud. IV.12

170

Adv. Marc. III.13.8

170

Evagrius Eccl. Hist. 1, 19 (28.8–16) 70 Gos. Barth. 1:17

155

Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Greek) 14–15 124–5 Itinerarium Burdigalense 589.7–592.7 240 John Chrysostom De beato Philogonio VI.4 Josephus Ant. 11:297–301 11.7.1 20.67

167

212 237 187

Wars 4.5.4

Nicephorus Callistus Eccl. Hist. XIV, 19 71 Origen Cels. I.24

167

312

JEWS, CHRISTIANS AND ZOROASTRIANS

Testament of Levi 2:6–10

154

Theodoret Eccl. History V, 39

57, 69

Quaest. In Gen, 11

155

Theoph. (ed. De Boor) 80 75 Zonaras 13, 22

75

Rabbinic and Geonic Literature Mishna ‘Avodah Zarah 1:5

35

Nedarim 3:4

42

Pesahim 2:6 8:8

40 117

Sanhedrin 6:5

218

Tosefta Ḥullin 2:24

232

Shevu‘ot 1:40

206

Yevamot 8:7

41

Yoma 1:12

206

Other Rabbinic works Sifrei Num. (ed. Horowitz) 222 206 Sifrei Deut. (ed. Finkelstein) 344 32 Avot de R. Natan A6

123

A8 A15 A37 B29

123 97 154 98

Gen. R. 4:2 4:7 63:10 216

160 160, 164 106 218

Eccl. R. 1:8 (3) 3:16 10:4 7:8

232 231, 234 231 94

Lam. R. 2:4 4;13 4:16

228–9 231 208, 228–9

Deut. R. (ed. Lieberman) 8 123 Midrash Tanhuma (ed. Buber) Vayera 6 104 Midrash Tanhuma Vayera 5

104

Midrash on Psalms 114.2

154

INDEX

313

Pesikta deRav Kahana (ed. Mandelbaum) 257–8 207

Bava Qamma 38a 73b

32 36

Pesikta Rabbati 5:7

154

Eruvin 50b

164

Pirke de-R. Eliezer 19

154

Targum Lam 2:20

57b 70a

225, 247 123

235

Ḥagigah 12b

154, 164

Ḥullin 122b

164

Ketubot 8a 61a–b 112a

164 75 38 42 38 37

Targum Esther-Sheni 1:3

Gittin

235, 240

Iggeret Rav Sherira Gaon (ed. Lewin) 95 84 Talmuds Jerusalem Talmud Bava Qamma 4:3 (4b)

32

Qiddushin 4:1 (65b–c)

248

Nedarim 28a 62a 66b

Sanhedrin 6:4 (23d)

248

Pesahim 110b

44

Shevi‘it 4:2 (35b)

38

Ta‘anit 4:7 (69a–b)

Qiddushin 29b 81b

40, 41 227

207

Rosh Hashanah 20a

40

Sanhedrin 43a 96b 97b

248 224–5, 230 247

Shabbat 31a 32b 104a

98, 104 97 101

Yoma 2:2 (39d)

206

Babylonian Talmud ‘Avodah Zarah 4a 14b 16b–17a

44 35 232

Bava Mezi‘a 107a

39

Sotah

314

JEWS, CHRISTIANS AND ZOROASTRIANS 22a

112, 116, 118

47a–b 78b–79b

116 248 206

Sukkah 48a

39

Yoma 23a

Ta‘anit 10a

43

Zevahim 19a

75

Yebamot

Zoroastrian Sources Bundahišn (Iranian) 3.21–23 3:22 7:2–3 25:9 25:12 25:15 25:16 25:15–17

158 159, 164 161 158 158 162 162 158

Dēnkard III, 58 III.129 III.192.3 III.289 V, 24.13 VII, 3.1–50 VII, 3.46

185 186 189 183 102 141 185

Gāthās III.6

157

Nērangestān 2.31

158

Rivāyat (ed. Unvala) v.1 v. 122 v. 123 v. 124

162 162 162 162

v. 138

162

Šahrestānīhā ī Ērānšahr (ed. Darayee) 47 76 53 76 Tansar, Letter of 8

12

Vaeθā Nask 102, 51

159

Vendīdād 7.52 11.1–2, 10 13, 9

157 157 63

Yasna 1.16 2.11 3.18 31:3 34:4 43:4 46:1–2

157 157 157 163 163 163 142

Yašt XII.29 XVII.9

161 18

315