Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives: Essays in Honour of Stephen C. Barton and William R. Telford 9780567655905, 9780567662132, 9780567655912

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LIBRARY OF NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES

538 Formerly Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series

Editor Chris Keith

Editorial Board Dale C. Allison, John M.G. Barclay, Lynn H. Cohick, R. Alan Culpepper, Craig A. Evans, Robert Fowler, Simon J. Gathercole, John S. Kloppenborg, Michael Labahn, Love L. Sechrest, Robert Wall, Steve Walton, Catrin H. Williams

LL



MATTHEW AND MARK ACROSS PERSPECTIVES

Essays in Honour of Stephen C. Barton and William R. Telford

Edited by

Kristian A. Bendoraitis and Nijay K. Gupta

Bloomsbury T&T Clark An Imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

LON DON • OX F O R D • N E W YO R K • N E W D E L H I • SY DN EY

Bloomsbury T&T Clark An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc Imprint previously known as T&T Clark 50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2016 © Kristian A. Bendoraitis, Nijay K. Gupta and Contributors, 2016 Kristian A. Bendoraitis and Nijay K. Gupta have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identi¿ed as Editors of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury Academic or the author. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN:

HB: ePDF:

978-0-56765-590-5 978-0-56765-591-2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Barton, Stephen C., honouree. | Telford, William, honouree. | Bendoraitis, Kristian A., editor. Title: Matthew and Mark across perspectives : essays in honour of Stephen C. Barton and William R. Telford / edited by Kristian A. Bendoraitis and Nijay K. Gupta. Description: New York : Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2016. | Series: The Library of New Testament studies ; 538 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identi¿ers: LCCN 2015043232 | ISBN 9780567655905 Subjects: LCSH: Bible. Mark--Criticism, interpretation, etc. | Bible. Matthew--Criticism, interpretation, etc. | Barton, Stephen C. Classi¿cation: LCC BS2585.52 .M42 2016 | DDC 226.2/06--dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015043232 Series: Library of New Testament Studies, volume 538

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CONTENTS Abbreviations Contributors

vii ix

APPRECIATION FOR STEPHEN BARTON Walter Moberly Bibliography of Academic Works by Stephen C. Barton

xi xv

WILLIAM R. TELFORD: A CAREFUL RECKONING Peter Francis Bibliography of Academic Works by William R. Telford

xix xxvii

INTRODUCTION Kristian A. Bendoraitis

xxxi

HOW DID MARK SURVIVE? Francis Watson

1

PARAGON OF DISCIPLESHIP? SIMON OF CYRENE IN THE MARKAN PASSION NARRATIVE Helen K. Bond

18

‘MORE THAN A PROPHET’: ECHOES OF EXORCISM IN MARKAN AND MATTHEAN BAPTIST TRADITIONS Daniel Frayer-Griggs

36

‘HE LAID HIM IN A TOMB’ (MARK 15.46): ROMAN LAW AND THE BURIAL OF JESUS Craig A. Evans

52

1

vi

Contents

THE NEWNESS OF THE GOSPEL IN MARK AND MATTHEW: CONTINUITY AND DISCONTINUITY Donald A. Hagner

67

EMOTIONS OF PROTEST IN MARK 11í13: RESPONDING TO AN AFFECTIVE TURN IN SOCIAL-SCIENTIFIC DISCOURSE Louise J. Lawrence

83

THE SPIRITUALITY OF FAITH IN THE GOSPEL OF MATTHEW Nijay Gupta

108

MATTHEW – A JEWISH GOSPEL FOR JEWS AND GENTILES James D. G. Dunn

125

THE ‘APOCALYPTIC’ JEWISH JESUS AND CONTEMPORARY INTERPRETATION Loren T. Stuckenbruck Bibliography Index of References Index of Authors

1

143 165 183 193

ABBREVIATIONS ABRL ANRW

AYB BBR BECNT BJRL BNTC BTB BZNW CBQ ConBNT DSD EKKNT FBBS FRLANT GCS HBT HTKNT HTR ICC JAAR JBL JSHJ JSJSup JSNT JSNTSup JRS JTS LNTS NICNT NIGTC NovT NovTSup NTD

Anchor Bible Reference Library Aufstieg und Niedergang der romischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung. Edited by H. Temporini and W. Haase. Berlin, 1972– Anchor Yale Bible Commentary Bulletin for Biblical Research Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester Black’s New Testament Commentary Biblical Theology Bulletin Beihefte zu Zeitschrift fur die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Catholic Biblical Quarterly Coniectanea neotestamentica or Coniectanea biblica: New Testament Series Dead Sea Discoveries Evangelisch-katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament Facet Books, Biblical Series Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Die griechische christliche Schriftsteller der ersten [drei] Jahrhunderte Horizons in Biblical Theology Herders theologischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament Harvard Theological Review International Critical Commentary Journal of the American Academy of Religion Journal of Biblical Literature Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods, Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Study of the New Testament, Supplement Series Journal of Roman Studies͒ Journal of Theological Studies Library of New Testament Studies New International Commentary of the New Testament New International Greek Testament Commentary Novum Testamentum Novum Testamentum, Supplement Series Das Neue Testament Deutsch

viii NTS NTT OTL PNTC RH SBAB SHBC SNTSMS SP

Abbreviations New Testament Studies New Testament Theology Old Testament Library Pillar New Testament Commentary Revue Historique Stuttgarter biblische Aufsatzbände Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series Sacra Pagina

STDJ

Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah

SUNT TLZ TSAJ WBC WUNT ZTK

Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments Theologische Literaturzeitung Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

1

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Kristian A. Bendoraitis, Adjunct Lecturer at Spring Arbor University, USA Helen K. Bond, Professor of New Testament at the University of Edinburgh, Scotland James D. G. Dunn, Emeritus Lightfoot Professor of Divinity at the University of Durham, England Craig A. Evans, John Bisagno Distinguished Professor of Christians Origins at Houston Baptist University, USA Peter Francis, Warden at Gladstone’s Library, Hawarden, Flintshire, Wales Daniel Frayer-Griggs, Adjunct Lecturer in Theology at Carlow University, USA Nijay K. Gupta, Assistant Professor of New Testament at George Fox Evangelical Seminary, USA Donald A. Hagner, George Eldon Ladd Professor Emeritus of New Testament at Fuller Seminary, USA Louise J. Lawrence, Senior Lecturer in New Testament Studies at the University of Exeter, England R. W. L. Moberly, Professor of Biblical Theology at the University of Durham, England Loren T. Stuckenbruck, Professor of New Testament at LudwigMaximilians-Universität München, Germany Francis Watson, Chair of Biblical Interpretation at the University of Durham, England

[



APPRECIATION FOR STEPHEN BARTON Walter Moberly

Regular lunchtimes: sandwiches and fruit, bodies reclining on a spacious rug on the grass, sunshine (on good days!), the massive and soaring stones of Durham cathedral just a few yards away with vistas also of Palace Green and Durham castle. Sometimes it was just the two of us and sometimes other colleagues as well joined us. I guess that this delightful scenario is probably not what either Stephen or I would most wish to be remembered for from our time in Durham; but I imagine that for him, as for me, it is one of the things we ourselves will long cherish in memory. Stephen’s contribution to the life and work of the Durham Department of Theology (now Theology and Religion) was consistently, as it seemed to me, a natural outworking of his Christian faith and service. His concern was not to write big books of scholarship, not least because his scholarly métier has always been the essay rather than the monograph, but rather to enable good things, benefitting others, to happen. The prime example of this was his willingness to organize and lead projects that brought together the different subject specialisms in the theology department (usually with some colleagues from other institutions also) to focus on a common concern. These made for some of the best scholarly gatherings of my time in Durham, and have led to five essay collections that Stephen edited, whose value lies not least in the interdisciplinary range of perspectives that are brought to bear on the topics: The Family in Theological Perspective (1996), Where Shall Wisdom be Found? Wisdom in the Bible, the Church, and the Contemporary World (1999), Holiness Past and Present (2003), Idolatry: False Worship in the Bible, Early Judaism and Christianity (2006), and finally, in conjunction with David Wilkinson, Reading Genesis after Darwin (2009). Beyond this concern to enrich scholarship by bringing biblical, historical, theological, ethical and philosophical perspectives into dialogue, Stephen was happy also to organize and edit Festschriften for respected colleagues: Resurrection: Essays in Honour of Leslie Houlden (1994,

xii

Appreciation for Stephen Barton

with Graham Stanton), and The Holy Spirit and Christian Origins: Essays in Honour of James D. G. Dunn (2004, with Graham Stanton and Bruce Longenecker). Then – perhaps lest his organizing and editing abilities not be fully exercised?! – Stephen also brought together another fine team of scholars for The Cambridge Companion to the Gospels (2006). Stephen has also sought to make a better understanding of the Bible and of theology more widely accessible. On the one hand, he has written short books with a readership beyond the academy in view: The Spirituality of the Gospels (1992), People of the Passion (1994), Invitation to the Bible (1997). On the other hand, Stephen sought ordination during his time in the theology department, and would regularly preach in his local church; we have had many a fascinating conversation about the best way to handle a biblical passage or an issue in relation to a Sunday sermon. Although Stephen’s interests range widely, I have been aware of two recurrent focal points in his teaching and writing. One is the New Testament in relation to issues of social, and especially familial, ethics. This was the topic of his doctoral dissertation, which was published as Discipleship and Family Ties in Mark and Matthew (1994), and also of his collected essays, Life Together: Family, Sexuality and Community in the New Testament and Today (2001), and was taught in various modules. The other focus is the canonical gospels, as can readily be seen from some of the publication titles in the previous two paragraphs. Although always sensitive to issues relating to the origins and formation of the gospel material, and to the nature and purpose of the gospels in their world of origin, Stephen’s eye has usually been on the constructive questions of how best these sacred texts should be understood and used in relation to historic and contemporary Christian faith – which in matters of familial and sexual ethics is not entirely straightforward in this day and age. Stephen’s own family life in Durham was always warmly hospitable. I particularly benefitted when I was a widower and unwell with a very young son, and Stephen and Fiona generously took John-Paul for regular weekends. Tragically Stephen was also widowed a few years later. In due course, however, both he and I have married again, each to someone who came to Durham to train for Anglican ordination at Cranmer Hall and is now ordained (Helen and Jenny respectively). We often say that the distance is small, and the links are good, between the university theology department and the theological college – and in one very particular way Stephen and I, in our respective clergy couples, illustrate the point! 1

Appreciation for Stephen Barton

xiii

I am delighted that this collection of essays in honour of Stephen, and also of Bill, is focussing on the gospels of Matthew and Mark, as that is surely entirely appropriate not only in terms of Stephen’s academic thought, but also in terms of his life. Walter Moberly Abbey House Palace Green Durham

1

[LY



BIBLIOGRAPHY OF ACADEMIC WORKS BY STEPHEN C. BARTON 2012 ‘Finding Happiness in Family Life: Biblical ReÀections’. Ex Auditu 28 (2012), pp. 1–16. 2011 ‘Eschatology and Emotions in Early Christianity’. JBL 130 (2011), pp. 571–91. ‘The Resurrection and Practical Theology with Particular Reference to Death and Dying’. Pages 305–30 in Eschatologie. The Sixth Durham–Tübingen Research Symposium. Eschatology in Old Testament, Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity. Edited by H.-J. Eckstein, C. Landmesser, and H. Lichtenberger. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011. 2009 ‘ “Male and Female He Created Them” (Genesis 1:27): Interpreting Gender After Darwin’. Pages 181–201 in Reading Genesis After Darwin. Edited by S. C. Barton and D. Wilkinson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. ‘Money Matters: Economic Relations and the Transformation of Value in Early Christianity’. Pages 37–59 in Engaging Economics. Edited by B. W. Longenecker and K. D. Liebengood. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009. 2008 ‘Johannine Dualism and Contemporary Pluralism’. Pages 3–18 in Gospel of John and Christian Theology. Edited by R. Bauckham and C. Mosser. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008. ‘Thinking about Demons and the Demonic’. Theology 111 (2008), pp. 83–92. 2007 ‘Food Rules, Sex Rules, and the Prohibition of Idolatry: What’s The Connection?’ Pages 141–62 in Idolatry. False Worship in the Bible, Early Judaism, and Christianity. Edited by S. C. Barton. New York: T&T Clark International, 2007. ‘Memory and Remembrance in Paul’. Pages 321–39 in Memory in the Bible and Antiquity. Edited by S. C. Barton, L. T. Stuckenbruck, and B. G. Wold. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007. 2006 Editor. The Cambridge Companion to the Gospels. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006.

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Bibliography of Academic Works by Stephen C. Barton

2004 ‘The Unity of Mankind as a Theme in Biblical Theology’. Pages 233–58 in Out of Egypt. Biblical Theology and Biblical Interpretation. Edited by C. Bartholomew, M. Healy, K. Möller, and R. Perry. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2004. ‘Wisdom and Spirituality in Biblical Perspective’. Pages 15–29 in The Bible and the Business of Life. Edited by S. Holt and G. Preece. Adelaide: ATF, 2004. Editor with G. N. Stanton and B. W. Longenecker. The Holy Spirit and Christian Origins: Essays in Honor of James D.G. Dunn. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004. 2003 ‘Dislocating and Relocating Holiness: A New Testament Study’. Pages 193–213 in Holiness: Past and Present. Edited by S. C. Barton. London: T&T Clark International, 2003. 2001 ‘The Epistles and Christian Ethics’. Pages 63–73 in Cambridge Companion to Christian Ethics. Edited by R. Gill. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Life Together: Family, Sexuality, and Community in the New Testament and Today. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 2001. ‘Many Gospels, One Jesus?’ Pages 170–83 in Cambridge Companion to Jesus. Edited by M. N. A. Bockmuehl. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. ‘The Trans¿guration of Christ according to Mark and Matthew: Christology and Anthropology’. Pages 231–46 in Auferstehung/Resurrection. Edited by F. Avemarie and H. Lichtenberger. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001. 2000 ‘Christian Community in the Light of the Gospel of John’. Pages 279–301 in Christology, Controversy, and Community. Edited by D. G. Horrell and C. M. Tuckett. Leiden: Brill, 2000. ‘Parables on God’s Love and Forgiveness (Luke 15:1-32)’. Pages 199–216 in Challenge of Jesus’ Parables. Edited by R. N. Longenecker. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000. 1999 ‘Gospel Wisdom’. Pages 93–110 in Where Shall Wisdom Be Found? Wisdom in the Bible, the Church and the Contemporary World. Edited by S. C. Barton. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1999. ‘New Testament Interpretation as Performance’. SJT 52, no. 2 (1999), pp. 179–208. 1998 ‘Can We Identify the Gospel Audiences?’ Pages 173–94 in The Gospels for All Christians. Edited by R. Bauckham. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998. ‘ “Glorify God in Your Body” (1 Corinthians 6:20): Thinking Theologically about Sexuality’. Pages 366–79 in Religion and Sexuality. Edited by M. Hayes et al. Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 1998. ‘Living as Families in Light of the New Testament’. Interpretation 52, no. 2 (1998), pp. 130–44.

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Bibliography of Academic Works by Stephen C. Barton

xvii

‘Paul and the Limits of Tolerance’. Pages 121–34 in Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Christianity. Edited by G. N. Stanton and G. G. Stroumsa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. ‘Sociology and Theology’. Pages 459–72 in Witness to the Gospel. The Theology of Acts. Edited by I. H. Marshall and D. Peterson. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998. 1997 Invitation to the Bible. London: SPCK, 1997. ‘The Relativisation of Family Ties in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman Traditions’. Pages 81–100 in Constructing Early Christian Families. Edited by H. Moxnes. London: Routledge, 1997. 1996 ‘ “All Things to All People”: Paul and the Law in the Light of 1 Corinthians 9:19-23’. Pages 271–85 in Paul and the Mosaic Law. Edited by J. D. G. Dunn. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996. ‘Biblical Hermeneutics and the Family’. Pages 3–23 in Family in Theological Perspective. Edited by S. C. Barton. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1996. ‘Is the Bible Good News for Human Sexuality: ReÀections on Method in Biblical Interpretation’. Pages 4–13 in Christian Perspectives on Sexuality and Gender. Edited by A. Thatcher and E. Stuart. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996. ‘Towards a Theology of the Family’. Pages 451–62 in Christian Perspectives on Sexuality and Gender. Edited by A. Thatcher and E. Stuart. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996. 1995 ‘Historical Criticism and Social-Scienti¿c Perspectives in New Testament Study’. Pages 61–89 in Hearing the New Testament. Edited by J. B. Green. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995. 1994 Discipleship and Family Ties in Mark and Matthew. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. ‘The Hermeneutics of the Gospel Resurrection Narratives’. Pages 45–57 in Resurrection. Edited by S. C. Barton and G. N. Stanton. London: SPCK, 1994. ‘Is the Bible Good News for Human Sexuality? ReÀections on Method in Biblical Interpretation’. Theology & Sexuality 1 (1994), pp. 42–54. ‘Marriage and Family Life as Christian Concerns’. Expository Times 106.3 (1994), pp. 69–74. 1993 ‘The Believer, the Historian and the Fourth Gospel’. Theology 96.772 (1993), pp. 289– 302. ‘Early Christianity and the Sociology of the Sect’. Pages 140–62 in Open Text. Edited by F. Watson London: SCM, 1993.

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Bibliography of Academic Works by Stephen C. Barton

1992 ‘The Communal Dimension of Earliest Christianity: A Critical Survey of the Field’. JTS 43, no. 2 (1992), pp. 399–427. ‘Jesus—Friend of Little Children’. Pages 30–40 in Contours of Christian Education. Edited by J. Astley and D. Day. Great Wakering, Essex: McCrimmons, 1992. The Spirituality of the Gospels. London: SPCK, 1992. 1991 ‘Mark as Narrative: The Story of the Anointing Woman (Mk 14:3-9)’. Expository Times 102.8 (1991), pp. 230–4. ‘Women, Jesus and the Gospels’. Pages 32–58 in Who Needs Feminism? Male Responses to Sexism in the Church. Edited by R. Holloway. London: SPCK, 1991. 1989 ‘Homosexuality and the Church of England: Perspectives from the Social Sciences’. Theology 92.747 (1989), pp. 175–81. ‘The Kingdom of God and Change’. Expository Times 101.3 (1989), pp. 78–9. ‘The Road to Emmaus’. Expository Times 100.6 (1989), pp. 223–4. ‘The Vision of God and the Limits of Tolerance’. Expository Times 100.8 (1989), pp. 304–5. 1987 ‘Citizens of Heaven’. Expository Times 98.12 (1987), pp. 373–4. ‘Paul and Philemon: A Correspondence Continued’. Theology 90.734 (1987), pp. 97–101. 1986 ‘On Not Being Respectable’. Expository Times 98.3 (1986), pp. 82–3. 1985 ‘The Sense of an Ending’. Expository Times 96.7 (1985), pp. 211–13. 1984 ‘On Play, Worship and Work’. Expository Times 95.11 (1984), pp. 342–3.

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WILLIAM R. TELFORD: A CAREFUL RECKONING Peter Francis

I am writing this in my study at Gladstone’s Library and, faced with a blank screen, I begin to wonder what William Gladstone and Bill Telford would have had in common other than a Christian name. While they were both Scottish, they also possessed a terri¿c work ethic and carefully recorded the details of their life in their diaries. By keeping an account of their time, neither Gladstone nor Bill wasted many minutes in their very full lives. Gladstone sought to provide himself and God with an account of how he spent his time – a reckoning for judgment day. As for Bill, I am not sure whether a faint residue of Calvinism makes him think of it as a ‘reckoning’, or, as I suspect, he keeps a careful account to hold on to memories of friends, places and times shared with Andrena. Bill and Andrena’s are the most documented lives I know! Bill Telford was born in the Fife coastal town of Kirkcaldy, just a dozen miles across the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh and home also to Adam Smith and John Buchan.1 Bill’s primary school years were notable for his perfectly executed prank of locking the entire school in their building. His secondary education was spent at Kirkcaldy High School, the alma mater of the great Adam Smith in the eighteenth century. In the nineteenth century, Thomas Carlyle taught at the school and in the twentieth century, Bill and former Prime Minister Gordon Brown were pupils. Mischief-making apart, Bill was obviously scholarly and hard working. He was also religious. He preached sermons from the age of twelve. He was, I am assured, rather inÀuenced by Billy Graham, whose 1955 six-week long Mission to Glasgow attracted a quarter of a million

1. John Buchan, whose father was minister at the Pathhead Free Church in the town, had spent his childhood there and local legend suggests that Buchan named the book The Thirty-Nine Steps after the steps leading down to the beach at the side of Ravenscraig Castle in Kirkcaldy. A quick count of the steps would seemingly negate the legend.

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William R. Telford: A Careful Reckoning

people. It was no doubt easy to be caught up in the enthusiasm and passion. Graham began his Scottish crusade by saying that ‘millions of prayers have gone to the throne of grace that God might send a spiritual awakening to Scotland and make an impact on the entire world’.2 It is easy to imagine how a young boy might ¿nd Graham’s call to be an active part of such a ‘revolution’ irresistible and romantic. Bill Telford left Kirkcaldy High School for Edinburgh University Medical School determined, I imagine, to use his skills for the betterment of humankind. However, a year in Edinburgh was enough to convince him that this was not his vocation. From Edinburgh he moved to Glasgow University, ¿rst to complete a Master of Arts degree and then to undertake a Bachelor of Divinity degree with the idea of entering ministry in the Church of Scotland. In Glasgow he came under the inÀuence of William Barclay, who became a friend and mentor. Bill specialized in New Testament Language and Literature and achieved a First Class Honours degree. Bill combined his academic work with church work. He was a Student-Assistant at the Church of Scotland Lodging House Mission in Glasgow which provided care and support to the homeless and vulnerable in the city. The Lodging House Mission still exists today. Typical of Bill’s thoroughness of research, he tested out the conditions of staying at a lodging house for himself. In the long vacations, and at the suggestion of William Barclay, Bill went as Student Minister to Prince Edward Island in Canada. It was when this young minister, with his longish hair and guitar strapped to his back, turned up at the Manse for his summer duties that he met Andrena, the Minister’s daughter. By the conclusion of his time in Glasgow they were married. From Glasgow, Bill and Andrena went to live in New York for a year. As Scots Fellow for 1971–72, Bill enrolled in a Master of Sacred Theology degree at Union Theological Seminary and was also Assistant Minister at Second Presbyterian Church in New York. These were heady days for Union and Bill’s supervisor for his Master’s thesis was R. H. Fuller. He also sat at the feet of James Cone, Raymond Brown, and Peter Berger. For Peter Berger he wrote a critique of Billy Graham in the light of Max Weber’s sociological work. This highlights Bill’s progression from twelve-year-old Billy Graham enthusiast to 26-year-old master’s student imbibing the very secular world of 1970s New York and the challenges that theology, biblical studies, and sociology bring to faith.

1

2. http://www.britishpathe.com/video/billy-grahams-glasgow-crusade

William R. Telford: A Careful Reckoning

xxi

From New York, Bill and Andrena settled in Cambridge (Christ’s College) for ¿ve years where Bill wrote his PhD. Cambridge was a signi¿cant period in their life together and they return each summer to work in the University Library. As at Gladstone’s Library, they have their favourite desks and a routine of outings, visits to friends, and entertainment during their annual Cambridge pilgrimage. Bill’s doctorate was entitled ‘A Redaction-Critical Analysis of the Cursing of the Fig-Tree Pericope in Mark’s Gospel and its Relation to the Cleansing of the Temple Tradition’, and was completed under the supervision of the renowned New Testament scholar, Ernst Bammel. His research required a good knowledge of German and Bill’s typical thoroughness ensured that this was achieved by attending an intensive course at the Goethe Institute in Gra¿ng near Munich in the summer of 1973. The PhD became Bill’s ¿rst book, The Barren Temple and the Withered Tree (1980). The focus on Mark’s gospel would make his reputation and become his specialty. In the book he acknowledges the help and support not only of Ernst Bammel but also of C. F. D. Moule for his advice and inspiration. Bill cites William Barclay as his mentor and thanks him for his constant interest and support. Like all his subsequent books, this ¿rst book was dedicated to Andrena. After the University of Cambridge, Oxford beckoned and Bill became George Caird’s successor at Mans¿eld College as a Research Fellow and Tutor in Biblical Studies. If Cambridge and his doctorate de¿ned his academic specialism, then Oxford allowed him to hone his extraordinary skills in teaching and supporting students. It would be hard to ¿nd a more dedicated and focused tutor, and Bill has won the gratitude and admiration of students everywhere he has worked. That, of course, was especially true of his two posts in the North of England, at the University of Newcastle and University of Durham. Bill and Andrena’s kindness and hospitality to students is quite extraordinary, with their home in Ponteland becoming a place of support, fun, and fantastic food. They became a couple that students could genuinely turn to and know they would ¿nd support and encouragement. While the idea of vocation and ministry that started Bill on the path to New Testament Studies now lacks the same vigor of his youth, Bill has always remained respectful and understanding of the varying faith perspectives of students and colleagues. Indeed, many of the students that he has so carefully mentored have been dedicated Christians from various traditions. Bill’s vocation very clearly became one of scholarship and teaching. 1

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William R. Telford: A Careful Reckoning

The move from Cambridge and Oxford to the North of England has been a happy one. Both Bill and Andrena express a love of Durham and Newcastle not only as places to work, but as places to live in retirement. Both enjoy the facilities of the two cities and the beauties of the surrounding Northumberland countryside. The Religious Studies Department in Newcastle was Bill’s base for twenty-¿ve years. It was a small department and thus it was easy to get to know students. During this period, the majority of his books were written. Readers of this book will know better than I the importance of Bill’s scholarship to the study of the Gospels and the Gospel of Mark in particular. With the closure of the department in Newcastle, Bill and other colleagues moved to Durham. In Durham, he became part of a wider theological community and relished strong friendships with James Dunn, John Barclay, Loren Stuckenbruck, Stephen Barton and many others. The small department of Newcastle was replaced by the big and prestigious department of Durham that is often lauded as one of the best in the UK. Bill has never been someone who sought preferment or who wanted to become involved in departmental politics. Instead, he seems content to teach, support students, and to research. Thus, the collegiate system suited Bill and Andrena and they became active members of the Senior Common Rooms in both Trevelyan College and St John’s, where Bill is now a Visiting Fellow. I see the value of Bill’s books chieÀy from a utilitarian perspective. As a clergyperson and someone who oversees a theological library, I am asked, from time to time, to recommend books to students, clergy and interested laity. I ¿nd myself frequently recommending Bill’s books on the Synoptic Gospels or on Mark. They are a gift for the intelligent enquirer. The scholarship is comprehensive and the layout and clarity of the presentation is exemplary. Through it all, there is an infectious enthusiasm not only for the subject, but also for communicating the subject as this quotation from his ¿rst book demonstrates: The Jewish Law, declared the Rabbis, could be compared to the ¿g-tree. ‘As with the ¿g-tree, the more one searches it, the more ¿gs one ¿nds in it, so it is with the words of the Torah; the more one studies them, the more relish one ¿nds in them.’ Something similar might be claimed for the Cursing of the Fig-Tree pericope in Mark’s gospel. The more I have studied it, the greater my relish has been!3

3. William R. Telford, The Barren Temple and the Withered Tree (Shef¿eld: JSOT, 1980), p. x.

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Similarly, Bill ends The New Testament: A Short Introduction with the hope that he has provided the reader ‘with the knowledge and skills to pursue further explorations’, adding ‘I wish you, the reader, many exciting discoveries!’4 And, of course, he means it, for he has been and still is caught up in the excitement. Years of research have not dimmed his enthusiasm. ‘With such a variety of topics, themes and passages to investigate, with such a number of problems to solve, and with such a variety of hermeneutical methods and approaches to employ, the future of Markan studies, in short, looks bright.’5 Recently, I had cause to look up a reference in a book by William Barclay, and the similarity with Bill’s style is striking. The passion, comprehensiveness, and enthusiasm for research, together with a wonderfully simple and easy to follow layout of text and argument make the work of both men models of clarity. While the chapters of this book focus on New Testament studies, I want to switch the emphasis from the pages of the New Testament to the Àicker of celluloid. One of Bill’s (and, indeed, Andrena’s) abiding passions is ¿lm. There are not many weeks when they do not frequent the Tyneside Cinema, which has to be one of the best independent cinemas in the UK.6 I recently asked Bill for a list of his three favourite ¿lms and he replied by choosing Ryan’s Daughter (David Lean, 1970), The Godfather Trilogy (Francis Ford Coppola, 1972, 1974, 1990) and It’s a Wonderful Life (Frank Capra, 1946). I also asked him to name his two comfort ¿lms, the sort of ¿lm you watch again and again when you need cheering up, and he chose Where Eagles Dare (Brian Hutton, 1968) and Gladiator (Ridley Scott, 2000). It is tempting to do some amateur psychoanalysis on these choices, but I will resist! Bill Telford was one of the ¿rst biblical scholars or theologians in the UK to start writing seriously about ¿lm. He contributed a chapter on the depiction of Jesus in the cinema to the ground-breaking Explorations in Theology and Film.7 At that time, ¿lm and theology was a relatively unknown discipline and today it is fairly ubiquitous in departments of Religious Studies or Theology. Bill Telford has played a signi¿cant role 4. William R. Telford, The New Testament: A Short Introduction (Oxford: One World, 2002), p.143. 5. William R. Telford, Writing on the Gospel of Mark (Blandford Forum: Deo Publishing, 2009), p. 546. 6. I ¿nd it incredibly comfortable with a wide and eclectic choice of ¿lms and no popcorn. 7. Clive Marsh and Gaye Ortiz (eds.), Explorations in Theology and Film (Oxford: Blackwell, 1997). 1

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in its development. Bill and Adele Reinhartz have been the most prominent Biblical scholars writing on ¿lms about Jesus. Bill’s publications since 1997 have featured many papers on aspects of the New Testament in ¿lm. Many of these papers and others featured at the annual Film and Theology conference at Gladstone’s Library, a series of weekend conferences, which has now just completed its eighteenth year. Bill’s work on ¿lms about Jesus has been, as you would expect, meticulously and exhaustively researched. The papers were thematic in nature and looked at subjects such as the characterization of Peter and Judas, Jews and Judaism, Satan, Jesus and women, the Passover and the Last Supper. His thematic approach somewhat Àattered these very long ¿lms by highlighting their frequently accurate historical recreation in the short scenes Bill’s discussed. Bill’s favourite two ‘Jesus ¿lms’ are Martin Scorsese’s 1988 ¿lm, The Last Temptation of Christ and William Wyler’s 1959 version of Ben-Hur. Miklos Rozsa’s overture to Ben-Hur was always played as we took our seats for Bill’s lectures on Jesus and ¿lm. The book, Cinéma Divinité,8 based on talks given at Gladstone’s Library Film and Theology weekends, was published in 2005. Bill Telford, who co-edited the book, contributed four chapters and, in the ¿nal chapter of the book, was one of the voices in a dialogue about Mel Gibson’s The Passion of The Christ (2004).9 In Cinéma Divinité, Bill countered one of the main criticisms of Explorations in Theology and Film, namely, that it did not pay suf¿cient attention to ¿lm studies. He provided a very detailed analysis of different schools of thought within ¿lm studies and suggested a variety of approaches to understanding the conversation between ¿lm and theology. Bill’s perceptive analysis helped explain how a ¿lm is more than simply narrative, on which Biblical scholars and Christians can have a tendency to singularly focus. One ¿nal comment about Bill Telford’s contribution to Cinéma Divinité which demonstrates his comprehensive approach to research: Bill presents two lists – the ¿rst a list of ¿lms that he has seen from 1993–2004 that have religious themes, the second the number of Christtype ¿gures who appear in ¿lms. For the ¿rst list he cites 260 ¿lms and for the second list 86 ¿lms. This would be remarkable for someone 8. Eric S. Christianson, Peter Francis, and William R. Telford (eds.), Cinéma Divinité (London: SCM, 2005). 9. In sharp contrast to Bill’s remarks about other Jesus ¿lms that he often praised for their historical research, Bill was critical of Gibson’s historical research and claims of authenticity. 1

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whose major work was ¿lm studies but, for a hobby, this represents a lot of hours sitting in the dark and, of course, meticulous recording the information. Incidentally, his favourite two Christ-type ¿gures in ¿lm are the central characters in Cool-Hand Luke (Stuart Rosenberg, 1967) and Babette’s Feast (Gabriel Axel, 1987). Many New Testament scholars will know Bill from his period as Assistant Secretary (1993–1995) and then General Secretary (1996– 2005) of Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas (SNTS), the premier international learned society whose purpose is to promote New Testament studies. Bill, and frequently Andrena, have been a familiar sight at the annual meetings and several other of the society’s international seminars. As a corollary to his enthusiasm for SNTS and the value he placed on its work, Bill was a founding member of the British New Testament Conference (now the British New Testament Society). When his period as General Secretary of SNTS ¿nished he was given a standing ovation in recognition of his commitment to and hard-work on behalf of the society. Bill’s methodical and meticulous work is a godsend for any such body. As Bill Telford rather ruefully con¿ded in me, ‘Whenever Andrena and I join a society, one or other of us seems inevitably to end up on the committee’. This happens, of course, not just because of their great skills of organization but because they both bring immense enthusiasm to the groups and causes to which they belong. Amongst the groups that bene¿t from their time and energy are: the John Buchan Society, the Belfast and International Titanic Society, the Northumbrian Cambridge Society, and the Association and Friends of the Laing Art Gallery. For twenty years they have been visiting Gladstone’s Library, formerly St Deiniol’s Library, at least two or three times a year. Although they have not been asked to run anything or join a committee, we have been blessed by their enthusiasm for and generosity to the Library and what it is trying to do. Over the years they have introduced many friends and students to the Library. In honour of his contribution to New Testament scholarship and in recognition of the signi¿cant quantity of his writing done at the Library, Bill was made a Fellow of Gladstone’s Library in 2001. Bill’s life has been a full of scholarship and enthusiasm far beyond academia through the trips that he and Andrena have made and friendships they have forged on the way. All of this life, of course, has been carefully photographed and documented by Bill, through the collation of tickets, receipts, programmes, and ephemera. This, however, pales in comparison to the diary he has kept for more than ¿fty years which amounts to over 100 handwritten volumes. Bill is now in the process of digitizing his diary. Bill has always been a passionate advocate of new 1

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technology but the demands of digitizing the diary has even caused a few headaches for the geeks at Apple. There are also twenty volumes of notes on all of Bill and Andrena’s extensive travels. All of this, whether it is in boxes in the attic or in Apple’s iCloud, represents a careful reckoning of a full life and, of course, of the loving companionship of Andrena.

1

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF ACADEMIC WORKS BY WILLIAM R. TELFORD 2010 ‘Mark’s Portrait of Jesus’. Pages 13–29 in The Blackwell Companion to Jesus. Edited by D. Burkett. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. 2009 ‘ “Speak of the Devil”: The Portrayal of Satan in the Christ Film’. Pages 89–104 in Lure of the Dark Side. Edited by E. S. Christianson and C. Partridge. London: Equinox, 2009. Writing on the Gospel of Mark. Dorchester: Deo, 2009. 2006 ‘Wrede, W.’ Pages 388–9 in Dictionary of Biblical Criticism and Interpretation. Edited by S. E. Porter. London: Routledge, 2006. 2005 ‘His Blood Be Upon Us, and Our Children: The Treatment of Jews and Judaism in the Christ Film’. Pages 266–88 in Cinéma Divinité: Religion, Theology, and the Bible in Film. Edited by E. S. Christianson, P. Francis, and W. R. Telford. London: SCM, 2005. ‘Ritual Recast and Revisioned: Hollywood Remembers the First Passover and the Last Supper’. Pages 289–309 in Cinéma Divinité: Religion, Theology, and the Bible in Film. Edited by E. S. Christianson, P. Francis, and W. R. Telford. London: SCM, 2005. ‘Through a Lens Darkly: Critical Approaches to Film and Theology’. Pages 15–43 in Cinéma Divinité: Religion, Theology, and the Bible in Film. Edited by E. S. Christianson, P. Francis, and W. R. Telford. London: SCM, 2005. ‘The Two Faces of Betrayal: The Characterization of Peter and Judas in the Biblical Epic or Christ Film’. Pages 214–35 in Cinéma Divinité: Religion, Theology, and the Bible in Film. Edited by E. S. Christianson, P. Francis, and W. R. Telford. London: SCM, 2005. Editor with E. S. Christianson and P. Francis. Cinéma Divinité: Religion, Theology, and the Bible in Film. London: SCM, 2005.

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Bibliography of Academic Works by William R. Telford

2002 ‘Modern Biblical Interpretation’. Pages 427–49 in The Biblical World. Volume 2. Edited by J. Barton. London: Routledge, 2002. The New Testament: A Short Introduction: A Guide to Early Christianity and the Synoptic Gospels. Oxford: Oneworld, 2002. 2001 ‘The Characterization of Jesus’. Pages 267–80 in From Sacred Text to Internet. Edited by G. Beckerlegge. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001. ‘Maze and Amazement in Mark’s Gospel’. The Way 41 (2001), pp. 339–48. With S. McKnight, J. Riches, and C. M. Tuckett. The Synoptic Gospels. New Testament Guides. Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 2001. 2000 ‘The Bible in Fiction and Film: Contemporary Interests and Current Developments’. Pages 134–47 in The Bible in Literature and Literature in the Bible. Edited by T. Fabiny. Budapest: Centre for Hermeneutical Research, 2000. ‘Jesus and Women in Fiction and Film’. Pages 353–91 in Transformative Encounters. Edited by I. R. Kitzberger. Leiden: Brill, 2000. ‘Mark, Gospel of’. Pages 507–11 in Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Edited by L. H. Schiffman and J. C. VanderKam. Volume 1. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. ‘Religion, the Bible and Theology in Recent Films (1993–99)’. Epworth Review 27, no. 4 (2000), pp. 31–40. 1999 The Theology of the Gospel of Mark. New Testament Theology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. 1998 ‘Jesus Christ Movie Star: The Depiction of Jesus in the Cinema’. Pages 115–39 in Explorations in Theology and Film. Edited by C. Marsh and G. Ortiz. Oxford: Blackwell, 1998. 1997 ‘The Current State of the Q Question’. Expository Times 108.10 (1997), pp. 305–6. 1995 The Interpretation of Mark. Revised and enlarged ed. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1995. First ed., 1985. ‘The Interpretation of Mark: A History of Developments and Issues’. Pages 1–61 in The Interpretation of Mark. Revised and enlarged ed. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1995. Mark. Shef¿eld Academic, 1995. ‘The New Testament in Fiction and Film: A Biblical Scholar’s Perspective’. Pages 360– 94 in Words Remembered, Texts Renewed. Edited by J. G. Davies, G. Harvey, and W. G. E. Watson. Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 1995.

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1994 ‘Major Trends and Interpretive Issues in the Study of Jesus’. Pages 33–74 in Studying the Historical Jesus. Edited by B. D. Chilton and C. A. Evans. Leiden: Brill, 1994. 1993 ‘Mark and the Historical-Critical Method: The Challenge of Recent Literary Approaches to the Gospels’. Pages 491–502 in The Synoptic Gospels: Source Criticism and the New Literary Criticism. Edited by C. Focant. Louvain: Leuven University Press, 1993. 1992 ‘The Pre-Markan Tradition in Recent Research (1980–1990)’. Pages 693–723 in The Four Gospels, vol. 2. Edited by F. Van Segbroeck, C. M. Tuckett, G. van Belle, and J. Verheyden. Louvain: Peeters, 1992. 1991 ‘More Fruit from the Withered Tree: Temple and Fig-Tree in Mark from a Graeco-Roman Perspective’. Pages 264–304 in Templum Amicitiae. Edited by E. Bammel. Shef¿eld: JSOT, 1991. 1990 ‘Mark, Gospel of’. Pages 424–8 in A Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation. Edited by R. J. Coggins and J. L. Houlden. London: SCM, 1990. 1980 The Barren Temple and the Withered Tree. Shef¿eld: JSNTSup 1. Shef¿eld: JSOT, 1980.

1

[[[



INTRODUCTION When opening a Bible to the New Testament, one ¿rst encounters the Gospels and their narratives of the life and ministry of Jesus. These four Gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, have captivated the attention and interest of both scholars and the Church for thousands of years. It should also be noted that there are four canonical Gospels. The fact that there are four implies that there are differences among them and not simply four copies of the same gospel. Comparatively, there is a signi¿cant amount of similarity as well, narrating one proclamation of the good news, or ‘gospel’ (¼Ĥ¸ººñÂÀÇÅ), of Jesus.1 Inevitably, this raises questions regarding the relationships between the four Gospels. What should one make of the strong literary similarities? Was there dependence on common written sources or a lost original? Do the differences suggest contradictions or do they imply something distinctive? While the answers to these questions will not be pursued here, the impact inquiries like these have had in the history of New Testament scholarship will be highlighted brieÀy in order to illustrate the signi¿cant contributions Stephen C. Barton and William R. Telford have made in Gospels research. As such, this abbreviated history will begin with Augustine, one of the earliest theologians, and possibly most inÀuential, to investigate the relationship between the four Gospels.2 Near the end of the fourth century, Augustine wrote a treatise, De consensu evangelistarum, which studied the four canonical Gospels and their relationship to each other as literary documents. His inquiry began by looking at the evidence found in the Gospel texts rather than rely upon either the tradition of four independent apostolic origins or his commitment to Gospel harmonization.3 By examining the differences and similarities between the four evangelists, 1. See Stephen C. Barton’s essay on this issue, ‘Many Gospels, One Jesus?’, in The Cambridge Companion to Jesus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 170–83, as well as the clever illustration of an extraterrestrial encountering the New Testament for the ¿rst time found in Jonathan Pennington’s book on the Gospels, Reading the Gospels Wisely: A Narrative and Theological Introduction (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2012), pp. 50–73. 2. Francis Watson, Gospel Writing: A Canonical Perspective (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013), p. 15. 3. Augustine argued that Matthew and John were the two apostolic witnesses (Cons. i.2.3-4); ibid., pp. 16–23. See also Watson’s in-depth summary of Augustine’s inÀuence; ibid., pp. 16–61.

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Augustine concluded that Matthew was written ¿rst and Mark had abbreviated Matthew (Cons. i.2.4).4 His observations regarding Matthew were not entirely faulty. Mark certainly reads differently than Matthew, contains fewer of the ‘words of Christ’, reÀects a smaller number of parables, and does not demonstrate the kind of large recognizable blocks of teaching like Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount. If one, like Augustine, presupposes Matthew came ¿rst, then Mark certainly appears to have shortened the text. After its composition, Augustine’s inÀuence was so great in the Middle Ages that his view of the Gospels became widely accepted.5 The history of the relationships between the Gospels is far more complex and interesting than this short summary suggests,6 yet, fastforwarding arti¿cially to the nineteenth century, the relevance of this discussion becomes clearer. Just as sands shift in the rising tide, so do opinions in academic studies. In the middle of the nineteenth century, the priority of Mark was a little known idea, let alone a hypothesis, but by the end of that same century, it was almost an assured result of New Testament critical scholarship.7 While the legacy of Augustine was preserved by those like Johann Jakob Griesbach (1745–1812), who argued for and developed the idea of Matthean priority,8 Enlightenment thinking and the centrality of science established a context for the Gospels to be approached anew. In 1835, Karl Lachmann noticed that when Matthew and Luke use material also found in Mark, the order is quite similar. In contrast, where there is 4. As Watson points out (ibid., p. 15 n. 3), despite the fact that Augustine’s proposal of Mark abbreviating Matthew has become known as the ‘Augustinian hypothesis’, Augustine eventually concluded at the end of his analysis that Mark also used Luke (Cons. iv.10.11), which will become known later as the ‘Griesbach hypothesis’. 5. Stephen Neill and Tom Wright, The Interpretation of the New Testament: 1861–1986 (2d ed; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), p. 116. 6. In this manner, many important scholars and contributions will be missed (e.g. Gieseler, Strauss, Schleiermacher, Baur, Lessing, Reimarus, Farrer, Goulder, etc.). For a more complete discussion of the history of the Synoptic Problem, see David L. Dungan, A History of the Synoptic Problem: The Canon, the Text, the Composition, and the Interpretation of the Gospels (The Anchor Yale Bible Reference Library; New York: Doubleday, 1999). In addition, see the collection of over thirty essays presented at the Oxford Conference on the Synoptic Problem in 2008; Paul Foster et al. (eds.), New Studies on the Synoptic Problem: Oxford Conference, April 2008 (BETL, 239; Leuven: Peeters, 2011). 7. Neill and Wright, Interpretation, p. 116. 8. William Baird, History of New Testament Research. Vol. 1, From Deism to Tübingen (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), pp. 143–8. 1

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non-Markan material, the correspondence is signi¿cantly less. As such, Lachmann suggested that Mark did not have a copy of Matthew and Luke. Instead, all three Gospels used an older source, which Mark followed more closely. While this did not infer that Mark came ¿rst, his ¿ndings began to point in that direction.9 Not long after, Christian Hermann Weisse observed that Mark’s descriptive accounts were fuller than that of Matthew and Luke. For example, in the narrative of the feeding of the ¿ve thousand, Mk 6.39 describes the crowd sitting on the ‘green grass’, while Mt. 14.19 has the crowds sit down on the ‘grass’ and Lk. 9.15 simply has them sit down.10 While it used to be held that Mark added these details, Weisse argued that the opposite is more likely true; namely, Matthew and Luke omitted these details, leaving space for their own purposes.11 In other words, Matthew and Luke were more likely to omit details in their narratives than Mark was to embellish them. Nevertheless, he concluded not that Mark came ¿rst, but that Mark depended on an older original. Like Lachmann, it was not supposed that Matthew and Luke used Mark but that Mark was independent and older than the other two Synoptics.12 Then in 1863, Holzmann, after a detailed analysis of the Gospel texts and a development from prior research, argued that Mark is the original apostolic document (and, thus, more historically reliable).13 His ¿ndings became readily adopted and by the end of the nineteenth century, the priority of Mark was almost unanimously accepted.14 9. Bo Reicke, ‘From Strauss to Holtzmann and Meijboom: Synoptic Theories Advanced During the Consolidation of Germany, 1830–70’, NovT 29, no. 1 (1987), pp. 1–21 (9). Karl Lachmann, ‘De Ordine Narrationum in Evangeliis Synopticis’, Theologische Studien und Kritiken 8 (1835), pp. 570–90. 10. Á¸Ė ëÈñ̸ƼŠ¸ĤÌÇėË ÒŸÁÂėŸÀ ÈÚÅÌ¸Ë ÊÍÄÈĠÊÀ¸ ÊÍÄÈĠÊÀ¸ ëÈĖ ÌŊ ÏÂÑÉŊ ÏĠÉÌĿ, Mk 6.39; Á¸Ė Á¼Â¼įÊ¸Ë ÌÇİË ěÏÂÇÍË ÒŸÁÂÀ¿ýŸÀ ëÈĖ ÌÇı ÏĠÉÌÇÍ, Mt. 14.19; Á¸Ė ëÈÇĕ¾Ê¸Å ÇĩÌÑË Á¸Ė Á¸ÌñÁÂÀŸŠ×ȸÅ̸Ë, Lk. 9.15. 11. Reicke, ‘From Strauss to Holtzmann’, p. 12; Neill and Wright, Interpretation, pp. 117–18; Christian Hermann Weisse, Die evangelische Geschichte, kritisch und philosophisch bearbeitet (Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1838). 12. Weisse also observed that Matthew and Luke must have had another source for their common material, thus revealing the beginnings of the ‘Two Source Hypothesis’; see Baird, From Deism to Tübingen, pp. 305–8. 13. Holtzmann also made an argument for a written document of speeches and sayings of Jesus behind some of the agreements between Matthew and Luke. See William Baird, History of New Testament Research. Vol. 2, From Jonathan Edwards to Rudolf Bultmann (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), pp. 115–17; Reicke, ‘From Strauss to Holtzmann’, p. 17. H. J. Holtzmann, Die synoptischen Evangelien, ihr Ursprung und geschichtlicher Charakter (Leipzig: Engelmann, 1865). 14. Importantly, it remains a hypothesis, still tested and challenged. Notable examples include the attempt of B. C. Butler to revive Augustine’s conclusions of 1

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The shift in the perspective on the Gospels necessitated a new look at these texts. For example, more questions arose surrounding the existence of a hypothetical source for the strong literary similarities between Matthew and Luke. In 1924, Streeter’s huge compendium of raw data that resulted in the positing of the Four Document Hypothesis also conceived the embryo of research into the hypothetical document, Q.15 Moreover, Mark was no longer viewed as an unimportant piece in the literary evolution of the genre, but became a critical part in understanding the rest of the Gospels. In his history of the interpretation of the New Testament, Stephen Neill notes retrospectively the dramatic change in attitude: Now, when they [scholars] read him [Mark] for himself and without presuppositions, they discovered to their amazement that this tame copyist, though endowed with only moderate literary capacity, was in fact a writer of immense originality and power.16

In a matter of roughly ¿fty years, the landscape had changed signi¿cantly. Once relegated to a position of insigni¿cance, Mark’s Gospel became a warehouse of new information for biblical scholars interested in the development of the Gospels as well as in the life of Jesus. In a way, they discovered what was already there by changing their perspective on it. The reason for this short history is that it highlights the ways in which biblical scholarship continues to evolve, moving forward and continuously asking new questions. One might even say that scholars squirm incessantly in their chairs, wondering how things might look from a different angle, from a different perspective. This kind of curiosity has Matthean priority (The Originality of St. Matthew: A Critique of the Two Document Hypothesis [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1951]), and W. R. Farmer’s support of the Griesbach hypothesis (The Synoptic Problem: A Critical Analysis [New York: Macmillan, 1964]). While aimed more toward the study of Matthew, Graham Stanton offers a brief but poignant discussion of Markan and Matthean priority; A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew (Louisville: Westminster, 1992), pp. 28–40. 15. Neill and Wright, Interpretation, p. 252. For the sake of brevity, this summary will not journey down the history of this valuable, but also equally hypothetical, path. For good discussions, see the above footnote on the history of the Synoptic Problem or the two differing positions advocated by Mark Goodacre and John Kloppenborg. See Mark S. Goodacre, The Case against Q: Studies in Markan Priority and the Synoptic Problem (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2002); J. S. Kloppenborg, Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2000). 16. Neill and Wright, Interpretation, p. 123. 1

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led to diverse hypotheses and interpretations on a plethora of issues in Gospels studies. Moreover, it has broadened the scope of approaches and criticism applied to research. These include, but are not limited to, redaction criticism, form criticism, source criticism, genre criticism, reader-response criticism, Wirkungsgeschichte, social-scienti¿c criticism, historical Jesus research, tradition-historical criticism, discourse analysis, rhetorical criticism, literary analysis and narrative criticism (including compositional criticism), global perspectives, African-American and liberation theology, feminist readings, theological interpretation, canonical readings, and postmodern, post-enlightenment, and post-colonial readings.17 In each of these examples, a different perspective on the Gospels is imagined. In this manner, it is not surprising that two of the Gospels, Matthew and Mark, have been the focus of Stephen C. Barton and William R. Telford, two important contributors to research on the canonical narratives of the life and ministry of Jesus. As Walter Moberly and Peter Francis have both adeptly shown in their ‘appreciations’, Barton’s and Telford’s lives have been instrumental in urging fellow scholars and friends to look at the Gospels with fresh eyes from different angles. Moreover, their passion for the Gospels went beyond their scholarly skills, for they were both sources of inspiration for their students, friends, and colleagues. As a result, this volume has attempted to approach the Gospels of Matthew and Mark from a variety of perspectives that pay tribute especially to the interests of Stephen Barton and William Telford. Like the contributions of the honorands, these essays too, in time, will hopefully represent theories that have stood the test of time, bearing the marks of stepping-stones and displaying the boldness of scholars attempting to see something ‘beyond’, imagining and questioning how things might be different. The volume begins with Francis Watson asking ‘how did Mark survive?’ The question arises from Mark’s incorporation into Matthew, which might have been viewed as an enlarged, improved second edition that made the earlier text redundant – especially in the original absence of authorial names. The originally anonymous text we know as ‘Mark’ seems itself to have incorporated still earlier text-forms, and occasional traces of these can be glimpsed with the help of parallel material 17. For more on these methods, see Joel B. Green (ed.), Hearing the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), or Mark Allan Powell (ed.), Methods for Matthew (Methods in Biblical Interpretation; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), including Stephen Barton’s essay on social-scienti¿c perspectives in Hearing the New Testament. 1

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preserved in non-canonical texts. How did Mark survive as an independent work even after incorporation into Matthew, when pre-Markan gospel editions were apparently incorporated without remainder into Mark? For Watson, one factor was no doubt that usage of Mark was already widely established when Matthew became available: congregations chose to use the new text alongside the old one, rather than replacing the old with the new. Luke’s Gospel opens with a reference to the ‘many’ who have written an account of the gospel events, and this is an early indication that gospel plurality was becoming accepted as normal and that Luke expects his text to coexist with its predecessors, including Mark. Later in the second century, Mark was equipped with an alternative ending which, in rectifying a perceived de¿ciency, seeks to ensure Mark’s continuing status and use as an authentic version of the gospel. Finally, continuing concerns about the supposedly inferior quality of the Markan Gospel were outweighed by the provision of an author closely associated with the chief of the apostles. Helen Bond’s essay suggests that we have misread the role of Simon of Cyrene in Mark’s Gospel. Drawing on a range of ancient literary texts, particularly those within the biographical tradition, and subjecting Mk 15.16-27 to close scrutiny, she argues that Simon is included in the narrative neither as a paragon of discipleship nor simply for historical reasons. Instead, he is part of the mockery directed towards Jesus by the soldiers, a mockery which pervades the whole of this section of the Gospel. The blatantly mocking tone of Mk 15.16-20 continues in the very next verse, and Bond argues that Simon is cast as a lictor who goes before the Jewish ‘King’ to his place of cruci¿xion. The problem, she asserts, is that we have tended to read the Markan narrative as a sequence of isolated pericopae, and to assume that Mk 15.21 is ‘about’ Simon. When we take Mark’s genre as ancient bios seriously, however, and put Jesus at the center of every episode, a rather different picture emerges. Now it becomes apparent that the true model of discipleship is not the cross-carrying Simon but Jesus himself. Jesus’ death perfectly conforms to the guidelines for discipleship set out in the central section of the Gospel (Mk 8.22–10.52), and provides a blueprint for those who would follow him. Continuing to pursue questions about the historical Jesus, Daniel Frayer-Griggs’ essay examines the exorcisms in Matthew and Mark. According to Frayer-Griggs, it is often assumed that while the historical Jesus performed healings and exorcisms, John the Baptist did nothing of the sort. The Fourth Evangelist’s claim that ‘John performed no sign’ (Jn 10:41) would appear to offer con¿rmation of this. Employing various methods, including historical, redaction, and social-scienti¿c criticisms, 1

Introduction

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his essay challenges the supposition that John performed no mighty deeds by demonstrating that a number of Markan and Matthean traditions carry echoes of exorcism, which may assume the belief that John, like Jesus, was a reputed exorcist. Texts examined include Mk 6:14 (and parallels), where the people and Herod identify Jesus as ‘John the Baptist raised from the dead’ on account of the »ÍÅÚļÀË (‘deeds of power’) at work in Jesus; John’s identi¿cation of Jesus as ĊÊÏÍÉŦ̼ÉŦË (‘stronger’ than he); Jesus’ words concerning John and the ¹À¸Ê̸ţ (‘men of violence’, Mt. 11.12; cf. Lk. 16.16); and the accusation that John »¸ÀÄĠÅÀÇÅ ìϼÀ (‘has a demon’, Mt. 11.18//Lk. 7.33), which is strongly reminiscent of the charge leveled against Jesus – ¼¼Â½¼¹Çİ ìϼÀ (‘he has Beelzebul’, Mk 3.22). While Craig Evans acknowledges the importance of the theological interests and literary accomplishments throughout the Markan narrative, his essay seeks primarily to discern the historical elements within the depiction of Jesus’ burial in Mark with regard to Roman law. He notes that the portrayal of the removal of Jesus from the cross and his burial is consistent with archeological evidence and Jewish Law, yet it remains to be determined if a similar veracity can be equally applied to Roman law. In other words, Evans asks whether or not Roman law permitted the burial of the executed, including those cruci¿ed. To answer this question, Evans examines ancient texts such as the Digesta compiled by Justinian (530–533 C.E.), the Nazareth Inscription, and a short record of Paulus, a jurist in the second and third centuries. By providing a detailed analysis of their content related to burial of the condemned and executed, Evans is able to reexamine the text of Mk 15.42-47 (and other parallels) in light of what is permitted by Roman law for the preparation and burial of the executed. He concludes that the terse account of Jesus burial in Mark 15 reÀects realism at every point, agreeing with what is known of relevant literature and archaeological data, both Jewish and Roman. Then, Donald Hagner examines the relationship between Judaism and early Christianity in Matthew and Mark. For Hagner, the context in which this question is set is crucial. For centuries the church and synagogue have been dominated by a strong sense of discontinuity between Judaism and Christianity. After the Holocaust this slowly began to change. In recent decades, the pendulum has shifted more and more to an emphasis on the continuity between the two, as increasing attention has been given to the thorough Jewishness of both Jesus and Paul. Hagner admits that much that is helpful has emerged in this trend, but the result has been the conclusion that early Christianity is to be considered a sect within Judaism and that there was no initial parting of the ways until some time in the second or even as late as the fourth century. While he 1

xxxviii

Introduction

does not deny the continuity between Judaism and Christianity, Hagner argues that the recent trend results in a serious understatement of the newness intrinsic to the New Testament texts. Employing a biblicaltheological approach, his essay examines the extent of that newness, and hence the implied discontinuity, contained in the Gospels of Mark and Matthew. The conclusion is that what is encountered in a close examination of the texts is not a matter of either/or but of both continuity and discontinuity. This is af¿rmed with the caveat that the reality of discontinuity must never be allowed to become a stimulus to anti-Semitism.18 Juxtaposing Stephen Barton’s attention to the emotions with William Telford’s close reading of the ¿g tree and temple incident, Louise Lawrence’s essay probes the emotional dimensions of ‘protest’ encountered in the context of Mark 11í13. Responding to a so-called affective turn in social-scienti¿c discourse, her essay employs the sociologist James Jasper’s work, which has identi¿ed emotions as a fundamental grounding of both social movements and actions. Mark’s speci¿c casting of the emotional fabric of these chapters, as will be seen, seems purposefully designed to rouse within his audience emotions which can be channeled into endurance in the face of persecution, and social and ideological protest against the status quo. In the early 1990s, Dr. Stephen Barton published a book called The Spirituality of the Gospels. While not rejecting academic methods such as redaction criticism, Barton recognized the need amongst his students training for ministry for a way to study Scripture that nurtured personal and corporate spirituality and facilitated ministry formation. His book on the spirituality of the Gospels employed many critical methods of study in service of better understanding how God relates to humans and they to God. Little did Barton know that his desire to bring this spiritual interest to biblical study was anticipating a wider interest in theological interpretation of Scripture, a movement that would blossom a decade or so after his book. The essay by Nijay K. Gupta pays tribute to Barton’s important book on the spirituality of the Gospels, taking up a theme in Matthew given little attention by scholars, namely faith. Like Barton, Gupta also uses multiple academic tools and methods to observe how and why Matthew uses faith language, so enabling the modern reader to discern what this means for Christian spirituality. Matthew, Gupta argues, uses faith language in roughly three categories: seeking faith, trusting faith, and loyal faith. 18. Note the important volume coedited by Hagner along with Craig A. Evans, Anti-Semitism and Early Christianity: Issues of Polemic and Faith (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), especially the Preface and Introduction, pp. i–xxiii and 1–20. 1

Introduction

xxxix

In his essay, Professor James D. G. Dunn considers the aims of Matthew in the writing of his Gospel, especially in view of his reworking of Mark and in the context of life after 70 C.E. While Matthew passes on a large amount of material from Mark, he treats several concerns relevant to his own community. Dunn gives attention to three interests particular to Matthew: the signi¿cance of Jesus for Israel, Jesus’ debates with the Pharisees over Israel’s heritage, and the mission to Gentiles. Dunn concludes by noting that Matthew did not seek to undermine Mark, but rather the Jesus tradition itself allowed for these distinctives to develop and ¿nd expression. In the end, both Matthew and Mark demonstrate the impact left by Jesus, the central ¿gure of these stories. Since the late nineteenth century, many New Testament scholars have compared the presentation of Jesus in the Synoptic Gospels with Jewish ‘eschatology’ or ‘apocalyptic’. Such comparisons have functioned either to contrast reconstructions of the historical Jesus with contemporary Judaism or to place him ¿rmly within that context. After a brief overview of the way scholars have placed Jewish apocalyptic thought (especially the so-called doctrine of the two ages) in service of work on the ‘historical Jesus’, Loren Stuckenbruck’s contribution attempts to delineate an aspect of the understanding of time in apocalyptic tradition that corresponds well to some accounts that, by contrast, have underscored how Jesus differed from his Jewish contemporaries. The argument advanced is to af¿rm within Jewish apocalyptic a proleptic defeat of evil that offers a framework for interpreting Jesus’ activity rather than being a foil for it. As each of these abstracts intimates, and as their corresponding essays demonstrate, at the heart of the research lays the role of the question and the imagination to see something from a new angle. As discussed initially, those that ventured to explore again the relationships between the Gospels came to recognize the Gospel of Mark in a new light. Now, following the example of the two great men to whom this volume has been dedicated, let this volume inspire and lead one on in search of new perspectives, relying upon the work of those who inspire, modeling respect in disagreements, and daring to try something new.

1

[O



HOW DID MARK SURVIVE?* Francis Watson

I. Introduction The Gospel of Mark has a secure place within the canonical four gospel collection. Once it was established there, no one seems to have declared it to be redundant on the grounds that it contains little more than mere repetition of material already available in Matthew and Luke. But inclusion in a canonical collection was by no means a foregone conclusion. Mark might have disappeared from view along with the other written sources on which later evangelists were able to draw. In principle, no gospel has an assured future at the time of composition. It is the readers of gospel literature, not authors, who determine whether that future will be one of constant communal use or the oblivion into which the majority of books are doomed to disappear. Only in the context of a doctrine of inspiration are books predestined for canonical status, and it is not the function of such a doctrine to substitute for historical analysis.1 If Mark might not have survived, the same is true of Matthew, Luke, and John. Survival is dependent on acknowledged canonical status, which is itself dependent on a consensus between the churches of east and west about the texts that preserve the authentic apostolic gospel. Along with the other three, Mark must have achieved a broad enough circulation to be part of that consensus, rather than being left behind along with the gospels attributed to Thomas, Peter, and Mary. Mark seems to have been immediately successful. Already by the early second century this gospel had circulated widely enough to have been independently accessible to both Matthew and Luke. That both evangelists * It is a pleasure to dedicate this article on the relationship between Mark and Matthew to two former colleagues who have made substantial contributions to the scholarly study of these gospels. 1. For the general orientation of this article and fuller substantiation of some of its claims, see my book, Gospel Writing: A Canonical Perspective (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013).

2

Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

used it as the basis for their own more comprehensive compositions is testimony to the esteem in which it was held.2 If Luke was written signi¿cantly later than Matthew, then Luke’s use of Mark indicates that this gospel must have continued in use alongside Matthew. Yet the very fact that both later evangelists felt free to rewrite Mark indicates that they did not regard it as ¿nal and de¿nitive. Far from ascribing to Mark a proto-canonical status, the later evangelists seem to have regarded it as a work-in-progress which achieved its necessary end-point in their own (rival) works. This incorporation into later and larger texts posed a mortal threat to Mark’s longer-term survival, and the threat arose not just from the later evangelists’ use of Mark but also from an underlying view of Mark as un¿nished and Àuid, open to further editorial intervention. II. Mark as Work-in-Progress In assigning one anonymous gospel text to ‘Mark’ and another to ‘Matthew’, the early church asserted the independent status of each visà-vis the other. As ‘Mark’, the text that now bears this name has every right to exist as a distinct entity alongside ‘Matthew’ and the other two. Yet the assertion of distinctiveness actually creates that distinctiveness; the independent status of Matthew and Mark is not just a recognition of the obvious and indisputable. If the later canonical perspective is set aside and we think ourselves back into the pre-canonical period, ‘Mark’ and ‘Matthew’ may be viewed as earlier and later versions of the same anonymous text. And the large-scale editorial intervention that converts the earlier into the later might represent the last in a series of editorial interventions underlying the earlier version itself. Just as Matthew is ‘late’ in relation to Mark, so Mark may be ‘late’ in relation to the still earlier versions of the gospel story that it may incorporate. In other words, the extant shorter and longer versions of the anonymous gospel text may stem from a single continuous editorial process rather than from two discrete authorial initiatives.3 2. As R. Bauckham points out, Mark must have circulated widely and rapidly in order to be available to both Matthew and Luke in presumably different locations (‘For Whom Were Gospels Written?’, in The Gospels for All Christians: Rethinking the Gospel Audiences [ed. R. Bauckham; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998], pp. 9–48 [12]). 3. See W. R. Telford, Writing on the Gospel of Mark (Blandford Forum: Deo, 2009), pp. 53–65, for illustrative examples of form-, redaction-, and tradition-critical procedures, in all of which the Markan text is viewed as ‘a multi-layered “composite” of source and redaction’ (p. 63); see also the comprehensive bibliographies on pp. 261–72. 1

WATSON How Did Mark Survive?

3

On this hypothesis, the evangelist-editors responsible for the present form of Mark and Matthew were the ¿nal links in an editorial chain extending back into the obscure origins of gospel writing. Old, preMarkan versions of the gospel survive only insofar as they are incorporated into Mark.4 By analogy, Mark should survive only insofar as it is incorporated into Matthew and not as a discrete entity in its own right. Yet Mark did survive as such: that is the conundrum that is to be solved. The ¿rst task is to validate the hypothesis of the single redactional process in which each earlier version of the gospel was subsumed into its successor. It must be shown that Mark subsumes pre-Mark before being subsumed in its turn by Matthew. Only then will it be possible to return to the question why, in this case, an earlier version was subsumed and yet survived alongside the later one. The task of differentiating older tradition from Markan redaction is fraught with dif¿culties, and its very legitimacy has been called into question by the more recent emphasis on the narrative integrity of the ¿nal, canonical form of the text. Yet this synchronic emphasis represents a methodological decision, and as such it tells us nothing about the viability or value of the diachronic perspectives developed by the older source-, form-, and redaction-critical methods.5 In response to the objection that the results of diachronic-critical methods tend to be ‘speculative’ or ‘subjective’, I shall give examples of Markan redactional procedures that can be substantiated from non-Markan, non-canonical sources.6 4. I assume that the redactor responsible for Mk 1.1–16.8 as we know it inherits not just separate collections of parables and controversy stories, along with a passion narrative, but a text that already integrates these elements into a connected narrative. For the alternative view of Mark’s ‘raw materials’, see J. Marcus, Mark: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (2 vols.; AYB; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000–2009), vol. 1, pp. 57–9. 5. According to John Ashton, narrative-critical approaches ‘are frequently based upon an arbitrary dismissal of the old [diachronic] questions as insigni¿cant or else upon a systematic refusal to allow them a hearing’ (Studying John: Approaches to the Fourth Gospel [Oxford: Clarendon, 1994], p. 143). I agree that diachronic questions should not be dismissed as insigni¿cant, but I do not agree that the choice of a synchronic reading perspective is inherently problematic in that ‘it misconceives the true nature of the Gospels’ (p. 14). Ashton’s monistic hermeneutic fails to recognize that different interpretative goals will necessarily be pursued by different interpretative methods. For my present purposes a diachronic perspective is required. 6. In using non-canonical material to shed light on canonical, I assume that this distinction did not yet exist when these texts were composed. As D. Lührmann rightly emphasized, ‘the term “canonical” does not represent an attribute inherent to the gospels in question. Rather, it presupposes that this status has in some way been 1

4

Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

(i) In Mk 1.40-45 Jesus is approached by a leper, who requests and receives cleansing from his disease. Following the healing, Jesus issues two distinct instructions, one negative (1), the other positive (2), the latter of which is accompanied by an explanation (3): …And he says to him, ‘(1) See that you say nothing to anyone, (2) but go, show yourself to the priest and offer for your puri¿cation what Moses commanded, (3) as a testimony to them’. (Mk 1.44)

The negative and positive injunctions are in some tension with one another, and the evangelist leaves it to his readers to harmonize them. Perhaps the demand for silence applies only to the former leper’s journey to Jerusalem, where his cleansing is to be formally and publicly acknowledged?7 Yet no such restriction is stated, and the tension remains – an indication of a redactional insertion.8 Also noteworthy here is the fact that compliance with the Mosaic Law needs to be explained and justi¿ed: the former leper must subject himself to the elaborate eight-day ritual prescribed in Lev. 14.1-32 ‘as a witness to them’, that is, as a demonstration of Jesus’s power to heal. This is probably a redactional note by an evangelist who does not consider the Mosaic Law to be binding in itself (cf. Mk 7.19). In the fragments of the Egerton gospel, the leper prefaces his appeal for healing with an account of how he came to contract his disease: ‘Rabbi Jesus, while journeying [with] le[pers] and eatin[g with them] in the i[n]n, I too [became a leper]’.9 This unusual anecdotal introduction to the story is probably a secondary feature. In contrast, the ¿rst of the two injunctions following the healing would seem to be primitive: And Jesus [says to him], ‘G[o], show yourse[lf] to th[e priests] and offer [for puri]¿cation as [Moses] com[manded. And] s[i]n no more.’10

ascribed to them: canonical gospels have become such. Until this occurs, however, there can equally be no gospels which deviate from this standard from the outset. “Noncanonical” gospels have become “apocryphal” through the canonization of the others’ (Die apokryph gewordenen Evangelien [NovTSup 112; Leiden: Brill, 2004], p. 2, my translation). 7. As implied by M. Hooker, The Gospel according to St Mark (BNTC; London: A. & C. Black, 1991), p. 81. 8. So R. Bultmann, History of the Synoptic Tradition (Eng. trans.; Oxford: Blackwell, 1963), p. 212. 9. GEger fr.1r, 12-15; Greek text in Thomas J. Kraus, Michael J. Kruger, and Tobias Nicklas (eds.), Gospel Fragments (Oxford Early Christian Gospel Texts; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), p. 42. 10. GEger fr.1r/P. Köln 255r, 19-23. 1

WATSON How Did Mark Survive?

5

Here the ¿nal command to ‘sin no more’ may refer to the association with lepers confessed at the beginning of the story, a breach of the law that requires lepers to remain segregated (cf. Lev. 13.45-46).11 This is a law-observant Jesus, as is already clear from the unquali¿ed demand that the leper submit to the Mosaic ritual – not as a public testimony to Jesus’ God-given mission but because obedience to the law is good and right in itself. Also absent is the secrecy injunction. The Egerton fragments here bring to light a pre-Markan, Jewish Christian version of the story, thereby con¿rming that the Gospel of Mark in its present form is an edited text that subsumed earlier text-forms whose presence may still be detected beneath its surface. In contrast to Mark’s editorial additions to his source, Matthew’s editing of the ¿nal injunctions (Mt. 8.4//Mk 1.44) is conservative and leaves Mark’s version essentially intact. A single editorial process links the pre-Markan form attested in Egerton, Mark’s modi¿cations to it, and Matthew’s appropriation of the version received from Mark. (ii) After Jesus has recounted his parable of the sower and before he interprets it, Mark reports the following exchange with his disciples: And when he was alone, those who were about him with the twelve asked him about the parables. And he said to them: ‘To you is given the mystery of the kingdom of God, but to those outside everything is in parables, so that seeing they may see and not perceive, and hearing they may hear and not understand, lest they turn and be forgiven’. And he says to them, ‘Do you not understand this parable? How then will you understand all the parables? The sower sows the word…’ (Mk 4.10-14)

The initial shift from a speci¿c parable to a question about parables in general is puzzling, as is the assumption underlying Jesus’ subsequent questions that the disciples did – after all – ask speci¿cally about the parable of the sower. Did the disciples ask for an explanation of the parable of the sower, or did they ask a quite different question about the rationale for parabolic teaching? The ¿rst question is answered in the point-by-point interpretation in Mk 4.13-20, the second in the predestinarian parable theory of 4.11-12. Yet it is a single, general question that was posed. Also puzzling is the cumbersome reference to the questioners as ‘those who were about him with the twelve’, and the anomalous transition to a private setting when Jesus is supposedly stationed in a boat in the presence of the crowds (cf. 4.1-2, 36 [n.b. ĸË öÅ ëÅ Ìľ ÈÂÇţĿ]). 11. So Kraus, Kruger, and Nicklas (eds.), Gospel Fragments, p. 61; rejected by Lührmann, Die apokryph gewordenen Evangelien, pp. 135–6.

1

6

Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

These problems are resolved if we envisage a pre-Markan text form in which the parable theory is absent and the direct link between the parable and its interpretation is restored: And [ ] those who were about him [ ] asked him about the parable[ ]. And he said to them: ‘Do you not understand this parable? How then will you understand all the parables? The sower sows the word…’ (Mk 4.10, 13-14)12

It is possible to trace the parable of the sower one stage further back with some help from the Gospel of Thomas.13 In its present form this work postdates the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, since it incorporates distinctive features of Matthean or Lukan redaction at a number of points.14 That does not mean that it is always and everywhere dependent on Matthew and Luke, however, and individual Thomasine sayings or parables may in principle preserve pre-synoptic text-forms. In this case the parable not only lacks the interpretative key provided by Mark and the immediate pre-Markan text, but is actually incompatible with it. The interpretative key identi¿es four different responses to the Word, three of which are initially positive: the seed germinates not only on the good soil but also on the rocky ground and among the thorns. The interpretation reÀects back on the mixed experience of church life, in which some individuals are deterred from pursuing their Christian vocation by persecution or worldly cares. In the Gospel of Thomas, however, the ¿rst three types of ground produce unambiguously negative results from the start. The result is a simple binary divide between negative and positive outcomes: Jesus said: ‘Behold, the sower went out, he ¿lled his hand, he cast. And some fell on the path; the birds came, they gathered them. Others fell on the rock, and did not take root down into the earth and produced no ear up to heaven. And others fell on the thorns; they choked the seed and the worm ate them. And others fell upon the good soil and gave good fruit up to heaven; it gave sixty per measure and a hundred and twenty per measure.’ (GTh 9) 12. Cf. J. Jeremias, The Parables of Jesus (3d ed.; Eng. trans.; London: SCM, 1972), pp. 13–14. 13. Cf. H. Koester, Ancient Christian Gospels: Their History and Development (London: SCM, 1990), pp. 102–3; J. D. Crossan, In Parables: The Challenge of the Historical Jesus (Sonoma, CA: Polebridge, 1992), pp. 39–44. 14. Conclusively demonstrated by S. Gathercole, The Composition of the Gospel of Thomas: Original Language and InÀuences (SNTSMS; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), and M. Goodacre, Thomas and the Gospels: The Case for Thomas’s Familiarity with the Synoptics (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012). 1

WATSON How Did Mark Survive?

7

In this form, the parable highlights the fact that much of the seed goes to waste. Whatever the age of its precise wording, the binary structure and the absence of an interpretative key would seem to be genuinely primitive features. In subjecting the parable to a point-by-point interpretation, the pre-Markan tradition exploits the possibility of differentiating between the three negative outcomes, ¿nding signi¿cance in each in turn. Mark 4.1-20 thus attests a three-stage textual history: an originally binary parable is supplemented by the interpretative key and then by the parable theory. Two prior text-forms are subsumed into the present form of the text – itself destined to be subsumed into the still more expansive Matthean version (Matthean additions italicized, main emendations underlined): And coming to him the disciples said to him: ‘Why do you speak to them in parables?’ He answered and said, ‘To you is given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven, to them it is not given. For whoever has, it will be given to him and he will have abundance, but whoever does not have, even what he does have will be taken from him. This is why I speak to them in parables, because seeing they do not see and hearing they do not hear or understand. And the prophecy of Isaiah is ful¿lled in them: ‘Hearing you will hear and not understand, and seeing you will see and not perceive. The heart of this people has grown dull, and their ears are heavy of hearing, and their eyes they have closed, lest they should see with their eyes and hear with their ears and understand with their heart and turn for me to heal them.’ But blessed are your eyes because they see and your ears because they hear. Truly I say to you, many prophets and righteous people desired to see what you see and did not see, and to hear what you hear and did not hear. You then, hear the parable of the sower…’ (Mt. 13.10-18)

Here, the Matthean editor has omitted the problematic Markan references to a private setting and to a group of questioners wider than the Twelve. The disciples’ question is now reported in direct speech and is explicitly linked to its answer after the parenthetical account of the disciples’ privileged status in vv. 11-12. The Markan contrast between insiders and outsiders is expanded by the addition of the ‘whoever has’ saying and the long citation from Isa. 6.9-10, which in turn generates a contrast between the closed eyes and ears of the crowds and the open eyes and ears of the disciples. Just as earlier text-forms may be uncovered in Mark, so vestiges of the Markan form may be discerned in Matthew. A single editorial process leads from the simple uninterpreted parable attested in Thomas to an increasingly complex and elaborate interpretative structure that culminates in Matthew. After Matthew, there seems no need for Mark to be preserved as an independent entity. 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

(iii) In Mk 14.26-30 Jesus predicts his abandonment by his disciples but promises that ‘after I am raised I will go before you to Galilee’ (v. 28). The promise breaks the connection between the prediction, ‘You will all fall away…’ (v. 27), and Peter’s protestation that ‘Even if they all fall away, I will not’ (v. 29).15 We might conclude that the promise is redactional and that it anticipates the young man’s message at the empty tomb on Easter morning: ‘Go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going before you to Galilee, there you will see him as he told you’ (16.7). Yet in the next verse it is stated that the women did not carry out this commission but Àed in terror: ‘And going out they Àed from the tomb, for trembling and astonishment had come upon them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid’ (16.8). The gospel ends in an impasse: the women’s silence presumably prevents the male disciples from receiving the Easter message and from journeying to Galilee in expectation of the promised reunion. Thus no such Galilean reunion is narrated; indeed, post-resurrection appearance stories are entirely lacking in Mark, which concludes with the Àight from the tomb. The equivalent scene in the Gospel of Peter shows a familiarity with Mark and draws on Markan language. Only in these two gospels do the women pose the question, ‘Who will roll away for us the stone from [GPet: laid against] the door of the tomb?’, adding that the stone was very large (Mk 16.3, 4; GPet 12.53-54). In Peter as in Mark, the women encountered a young man in white or shining robes seated within the tomb (Mk 16.4; GPet 12.55; cf. 11.44 where the young man is seen to descend from heaven and enter the tomb to await the women). In its Petrine version the youthful angel’s message is as follows: ‘Why did you come? Whom do you seek? Not the one who was cruci¿ed? He is risen and has departed. If you do not believe, bend down and see the place where he lay, because he is not [there]. For he is risen and has departed to the place from which he was sent.’ Then the women were frightened and Àed. (GPet 13.56-57)

The Àight from the tomb motif closely resembles Mk 16.8, and there is no quali¿cation of the women’s terror by the ‘great joy’ envisaged by Matthew (Mt. 28.8). Absent however is the Markan reference to the 15. The intrusive reference to Galilee is absent in the so-called Fayum Fragment, on which see Lührmann, Die apokryph gewordenen Evangelien, pp. 87–90. But Lührmann’s assignment of this text fragment to the Gospel of Peter is rightly rejected by Thomas J. Kraus and Tobias Nicklas (eds.), Das Petrusevangelium und die Petrusapolakypse: Die grieschischen Fragmente mit deutscher und englischer Übersetzung (GCS, Neutestamentliche Apokryphen 1; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2004), pp. 65–8. 1

WATSON How Did Mark Survive?

9

women’s silence. In the Petrine context it is irrelevant whether the women speak or are silent, for they are invited only to look and are not entrusted with any message for the male disciples. Also absent is the promise of reunion in Galilee, which in Mark seems to anticipate an unnarrated post-Easter appearance. In the Petrine gospel the disciples return to Galilee not in the expectation of seeing Jesus but because that is where their homes are (GPet 14.58-59). As the fragmentary text comes to an end, Simon Peter and Andrew have resumed their former activity as ¿shermen (14.60); the risen Jesus will no doubt shortly appear at the lakeside, as in the parallel story in John 21. Thus the Petrine empty tomb story is entirely self-contained, and there is no link with a narrated or unnarrated Galilean appearance. The question is whether the Petrine redaction of Mark sheds light on Mark’s anomalous ending – the authoritative angelic commission, the women’s terri¿ed silence. Does the Gospel of Peter reÀect a pre-Markan text-form in which the young man at the tomb does nothing more than announce Jesus’ resurrection, without commissioning the women to pass on the news and without reference to a future resurrection appearance? If Mk 16.7 is regarded as secondary (alongside 14.28), this results in a coherent story complete in itself. The hypothetical redactor responsible for inserting the two Galilean reunion passages would be motivated by a perceived need to link the ending of this gospel with the appearance tradition (already attested, of course, in Paul [cf. 1 Cor. 15.5-8]). The redactor does not have a Galilean appearance story at his disposal – that will later be provided by Matthew, John, and no doubt Peter – but he can at least gesture towards an occurrence lying beyond the bounds of his narrative, speaking of it as always future just as the resurrection event itself lies in an unnarrated past. One might see here traces of a reticence in the face of the supreme divine mysteries. In Matthew’s rewriting of Mark, the anomaly has disappeared: ‘…Go quickly and tell his disciples that he has been raised from the dead, and behold, he is going before you to Galilee, there you will see – behold, I have told you!’ And going quickly from the tomb with fear and great joy they ran to tell his disciples. And behold, Jesus met them saying, ‘Hail!’ And they came up and held his feet and worshipped him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Fear not! Go and tell my brethren to go to Galilee, there they will see me.’ (Mt. 28.7-10)

The Matthean women hurry to do exactly what the angel instructs them to do, and they are rewarded by an immediate appearance of Jesus himself, who repeats the angelic instruction – although in a third-person form that excludes the women themselves from the Galilean journey and 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

reunion. That reunion duly takes place (Mt. 28.16-20). The Matthean evangelist has successfully and economically addressed the anomalies of the Markan text as he subsumes it into his own work.16 From his standpoint there is no further need of the earlier text, whose continuing use alongside his own will only create new anomalies. ‘Mark’ – we recall that this text is not yet ‘Mark’ but an anonymous gospel book – should now disappear as an independent entity. It has served its purpose. III. Conserving Mark Why did Mark survive as an independent work and not just as a stratum within the Matthean text? If earlier text-forms were subsumed into Mark itself, and survive only insofar as they remain embedded there, why was this not the case when Mark was subjected to the comprehensive Matthean editing? The answer must be that a signi¿cant number of early Christian communities continued to use Mark even after Matthew became available to them. It was felt that the new version of the gospel supplemented the old one rather than superseding it. In some communities, perhaps, that was not the case: the old text gradually fell into disuse as the greater comprehensiveness and intelligibility of the new text became evident. Overall, however, the older gospel text must have been too well established in the church’s liturgical and catechetical life to be easily dislodged. In integrating Matthew into its communal usage alongside Mark, the church acknowledged de facto that the written gospel is plural in form. Evidence that this collective decision is taking shape may be seen at three main points. (i) The interval between Matthew’s composition and Luke’s was probably at least as long as the interval between Mark’s composition and Matthew’s. Luke is still unknown to Papias and draws items of information from Josephus’s Antiquities, composed in Rome in the 90s.17 It is, presumably, a work of the early years of the second century. The conventional earlier dating rests on the questionable assumptions that the 16. ‘It is as if, where Mark wants to emphasize the mystery of the divine action, such that concealment on God’s side and misunderstanding on the human side are part of the very essence of things, Matthew wants to provide sure grounds for faith’ (S. C. Barton, ‘The Gospel according to Matthew’, in The Cambridge Companion to the Gospels [ed. S. C. Barton; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006], pp. 121–38 [133–4]). 17. See Steve Mason, Josephus and the New Testament (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1998), pp. 185–229. 1

WATSON How Did Mark Survive?

11

author was the companion of Paul who speaks in the ‘we-passages’ of Acts and that Luke writes without knowledge of Matthew (a necessary postulate of the ‘Q’ hypothesis). A later Luke offers a glimpse of an ecclesial setting in which plural gospel texts are already established. ‘Inasmuch as many have attempted to compose a narrative of the things that have been ful¿lled among us…’ (Lk. 1.1). The Lukan evangelist self-consciously presents his work as a ‘late’ text that follows the precedent of earlier ventures in gospel writing with which he expects his readers to be familiar, at least in general terms. It was on the basis of one or more of these earlier texts that Theophilus was ‘instructed’ (Á¸Ì¾ÏŢ¿¾Ë, Lk. 1.4); the new text will cover much the same ground as the earlier ones but in a more reliable manner. In reality, Mark is subsumed into Luke in much the same way as he is subsumed into Matthew. Yet the Lukan preface tacitly acknowledges that Mark has, and will presumably continue to have, an independent status of its own – alongside Matthew and whatever else is included in the ÈÇÂÂÇţ (1.1). The Lukan evangelist believes his work to be superior to his predecessors’: what they only ‘attempted’ he has now achieved. But he does not demand or expect that these early attempts should be discarded. Crucially, they are seen as the work of individual authors like Luke himself. These texts are still anonymous in the sense that their authors remain unnamed, yet they are presented as discrete, ¿nished, and individually authored works, not as a single ongoing production on which numerous editors and scribes have collaborated to preserve and shape the collective apostolic testimony. The Lukan ÈÇÂÂÇţ is, perhaps, the earliest acknowledgment of gospel plurality and thus of Mark’s right to a continuing existence. Luke is almost certainly familiar with Matthew and thus with Matthew’s relation to Mark.18 Only a knowledge of Matthew can account for the remarkable series of parallel moves made by the two later evangelists as they expand their predecessor’s work, adding birth stories and a genealogy at or near the beginning, post-resurrection appearance stories at the end, and collections of sayings and a small number of narrative items in between. Thus Luke and Matthew use essentially the same Markan material to provide a setting for their respective versions of Jesus’ inaugural sermon, relocated by Luke from a mountain-top to a plain (cf. Mk 3.13-19; Mt. 4.25–5.3; Lk. 6.12-20). At point after point, Luke follows Matthean precedent but also resists it and diverges from it; and this is also the case in his response to Matthew’s treatment of Mark.

18. See Mark Goodacre, The Case against Q (Harrisville: Trinity Press International, 2002). 1

12

Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

In Matthew 1–7 the evangelist draws from Mark several items that must be placed at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry: the preparatory work of John the Baptist (3.1-12), the baptism of Jesus and the descent of the Spirit (3.13-17), the initial preaching and the call of the ¿rst disciples (4.17-22). Otherwise Matthew’s engagement with Mark begins in earnest only in ch. 8, and even there the sequence diverges from Mark and the non-Markan story of the centurion’s servant is prominently positioned (8.5-13). For a reader familiar with Mark, the impression is given that the Markan narrative has been broken up and reassembled at random. Unlike Papias, for whom Mark’s order is wrong and had to be put straight by Matthew, Luke prefers the original Markan order to the secondary Matthean one. Thus in Luke the inaugural sermon follows a lengthy introduction to Jesus’ Galilean ministry which reproduces the Markan sequence (Lk. 3.1–6.19 // Mk 1.1–3.19) with just two signi¿cant exceptions (Lk. 4.18-31; 5.1-11). The drastic curtailing and rewriting of Matthew’s inaugural sermon also serves to highlight the Markan groundplan of Luke’s narrative. In Luke, one might almost say, Mark is vindicated over against Matthew. After several decades perhaps of being read alongside Matthew, Mark is holding its own. (ii) In book 3 of his Against Heresies, Irenaeus notes how, ‘at the end of his gospel Mark states, “And the Lord Jesus, after he had spoken to them, was received into heaven and is seated at the right hand of God.” ’19 The Markan ending in question is the so-called Longer Ending (16.9-20), which must therefore have been added to the older text well before Irenaeus’s time of writing (ca. 180 C.E.).20 The Longer Ending is rather loosely linked to the conclusion of the Markan empty tomb story: …And going out they Àed from the tomb, for trembling and astonishment had come upon them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. And when he arose early on the ¿rst day of the week, he appeared ¿rst to Mary Magdalene, from whom he had cast out seven demons. She went and told those who were with him as they grieved and wept, but when they heard that he was alive and had been seen by her they did not believe. (Mk 16.8-11)

19. Adv. Haer. iii.10.5, citing Mk 16.19: ‘In ¿ne autem evangelii ait Marcus, “Et quidem Dominus Iesus postquam locutus est eis receptus est in coelos et sedet ad dexteram Dei” ’. 20. For a summary of the text-critical evidence, see B. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the New Testament (London/New York: United Bible Societies, 1975), pp. 122–8. 1

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In contrast to the seamless connection created by Matthew between the empty tomb story and Jesus’ ¿rst appearance, the Longer Ending has the appearance of a self-contained appendix. Three appearances are listed in order: the ¿rst is to Mary Magdalene, the second, ‘in another form’, to two disciples on the road (16.12-13), and the third to the eleven disciples (16.14-18). The sequence is brought to an end with references to the ascension and the apostolic mission (16.19-20). Although the Longer Ending is often seen as a succinct ‘harmony’ of the Johannine, Lukan, and Matthean post-resurrection narratives, its repeated emphasis on the disciples’ unbelief (16.11, 13, 14 [×2]) is distinctive, as is the emphasis on the signs that would accompany the apostolic mission (16.17-18, 20).21 In spite of the preceding promise of the Galilean reunion (16.7), the Longer Ending provides little information as to where the appearances took place. In its own way, however, it provides an effective link between the events of Easter day and the apostolic mission that establishes the church. On the one hand, the Longer Ending attempts to rectify a perceived defect in Mark’s previous text-form: the lack of appearance stories. This has come to seem a defect because later gospels include such stories. The Longer Ending shows an awareness of John (Mk 16.9-11 // Jn 20.11-18), Luke (Mk 16.12-13 // Lk. 24.13-35), and Matthew (Mk 16.15 // Mt. 28.19-20). On the other hand, in the very act of rectifying the defect the Longer Ending attempts to ensure Mark’s canonical future. It is a gesture of con¿dence in a text that may be in danger of succumbing to criticism or neglect, an expression of hope that the older text will continue to hold its own over against its more popular rivals. In a further twist, the Longer Ending was by no means universally adopted, in spite of Irenaeus’s con¿dent statement about where Mark ended his gospel. The Longer Ending arrives on the scene too late to establish itself unproblematically as the canonical ending. At some point yet another ending is proposed, the so-called Shorter Ending which may have originated as a summary of the longer one: …And going out they Àed from the tomb, for trembling and astonishment had come upon them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. And they brieÀy reported everything they had been told to those who were with Peter. After this Jesus himself sent out through them from east to west the holy and imperishable message of eternal salvation. Amen. 21. The emphasis on unbelief is so strong that, in a later expansion of the Longer Ending, the disciples are provided with a lengthy apologia (Metzger, Textual Commentary, pp. 124–5). This so-called “Freer Logion” is attested in the fourth-/ ¿fth-century Codex Washingtonensis (W). 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

Thus at least three endings of Mark are in play: the primitive ending (16.8), the Longer Ending, and the Shorter Ending.22 Each of these competing attempts to end Mark appropriately represents a commitment to the future use of this text, rather than allowing it to be eclipsed by more comprehensive rivals. (iii) It is likely that Mark’s prospects of survival were enhanced by the identi¿cation of the evangelist as Mark, and of Mark as interpreter of Peter. A named author and a prestigious apostolic source transform an anonymous pre-Matthean version of the gospel into an independent entity in its own right. This bestowal of an authorial name and an apostolic guarantor stems from Papias, who was also the ¿rst to associate Matthew with a written gospel text. Papias claims the authority of ‘the Elder’ for his Mark tradition: And this the Elder used to say: Mark, Peter’s translator, wrote accurately what he remembered of the things said or done by the Lord, but not in order. For he neither heard nor followed the Lord, but later, as I said, Peter – who adapted his teachings as required, rather than providing an ordered account of the dominical sayings. So Mark was not at fault in writing as he remembered, for he had just one concern: to omit nothing of the things he had heard and to falsify nothing in them.23

It is probable, although not entirely certain, that the text to which Papias refers corresponds to the Gospel of Mark rather than to some other text real or imagined. Papias is primarily interested in the sayings tradition, yet notes that the Markan text recorded ‘the things said or done by the Lord’, and thus presented material from the sayings tradition within a narrative framework. Equally crucially, he is offering an apologia for a text with which he expects his intended readers to be familiar. It seems that the text in question has evoked critical questioning on account of its supposedly incorrect sequence, and Papias here explains how he thinks the problem arose: Mark became familiar with the Lord’s sayings and actions through Peter’s preaching, and Peter was in the habit of citing individual sayings or actions to illustrate points his audience needed to hear, without reference to their context within Jesus’ life and ministry. The statement about Matthew that follows may indicate the real root of 22. Recent scholarship tends to echo Wellhausen’s preference for an ending at Mk. 16.8: ‘Es fehlt nichts; es wäre schade, wenn noch etwas hinterher käme’ (J. Wellhausen, Das Evangelium Marci [2d ed.; Berlin: G. Reimer, 1909], p. 137). The variant endings should however be taken seriously where the focus is on the canonical Mark. 23. Cited by Eusebius, HE iii.39.15. 1

WATSON How Did Mark Survive?

15

the perceived problem. According to Papias, ‘Matthew compiled the sayings [ÌÛ ÂŦºÀ¸ ÊÍż̊ƸÌÇ] in the Hebrew language, and each person translated them as far as he was able’.24 If for Papias and his readership the Gospel of Matthew has established itself as an authoritative compilation of ‘the things said or done by the Lord’, then the origin of the problem of Markan sequence is clear: Mark appears disordered because its sequence diverges from Matthew’s.25 As a follower of Jesus rather than of Peter, Matthew was in a position to get the biographical sequence right whereas Mark was not. In sum, Papias speaks of narrative gospels well-known to his readers, who are puzzled by the differences between them. Early readers of Papias were probably right to assume that he was referring to the texts they knew as the Gospels of Mark and Matthew. Papias’s statements provide no reliable historical information about the origins of either gospel, but they do provide valuable insight into the early reception of Mark and Matthew. The assignment of named authors or editors to the anonymous texts is an explicit acknowledgment that the written gospel exists in more than one version: in spite of its perceived de¿ciencies, ‘Mark’ is accorded an independent status alongside ‘Matthew’. Papias also acknowledges that yet more versions of the written gospel are in circulation elsewhere, attributing them to divergent translations of the imaginary Hebrew Matthew. In the communities with which Papias is familiar, however, Mark’s gospel has been supplemented by Matthew’s; the two Greek texts are both supposedly derived from an original apostolic Hebrew or Aramaic. A preference for Matthew has led to a certain downgrading of Mark, but the authorship legend both reÀects and assures Mark’s continuing usage and status. It is remarkable that the link with Peter should coincide with a reduction to a secondary status in relation to Matthew. Already in the Papias passage it is implied that this Petrine gospel is not as a Petrine gospel ought to be, since its author could only record the isolated sayings and anecdotes cited in Peter’s preaching and was unable to draw on the apostle’s wider knowledge of Jesus’ biography. Ambivalence towards this supposedly Petrine gospel is still more strongly conveyed in Clement of Alexandria’s version of the authorship legend:

24. Eusebius, HE iii.39.16. 25. Contra R. Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses: The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), pp. 222–30. For Bauckham it is the Gospel of John that provided Papias’s benchmark for correct sequence.

1

16

Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives When Peter publicly preached the word in Rome and in the Spirit proclaimed the gospel, those present, who were many, requested Mark, as he had long followed him and remembered what he had said, to put it into writing. This he did, and gave the gospel to those who had requested it of him. When Peter became aware of this, he neither explicitly prohibited it nor endorsed it.26

Here Mark no longer writes on his own initiative (presumably following the death of Peter), but at the request of others. Strikingly, Peter refuses to endorse Mark’s record of his own preaching. Nevertheless, Mark’s Gospel survives. It is Irenaeus who provides the de¿nitive solution to the problem of de¿ning a status both normative and secondary, by the simple expedient of placing Mark in second place after Matthew: Matthew produced a written gospel [ºÉ¸ÎüÅ ¼Ĥ¸ºº¼ÂţÇÍ] among the Hebrews in their own language while Peter and Paul were in Rome preaching and founding the church. After their departure Mark, the disciple and translator of Peter, likewise handed down to us the things preached by Peter, in written form [뺺ɊÎÑË]. And Luke, who followed Paul, set down the gospel preached by him in a book. Then John, the disciple of the Lord, who reclined upon his breast, likewise produced a gospel while living in Ephesus in Asia.27

Here, the lateness of Mark and Luke in relation to Matthew reÀects their secondary, post-apostolic status. Yet the patronage of Rome’s two great apostolic martyrs ensures that both books can take their place within a fourfold canonical collection. From now on, that place will not be seriously challenged. IV. Conclusion How did Mark survive? The question arises from Mark’s incorporation into Matthew, which might have been viewed as an enlarged, improved second edition that made the earlier text redundant – especially in the original absence of authorial names. The originally anonymous text we know as ‘Mark’ seems itself to have incorporated still earlier text-forms, and occasional traces of these can be glimpsed with the help of parallel material preserved in non-canonical texts. How did Mark survive as an independent work even after incorporation into Matthew, when preMarkan gospel editions were apparently incorporated without remainder into Mark? One factor was no doubt that usage of Mark was already widely established when Matthew became available: congregations

1

26. Cited from Clement’s Hypotyposeis by Eusebius, HE vi.14.6-7. 27. Adv. Haer. iii.1.1; Greek cited in Eusebius, HE v.8.1-5.

WATSON How Did Mark Survive?

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chose to use the new text alongside the old one, rather than replacing the old with the new. Luke’s Gospel opens with a reference to the ‘many’ who have written an account of the gospel events, and this is an early indication that gospel plurality was becoming accepted as normal and that Luke expects his text to coexist with its predecessors, including Mark. Later in the second century, Mark was equipped with an alternative ending which, in rectifying a perceived de¿ciency, seeks to ensure Mark’s continuing status and use as an authentic version of the gospel. Finally, continuing concerns about the supposedly inferior quality of the Markan Gospel were outweighed by the provision of an author closely associated with the chief of the apostles.

1

PARAGON OF DISCIPLESHIP? SIMON OF CYRENE IN THE MARKAN PASSION NARRATIVE Helen K. Bond

I. Introduction Á¸Ė Òºº¸É¼įÇÍÊÀŠȸÉÚºÇÅÌÚ ÌÀŸ ĕÄÑŸ ÍɾŸėÇÅ ëÉÏĠļÅÇÅ ÒÈЏ ÒºÉÇı, ÌġŠȸÌñɸ ¼ÆÚÅ»ÉÇÍ Á¸Ė tÇįÎÇÍ, ďŸ ÓÉþ ÌġÅ Ê̸ÍÉġÅ ¸ĤÌÇı. And they compelled a passer-by, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming in from the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, to carry his cross. (Mk 15.21)

As Jesus begins his journey to Golgotha in Mark’s Gospel, we are introduced to a new character: Simon of Cyrene. He bursts into the narrative amidst a wealth of detail, carries Jesus’ cross to the place of execution, and disappears as quickly as he appeared (Mk 15.21). Church tradition has tended to treat Simon sympathetically. At least from the time of Origen he has commonly been seen as a paragon of discipleship. His act of kindness towards Jesus was later remembered in the Stations of the Cross; and Christian art and reÀection have fondly remembered his act of service. More recently, Jesus ¿lms delight in the character of Simon, casting his actions as a brief moment of devotion in a generally bleak landscape. Cecil B. De Mille’s King of Kings, for example, has Simon volunteer his help, urged on by a small child. Not only does Simon save Jesus from the Roman lash, but he takes his hand and lifts the cross with a smile. The words ‘I will bear Thy cross, Friend’ are emblazoned across the screen, rather curiously attributed to Mk 15.21.1 Similarly, in George Stevens’ The Greatest Story Ever Told, Simon volunteers to help and carries the cross alongside Jesus. As he watches the cruci¿xion, we see his tear-stained cheeks.2 Even when Simon is pressed into service, as is the case in Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, an initially reluctant Simon cannot help but be moved by the man 1. King of Kings, 1927; the part of Simon was played by William Boyd. 2. The Greatest Story Ever Told, 1965; the part of Simon was played by Sidney Poitier.

BOND Paragon of Discipleship?

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he is forced to help.3 This positive assessment runs into much modern scholarship, too, where Simon is seen as the ¿rst to take up his cross, often in contrast to the feckless twelve who have all conspicuously run away (Mk 14.50).4 The homiletic value of these readings is clear, and it is arguably the case that the Lukan Simon is to be seen as an example of discipleship.5 But what of Mark? Did this evangelist intend Simon to be characterized in such a way? Put differently, does the rhetoric of the narrative at this point guide the interpreter towards a particularly positive assessment of Simon and his actions, or something else entirely? In the following essay I shall suggest that Simon does not function as an exemplar of discipleship for Mark, that that role belongs ¿rmly to Jesus, the central character of the bios, and that Simon’s main function in the text is to highlight Jesus’ kingship. First, though, it will be worth looking at why the view of Simon as disciple par excellence has been so popular. II. Paradigm of Discipleship Almost everything about Simon is uncertain. Is he Jewish or Gentile? Has he relocated to Jerusalem on a permanent basis, or is he in the holy city only for the Passover? Has he just come from the country (i.e. from Cyrene), or from the ¿eld (i.e. from his work)? And were either of these two activities acceptable on the Day of Passover? Scholars have pondered all of these questions, and have offered a range of possible answers.6 What is quite clear, however, is the fact that he carried Jesus’ 3. The Passion of the Christ, 2004; the part of Simon was played by Jarreth Merz. 4. In the more secular world, Simon’s name has become a byword for one who helps another, even inspiring the Cyrenian charity. The Edinburgh Cyrenians give the following as their philosophy: ‘Where one of us stumbles, the other will wait, lift their neighbour up again and once again walk on together’; see their website, www.cyrenian.org.uk/about_cyrenians/ (accessed 12 January 2015). 5. See the monograph by S. B. Crowder, Simon of Cyrene: A Case of Roman Conscription (New York: Peter Lang, 2002), which describes him as a ‘disciple par excellence’ in Luke’s gospel (p. xii). For a different view, see S. Bøe, Cross-Bearing in Luke (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), especially pp. 198–220. 6. Simon is seen as Jewish by J. Marcus (Mark 8–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [New York: Doubleday, 2000], p. 1041) and A. Yarbro Collins (Mark: A Commentary [Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007], pp. 735–6) and Gentile by C. Myers (Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus [Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1988], p. 385). He is seen as a Cyrenian settler in Jerusalem by Collins (Mark, pp. 735–6) and coming in from work by G. Theissen (The Gospels in Context: Social and Political History in the Synoptic Tradition [Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1992], p. 167). On the dif¿culties with Markan 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

cross (Ê̸ÍÉĠË), or more accurately, the crossbeam (patibulum in Latin), which the condemned man himself would normally be compelled to drag to the place of execution.7 To some, Simon’s actions echo Jesus’ words in Mk 8.34, where he declares to the crowd: ‘If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross (Ê̸ÍÉĠË) and follow me’. These words are a graphic summary of Jesus’ teaching on discipleship throughout the gospel, which has consistently stressed the need for self-sacri¿cial service, for those who are ¿rst to put themselves last, and for followers not to behave as others do (Mk 8.33–9.1; 10.35-45).8 ‘Cross-carrying’, then, seems to epitomise what it means to be a disciple of Jesus, and to represent the ultimate way of following his example. It is hardly surprising, then, that many scholars praise Simon’s actions here, regarding him as an example of ‘cross-bearing discipleship’, and his service as a ‘paradigmatic act’.9 In a recent lengthy treatment, Brian K. Blount argues that Simon in Mark ‘provides an illustrative example of a “disciple” doing as Jesus commanded in ch. 8’, and that he functions as ‘a model worthy of imitation in the Markan community’.10 Some have gone even further, arguing that Simon was created by the evangelist speci¿cally to illustrate Mk 8.34, and to do what another Simon – Simon Peter – could not.11 Narrative critics have seen Simon’s act as part of a wider pattern. In their seminal work, David Rhoads and Donald Michie argued that minor characters in Mark ‘consistently exemplify the values of the rule of God’.12 The actions of these characters become particularly prominent chronology at this point, see my article, ‘Dating the Death of Jesus: Memory and the Religious Imagination’, NTS 59 (2013), pp. 461–75. 7. This was normal Roman practice, see Chariton, Chaereas and Callirhoe 4.2.7; Plutarch, Moralia 554 A/B; Plautus, Carbonaria 2; Artemidorus, Oneirocritica 2.56. As R. E. Brown points out, the words for cross and crossbeam were interchangeable, The Death of the Messiah: From Gethsemane to the Grave (New York: Doubleday, 1994), p. 913 (citing Seneca, De vita beata 19.3 and Tacitus, Histories 4.3). 8. See K. E. Brower, ‘ “We Are Able”, Cross-bearing Discipleship and the Ways of the Lord in Mark’, Horizons in Biblical Theology 29 (2007), pp. 177–201. 9. So J. Marcus, Mark, p. 1048, and B. Witherington, The Gospel of Mark: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), p. 394 n. 145. 10. B. K. Blount, ‘A Socio-Rhetorical Analysis of Simon of Cyrene: Mark 15.21 and its Parallels’, Semeia 64 (1993), pp. 171–98 (178). 11. So S. Reinach, ‘Simon de Cyrene’, in Cultes, Myths et Religions (5 vols.; Paris: Leroux, 1904–23), vol. 4, pp. 181–8; R. Funk and the Jesus Seminar, The Acts of Jesus: The Search for the Authentic Deeds of Jesus (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1998), pp. 154–5, 261, 360. 12. D. Rhoads and D. Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982), pp. 129–35 (129). A similar view is taken in 1

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within the passion narrative where, in addition to Simon, we meet a number of other ¿gures: the woman who anoints Jesus for burial (Mk 14.3-9), the centurion who confesses Jesus as Son of God (Mk 15.39), and Joseph of Arimathaea who courageously asks for the body of Jesus and gives him a decent burial (Mk 15.42-46). Noting the earlier Àight of the twelve, Bas van Iersel observes that these minor characters ‘are people who act in the right way where Jesus’ supporters fail. Do not they rather than the disciples play the role readers of the book might wish to imitate?’13 For the majority of literary critics, Simon and other minor characters take the place of the fearful and increasingly bafÀed disciples who have all abandoned Jesus at his arrest or shortly afterwards. Unlike the twelve, however, these bit-part players instinctively understand what discipleship means, and so can be held up as examples to Mark’s audience.14 III. Flies in the Ointment There are, however, a number of dif¿culties with this interpretation. Most important is Mark’s use of the word Òºº¸É¼įÑ, meaning ‘to conscript’, or ‘to press into service’. Originally a Persian term relating to the royal post, by Roman times it had come to denote the requisitioning of any kind of civil or military service, including carrying soldiers’ packs and offering hospitality or supplies. The same word is used in Mt. 5.42, where it clearly refers to a hostile and unwelcome demand to render service to the governor’s troops.15 Mark’s use of this word clearly suggests that Simon was forced to carry the cross by the Roman the third edition published by Fortress in 2012 (now with J. Dewey); see pp. 130–5. Simon and others are named in the Passion Narrative, we are told, to emphasize ‘that people achieve their full identity in acts of service’ (p. 133). 13. B. van Iersel, Reading Mark (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1989), p. 188. For the scholars considered here, ‘minor characters’ are those who appear only once in the narrative; the women at the burial and the tomb, therefore, are not included. 14. See, for example, E. S. Malbon, ‘The Major Importance of the Minor Characters in Mark’, in New Literary Criticism and the New Testament (ed. E. S. Malbon; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 1994), pp. 58–86; J. F. Williams, ‘Discipleship and Minor Characters in Mark’s Gospel’, Bibliotheca Sacra 153 (1996), pp. 332–43. A. E. Gardner (Reading between the Texts: Minor Characters who Prepare the Way for Jesus’, Encounter 66 [2005], pp. 45–66 [46]) mentions Simon in passing and appears to regard him as one who removes obstacles from the way of Jesus (building on Mk 1.2-3), though he does not discuss him in any depth. 15. For a fuller account, see J. D. M. Derrett, ‘Law in the New Testament: The Palm Sunday Colt’, NovT 13 (1971), pp. 241–58, especially pp. 243–4; Crowder, Simon, pp. 69–77. 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

soldiers – and also implies, presumably, that it was not an arrangement about which he was altogether happy. It is dif¿cult, then, to see Simon’s action as an example of voluntarily ‘taking up’ the cross. In further reference to Mk 8.34, we might also note that there is no indication that Simon has denied himself in any way, nor does he bear his own cross (despite later Gnostic interpretations16). In the end, Mk 8.34 and the present passage share a number of key words (Ê̸ÍÉĠË and ¸ċÉÑ being the most important), but the circumstances of Simon’s actions seem far removed from the ideals of discipleship outlined by Jesus. In fact, we might even say that they are an ironic twist on Mk 8.34 (a point we shall come back to later). It is worth pointing out that not all scholars see Mark’s use of Òºº¸É¼įÑ as problematic. While most promoters of the ‘Simon as example’ reading pass over it in silence, Blount turns Simon’s conscription into a virtue: ‘As Simon was compelled by higher authorities and had no choice, so will they (Mark’s audience) be compelled. For a believer there is no choice: to af¿rm Jesus will be to risk the reality of the cross.’17 In a quite different vein, Gregory the Great in the late sixth century saw Simon as a negative example of someone whose outward actions were praiseworthy (he carried the cross) but who lacked any real inner commitment (he was forced to do it).18 Few nowadays would derive quite the same morals from the story as Gregory, but a reasonable number of interpreters do resist seeing Simon as a positive example, largely because of the element of compulsion in his story. The reason for Simon’s inclusion in the account for these scholars is not because Mark wanted to make a point about discipleship, but simply for historical reasons. Simon really had carried Jesus’ cross; his name featured in the earliest passion narratives, and his sons, Alexander and Rufus, were known to Mark’s audience and could be called upon to verify the story. Hence Simon’s act was forever linked with the story of Jesus’ execution.19 A second odd feature of the narrative at this point, and one not often remarked upon by narrative critics, is that Simon is not the principal focus of attention. He is clearly the subject of the subjunctive verb ÓÉþ (loosely meaning ‘to carry’ or ‘to take up’ here), but the prime movers in 16. Irenaeus attributes to Basilides the idea that Simon was cruci¿ed in place of Jesus (Against Haeresies 1.24.4). 17. Blount, ‘Socio-Rhetorical’, p. 178. 18. See M. DelCogliano, ‘Gregory the Great on Simon of Cyrene: A Critique of Tradition’, Annali di Storia Dell-Esegesi 28 (2011), pp. 315–24. 19. So Theissen, The Gospels in Context, pp. 166–99; R. H. Gundry, Mark: A Commentary on his Apology for the Cross (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993), pp. 944, 954; Brown, Death, pp. 913–14. 1

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the scene are the Roman guards, the unspeci¿ed ‘they’ of Òºº¸É¼įÇÍÊÀÅ, those who mocked Jesus in the previous paragraph (Mk 15.15-20) and who will take him to Golgotha, offer him myrred wine, crucify him and divide his clothing in the following scenes (Mk 15.22-24). The dominant verb within this whole section is ‘crucify’ (Ê̸ÍÉĠÑ): in Mk 15.15 Pilate determines the sentence (‘he delivered him to be cruci¿ed’) and the soldiers act on his order in v. 20 they lead him out ‘to crucify him’ in v. 24 they crucify him in v. 25 we are told that it was the third hour ‘when they cruci¿ed him’ in v. 27 they crucify a bandit on either side of Jesus.

Thus, despite the wealth of detail surrounding Simon, his story is all but engulfed by the inexorable march of the executioners to Golgotha, and by their relentless desire to crucify their prisoner. If Simon were being cast as an exemplary disciple, we might expect him to take on more of an active role, perhaps to offer his services to the executioners (as, in fact, he tends to do in Jesus ¿lms). Other minor characters in the passion narrative do take the initiative – the anointing woman comes to Jesus and breaks her costly oil over his head (Mk 14.39); the centurion responds to what he has seen from his vantage point opposite the cross (Mk 15.39); and Joseph of Arimathaea bravely confronts Pilate with his request for the body (Mk 15.42-46). In contrast, Simon’s role simply forms part of a catalogue of actions perpetrated by the soldiers upon the now passive Jesus. And this leads to our third and ¿nal curious feature of the narrative: the fact that Mark does not give any reason why Simon needs to be brought into the narrative at this point. Commentators overwhelmingly assume that the soldiers’ brutal Àogging in Mk 15.15 has left Jesus in such a weakened state that he cannot manage the crossbeam himself. Such a reading ¿ts nicely with the note that Jesus is brought (or even dragged, depending on the force of ÎñÉÑ, v. 2220) by the soldiers to the place of execution, and his remarkably quick death (such that Pilate seems surprised, Mk 15.44).21 This interpretation also offers an easy way 20. Marcus would not exclude the literal meaning of ÎñÉÑ here, i.e., ‘carry’, Mark, p. 1042; but see the analysis of C. H. Turner, who points to Mark’s rather widespread and general use of this verb, generally denoting little more than ‘bring’, reprinted in J. K. Elliott (ed.), The Language and Style of the Gospel of Mark: An Edition of C. H. Turner’s ‘Notes on Marcan Usage’ Together with Other Comparable Studies (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1993), pp. 13–15. 21. W. S. Campbell, ‘Engagement, Disengagement and Obstruction: Jesus’ Defence Strategies in Mark’s Trial and Execution Scenes (14.53-64; 15.1-39)’, JSNT 26 (2004), pp. 283–300, argues that Jesus refused to carry his own cross at this point. 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

to harmonize Mark with the account in John, where Jesus carries his own cross with no assistance from Simon or anyone else (Jn 19.17). The resulting harmonized narrative would have Jesus managing on his own for a while (John’s account), before weakness overcame him and Simon is forced to help (Mark’s account).22 This reading is not impossible. Mark’s style is terse, and the evangelist may expect his audience to interpret Simon’s help as a concession to Jesus’ weakness. Given their previous behaviour, the soldiers would presumably be acting not out of pity or sympathy, but more likely from fear that their over-enthusiastic beating might extinguish the prisoner before Pilate’s sentence of cruci¿xion could be carried out. Yet the point remains that Mark gives no hint of such motives, and we are by no means forced to accept this interpretation. A much more likely reading, however, would be one in which the conscription of Simon is seen as a hostile act, more speci¿cally, an act of mockery perpetrated by the soldiers against Jesus. Two considerations bolster this view – (1) the general narrative context, and (2), Roman cruci¿xionary practices. (1) The whole narrative context of the Simon story has been dominated by mockery: Jesus is mocked as a false prophet immediately after the Jewish trial (Mk 14.65); sneered at by Pilate as the ‘King of the Jews’;23 parodied by the soldiers as a mock-Emperor (Mk 15.16-20); and lampooned on the cross by onlookers, the chief priests, and those cruci¿ed with him (Mk 15.29-32). Even the titulus needs to be seen as part of this sustained mockery (Mk 15.26). Nor is there any indication of a softening on the part of Jesus’ executioners throughout these verses. The wine mixed with myrrh in Mk 15.23 is often interpreted as an act of clemency, offering an analgesic to deaden the pain,24 but this seems out of character While Campbell is right to note that Mark has not previously given the impression that Jesus’ Àogging was particularly severe, I do not ¿nd his overall arguments here convincing. 22. The earliest articulation of this is usually traced back to Jerome, Comm. on Matt. 27.32 (see DelCogliano, ‘Gregory’, p. 318 n. 14, for further Patristic discussion). In fact, rather than allowing an easy harmonization, John’s insistence that Jesus carried his own cross sounds more like a conscious refutation of Mark’s account. 23. See my book, Pontius Pilate in History and Interpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 105–16. 24. For this interpretation, see, for example, Marcus, Mark, p. 1042 (he suggests, improbably in my view, that Pilate ordered special consideration to be given to this prisoner, p. 1043). There may be some confusion here with the note in the Talmud which mentions women of Jerusalem offering wine mixed with frankincense to 1

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with the jeering cohort of Mk 15.16-20. More importantly, a recent article by a biblical scholar, a botanist, and a doctor has argued strongly (and to my mind persuasively) that this was part of the torture. Myrrh made the wine impossible to drink, and to offer it to a man suffering from excessive dehydration (as would be the case with someone recently Àogged) could only be with the purpose of enhancing his suffering.25 The whole of Mk 15.16-27, then, is dominated by themes of mockery, suffering and cruelty. There is nothing here that would encourage us to look for clemency on the part of the soldiers (even if of a self-serving nature). In fact, it is the very bleakness of the scene which will make the centurion’s words in v. 39 so striking. (2) Historically, this mixture of gratuitous brutality and ridicule makes good sense. Conscripting another person to carry the crossbeam would have struck Mark’s audience as unusual, and if they imagined Simon to be Jewish, his forced association with an execution on the Day of Passover would no doubt be shocking.26 But these were people familiar with cruci¿xion in all its gory manifestations. They would know that the public nature of the cross was designed not only to act as a deterrent but also to provide spectacle and even entertainment to the onlookers. In Martin Hengel’s words, ‘cruci¿xion was a punishment in which the caprice and sadism of the executioners were given full reign’.27 And this is amply illustrated by the sources. Josephus talks of the jesting soldiers after the fall of Jerusalem who took out their hatred of the prisoners by nailing them to crosses in different postures. Tacitus notes the derision that accompanied the cruci¿xion of Christians as punishment for the ¿re of Rome. And other writers comment on victims nailed through their people about to die (b. Sanh. 43a); quite apart from the late date of the text (probably fourth century), Mark’s narrative has soldiers, not women, offer the wine, and the Talmud mentions frankincense, not myrrh. Interestingly, King of Kings also promotes this sympathetic reading, displaying a placard reading: ‘And they gave him to drink, wine mingled with myrrh wherewith to lessen his pain – but He received it not’, ascribing the quotation to Mk 15.23! 25. E. Koskenniemi, K. Nisula and J. Toppari, ‘Wine Mixed with Myrrh (Mark 15.23) and Crurifragium (John 19.31-32): Two Details of the Passion Narratives’, JSNT 27 (2005), pp. 379–91. The details reminded Matthew of Ps. 69.21, hence his slightly altered wording (Mt. 27.34). 26. Josephus claims that Rome did not force subjects to transgress their national laws (Apion 2.73), though his own works show that reality did not always match aspiration. 27. M. Hengel, Cruci¿xion in the Ancient World and the Folly of the Message of the Cross (London: SCM, 1977), p. 25. 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

private parts, hung on ridiculously high crosses to match their high status, or cruci¿ed amidst theatrical shows.28 The mockery, of course, made the victim an object of ridicule and enhanced his humiliation and shame (thereby performing an important sociological function in creating a sense of distance between the cruci¿ed and the onlookers, and encouraging the crowd to identify with the upholders of justice29). When the cruci¿ed was a brigand or a rebel leader, as in the case of Jesus, the mockery might be particularly severe, as the soldiers poked fun at his pretensions in a particularly grotesque way.30 Although not linked to an execution, we might consider in this context Philo’s account of the ridicule of Carabas at the hands of the Alexandrian mob in the governorship of Flaccus (32–38 C.E.). In an attempt to lampoon King Agrippa I, who was visiting the city, the poor man was taken to the gymnasium, dressed in mock kingly regalia, and hailed as king in an episode highly reminiscent of Mk 15.16-20.31 When we analyse Mk 15.21 carefully, then, we are left with a rather disturbing scene in which Simon’s involvement raises more questions than it answers. Who does he actually help – Jesus or the executioners? Would he be proud of his actions later, or ashamed at his part in the proceedings? And if Alexander and Rufus were known in some way to Mark’s audience, did they become Christians because of their father, or despite him? Did they perhaps bear the shame of their father’s involvement in Jesus’ execution rather like Paul did his earlier antagonism, or Peter his denial? Whatever the answers to these questions, Simon’s role in the drama remains highly ambiguous. 28. Josephus, War 5.2 (on the jesting soldiers); Tacitus, Ann. 15.44.4 (on the execution of Christians); Philo, Flacc. 72.84-85 (on Jews cruci¿ed in the Alexandrian arena as entertainment); Plato, Gorg. 473 bc (on a would-be tyrant mutilated prior to cruci¿xion); Seneca, Marc. 6.20.3 (on people impaled through their private parts); Chariton, Chaer. 4.2.7 (where two prisoners are chained together at the feet and the neck, each carrying his own cross, as an example to others). 29. K. M. Coleman, ‘Fatal Charades: Roman Executions Staged as Mythical Enactments’, JRS 80 (1990), pp. 44–73; V. M. Hope, Death in Ancient Rome (London: Routledge, 2007), pp. 28–31, C. Epplett, ‘Spectacular Executions in the Roman World’, in A Companion to Sport and Spectacle in Greek and Roman Antiquity (ed. P. Christesen and G. Kyle; Oxford: Wiley Blackwells, 2013), pp. 520– 32. 30. On the cross as parody, see J. Marcus, ‘Cruci¿xion as Parodic Exaltation’, JBL 125 (2006), pp. 73–8; see also my own essay, ‘ “You’ll Probably Get Away with Cruci¿xion”: Laughing at the Cross in the Life of Brian and the Ancient World’, in Jesus and Brian (ed. Joan E. Taylor; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015), pp. 113–26. 31. Philo, Flaccus 36–39. 1

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I propose that the reason why Simon’s actions are hard to make sense of is because we are focussing on the wrong person. It is only when we direct our gaze onto Jesus, the subject of Mark’s bios, that Simon’s role begins to make sense. In order to appreciate this, we need a short detour into the genre of the gospel and its characterization of Jesus more generally. IV. Jesus as the Paradigm of Discipleship in Mark After much discussion of gospel genre in the 1980s and ’90s, a clear scholarly consensus now regards Mark as an ancient biography (a bios, or life of Jesus). Like all genres, of course, bioi were Àuid and wideranging, often pushing at the boundaries of generic constraint and exhibiting a variety of purposes and styles.32 What they all had in common, however, was a concern with the study of a man’s character. As Richard Burridge notes: ‘They aimed to establish the essence of an individual, and by doing so to offer a moral paradigm for readers to emulate’.33 Lucian of Samosata puts this clearly in the introduction to his biography of the philosopher Demonax: It is now ¿tting to tell of Demonax for two reasons – that he may be retained in your memory by men of culture as far as I can bring it about, and that young men of good instinct who aspire to philosophy may not have to shape themselves by ancient precedents alone, but may be able to set themselves a pattern from our modern world and copy that man, the best of all philosophers whom I know about.34

Imitation, then, was the central purpose of biography, to hold up the lives of great men as inspirational examples of virtue (or, occasionally, dangerous examples of vice) in an effort to encourage appropriate ethical behaviour amongst the audience. This was particularly useful in the case of philosophers, where biographies had the ability to open up a personal connection between the philosopher and the would-be pupil. In this way, as David Capes notes, 32. See the excellent study by T. Hägg, The Art of Biography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 33. On the range of purposes exhibited by bioi, see R. A. Burridge, What Are the Gospels? A Comparison with Graeco-Roman Biography (2d ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), pp. 145–7. 34. Lucian, Demonax 1–2; see the similar sentiments in Plutarch, Aemilius Paulus 1, Pericles 1–2, and Demetrius 1.4-6; on this theme in Plutarch more generally, see T. Duff, Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 4. 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives one could become a ‘disciple’ or ‘follower’ without personal association with a great teacher. Through the study and imitation of their words and deeds contained in writings about them (particularly those that are well composed), one can know what kind of teachers they are and ultimately become like them.35

Although Mark’s work would have struck pagan readers as rather unusual (not least for its assumption of Jewish monotheism, its apocalyptic worldview, and its biblical turn of phrase), his gospel does conform to this two-fold pattern. The evangelist is interested both in exploring the identity of Jesus (as the Christ, the Son of Man, the royal Son of God) and at the same time establishing his central character as a model for others to imitate. The call to ‘follow me’ is frequent (Mk 1.17; 8.34; 10.21 [10.28, 52]), and discipleship is primarily through following the example of Jesus, whether that was in prayerful obedience to the Father, faith in God’s providence, or service to others.36 On his journey to Jerusalem with his disciples, Jesus outlines the theory of discipleship, what it means for the ¿rst to be last, to deny oneself, to give up everything (including possessions and family), and to take up one’s cross (Mk 8.22–10.52). It is clear from these chapters that Jesus will die (Mk 8.31; 9.31; 10.33-34), a death that he views as a logical extension of the demands of discipleship (Mk 10.42-45).37 Chapter 13 outlines what Donald Senior terms the ‘passion of the community’.38 It now becomes clear that the followers of Jesus will also be handed over to councils, beaten in synagogues, and forced to stand before governors and kings for the sake of their beliefs. They will be betrayed by their closest friends and hated by all, but the Markan Jesus urges them to put their trust in the Holy Spirit, to stand ¿rm, and – most emphatically of all – to be vigilant (Mk 13.33, 35, 37).

35. D. B. Capes, ‘Imitatio Christi and the Gospel Genre’, BBR 13 (2003), pp. 1– 19 (7). 36. See discussions in R. A. Burridge, Imitating Jesus: An Inclusive Approach to New Testament Ethics (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), pp. 159–85. 37. On the meaning of the death of Jesus in Mark, see M. D. Hooker, Not Ashamed of the Gospel: New Testament Interpretations of the Death of Christ (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), pp. 47–67; also Rhoads, Dewey and Michie, Mark as Story, pp. 113–15; and S. E. Dowd and E. S. Malbon, ‘The Signi¿cance of Jesus’ Death in Mark: Narrative Context and Authorial Audience’, JBL 125 (2006), pp. 271–97. 38. D. Senior, ‘The Death of Jesus and the Meaning of Discipleship’, in The Death of Jesus in Early Christianity (ed. J. T. Carroll and J. B. Green; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1995), pp. 234–55 (238). 1

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In view of this chapter, and a number of other references in the gospel, most scholars assume that Mark was written to a Christian group which had experienced some kind of persecution, or feared that it might become the victim of Roman reprisals in the near future.39 In such a setting, it would be important to present Jesus not only predicting that suffering might be necessary, but also as a model for his suffering followers to emulate. And this is exactly what the evangelist does. In the passion narrative, the theory of discipleship outlined in the central section becomes reality in a life lived to its very end according to the arduous and all-encompassing demands of the gospel. We are presented with a Jesus who, in a time of great distress, turns to the father in prayer at Gethsemane, who is quickly reconciled to his impending death, and who is alert to the presence of evil at the hour of his arrest. We see him answer both the High Priest and Pilate robustly, despite the danger of the situation. And we see his trust in God on the cross, even when the power of death threatens to overwhelm him and God appears to be far from the narrative. The authoritative, powerful, witty Jesus of the ¿rst half of the gospel becomes increasingly passive in these ¿nal chapters. After Mk 15.2 he speaks no more until his ¿nal cry of abandonment on the cross, and the omniscient narrator no longer gives us an insight into his thoughts or feelings. As Jesus endures the depths of human despair, articulated through the language of LXX Psalm 21, the audience can only imagine the horror of what he endures.40 Other characters in this tightly spun account act merely as foils to Jesus, largely to enhance his dignity and courage (again a common feature of biographical narrative).41 Most notable here are the twelve disciples, Jesus’ most intimate, hand-picked men who, despite their proximity to their master, are completely unable to follow him. Modern critics often judge the twelve harshly, but this should not be pushed too far. The evangelist wants to show that discipleship requires total commitment, and whether it is their lack of readiness in Gethsemane, their Àight at the arrest, or Peter’s denial in the high priest’s courtyard, the primary function of the failure of the twelve is to highlight Jesus’ unwavering 39. See in particular Mk 8.34; 10.39; 13.9. On persecution, see H. Roskam, The Purpose of the Gospel of Mark (Leiden: Brill, 2004), pp. 27–74. 40. On the character of Jesus, particularly in the face of death, see Rhoads, Dewey and Michie, Mark as Story, pp. 111–15. 41. For discussion of this plot device, see E. Best, ‘The Role of the Disciples in Mark’, NTS 23 (1976–77), pp. 377–401; W. Shiner, Follow Me! Disciples in Markan Rhetoric (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995); S. S. Elliott, ‘ “Witless in your own cause”: Divine Plots and Fractured Characters in the Life of Aesop and the Gospel of Mark’, Religion and Theology 12 (2005), pp. 397–418. 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives

resolution and obedience to God’s will.42 Jesus goes to the cross alone in Mark, quite simply, because he is the only one able to do so. Only he can endure to the bitter end, only he is able to face the terrifying power of evil, and only he will be raised again by God.43 At this stage in the narrative, no one else – not Peter, nor the rest of the twelve, nor any other person – could follow his lead. Later on, however, after the resurrection and the appearance of the risen Lord in ‘Galilee’, the disciples will be able to follow him (as no doubt many in Mark’s audience knew). The disappearance of the twelve from the passion narrative, then, does not create a ‘gap’ in discipleship which needs to be ¿lled by minor characters. The focus throughout is on Jesus, the perfect example of a life of discipleship. Despite his interest in presenting Jesus as a model to be emulated, however, Mark has not set aside the question of Jesus’ identity. Lying behind the mockery and derision of ch. 15 is a powerful irony: Jesus really is the king for those with eyes to see.44 The title ‘king’ is used six times in this chapter (Mk 15.2, 9, 12, 18, 26, 32) and Jesus is mocked for his kingly pretensions three times – by Pilate (15.6-15), by soldiers (15.16-20a), and by chief priests and scribes (15.31-32).45 Mark’s paradoxical narrative points to the glory and dignity of Jesus, showing that the cruci¿ed Christ is indeed King of the Jews. What looked to an outsider to be the depths of suffering, humiliation, and even rejection was in reality the triumph of God’s son – a fact acknowledged (albeit unwittingly) by the centurion at the cross (Mk 15.39).46 When we put the focus back onto Jesus, the royal Son of God who dies as a model for followers, what does the role of Simon look like? 42. So also R. A. Burridge, ‘Reading the Gospels as Biography’, in The Limits of Ancient Biography (ed. B. McGing and J. Mossman; Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2006), pp. 31–49, esp. pp. 34–5. J. Dewey similarly notes that the negative portrayal of the disciples would probably have been taken much less seriously by a listening ¿rst-century audience than a modern one accustomed to literary texts, ‘Mark as Interwoven Tapestry: Forecasts and Echoes for a Listening Audience’, CBQ (1991), pp. 221–36 (235–6). 43. M. A. Tolbert, ‘How the Gospel of Mark Builds Character’, Interpretation 47 (1993), pp. 347–57 (356); Senior, Death, p. 241. 44. J. Camery-Hoggatt, Irony in Mark’s Gospel: Text and Subtext (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 171–7, on the passion narrative. 45. See F. J. Matera, The Kingship of Jesus: Composition and Theology in Mark 15 (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1982); Bond, Pilate, pp. 100–101. 46. For the centurion, Jesus is presumably a hero or demi-God, though Mark’s audience of course interpret the words in their full Christian sense. See J. Pobee, ‘The Cry of the Centurion – A Cry of Defeat’, in The Trial of Jesus (ed. E. Bammel; London: SCM, 1970), pp. 91–102. 1

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V. A Certain Simon from Cyrene – Again The details supplied by Mark identify Simon as an outsider. He is from Cyrene, the capital of the North African province of Cyrenaica (modern Libya).47 The designation ‘a certain’ (ÌĖË) suggests that he was previously an unknown ¿gure,48 and the fact that he has come in from the ¿eld/ country suggests that he is neither a follower nor an opponent of Jesus, but rather a neutral character who happens to be standing near to the praetorium. The reference to the ¿elds (ÒÈЏ ÒºÉÇı), however, recalls another procession – the much more joyful entry into Jerusalem in Mk 11.1-11, where those caught up in the drama cut leafy branches from the ¿elds to line Jesus’ path (there ëÁ ÌľÅ ÒºÉľÅ).49 Together, these two processions frame the Jerusalem narrative. The one leading into the city is full of joy and hope, looking towards a Davidic kingdom, the other, going out of the city, is an ignominious trudge to the cross, characterized by mockery and derision. And yet, there are thematic links between the two processions which we would do well to consider. Both processions start with conscription. In a relatively lengthy description at the start of ch. 11, Jesus assumes the role of an occupying ruler. He sends two disciples to bring him a colt, which presumably he has no right to take. The lofty ‘The Lord has need of it’ may well mimic the hated practice of requisitioning which will come to the fore in the Simon narrative. Jesus’ entry into the holy city, amid the crowds strewing their garments before him and singing their acclamations, imitates the entrance processions of Graeco-Roman kings and triumphal warriors – a feature which would have been well known to Mark’s audience. Yet the evangelist quickly subverts any expectations his audience might have: rather than claim his city, the kingly ruler simply leaves (Mk 11.11), and instead of inaugurating his rule through purging the Temple, he returns the next day and announces its destruction.50 None of this should be a 47. He may perhaps be black, though that is more dif¿cult to establish; so also Blount, ‘Socio-Rhetorical’, pp. 179–80. The casting of black actor Sidney Poitier in The Greatest Story Ever Told upholds this tradition. 48. Theissen, Gospels, p. 177 n. 25. 49. I owe this link to Myers, Binding, p. 385, though I am less convinced that Mark wants to underscore a ‘geopolitical/spatial tension between the city/country’. Interestingly, The Passion of the Christ also juxtaposes the two processions – Jesus remembers his earlier, joyful procession as he makes his way to the cross. 50. P. D. Duff, ‘The March of the Divine Warrior and the Advent of the GrecoRoman King: Mark’s Account of Jesus’ Entry into Jerusalem’, JBL 111 (1992), pp. 55–71 – with many references to Graeco-Roman processions (including that of Yahweh in Zech. 14). 1

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surprise to the attentive reader of Mk 10.35-45: true kingly rule both for Christ and those who would imitate him lies not in grand entries and important seats, or lording it over others, but rather in service. As Hans Leander astutely observes, the entry scene is ‘a parodic undermining of imperial notions of power’.51 Similar themes emerge in the procession to the cross (Mk 15.20b-27). Once again, things start with a conscription scene (this time carried out by the soldiers). Elements of kingship are much more muted, but as we have seen are not entirely lacking. T. E. Schmidt detects links to the Roman triumph in a number of apparently inconsequential details throughout the text: the gathering of the whole cohort (mimicking the assembly of the praetorian guard in Rome); the name Golgotha (where the mention of a skull evokes the Capitoline Hill); the refusal of myrrhed wine (aping the triumphator’s refusal of wine and casting of it upon the altar), and the placement of the central character between two others (lending the scene a sense of ‘enthronement’).52 Similar to the ¿rst procession, Mark parodies and subverts normal expectations: the mock triumph ends not with the triumphator’s victorious sacri¿ce, but with his own death. Once again, conventional ideas of power and kingship, even glory and shame, are turned on their heads. Together, both processions play with the idea of Roman power, destabilizing its meaning and putting in its place highly subversive ways of what it means to be ‘King of the Jews’. 51. H. Leander, ‘With Homi Bhabha at the Jerusalem City Gates: A Postcolonial Reading of the “Triumphal” Entry (Mark 11.1-11)’, JSNT 32 (2010), pp. 309–35 (323). 52. T. E. Schmidt, ‘Mark 15.6-32: The Cruci¿xion Narrative and the Roman Triumphal Procession’, NTS 41 (1995), pp. 1–18. On the triumph, see also L. Bonfante Warren, ‘Roman Triumphs and Etruscan Kings: The Changing Face of the Triumph’, JRS 60 (1970), pp. 49–66; H. S. Versnel, Triumphus: An Inquiry into the Origin, Development, and Meaning of the Roman Triumph (Leiden: Brill, 1970); M. Beard, The Roman Triumph (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009). Christ had been understood as triumphator prior to Mark – cf. 2 Cor. 2.14. Schmidt’s overall case has much to recommend it – particularly if Mark’s Gospel was written in Rome shortly after the war of 66–70 C.E., when the victorious triumph of Vespasian and his sons was still fresh in the memory of his audience. Yet we should beware of pushing details in the narrative too rigidly into an extraneous template; we cannot be sure that Mark’s audience were familiar with the details of the triumph (even if they were located in the capital city). More likely, the evangelist has chosen broader kingship motifs at this point, some linked to the triumph, others linked to Hellenistic or imperial kingship more broadly. Mark’s intention presumably was not to map Jesus onto one particular type of kingship, but to evoke regal ideas more broadly, and to invite contrasts and comparisons. 1

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Simon’s story, it seems to me, needs to be read as part of the soldiers’ mockery of the kingly pretender. He takes his place in a brutal burlesque of a kingly procession, which extends from Jesus’ ¿rst appearance in the barracks all the way to the place of execution. On the level of the narrative, the mocking soldiers put together a tableau in which Jesus (now in his own clothes53) is treated with mock respect. Schmidt suggests that the Cyrenian represents the of¿cial who walked besides the sacri¿cial bull in the triumphal procession, carrying a double-bladed axe over his shoulder, ‘the instrument of the victim’s death’.54 However, this seems to be too speci¿c, and too tied to one particular kingly pageant (the triumph). More likely, in my view, Simon is cast as a lictor, the attendant who went before a magistrate (whether a consul, proconsul, praetor, or lower dignitary), carrying a fasces over his left shoulder, a large double-headed axe bound to a bundle of rods, which symbolized the magistrate’s imperium. Originally the king was preceded by a line of twelve lictors (as was the Emperor), lower of¿cials had fewer lictors as be¿tted their rank.55 Lictors went everywhere that the magistrate went, even wearing the same clothes as he did, presumably in an effort to enhance his presence and to highlight his power. Only when the magistrate went into a house would the lictors part company with him, remaining outside with their fasces propped up against the wall as a symbol of his presence.56 Representations of lictors with their characteristic fasces are commonly found on coins and inscriptions and would have been a frequent sight in Roman cities. As M. Horster notes: 53. Historically, it seems very unlikely that the soldiers would have bothered to reclothe Jesus. Victims were cruci¿ed naked: Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Rom. Ant. 769.2; Josephus, Ant. 19.270; so also T. D. Barnes, ‘ “Another shall gird thee”: Probative Evidence for the Death of Peter’, in Peter and Earliest Christianity (ed. H. K. Bond and L. W. Hurtado; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2015), pp. 76–95. J. J. Collins suggested that Jesus was allowed to keep his clothes on as a concession to Jewish modesty (‘The Archaeology of the Cruci¿xion’, CBQ 1 [1939], pp. 154–9 [158]), a suggestion followed by Brown, Death, vol. 2, p. 953, and Marcus, Mark, p. 1040. More likely, Mark is adding dignity to Jesus and preparing for the soldiers’ game of lots in 15.24, beginning the links with LXX Ps. 21 (which would make little sense if Jesus’ clothes had been left behind in the barracks). 54. Schmidt, ‘Roman Triumphal Procession’. He argues, too, that Mark saw Simon’s role as ‘divinely planned’, though the evidence for this seems weak. 55. On the king, see Livy, Ab urbe condita 1.8. Domitian increased his lictors to twenty-four. 56. For a discussion of the role of lictors, see B. Gladigow, ‘Die sakralen Funktionen der Liktoren. Zum Problem von instiutioneller Macht und sakraler Präsentation’, in ANRW I.2 (ed. H. Temporini; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1972), pp. 295– 313. 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives During the empire, the fasces seem to have become such popular symbols of outstanding power they were often presented on funerary reliefs of magistrates of the cities or municipal priests of the imperial cult, even if these men had lictors only on special occasions or were not allowed to have as many fasces as were depicted on their funerary reliefs.57

So immediately recognisable were the lictors as symbols of authority and power that when the Alexandrian mob dressed up Carabas in the passage already mentioned, they positioned two young men with rods (ģÚ¹»ÇÍË) over their shoulders on either side of the mock King to act as his attendants.58 The Greek word used here, ģÚ¹»ÇÀ, is the very word used to denote the lictor’s fasces in Greek literature.59 Simon’s crossbeam, then, could have easily evoked the fasces, and the image of Simon going before Jesus in the procession might well have called to mind that of a lictor going before a high of¿cial. It is true that Mark does not specify the order in which the two men progressed, though the sentence structure suggests that Simon took the lead.60 The tableau created a sense of mock-honour, authority and power. From the point of view of the soldiers, it was a perfect way to lampoon the ridiculous claims of the would-be King of the Jews, and a natural manner to continue the mockery begun in Mk 15.16-20. The lictor quite appropriately takes his place when Jesus emerges into public, outside the barracks. Read in this way, Simon is not a disciple but rather an unwilling helper in the soldiers’ gruesome procession to the cross.61

57. M. Horster, ‘Living on Religion: Professionals and Personnel’, in A Companion to Roman Religion (ed. J. Rüpke; Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), p. 334. 58. Philo, Flaccus 38. Visually, the fasces seem to have been around 1–2 m in length (their depiction on coins and funerary monuments differs quite substantially). The crossbeam would presumably be longer than this, though its exact weight and dimensions would vary depending on the region and the type of wood used; see M. W. Madlen and P. D. Mitchell, ‘Medical Theories on the Cause of Death in Cruci¿xion’, Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine 99 (2006), pp. 185–8. 59. H. G. Liddell and R. Scott, Greek–English Lexicon (abridged version; Oxford: Clarendon, 1984), p. 621. 60. Perhaps in an attempt to depict Simon as an example of discipleship, Luke is careful to note that Simon went behind Jesus (Lk. 23.26). 61. J. Gnilka suggests that Simon acts as the king’s servant here, but it is an idea he does not develop; Das Evangelium nach Markus (Mk 8,27–16,20) (Zurich: Benziger, 1979), p. 315. 1

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VI. Conclusion Simon was never made into a saint by the Christian church – and with good reason. On the most basic level of the Markan narrative, he is not a disciple. He is conscripted into the cruci¿xion scene to parade the helpless prisoner to his place of execution. He is part of the soldiers’ brutal mockery, their spoof procession with the Jewish ‘king’ to the cross. And yet for those with eyes to see, he forms part of the triumphal procession, carrying the cross of the Son of God, the symbol of God’s victory over the forces of evil. If this reading has any merit, it is not Simon who provides a model of discipleship for readers, as centuries of church and cultural tradition have tended to suggest. Instead, it is Jesus himself who paves the way for those who would be called upon to lay down their lives in the future.

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‘MORE THAN A PROPHET’: ECHOES OF EXORCISM IN MARKAN AND MATTHEAN BAPTIST TRADITIONS* Daniel Frayer-Griggs

I. Introduction The eccentric ascetic who attracted large crowds to the banks of the Jordan River and preached repentance in the face of coming judgment was so well known for his practice of immersing penitents that he is almost universally recognized as ‘the Baptist’.1 Josephus independently attests to John’s ritual of immersion and con¿rms that John was ‘known as the Baptist’, indicating that the gospel writers do not mislead us in their close identi¿cation of John with his rite of baptism.2 Yet it is clear that the gospels have no intention of presenting a full picture of John. He is a Àat character whose solitary role is to ‘prepare the way of the Lord’. Accordingly, while John’s baptism and proclamation of imminent judgment may have been the de¿ning characteristics of his ministry, he must have preached and done much more than our sources let on. Whatever else the Baptist may have done, the Fourth Gospel asserts, ‘John performed no sign’ (Jn 10.41), and the majority of exegetes have accepted this claim to be true. To be sure, the belief that Jesus performed miraculous healings and exorcisms while the Baptist did not stands alongside several other standard antitheses set up between John and Jesus. For instance, some believe that while Jesus’ proclamation of the good news is marked by radical grace and forgiveness, ‘Nothing even approaching a promise of salvation crosses [John’s] lips’.3 Whereas John * William Telford served as my doctoral supervisor at Durham University. It brings me great pleasure to offer this essay as a token of my gratitude. I am grateful to Dale C. Allison Jr. and Tucker S. Ferda for reading and commenting on earlier drafts of this essay. 1. On the singularity of this title, see James D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Christianity in the Making 1; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), p. 356. 2. Josephus, Ant. 18.116-17. 3. Jürgen Becker, Jesus of Nazareth (New York: de Gruyter, 1998), pp. 38–9.

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baptized with a baptism of repentance in preparation for the coming wrath, Jesus’ healings and exorcisms brought near the Kingdom of God.4 John was a fasting ascetic, but Jesus, ‘the proverbial party animal’, ate and drank with tax collectors and sinners.5 The list goes on. Despite this longstanding tradition of contrasting John and Jesus, recent work has highlighted the continuity between these two ¿gures.6 Several scholars have urged that Jesus carried John’s baptismal practices into his own ministry.7 Jesus’ own preaching displays distinct elements of judgment,8 while John’s ‘baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins’ entails grace and restoration.9 Further, Jesus, like John, may have observed certain ascetical practices.10 Nonetheless, at least one point of dissimilarity remains ¿rmly entrenched in the minds of most exegetes: whereas Jesus was widely known for his miracles, healings, and exorcisms, John could perform no such feat. Even those who posit a strong correlation between John and Jesus frequently espouse this view.11

4. Paul Hollenbach, ‘The Conversion of Jesus: From Jesus the Baptizer to Jesus the Healer’, ANRW 2.25.1 (1982), pp. 196–219. 5. Robert Walter Funk, Honest to Jesus: Jesus for a New Millennium (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996), p. 208. 6. William R. Telford, ‘Major Trends and Interpretive Issues in the Study of Jesus’, in Studying the Historical Jesus: Evaluations of the State of Current Research (ed. Bruce Chilton and Craig A. Evans; Leiden: Brill, 1994), pp. 33–74 (70); Dale C. Allison Jr., ‘The Continuity between John and Jesus’, JSHJ 1 (2003), pp. 6–27; Daniel Frayer-Griggs, ‘ “Everyone Will Be Baptized in Fire”: Mk 9.49, Q 3.16, and the Baptism of the Coming One’, JSHJ 7 (2009), pp. 254–85. 7. R. T. France, ‘Jesus the Baptist?’, in Jesus of Nazareth: Lord and Christ: Essays on the Historical Jesus and New Testament Christology (ed. J. B. Green and M. Turner; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), pp. 94–111; Daniel Dapaah, The Relationship between John the Baptist and Jesus of Nazareth: A Critical Study (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2005), pp. 85–118; Graham H. Twelftree, ‘Jesus the Baptist’, JSHJ 7 (2009), pp. 103–25. 8. See especially, Marius Reiser, Jesus and Judgment: The Eschatological Proclamation in Its Jewish Context (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997), pp. 197–324. 9. Tucker S. Ferda, ‘John the Baptist, Isaiah 40, and the Ingathering of the Exiles’, JSHJ 10 (2012), pp. 154–88. 10. Dale C. Allison Jr., Jesus of Nazareth: Millenarian Prophet (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), pp. 172–216; Simon Joseph, ‘The Ascetic Jesus’, JSHJ 8 (2010), pp. 146–81. 11. Ernst Bammel, ‘ “John Did No Miracle”: John 10.41’, in Miracles: Cambridge Studies in their Philosophy and History (ed. C. F. D. Moule; London: A. R. Mowbray, 1965), pp. 181–202; Dapaah, Relationship, pp. 134, 146; J. MurphyO’Connor, ‘John the Baptist and Jesus: History and Hypotheses’, NTS 36 (1990), pp. 359–74 (372); Joan Taylor, The Immerser: John the Baptist within Second 1

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Indeed, Paul Hollenbach argues that it was precisely Jesus’ ability to heal and to exorcise demons that precipitated his abandonment of John and his ministry of baptism.12 Yet the claim that ‘John performed no sign’ has an apologetic, even polemical, ring to it.13 Could the Johannine author be countering a claim to the contrary? The assertion that John performed no sign is but one of several negative statements made about the Baptist in the Fourth Gospel,14 whose author often quali¿es, excludes, or contradicts Synoptic traditions about John. Synoptic Traditions He [John] proclaimed, ‘The one who is more powerful than I, is coming after me’ (Mk 1.7a; cf. Mt. 3.11).

Johannine Traditions Quali¿cation: John testi¿ed to him and cried out, ‘This was he of whom I said, “He who comes after me ranks ahead of me because he was before me” ’ (Jn 1.15; cf. v. 30). Exclusion: The Fourth Gospel is silent regarding Jesus’ baptism by John.

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan (Mk 1.9). For all the prophets and the law Contradiction: And they asked him, prophesied until John came; and if you ‘What then? Are you Elijah?’ He said, are willing to accept it, he is Elijah ‘I am not’ (Jn 1.21; cf. v. 25). who is to come (Mt. 11.13-14; cf. Mt. 17.12//Mk 9.13).

The above can be understood as manifestations of the Johannine author’s programmatic attempt to make the Baptist decrease so that Jesus may increase (see Jn 3.30). This essay considers whether there are any synoptic traditions that run counter to the claim that ‘John did no sign’ and asks whether Jn 10.41 may be a response to earlier traditions that Temple Judaism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), pp. 280, 316, 319; Robert Webb, ‘John the Baptist and his Relationship to Jesus’, in Chilton and Evans (eds.), Studying the Historical Jesus, pp. 179–229 (227). 12. Hollenbach, ‘The Conversion of Jesus’, pp. 209–17. 13. See Walter Wink, John the Baptist in the Gospel Tradition (SNTMS 7; London: Cambridge, 1968), p. 98. Josef Ernst, Johannes der Täufer: Interpretation, Geschichte, Wirkungsgeschichte (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1989), p. 212; John P. Meier, A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol. 2, Mentor, Message, and Miracles (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1994), pp. 170–1. 14. Raymond E. Brown, The Community of the Beloved Disciple (New York: Paulist, 1979), p. 69: ‘He is not the light (Jn 1:9); he does not antedate Jesus (Jn 1:15, 30); he is not the Messiah, nor Elijah, nor the Prophet (Jn 1:19–24; 3:28); he is not the bridegroom (Jn 3:29); he must decrease while Jesus must increase (Jn 3:30); he never worked any miracles (Jn 10:41)’. 1

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present John as a doer of mighty deeds. In light of this possibility, I wish to call attention to a complex of Markan and Matthean Baptist traditions that draw upon a lexicon of terms and phrases that resonantly echo those gospels’ exorcism narratives. Taken collectively, and read in light of the polemical nature of Jn 10.41, these traditions support the hypothesis that John’s activities may have included exorcisms and healings. II. John, Raised from the Dead I begin with Mk 6.14 (cf. Mt. 14.12//Lk. 9.7), for this verse has compelled a number of scholars to inquire whether John performed mighty deeds of some sort.15 Immediately after recounting the successful mission of the twelve – which involved casting out demons and curing the sick – Mark writes, ‘King Herod heard of it; for Jesus’ name [Ìġ ěÅÇĸ ¸ĤÌÇı] had become known. Some said, “John the baptizer has been raised from the dead; that is why these powers [»ÍŊļÀË] are at work in him”.’ In its present narrative position the introductory clause – ‘King Herod heard of it’ – refers to the activities of the twelve, yet in what follows it is of Jesus’ name that Antipas has heard, and it is Jesus in whom the »ÍŊļÀË – a term frequently associated with miraculous deeds – are said to be at work.16 This incongruity may be the result of the Evangelist’s incorporation of a pre-Markan tradition according to which Herod heard of Jesus’ miracles, not those of his disciples. The word »ÍŊļÀË itself recalls Mk 6.1, where the people of Nazareth exclaim, ‘What deeds of power [»ÍŊļÀË] are being done by [Jesus’] hands!’ (cf. 6.5). More importantly, the »ÍŊļÀË at work in Jesus are attributed to John the Baptist and arouse rumors that John has been raised from the dead. This tradition, which is dif¿cult to imagine as a creation of the early church, provoked Bultmann to ask, ‘does not Mk. 6.14 imply that reports of the Baptist’s miracles were current?’17 That Jesus’ own 15. See Rudolf Bultmann, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (New York: Harper & Row, 1976), p. 24; Oscar Cullmann, The Christology of the New Testament (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1959), p. 33 n. 2; Rudolf Meyer, Der Prophet aus Galiläa. Studie zum Jesusbild der drei ersten Evangelien (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchges, 1970), pp. 40, 102, 115; Joachim Gnilka, Das Evangelium nach Markus (2 vols.; EKKNT; Zurich: Benziger, 1978–79), vol. 1, p. 247; Martin Hengel, The Charismatic Leader and his Followers (New York: Crossroad, 1981), pp. 36–7. 16. Walter Grundmann, ‘»ŧŸĸÀ/»ŧŸÄÀË’, TDNT 2 (1964), p. 303. On »ŧŸÄÀË in Mark, see William R. Telford, The Theology of the Gospel of Mark (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 40. 17. Bultmann, History, p. 24. 1

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miracles were attributed to John would not only suggest that John had a reputation as a healer, but that – at least in some circles at this time – his reputation superseded that of Jesus. While the hypothesis that John himself was a healer and exorcist easily accounts for the rumor, many interpreters, presumably under the sway of Jn 10.41, have sought alternative explanations for the tradition that John’s »ÍŊļÀË were at work in Jesus. Origen attributed the misidenti¿cation to the fact that Jesus and John shared a similar appearance, a view that receives no scholarly support today.18 Carl Kraeling argued that Jesus is here accused of necromancy, that some believed he had conjured John’s spirit to make it do his bidding.19 However, nowhere else in early Christian literature does ‘raised from the dead’ suggest necromancy. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor was compelled to an equally tenuous solution, suggesting that the reference to »ÍŊļÀË in our verse is secondary while the vague reference to ‘all that was done’ in the Lukan parallel (9.6) may be closer to the original form. The identi¿cation between John and Jesus, he asserts, was ¿rst made on the basis of Jesus’ baptizing, not his »ÍŊļÀË.20 This not only requires Murphy-O’Connor to privilege Lukan redaction so that he may exclude the reference to »ÍŊļÀË that is present in the earliest tradition, but also to infer an allusion to baptism, which is not present in any form of the tradition. The dominant position, which can be traced at least as far back as John Chrysostom, holds that since John was not a miracle worker during his lifetime, Herod and the crowds express the belief that he had received supernatural powers upon being raised from the dead.21 Despite the popularity of this view, there is no evidence of a contemporary expectation that the resurrected dead would be endowed with miraculous powers they did not possess during their lifetimes.22 This argument thus fails to 18. Origen, Comm. Jo. 6.30. 19. Carl H. Kraeling, ‘Was Jesus Accused of Necromancy?’, JBL 59 (1940), pp. 147–57; cf. Morton Smith, Jesus the Magician (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1978), pp. 33–4. 20. Murphy-O’Connor, ‘John the Baptist and Jesus’, p. 372. 21. John Chrysostom, Hom. Matt. 54.1; cf. Theophylactus, Explan. Matt. 14.2; Ernst Lohmeyer, Das Evangelium des Markus (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1967), p. 116; Joel Marcus, Mark 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 27; New York: Doubleday, 2000), p. 393; Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), p. 304. 22. So, rightly, David E. Aune, ‘Magic in Early Christianity’, ANRW 2.23.2 (1980), pp. 1507–57 (1542): ‘it is unclear how a resurrected John could be thought to perform miracles when he had not done so previous to his execution’. The supposed parallel in the myth of Nero redivivus (Sib. Or. 4.119-24; 5.137-41, 361-96), for which Collins (Mark, p. 304) advocates, is further removed than is sometimes 1

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explain why anyone – Herod, the crowds, or Mark himself – would have attributed Jesus’ »ÍŊļÀË to John. Unless John was believed to have performed miracles, it is dif¿cult to imagine why anyone, upon hearing of the miracle-working Jesus, would conclude that John, and not someone reputed to have performed similar deeds of power, had been raised up. In this regard, the other comparisons made in Mk 6.15 (//Lk. 9.8; cf. Mt. 16.14//Mk 8.28//Lk. 9.19) are instructive, for others identify Jesus as ‘Elijah’ or ‘a prophet, like one of the prophets of old’.23 Since it is Jesus’ »ÍŊļÀË that inspire these associations, it is signi¿cant that Elijah was known for his miracles already in the Hebrew Bible, and that several of the biblical prophets had gained reputations as miracle workers in the literature of Second Temple Judaism.24 Miracles had, in fact, become one of the authenticating criteria for a true prophet, and even prophets such as Jeremiah and Ezekiel, who perform no miracles in the Hebrew Bible, are credited with feats of power in the Lives of the Prophets.25 Similarly, in the Gospels, Jesus’ prophetic identity is linked to his miracles (Mk 6.14-15; Lk. 7.16; 24.19; Jn 6.14), and he receives no honor as a prophet in his hometown of Nazareth where he is unable to heal any but a few (Mk 6.4-5). Josephus famously recounts the stories of the so-called sign prophets, who drew large crowds of followers into the wilderness with the promise that they would perform supernatural feats reminiscent of the miracles of the prophets Moses and Joshua.26 And in the early second century, Justin Martyr cites the belief that prophets ‘were worthy to be supposed, for Nero is never invested with the power to perform miracles. Notably, in Rev. 13 one of the heads of the ¿rst beast – that which recovers from a mortal wound – represents Nero redivivus (v. 3), yet only the second beast performs wondrous signs (vv. 13-14). 23. It is possible to read Mk 6.15’s ¼đË temporally and to translate ¼đË ÌľÅ ÈÉÇÎ¾ÌľÅ as ‘the ¿rst of the prophets’, in which case the reference would be to Moses, who was renowned for performing wonders and signs; see BDAG, s.v. ¼đË 4; C. Perrot, ‘ “Un prophète comme l’un des Prophètes” (Mc 6,15)’, in De la Tôrah au Messie: Mélanges Henri Cazelles (ed. M. Carrez, J. Doré and P. Grelot; Paris: Desclée, 1981), pp. 417–23. 24. See Erkki Koskenniemi, The Old Testament Miracle-Workers in Early Judaism (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005). 25. On miracles as the conditio sine qua non for a prophet, see Bammel, ‘John Did No Miracle’, pp. 181–3, 189–91. 26. See Josephus, Ant. 18.85-87; 20.97-99, 167-68, 188; War 2.259, 261-63, 285-86. See especially Paul Barnett, ‘The Jewish Sign Prophets – A.D. 40–70: Their Intentions and Origin’, NTS 27 (1981), pp. 679–97. Notably, according to the gospels (e.g. Mt. 3.5//Mk 1.5//3.7; Mt. 11.8–9//7.25), John also drew large crowds into the wilderness. 1

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believed because of the miracles [»ÍŊļÀË] which they performed’.27 In light of these observations, it seems that it is only the assumption that Jn 10.41 ought to be taken at face value that has forced commentators to look to alternative explanations for the inclusion of John the Baptist in Mk 6.14, where he is mentioned alongside other presumed miracle workers. Indeed, once the polemical and apologetic nature of Jn 10.41 is acknowledged, the most natural reading of Mk 6.14 is that Jesus was mistaken for John because the Baptist, ‘a prophet, and more than a prophet’ (Mt. 11.9//Lk. 7.26), was likewise remembered as performing »ÍŊļÀË.28 III. The Strong Man and the Stronger One The portrayal of Jesus as the ĊÊÏÍÉŦ̼ÉŦË (‘stronger’) one in Mark’s prologue offers further support for the above observations. In Mark’s Gospel the adjective ĊÊÏÍÉŦË (‘strong’) occurs only in John the Baptist’s description of the coming one as ĊÊÏÍÉŦ̼ÉŦË (‘stronger’, Mk 1.7; cf. Mt. 3.11//Lk. 3.16), where it is used in the comparative, and in the binding of ÌġÅ ĊÊÏÍÉŦÅ (‘the strong man’, 3.27), where it is used substantively in reference to Satan. In the latter instance, Jesus’ exorcisms are interpreted as binding the strong man and plundering the house of Satan.29 The related verb ĊÊÏŧÑ appears in the story of the Gerasene demoniac, whom ‘no one had the strength [ċÊÏͼÅ] to subdue’ (Mk 5.4), and in the story of the demon-possessed boy, where the disciples ÇĤÁ ċÊÏÍʸŠ(‘were not strong’) enough to cast out a demon (Mk 9.18). Given Mark’s penchant for using ĊÊÏÍÉŦË and its cognates in exorcistic contexts, a number of exegetes have suggested that John’s identi¿cation of the coming one as ‘stronger’ (Mt. 3.11//Mk 1.7//Lk. 3.16) may allude to Jesus’ status as a powerful exorcist.30 Occasionally, those who make this observation also suggest that since the Baptist describes Jesus as ĊÊÏÍÉŦ̼ÉŦË than John 27. Dial. 7.14-15; cf. Rev. 11.3-12, where the two witnesses are described as prophesying and performing miraculous feats. 28. Cf. Lk. 1.17, where an angel proclaims that John will go before the Lord ‘with the spirit and power [»ÍÅÚļÀ] of Elijah’. Joseph A. Fitzmyer (The Gospel according to Luke I–IX: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 28; New York: Doubleday, 1970], p. 319) notes that the phrase ‘the “power” of Elijah’ usually refers to ‘his power to work miracles’. 29. The Greek Magical Papyri employ the adjective ĊÊÏÍÉŦË to describe demons; see PGM V.145; XIII.203. 30. See, among others, Hendrik van der Loos, The Miracles of Jesus (Leiden: Brill, 1965), p. 182; William L. Lane, The Gospel according to Mark: The English Text with Introduction, Exposition, and Notes (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1974), p. 143 n. 92; Marcus, Mark, pp. 157–8. 1

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himself, this verse resonates with the Fourth Evangelist’s claim that ‘John did no sign’ (Jn 10.41).31 However, if a connection with exorcism is implied, Mark’s use of the comparative ĊÊÏÍÉŦ̼ÉŦË need not indicate that John was ‘not strong’ – that is, unable to perform exorcisms – as is explicitly stated regarding the disciples who could not cast the demon out of the boy (Mk 9.18). To the contrary, the comparative adjective would indicate that in Mark’s view John is also ĊÊÏÍÉŦË, the only quali¿cation being that the coming one would be ĊÊÏÍÉŦ̼ÉŦË.32 In this regard Mark’s application of the Elijah typology to John is signi¿cant. Already in his prologue, Mark appeals to language and imagery drawn from traditions about Elijah to describe John the Baptist. In Mark’s interpretation of Mal. 3.1, John is the messenger who prepares the way of the Lord, and as Mal. 4.1 indicates, that messenger is Elijah. Further, Mark’s depiction of John as ‘clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist’ (Mk 1.6) is reminiscent of Elijah’s appearance in LXX 2 Kgs 1.8. All of this is, of course, well known. What is often overlooked, however, is that just as Mark portrays John as Elijah, he fashions Jesus in the manner of Elijah’s disciple, Elisha.33 For instance, John’s description of the stronger one coming ‘after me’ (௴ĚÈţÊÑ ÄÇÍ) recalls the response of Elisha when he tells Elijah in 1 Kgs 19.20: ‘I will follow you’ (௴ĚÈţÊÑ ÊÇÍ). Further, it is noteworthy that Elisha receives a double portion of Elijah’s spirit when Elijah ascends to heaven near the Jordan River (2 Kgs 2.9-15), for Jesus similarly receives the spirit when John baptizes him in the Jordan. Indeed, that Elisha received a ‘double portion’ of Elijah’s spirit is interpreted by Sirach to indicate 31. Marcus, Mark, p. 158. 32. Carl E. Kraeling invokes the comparative adjective as evidence that John envisioned the coming one as a human ¿gure and not as God, ‘for to compare oneself with God, even in the most abject humility, would have been presumptuous for any Jew in John’s day’ (John the Baptist [New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1951], p. 54). As Kraeling sees clearly, the adjective indicates that John is in the realm of comparison with the coming one. Likewise sensing the weight of the comparative adjective, Morna Hooker comments, ‘The term mightier (ĊÊÏÍÉŦ̼ÉŦË) may seem a strange one in John’s mouth, since John himself was hardly mighty in the ordinary sense of the word’ (The Gospel according to Saint Mark [London: A. & C. Black, 1991], p. 38, boldface removed). However, the ĊÊÏÍÉŦ̼ÉŦË is strange only if one assumes the accuracy of Jn 10.41. 33. See Raymond E. Brown, ‘Jesus and Elisha’, Perspectives 12 (1971), pp. 85– 99; Ernst Bammel, ‘The Baptist in Early Christian Traditions’, NTS 18 (1972), pp. 95–125, esp. p. 112; Joel Marcus, ‘John the Baptist and Jesus’, in When Judaism and Christianity Began: Essays in Memory of Anthony J. Saldarini (ed. Daniel Harrington, Alan J. Avery-Peck, and Jacob Neusner; 2 vols.; JSJSup 85; Leiden: Brill, 2003), vol. 1, pp. 179–97. 1

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that Elisha did ‘twice as many signs’ as Elijah (Sir. 48.12-14).34 In depicting Jesus, the coming one, as ‘stronger’ than John, Mark may thus be recalling traditions concerning the ascendancy of Elisha over Elijah. The parallels between Elijah and Elisha on the one hand and John and Jesus on the other hand suggest that in his prologue Mark is developing a dual typology. Jesus is to John as Elisha is to Elijah. Just as Elisha came after Elijah, received his spirit, and subsequently performed more signs than his mentor, Jesus comes after John, receives the spirit at his baptism, and becomes the more powerful miracle worker. Elijah and Elisha Elijah was ‘A hairy man, with a leather belt around his waist [½ļžŠ»¼ÉĸÌĕžŠȼÉÀ¼½ÑÊÄñÅÇË ÌüÅ ĚÊÎİÅ ¸ĤÌÇı]’ (LXX 2 Kgs 1.8). Elisha says to Elijah ‘I will follow after you [ĚÈĕÊÑ ÊÇÍ]’ (LXX 1 Kgs 19.20). Elisha receives a double portion of Elijah’s spirit at the Jordan River (2 Kgs 2.9-15). Elisha performed ‘twice as many signs’ as Elijah (Sir. 48.12).

John and Jesus ‘John was clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist [½ļžŠ»¼ÉĸÌĕžŠȼÉĖ ÌüÅ ĚÊÎİÅ ¸ĤÌÇı]’ (Mk 1.6). John refers to Jesus as one who ‘comes after me [ĚÈĕÊÑ ÄÇÍ]’ (Mk 1.7). Jesus is baptized by John and receives the Spirit at the Jordan River (Mk 1.9-10). Jesus (the coming one) is stronger (ĊÊÏÍÉŦ̼ÉŦË) than John (Mk 1.7).

In light of this dual typology, when we consider Mark’s association of the word ‘strong’ with exorcism and John’s prophecy that the coming one will be ‘stronger’ than he is, the inference to be made is not that John himself is not strong, but that his strength would be overshadowed by that of the one who comes after him, just as Elijah’s miraculous powers were by those of Elisha. In developing this dual typology, Mark suggests that while Jesus was the superior exorcist, John too was a ‘strong’ man. IV. The Violent Take It by Force A related tradition may be found in Mt. 11.12-13: ‘From the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven has suffered violence [¹ÀÚ½¼Ì¸À], and the violent take it by force [¹À¸Ê̸Ė ÖÉÈÚ½ÇÍÊÀÅ ¸ĤÌûÅ]. 34. The notion of a double portion originally meant that the eldest son would receive twice the inheritance of each of his younger brothers (Deut. 21.17). However, later Jewish tradition interpreted 2 Kgs 2.9-15 to mean that Elijah’s spirit was doubled, enabling Elisha to perform twice as many miracles as Elijah. Louis Ginzberg (The Legends of the Jews [7 vols.; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1913], vol. 4, p. 239) reports that Elisha accomplished sixteen miracles to Elijah’s eight. 1

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For all the prophets and the law prophesied until John came.’35 Norman Perrin laid out the main interpretive questions:36 1. Is ¹ÀÚ½¼Ì¸À in the middle voice (the kingdom breaks in violently) or the passive voice (the kingdom suffers violence)? 2. Who are the ¹À¸Ê̸ţ? 3. How should we interpret ÖÉÈÚ½ÇÍÊÀÅ? In light of the uncertainty surrounding the ¿rst two questions, I wish to begin with the third question. Matthew uses the verb ÖÉÈÚ½Ñ on two other occasions in his Gospel, both of which are instances of Matthean redaction and appear in contexts of spiritual warfare. The ¿rst is Mt. 12.29: Mk 3.27 But no one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder [»À¸ÉÈÚʸÀ] his property without ¿rst tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered [»À¸ÉÈÚʼÀ].

Mt. 12.29 Or how can one enter a strong man’s house and plunder [ÖÉÈÚʸÀ] his property, without ¿rst tying up the strong man? Then indeed the house can be plundered [»À¸ÉÈÚʼÀ].

This parable describes Jesus as one who plunders (ÖÉÈÚʸÀ) Satan’s house through his exorcisms. While Matthew’s redaction is subtle, the introduction of ÖÉÈÚ½Ñ establishes an initial link with Mt. 11.12. This link is strengthened by Matthew’s only other use of the verb ÖÉÈÚ½Ñ, which occurs in his explanation of the Parable of the Sower: Mk 4.14-15 The sower sows the word. These are the ones on the path where the word is sown: when they hear, Satan immediately comes and takes away [¸ċɼÀ] the word that is sown in them.

Mt. 13.19 When anyone hears the word of the kingdom [ÌýË ¹¸ÊÀ¼ĕ¸Ë] and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away [ÖÉÈÚ½¼À] what is sown in the heart; this is what was sown on the path.

35. Lk. 16.16 domesticates the saying so that the kingdom no longer suffers violence (¹ÀÚ½¼Ì¸À), but is instead proclaimed as good news (¼Ĥ¸ºº¼Âĕ½¼Ì¸À), a favorite Lukan theme. Further, Luke removes the reference to ¹À¸Ê̸Ė (‘men of violence’) plundering the kingdom and replaces it with the less problematic reference to ÈÜË ‘everyone’ entering the kingdom. In light of the focus of this volume, I will limit my discussion to the Matthean text. For a plausible reconstruction of the putative Q text, see Meier, Mentor, Message, and Miracles, p. 160. 36. Norman Perrin, The Kingdom of God in the Teaching of Jesus (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1963), p. 172. 1

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Matthew has again redacted his source, changing Mark’s ¸ċɼÀ to ÖÉÈÚ½¼À. The terms ÖÉÈÚ½¼À and ¹¸ÊÀ¼ĕ¸Ë in this parable closely echo the language of Mt. 11.12, where violent beings plunder (ÖÉÈÚ½ÇÍÊÀÅ) the kingdom (¹¸ÊÀ¼ĕ¸). Here the activity against the kingdom is attributed to the evil one. These parallel instances of Matthean redaction suggest that just as Mark employs the adjective ĊÊÏÍÉŦË (and its cognates) in exorcistic contexts, Matthew reserves the verb ÖÉÈÚ½Ñ for contexts of spiritual warfare. However, while the verb ÖÉÈÚ½Ñ belongs to Matthew’s lexicon of exorcism and spiritual warfare, the subjects of the verb vary dramatically in his usage. In one parable Jesus the exorcist plunders the house of the strong man, Satan; in the other parable it is the evil one, Satan himself, who snatches the word of the kingdom from human hearts. In light of this variability, Matthew’s use of ÖÉÈÚ½Ñ does not provide the skeleton key to unlock the precise identity of the ¹À¸Ê̸ţ in Mt. 11.12, but the implied context of exorcism does help narrow the ¿eld considerably. Two potential interpretations suggest themselves. Following Mt. 12.25, which has Jesus plunder (ÖÉÈÚʸÀ) the strong man’s house (i.e. Satan’s kingdom) by means of his exorcisms, the ¹À¸Ê̸ţ of Mt. 11.12 may refer to Jesus and his disciples who seize (ÖÉÈÚ½ÇÍÊÀÅ) the kingdom from the rule of Satan through their exorcisms. As Albert Schweitzer put it, ‘Through his conquest of demons Jesus is the man of violence who compels the approach of the kingdom’ and when he commissions his disciples and gives them authority over demons, ‘he sends them as men of violence who are to deal the last blow’.37 On this reading, the middle-voice interpretation of ¹ÀÚ½¼Ì¸À may be preferred; the kingdom arrives by force as the men of violence seize it from Satan’s grasp. Notably, if Mt. 11.12’s introductory ÒÈġ »ò ÌľÅ ÷Ä¼ÉľÅ `ÑÚÅÅÇÍ ÌÇı ¹¸ÈÌÀÊÌÇı (‘from the days of John the Baptist’) is taken to include the Baptist, John would then be numbered among these ‘men of violence’ seizing the kingdom through their exorcisms.38 Then again, if we take our cue from the Parable of the Sower, where the evil one ‘snatches’ (ÖÉÈÚ½¼À) the word from the kingdom, Mt. 11.12’s ¹À¸Ê̸ţ, who ‘plunder’ (ÖÉÈÚ½ÇÍÊÀÅ) the kingdom, may be identi¿ed as ‘hostile Satanic forces assailing the Kingdom from without’.39 In this 37. Albert Schweitzer, The Mystery of the Kingdom of God: The Secret of Jesus’ Messiahship and Passion (New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1914), p. 144. 38. For a defense of the inclusive reading of ‘from the days of John’, see W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison Jr., A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to Saint Matthew (3 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1988– 97), vol. 2, p. 254. 39. Kraeling, John the Baptist, p. 156; so also Martin Dibelius, Die urchristliche Überlieferung von Johannes dem Täufer (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1

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case, Matthew’s depiction of demonic beings as ‘men of violence’ would closely echo his description of Satan as the ‘strong man’ (Mt. 12.29).40 The passive-voice interpretation of ¹ÀÚ½¼Ì¸À is a better ¿t for this reading; the kingdom suffers violence because the forces of Satan are assaulting it. Matthew 11.12’s introductory ‘from the days of John’ would still include John as a participant in the battle with the forces of Satan. Interestingly, however, the logion would then depict John’s ministry as a losing battle, whereas Matthew’s Parable of the Strong Man identi¿es Jesus’ exorcisms as the de¿nitive sign that the tides had turned (cf. 12.29). Still, it is signi¿cant that the saying identi¿es the Baptist’s ministry as the beginning of this holy war, thereby suggesting that John is a participant in the battle. In this regard, Matthew’s portrait may not be far from Mark’s presentation of John as a ‘strong man’ who is surpassed by Jesus, ‘the stronger one’. Either way, whether Matthew’s ¹À¸Ê̸ţ are exorcists purging demonic beings from the kingdom or the forces of Satan plundering or seizing the kingdom, Mt. 11.12 envisions a holy war between the kingdom of God and that of Satan.41 And what is most signi¿cant for the present study is that these echoes of exorcism in Mt. 11.12 indicate that this period of embattled kingdoms originated in ‘the days of John the Baptist’. V. He Has a Demon Perhaps the most frequently discussed passage regarding Jesus’ exorcisms is the Beelzebul Controversy (Mt. 12.22-32//Mk 3.20-30// Lk. 11.14-23), where the Pharisees assert that Jesus exorcises demons by the prince of demons, charging ¼¼Â½¼¹Çİ ìϼÀ (‘he has Beelzebul’, 1911), pp. 24–9; Werner Georg Kümmel, Promise and Ful¿llment: The Eschatological Message of Jesus (Naperville, IL: A. R. Allenson, 1957), p. 123 n. 72. The interpretation of the ¹À¸Ê̸ţ as demonic forces ¿nds support in Wis. 7.20, which catalogs Solomon’s encyclopedic knowledge, including knowledge of ÈżÍÄŠÌÑÅ ¹ţ¸Ë. In light of the post-biblical traditions regarding Solomon as an exorcist (see Josephus, Ant. 8.2.5; 11Q5; L.A.B. 59–60; Testament of Solomon), this text may have in view Solomon’s power over ‘violent spirits’ and his prowess as an exorcist. See Dennis C. Duling, ‘Solomon, Exorcism, and the Son of David’, HTR 68 (1975), pp. 235–52; Anthony Le Donne, The Historiographical Jesus: Memory, Typology, and the Son of David (Waco: Baylor, 2009), pp. 150–2. 40. However, as Norman Perrin (Rediscovering the Teaching of Jesus [New York: Harper & Row, 1967], p. 77) notes, ‘What we have here [in Mt. 11.12] is the reverse of the situation envisaged in the interpretation of the exorcisms [in Mt. 12.29]: there the Kingdom of Satan is being plundered, here that of God’. 41. See O. Betz, ‘Jesu Heiliger Krieg’, NovT 2 (1957), pp. 116–37, esp. p. 129. 1

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Mk 3.22, 31). In this text Jesus’ opponents do not question his ability to perform exorcisms; they question the authority by which he performs such deeds, claiming that he does so by a malevolent spirit. In short, they accuse him of being demon-possessed. The countercharge that the Pharisees are guilty of ‘blasphemy against the Spirit’ implies, to the contrary, that when casting out demons, Jesus is possessed not by Beelzebul, but by the Holy Spirit. Matthew 12.28 makes this explicit: ‘If it is by the spirit of God [ëÅ ÈżįĸÌÀ ¿¼Çı] that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you’. This particular tradition thus depicts Jesus as entering into a state of spirit possession when exorcising demons and indicates that outsiders could construe such an altered state of consciousness as demonic possession.42 Strikingly, just as Jesus’ opponents charge, ¼¼Â½¼¹Çİ ìϼÀ (‘he has Beelzebul’, Mk 3.22, 31), John’s critics allege, »¸ÀÄĠÅÀÇÅ ìϼÀ (‘he has a demon’, Mt. 11.19//Lk. 7.33). John and Jesus are thus both victims of similar acts of deviance labeling. While others have noted these parallel accusations,43 the question of what gave rise to the slander against John, and whether it was similar in any way to that which brought about the labeling of Jesus, has not received adequate attention. According to Mt. 11.18, it was John’s ‘not eating and not drinking’ that precipitated this deviance labeling.44 In other words, it is on account of John’s fasting that the Pharisees claim ‘he has a demon’.45 Jews fasted 42. Stevan L. Davies, Jesus the Healer: Possession, Trance, and the Origins of Christianity (New York: Continuum, 1995), pp. 23–36, 74–7; Todd Klutz, The Exorcism Stories in Luke–Acts: A Sociostylistic Reading (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 129. It is possible – though far from certain – that Mark’s comment that Jesus ‘could not even eat’ (3.20) is directly related to the subsequent charges that ‘He has gone out of his mind’ (v. 21) and ‘He has Beelzebul’ (v. 22), for abstemious behaviors such as fasting are often associated with spirit possession and exorcism. For this reading of Mk 3.20, see Dietmar Neufeld, ‘Eating, Ecstasy, and Exorcism (Mark 3:21)’, BTB 26 (1996), pp. 151–62; Klutz, The Exorcism Stories, pp. 138–9. Klutz, however, concedes that this verse does not suggest the intentionality typically associated with fasting. Moreover, as Stephen Barton (Discipleship and Family Ties in Mark and Matthew [SNTSMS 80; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994], p. 70) notes, ‘The motif of not being able to eat because of the throng recurs at 6.31b (8.1)’, where there is neither intentionality nor accusation. 43. See, for instance, Dunn, Jesus Remembered, p. 352; John Nolland, Matthew: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids; Eerdmans, 2005), p. 464. 44. Lk. 7.33 quali¿es the charge: ‘John the Baptist has come eating no bread and drinking no wine’ (emphasis added). 45. In addition to other references to John’s fasting (Mt. 9.14//Mk 2.18//Lk. 5.33), we have the reference to John’s diet of locusts and wild honey in Mk 1.6//Mt. 3.4. 1

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for various reasons, and in most instances it is portrayed positively. To be sure, elsewhere in the gospels Jesus is castigated because he and his disciples do not fast (Mt. 9.14//Mk 2.18//Lk. 5.33).46 The prophets, of course, critiqued those who fast hypocritically, without humility, or out of self-interest (e.g. Isa. 58.3-6; Jer. 14.12), but in our passage an otherwise praiseworthy activity elicits scorn.47 In light of the traditions we have examined thus far and with the parallel accusation against Jesus in view – an accusation that results directly from his exorcisms – it is worth reconsidering the charge against John in light of the widespread association of fasting, exorcism, and deviance labeling. There is ample evidence of fasting as a technique employed by exorcists in Mediterranean antiquity.48 Many early witnesses to Mk 9.29 have Jesus say that certain demons ‘come out only through prayer and fasting’ (ÈÉÇʼÍÏĉ Á¸Ė žÊ̼ţß).49 Further, according to Apoc. Elijah 1.20-22, a pure fast done with pure intentions ‘releases sin. It heals diseases. It casts out demons.’50 And in T. Jac. 7.17, Jacob exhorts his sons, ‘do not slacken from prayer and fasting ever at any time, and by the life of the religion you will drive away the demons’.51 Further, as Dietmar Neufeld observes, ‘In quite a number of spells recorded in the PGM, not to eat or to restrict the diet prepared one for a battle with the gods and the demons’.52 While the authenticity of the Á¸Ė žÊ̼ţß of Mk 9.29 is debated, and although the Apocalypse of Elijah, the 46. Gos.Thom. 14 is a signi¿cant departure. 47. The only text I have been able to ¿nd in Jewish literature that is similarly critical is b. Sanh. 65b, where Rabbi Akiba contrasts ‘those who starve themselves that an impure spirit may rest upon them’ with ‘he who fasts that the pure spirit [the Divine Presence] may rest upon him’. Akiba’s polemic against the former group is reminiscent of the way fasting and demon/spirit possession are coupled in Mt. 11.18. Even the hyperbolic ‘they starve themselves’ recalls the extreme description of John’s ‘neither eating nor drinking’. 48. See Otto Böcher, Dämonenfurcht und Dämonenabwehr: ein Beitrag zur Vorgeschichte der Christlichen Taufe (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1970), pp. 273–84. 49. Attested in к45 vid 2 A C D L W Ĭ Ȍ f 1.13 33 ͐ lat syh co (s sys.p boms). Bruce M. Metzger (A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament [2d ed.; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1994], p. 85) expresses the majority opinion when he argues Á¸Ė žÊ̼ţß is secondary and was introduced on account of the importance of fasting in the early church. Alternatively, for a defense of the originality of Á¸Ė žÊ̼ţß, see Klutz, The Exorcism Stories, pp. 203–4. In either case, the association between fasting and exorcism is relevant. 50. O. S. Wintermute, OTP, vol. 1, p. 738. 51. W. Stinespring, OTP, vol. 1, p. 917. 52. Neufeld, ‘Eating, Ecstasy, and Exorcism’, p. 160; Neufeld cites PGM I.42195, IV.47-829, VII.319-34, 359-69, 664-85, 703-26, 740-55 and IV.3209-54. 1

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Testament of Jacob, and the Greek Magical Papyri all post-date the gospels, fasting is already associated with overcoming the powers of evil in Mt. 4.1-11//Lk. 4.1-13, where Jesus fasts for forty days and forty nights while doing battle with the devil. Further bolstering these observations are the numerous anthropological studies that have likewise observed a link between fasting and altered states of consciousness associated with folk healings and exorcisms.53 Such ecstatic trances and altered states of consciousness are often understood by those who enter into them as a positive form of spirit possession and are believed to be an important component of exorcism and healing. From an outsider’s vantage point, however, they could easily – and often do – give way to deviance labeling such as that which is directed at Jesus and John in the gospels.54 This is precisely what we have observed in the Beelzebul Controversy, where Jesus perceives himself as casting out demons ‘by the spirit of God’, while his adversaries believe he does so ‘by the prince of demons’. Thus Mt. 11.19 (cf. Lk. 7.33) juxtaposes an activity associated with exorcism in both ancient texts and modern anthropological research (fasting) with a charge associated with exorcism elsewhere in the synoptic tradition (‘he has a demon/he has Beelzebul’). The presence of exorcism language in the other synoptic traditions analyzed above suggests a potential link between these two elements. The well-known connections between fasting, exorcism, and deviance labeling, may therefore suggest that John employed fasting as a prologue to exorcism and that he was labeled demon-possessed on account of those exorcisms, just as Jesus was after him. VI. Concluding Remarks As the traditions surveyed here demonstrate, the Synoptic Gospels contain several echoes of exorcism in their depictions of John the Baptist. Notably, these echoes are located in disparate sources, including 53. See the literature cited in Klutz, Exorcism Stories, p. 204 n. 168. 54. See especially I. M. Lewis (Ecstatic Religion: A Study of Shamanism and Spirit Possession) [2d ed.; London: Routledge, 2003], pp. 28–9), who coined the phrases ‘central possession’ and ‘peripheral possession’. The former refers to those whose possession is sanctioned by the powers that be and thus deemed safe and even bene¿cial; the latter to those whose possession is unsanctioned and deemed dangerous. See n. 46 above for an example of this in b. Sanh. 65b. Cf. Paul Hollenbach, ‘Jesus, Demoniacs, and Public Authorities: A Socio-Historical Study’, JAAR 49 (1981), pp. 567–88; Neufeld, ‘Eating, Ecstasy, and Exorcism’, p. 161; Klutz, Exorcism Stories, pp. 129–30. 1

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pre-Markan material (Mk 6.14), Markan redaction (Mark’s use of ĊÊÏÍÉŦË or cognates in 1.7 and elsewhere), Q (Mt. 11.18//Lk. 7.33), and Matthean redaction (Matthew’s use of ÖÉÈÚ½Ñ at 11.12 and elsewhere). Mark and Matthew thus appear to preserve and develop received traditions that independently associated John with exorcism. We may encounter something similar in Lk. 1.17, which depicts John the Baptist as going before the Lord ‘with the spirit and power [»ÍÅÚļÀ] of Elijah’.55 Further, while exegetes have long taken for granted the legitimacy of the claim that ‘John did no sign’ (Jn 10.41), the Fourth Evangelist’s polemical stance against the Baptist calls the trustworthiness of his testimony into question. John 10.41 may in fact attempt to refute the view underlying the synoptic traditions discussed here. Alternatively, in light of the speci¿cally exorcistic language in the texts surveyed above, it is worth noting that nowhere in the Gospel of John does Jesus perform exorcisms. For John the Evangelist, then, exorcisms may not be considered ‘signs’ at all. If this is the case, the Fourth Gospel may not explicitly contradict traditions depicting John the Baptist as an exorcist but may offer a concession with a quali¿cation: while the Baptist may have performed exorcisms, he did not perform signs. Either way, there appears to be an earlier conviction to which Jn 10.41 responds. All of these traditions may thus reÀect the belief that John, like Jesus, was a reputed healer and exorcist. This should not surprise, for many are convinced, myself included, that Jesus was in some regard a disciple of John and that he adopted many aspects of his mentor’s message and mission, including – at least for some time – his ministry of baptism. If John too were a healer and exorcist, this would be but one more point of continuity between these two men, who already appear to have held much in common.

1

55. See n. 28 above.

‘HE LAID HIM IN A TOMB’ (MARK 15.46): ROMAN LAW AND THE BURIAL OF JESUS Craig A. Evans

I. Introduction The resurrection of Jesus has been long debated. In more recent years the burial of Jesus has also become an item of debate. The uncertainty of Mark’s ending (viz. either at Mk 16.8 or at Mk 16.20) understandably complicates critical discussion of the resurrection. But no such textual uncertainty attends Mark’s burial narrative.1 The burial narrative, moreover, is complete, in the sense that it supplies all of the essential elements: when burial took place, how it came about, who were involved, and who witnessed it. Mark’s narrative of the burial of Jesus reads as follows: And when evening had come, since it was the day of Preparation, that is, the day before the Sabbath, Joseph of Arimathea, a respected member of the council, who was also himself looking for the kingdom of God, took courage and went to Pilate, and asked for the body of Jesus. And Pilate wondered if he were already dead; and summoning the centurion, he asked him whether he was already dead. And when he learned from the centurion that he was dead, he granted the body to Joseph. And he bought a linen shroud, and taking him down, wrapped him in the linen shroud, and laid him in a tomb which had been hewn out of the rock; and he rolled a stone against the door of the tomb. Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Jesus saw where he was laid. (Mk 15.42-47 RSV)

Mark’s account is followed by the evangelists Matthew and Luke (Mt. 27.57-61; Lk. 23.50-56), though they seem to have had access to 1. The only textual variant of note is found in Mk 15.44 where some early authorities read ¼Ċ Ȋ¸À ÒÈš¿¸Å¼Å ( A C L 33), ‘if long ago he died’, and others read ¼Ċ ô»¾ ÒÈš¿¸Å¼Å (B D W Ĭ), ‘if already he died’. Some of the mss that have the second option (e.g. D W Ĭ) read, instead of ÒÈš¿¸Å¼Å, the perfect Ìš¿Å¾Á¼Å, ‘he has died’ (which parallels ¼Ċ ô»¾ Ìš¿Å¾Á¼Å at the beginning of the verse), or the pluperfect ̼¿ÅŢÁ¼À, ‘he had died’. It is not easy to determine the original reading. For discussion of these variants, see B. M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament (corrected ed.; London/New York: United Bible Societies, 1975), p. 121.

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additional materials. John’s account is probably based on an independent source (Jn 19.38-42), though it provides the same essential elements. In very old tradition cited by Paul, we are told ĞÌÀ ÉÀÊÌġË ÒÈš¿¸Å¼Å…ĞÌÀ ë̊ξ (‘that Christ died…that he was buried’, 1 Cor. 15.3-4).2 The terse ‘he was buried’ (ë̊ξ) clearly implies burial in a tomb (i.e., in a ÌŠÎÇË; cf. Mt. 23.27), as Jewish custom and law required (m. Sanh. 6.5-6; b. Qidd. 31b; Sem. 13.7; Josephus, Apion 2.211; Jn 19.31) and as older scriptural parallels, whose language the pre-Pauline tradition echoes, clearly imply (Gen. 35.19; Deut. 10.6; Judg. 8.32; 12.7, 10, 15; cf. Lk. 16.22).3 Had the body of Jesus been left hanging on the cross or, at best, had it been cast into a ditch and eaten by dogs, it could scarcely qualify as being ‘buried’. Moreover, leaving a corpse unburied, during peacetime and just outside the walls of Jerusalem on the eve of Passover, is in any event extremely unlikely. Refusal to permit the burial of the bodies of Jesus and the men cruci¿ed with him would have incited protests, perhaps even violence. Both Philo and Josephus state that during peacetime Roman governors respected Jewish customs and by doing so maintained peace (Philo, Leg. Gai. 300; Josephus, Apion 2.73, 220). This included not leaving a corpse unburied (Apion 2.211), lest the land be polluted (Deut. 21.22-23; Ezek. 39.14, 16). The most pertinent statement comes from Josephus, who complains of the crimes of the rebels during the great revolt (66–73 C.E.). He ¿nds particularly heinous the rebels’ treatment of the ruling priests, whom they murdered: 2. The tradition that Paul ‘received’ was received shortly after his conversion, perhaps only two or three years after the resurrection of Jesus. See J. D. G. Dunn, Beginning from Jerusalem (Christianity in the Making 2; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), pp. 230–2. J. A. Fitzmyer dates the martyrdom of Stephen and the conversion of Paul to the year 36, the ¿nal year in of¿ce for Pilate and Caiaphas. See J. A. Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles (AB 31; New York: Doubleday, 1998), pp. 138– 9, 422–3. 3. As rightly observed by A. Lindemann, Der erste Korintherbrief (HNT 9/1; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), p. 331. In these examples we ¿nd the language :9=#…=/=# / ÒÈš¿¸Å¼Å…Á¸Ė ë̊ξ (‘died…and was buried’) that appears in the tradition that Paul cites. In every case burial in a tomb is assumed. Only in one passage is a tomb explicitly mentioned (cf. Judg. 8.32, ÒÈš¿¸Å¼Å ¼»¼ÑÅ…Á¸Ė ë̊ξ ëÅ ÌŊ ÌŠÎĿ Ñ¸Ë ÌÇı ȸÌÉġË ¸ĤÌÇı, ‘Gideon died…and was buried in the tomb of Joash his father’). In my view the language involved, along with the scriptural antecedents, explains the meaning of ‘he was buried’ in 1 Cor. 15.4. See W. R. Telford, The Theology of the Gospel of Mark (New Testament Theology; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 139. Telford is correct in saying that ‘he was buried’ does not necessarily allude to the empty tomb story. 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives They actually went so far in their impiety as to cast out the corpses without burial [ÒÌŠÎÇÍË ģėиÀ], though the Jews are so careful about funeral rites that even malefactors who have been sentenced to cruci¿xion are taken down and buried before sunset [ÌÇİË ëÁ Á¸Ì¸»ţÁ¾Ë ÒżÊ̸ÍÉÑÄšÅÇÍË ÈÉġ »ŧÅÌÇË ÷ÂţÇÍ Á¸¿¼Â¼ėŠ̼ Á¸Ė ¿ŠÈ̼ÀÅ]. (War 4.317)

What Josephus says here is especially relevant for the question of the burial of the cruci¿ed Jesus. Josephus is speaking of his own time, that is, from the time of Pontius Pilate, prefect of Samaria and Judea, to the time of the Jewish revolt. He clearly states that those executed by cruci¿xion were ‘taken down and buried before sunset’. Because only Roman authority in Samaria and Judea could execute anyone (Josephus, War 2.117; Ant. 20.200-203; Jn 18.31),4 we must assume in the statement by Josephus that those who do the crucifying are the Romans. He also states that those executed by cruci¿xion were ‘buried before sunset’. Here we must assume that Josephus refers to his own people who do the burying, for the concern to bury the executed person ‘before sunset’ is a Jewish concern, not a Roman one. This Jewish practice was based on Deut. 21.22-23 (‘…his body shall not remain all night upon the tree, but you shall bury him the same day…’).5 What we have here is fully consistent with what we see in the Gospels: the Romans crucify Jesus and two other men and the Jews bury them. To argue that because a malefactor was executed by Roman authority he likely would not be buried Àies in the face of the evidence that Roman authority in Jewish Palestine, during peacetime, in fact did accommodate Jewish customs and sensitivities, which included doing nothing that de¿led the land. 4. A. N. Sherwin-White, Roman Society and Roman Law in the New Testament: The Sarum Lectures 1960–61 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1963), p. 36: ‘capital power was the most jealously guarded of all the attributes of government, not even entrusted to the principal assistants of the governors’. Sherwin-White adds, ‘though the local city councils and sanhedrins could arrest and punish robbers and brigands with imprisonment, execution for these offences depended on the procurator’ (p. 43). Of the newly appointed prefect, Coponius, Josephus says, ‘he was entrusted by Augustus with full powers, including the inÀiction of capital punishment’ (War 2.117). High Priest Annas, son of Annas, was removed from of¿ce for convening the Sanhedrin and executing James, the brother of Jesus, and others (probably Christians). See Ant. 20.200-203. Annas may well have thought that he could get away with this action because of the absence of the Roman procurator. 5. That the law of Deut. 21.22-23, which required the body of an executed person to be properly buried before sunset, was still observed in Israel, even in the period of Roman control, is seen in 11Q19 64.7-13. In the Temple Scroll the sequence of Deuteronomy’s put to death then hanged on tree is reversed. Hanging the malefactor on the tree ‘until dead’ reÀects the later practice of cruci¿xion. 1

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Notwithstanding literary evidence such as this, as well as supporting archaeological evidence,6 some still argue that Mark’s burial narrative is ¿ction, that in all probability the body of Jesus was not taken down from the cross and placed in a tomb. It has even been suggested that the body was taken down and cast into a ditch where it was eaten by dogs.7 The latter proposal has been widely criticized by historians and archaeologists. Almost no one follows it. Responding to this proposal, archaeologist Jodi Magness has recently remarked that ‘the Gospel accounts describing Jesus’ removal from the cross and burial are consistent with archaeological evidence and with Jewish law’.8 She is correct, but what 6. One thinks of the cruci¿ed remains of one Yehohanan, cruci¿ed under the authority of Pontius Pilate. Though cruci¿ed, he was nevertheless properly buried (with an iron spike still embedded in his right heel). The skeletal remains of at least three other executed persons have been recovered from tombs and ossuaries, as well as dozens of nails and spikes, many of which had been used in cruci¿xion. The evidence in hand probably represents only a small fraction of what existed at one time. This is because the small bones (hands and feet), which provide evidence of cruci¿xion, rarely survive intact. Moreover, we should assume that the remains of most of those cruci¿ed were from the lower classes and so would not have been placed in ossuaries in secure tombs, as were the remains of Yehohanan, who evidently belonged to a family of means. The archaeological evidence, as limited as it is, supports the literary evidence in suggesting that in Palestine in the time of Jesus the cruci¿ed were in fact buried. See further C. A. Evans, ‘The Family Buried Together Stays Together: On the Burial of the Executed in Family Tombs’, in The World of Jesus and the Early Church: Identity and Interpretation in the Early Communities of Faith (ed. C. A. Evans; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2011), pp. 87–96. 7. The argument that the body of Jesus was not properly buried but was left to birds and animals was proposed twenty years ago by John Dominic Crossan. It has been taken up more recently by Bart Ehrman. See J. D. Crossan, ‘The Dogs beneath the Cross’, in Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography (San Francisco: HarperOne, 1994), pp. 123–58 (154); idem, Who Killed Jesus? Exposing the Roots of Anti-Semitism in the Gospel Story of the Death of Jesus (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1995), p. 188; B. D. Ehrman, How Jesus Became God (New York: HarperOne, 2014), pp. 157–8, 377 n. 8. I am not aware of any Jewish historian or archaeologist who views this proposal as probable. 8. J. Magness, ‘Jesus’ Tomb: What Did It Look Like?’, in Where Christianity Was Born (ed. H. Shanks; Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 2006), pp. 212–16 (224). Magness is rightly contradicting Crossan’s claim that the burial of Yehohanan was unusual and that Jesus of Nazareth probably was not buried. One should also consult J. G. Cook, ‘Cruci¿xion and Burial’, NTS 57 (2011), pp. 193– 213. Cook concludes that the story of Joseph of Arimathea and the burial of Jesus is consistent with archaeology and Jewish laws of burial, including burial of the condemned and executed. See also B. R. McCane, ‘ “Where no one had yet been laid”: The Shame of Jesus’ Burial’, in Authenticating the Activities of Jesus (ed. B. D. Chilton and C. A. Evans; NTTS 28.2; Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 431–52. 1

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about Roman law speci¿cally? Did Roman law permit the burial of the executed, including the cruci¿ed? II. Roman Law according to the Digesta In the Digesta, compiled by Roman emperor Justinian in the sixth century (530–533 C.E.), we ¿nd important and relevant material in book 48. All three of the paragraphs that make up ch. 24, the ¿nal chapter, are helpful. The chapter is entitled De cadaveribus punitorum (‘On the bodies of the punished’).9 The three Latin paragraphs and their English translations are as follows: §1 Ulpianus libro nono de of¿cio proconsulis. Corpora eorum qui capite damnantur cognatis ipsorum neganda non sunt: et id se observasse etiam divus Augustus libro decimo de vita sua scribit. Hodie autem eorum, in quos animadvertitur, corpora non aliter sepeliuntur, quam si fuerit petitum et permissum, et nonnumquam non permittitur, maxime maiestatis causa damnatorum. Eorum quoque corpora, qui exurendi damnantur, peti possunt, scilicet ut ossa et cineres collecta sepulturae tradi possint. Ulpian, Duties of Proconsul, book 9: The bodies of those who are condemned to death should not be refused their relatives; and the Divine Augustus, in the Tenth Book of his Life, said that this rule had been observed. At present, the bodies of those who have been punished are only buried when this has been requested and permission granted; and sometimes it is not permitted, especially where persons have been convicted of high treason. Even the bodies of those who have been sentenced to be burned can be claimed, in order that their bones and ashes, after having been collected, may be buried.

9. The Latin text comes from the critical edition prepared by Theodor Mommsen. See T. Mommsen, Iustiniani Digesta (Corpus Iuris Civilis. Editio stereotypa quinta. Volumen Primum: Institutiones, recognovit P. Krueger. Digesta, recognovit T. Mommsen; Berlin: Weidmann, 1889). The English translation is based on Olivia Robinson, ‘Book Forty-Eight’, in The Digest of Justinian (ed. T. Mommsen, P. Krueger, and A. Watson; 4 vols.; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985; repr. 1998), vol. 4, pp. 863–4. For critical discussion of the Digesta, its sources, and its meaning, see T. Honoré, Justinian’s Digest: Character and Compilation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); D. W. Chapman and E. J. Schnabel, The Trial and Cruci¿xion of Jesus: Texts and Commentary (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), pp. 233–5. 1

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§2 Marcianus libro secundo publicorum. Si quis in insulam deportatus vel relegatus fuerit, poena etiam post mortem manet, nec licet eum inde transferre aliubi et sepelire inconsulto principe: ut saepissime Severus et Antoninus rescripserunt et multis petentibus hoc ipsum indulserunt. Marcian, in Public Matters,10 book 2: If anyone has been deported or relegated to an island, the punishment endures even after his death, nor is it lawful to remove him anywhere else for burial without consulting the emperor, as Severus and Antoninus very frequently wrote in rescripts; and they allowed the same favor to many petitioners. §3 Paulus libro primo sententiarum. Corpora animadversorum quibuslibet petentibus ad sepulturam danda sunt. Paulus, Views, book 1: The bodies of persons who have been punished should be given to whoever requests them for the purpose of burial.

III. Commentary on Digesta 48.24.1-3 a. Section 1 More than forty per cent of Justinian’s Digesta has been drawn from the writings of the jurist Ulpian (ca. 170–223).11 One of his frequently cited works is his of¿cio proconsulis (Duties of Proconsul). In the ¿rst paragraph of ch. 24 the Digesta quotes an opinion from the ninth book of of¿cio proconsulis: ‘The bodies of those who are condemned to death should not be refused their relatives’. Ulpian supports his opinion by appealing to the precedent of the great emperor Augustus (ruled 31 B.C.E.–14 C.E.), which was expressed in his autobiography written near the end of his life. Ulpian goes on to say that ‘the bodies of those who have been punished are only buried when this has been requested and permission granted’. A statement in the lex Puteolana (at II.13) gives the impression that Romans, as did Jews in Israel, had burial pits reserved for criminals and others buried without honor.12 Both Ulpian’s legal opinion and the practice that apparently was observed during the rule of Augustus are directly relevant for the juridical process concerning Jesus we see in the Gospels. Burial of the bodies of the executed was permitted in the Roman Empire in the approximate time of Jesus. It was the practice of the Augustan administration and 10. In legal contexts publicorum could also be translated ‘criminal proceedings’. 11. For introduction and assessment of the man and his work, see T. Honoré, Ulpian: Pioneer of Human Rights (2d ed.; Oxford: Clarendon, 2002). Ulpian wrote a very lengthy survey of Roman law (213–217 C.E.). 12. For discussion of lex Puteolana II.13, see J. G. Cook, Cruci¿xion in the Mediterranean World (WUNT 327; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), pp. 385–7. 1

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it was the opinion of Ulpian who lived two centuries later and, as we see in §3, it was also the opinion of Paulus, a younger contemporary of Ulpian’s. The Gospel narratives are fully consistent with Roman practice and legal opinion. I will discuss the procedure for requesting a corpse for burial in §3 below. Here I want to discuss Ulpian’s comment, ‘sometimes it [burial] is not permitted, especially where persons have been convicted of high treason’. Was Jesus ‘convicted of high treason’ (maxime maiestatis causa damnatorum) and therefore permission might not have been granted for the burial of his corpse? It seems most unlikely that Jesus was condemned for ‘high treason’, given the discussion of treason (maiestas) in Digesta 48.4.1-11. Cited authorities include Ulpian, Marcian, Scaevola, and others. Almost all of the examples discussed in ch. 4 involve serious violence against the state, ‘against the Roman people or against their safety’, including plotting the death of the emperor, plotting or attempting to assassinate a Roman of¿cial, raising an army, failing to relinquish command of an army, siding with an enemy of the empire, fomenting armed rebellion, turning an ally against Rome, etc.13 The ¿rst excerpt (Digesta 48.4.1) is taken from Ulpian, Duties of Proconsul, book 7, in which he also includes occupation of ‘places or temples’ (locaue occupentur uel templa) as an example of treason. We must ask if Jesus’ demonstration in the temple precincts (Mk 11.15-18 parr.) was an example of such ‘occupation’ and therefore potentially high treason. When the relevant factors are taken into account, it is hard to see how. Although some scholars have referred to Jesus’ actions in the temple precincts as an ‘occupation’,14 it could scarcely have been that in any literal sense. The precincts run 500 meters or so north to south and about 300 meters or so east to west. To occupy such a vast area, protected by Jewish police within and Roman guards without, would have required many hundreds of armed followers. Such an attempt would have resulted in considerable violence, which surely would have been mentioned by Josephus and Roman historians, if not in Christian writings as well. Yet, there is no hint of an altercation of any sort in the temple precincts. Indeed, one wonders how the Jesus movement could have continued in 13. See the comments on this passage provided in Chapman and Schnabel, The Trial and Cruci¿xion of Jesus, pp. 235–7. 14. For discussion of this language, see B. D. Chilton, The Temple of Jesus: His Sacri¿cial Program within a Cultural History of Sacri¿ce (University Park: Penn State Press, 1992), pp. 91–111. 1

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and around Jerusalem after the execution of Jesus, had this movement attempted a violent takeover of the precincts. In reality Jesus’ actions were con¿ned to a small area of the precincts, where sacri¿cial animals were being sold. His actions were understood as symbolic and pedagogical. It is probable that many in the precincts the day Jesus demonstrated were not even aware of his presence. After demonstrating in the temple precincts, Jesus is not approached by guards or soldiers; he is approached by ‘ruling priests, scribes, and elders’ who demand to know by what authority he has acted (Mk 11.2728). Jesus declined to provide an explicit answer, replying instead with a parable hinting at the judgment that awaits his antagonists (Mk 12.112). This is hardly the picture of violent occupation and response.15 It is largely for this reason that scholars have rightly rejected the various hypotheses that have been put forward to the effect that Jesus and his following attempted an armed overthrow of Jerusalem or its temple precincts.16 Moreover, had Jesus and his followers attempted a takeover of the temple precincts one would have expected Josephus to have mentioned it. This was the very thing that concerned him. Yet, in essential agreement with the Gospels but independently of them, Josephus describes Jesus as a teacher and wonderworker who was accused by the ‘¿rst men among us’ (i.e. the ruling priests) and condemned to the cross by Pilate (Ant. 18.63-64). There is no hint that Jesus had engaged in violence. Had Jesus been involved in some treasonable action, especially one involving arms, one would have expected Josephus to tell a very different story. The Gospels’ portrait of a Pilate who considers his options – to punish or to release (Mk 15.9-15) – is also consistent with the legal opinions compiled in the Digesta. In ch. 19 of book 48 we ¿nd a number of excerpts that speak to this aspect of crime and punishment. According to Ulpian, Appeals, book 1, ‘A judge…may lawfully pass what sentence he wishes, whether heavier or lighter…’ (Digesta 48.19.13). According to 15. The Johannine narrative (Jn 2.13-22) represents independent tradition. As in the Synoptic narrative we encounter in John demonstration, teaching, threats and challenges, but no hint of arms or violence. 16. See E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM, 1985), p. 68. Sanders remarks, in reference to S. G. F. Brandon, Jesus and the Zealots: A Study of the Political Factor in Primitive Christianity (New York: Scribner’s Sons, 1967): ‘Brandon’s view, in fact, will get no full airing at all, since I consider that it has been suf¿ciently refuted; it cannot in any case be said to have inÀuenced many’. In a footnote (p. 367 n. 53) Sanders cites M. Hengel, Was Jesus a Revolutionist? (FBBS 28; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971); orig. War Jesus Revolutionär? (CH 110; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1970). Hengel primarily addresses and refutes Brandon. 1

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Paulus, Views, book 5, those who are guilty of sedition or cause disturbances may be hanged, thrown to wild animals, or be exiled (48.19.38.2). The severity of punishment may also vary from province to province (48.19.16.9). Roman law allowed for prefects and procurators to use discretion in meting out punishment (48.19.38 throughout). Some jurists believed in giving the accused the bene¿t of the doubt, at least in deciding punishment. We ¿nd an example of this thinking in Hermogenian, Epitome of Law, book 1: ‘In the interpretation of the statutes punishments should be mitigated rather than made harsher’ (Digesta 48.19.22). The latitude given Roman of¿cials in matters of punishment, as well as in matters of permitting burial of the corpses of the executed, is consistent with the Gospel narratives. Pilate was under no requirement to execute Jesus, nor did Roman law prevent him from permitting the burial of Jesus and the other men. b. Section 2 Marcian, or Aelius Marcianus, Àourished in the early third century. His opinion that the body of one who has been punished cannot be taken ‘anywhere else for burial without consulting the emperor’ is again consistent with Roman law and Jewish custom as enforced and observed in ¿rst-century Jewish Palestine. Jewish law and custom required the bodies of the executed to remain in a burial place of dishonor for one year (i.e. until the Àesh wasted away; cf. m. Sanh. 6.5-6; Sem. 13.7). Jewish law strictly forbade removing and transferring human remains from places of dishonor to places of honor and vice versa, except in the circumstances already noted. Roman law was similar. As it applied to ¿rst-century Jewish Palestine one immediately thinks of the so-called Nazareth Inscription. In 1878 a marble slab, 61 cm high, 38 cm wide, and 8 cm thick, came to light, on which was inscribed in 22 lines an imperial edict forbidding robbing and vandalizing graves. It is believed that the stone came from Nazareth (though the provenance of this discovery has never been con¿rmed; it may well have come from one of the cities of the Decapolis). In 1925 it was sent to the Paris Bibliothèque Nationale and was published in 1930 by Franz Cumont.17 It has been discussed subsequently in several studies.18 The date of the inscription is unknown, but most epigraphers 17. F. Cumont, ‘Un rescrit impérial sur la violation de sépulture’, RH 163 (1930), pp. 241–66. 18. See esp. F. de Zulueta, ‘Violation of Sepulture in Palestine at the Beginning of the Christian Era’, JRS 22 (1932), pp. 184–97; B. M. Metzger, ‘The Nazareth Inscription Once Again’, in New Testament Studies: Philological, Versional, and Patristic (NTTS 10; Leiden: Brill, 1980), pp. 75–92; P. W. van der Horst, Ancient 1

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think it is from the ¿rst century, though possibly from just before the turn of the era.19 The unquali¿ed use of ‘Caesar’ favors identi¿cation with Augustus.20 The inscription reads (SEG VIII no. 13): 1 ÀŠÌ¸ºÄ¸ ¸ţʸɸÈÇËж 2 ’ÉšÊÁ¼À ÄÇÀ ÌŠÎÇË ÌŧŹÇÍË 3 ̼, ÇďÌÀÅ¼Ë ¼ĊË ¿É¾ÊÁ¼ţ¸Å ÈÉǺŦÅÑÅ 4 ëÈÇţ¾Ê¸Å õ ÌšÁÅÑÅ õ ÇĊÁ¼ţÑÅ, 5 ÌÇŧÌÇÍË ÄšÅ¼ÀÅ Òļ̸Á¼ÀÅŢÌÇÍË 6 ÌġÅ ¸ĊľÅ¸. ëÛÅ »š ÌÀË ëÈÀ»ţÆþ ÌÀ- 7 ÅÛ õ Á¸Ì¸Â¼ÂÍÁŦ̸ õ ÓÂÂĿ ÌÀÅĖ 8 ÌÉŦÈĿ ÌÇİË Á¼Á¾»¼ÍÄšÅÇÍË 9 ëƼÉÉÀÎÎŦ̸ õ ¼ĊË îÌšÉÇÍË 10 ÌŦÈÇË »ŪÂĿ ÈÇžÉŊ ļ- 11 ̸̼¿¼ÀÁŦ̸ ëÈ’ Ò»ÀÁţß Ìĉ ÌľÅ 12 Á¼Á¾»¼ÍÄšÅÑÅ õ Á¸ÌŦÏÇÍË Âţ- 13 ¿ÇÍË Ä¼Ì¸Ì¼¿¼ÀÁŦ̸, Á¸ÌÛ ÌÇı 14 ÌÇÀÇŧÌÇÍ ÁÉÀÌŢÉÀÇÅ ëºĽ Á¼Â¼ŧÑ 15 º¼ÅšÊ¿¸À Á¸¿ŠÈ¼É ȼÉĖ ¿¼ľÅ 16 ëË ÌÛË ÌľÅ ÒÅ¿ÉŪÈÑÅ ¿É¾ÊÁ- 17 ţ¸Ë. 18 ÌÇİË Á¼Á¾»¼ÍÄšÅÇÍË Ì¼ÀÄÜÅ. 19 Á¸¿ŦÂÇÍ Ä¾»¼ÅĖ ëÆšÊÌÑ Ä¼Ì¸- 20 Á¼ÀÅýʸÀж ¼Ċ »ò ÄŢ, ÌÇıÌÇÅ ëºĽ Á¼- 21 θÂýË Á¸ÌŠÁÉÀÌÇÅ ĚÅŦĸÌÀ 22 ÌÍĹÑÉÍÏţ¸Ë ¿šÂÑ º¼ÅšÊ¿¸À. 1 Ordinance of Caesar: 2 It is my pleasure that graves and tombs – 3 whoever has made them as a pious service for ancestors 4 or children or members of their house – 5 that these remain unmolested 6 in perpetuity. But if any person lay information that 7 another either has destroyed them, or has in any other 8 way cast out the bodies 9 which have been buried there, or 10 with malicious deception has 11 transferred them to other places, to the dishonor of those 12 buried there, or has removed the headstones or other 13 stones, in such a case 14 I command that a trial 15 be instituted, just as if they were concerned with the gods 16 for the pious services of mortals. 17 For beyond all else it shall be obligatory 18 to honor those who have been buried. 19 Let no one remove them for any reason. 20 If not, however (i.e. if anyone does so), 21 capital punishment on the charge of 22 tomb robbery I will to take place.21

Cumont, de Zulueta, and van der Horst have concluded that the Greek inscription is a translation of a Latin Vorlage (and Cumont is able to retrovert the Greek into Latin).22 The imperial ordinance testi¿es to the sanctity with which tombs were regarded in late antiquity, especially in Israel. De Zulueta thinks the edict was addressed either to the legate of Syria or to the procurator (or Jewish Epitaphs: An Introductory Survey of a Millennium of Jewish Funerary Epigraphy (300 BCE – 700 CE) (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1991), pp. 159–60; L. Boffo, Iscrizioni greche e latine per lo studio della Bibbia (Brescia: Paideia Editrice, 1994), pp. 319–33; R. E. Brown, The Death of the Messiah: From Gethsemane to the Grave. A Commentary on the Passion Narratives in the Four Gospels (2 vols.; ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1994), vol. 2, pp. 1293–4. 19. Cumont, ‘Un rescrit impérial’, p. 265. 20. de Zulueta, ‘Violation of Sepulture’, pp. 186–7. 21. Translation based on Metzger, ‘The Nazareth Inscription’, p. 77. 22. Cumont, ‘Un rescrit impérial’, p. 243; de Zulueta, ‘Violation of Sepulture’, pp. 188–9; van der Horst, Ancient Jewish Epitaphs, p. 160. 1

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prefect) of Judea.23 Most interesting is the warning in lines 10 and 11 not to transfer bodies from one grave to another. This part of the ordinance is consistent with Jewish law and custom and is especially relevant to the Gospels’ stories about the visit of the women to the tomb and, especially, the story in Matthew about Pilate sealing the tomb and the claim that the disciples stole the body of Jesus (Mt. 27.62-66; 28.11-15).24 Even if the Matthean story is discounted as later apologetic (which is embellished further in the second-century Gospel of Peter), the laws pertaining to graves, such as what we ¿nd in the Nazareth inscription, contribute to the general backdrop of the Gospels’ Easter narratives and how readers and hearers of these stories would have understood them.25 Interpreters have discussed what the threatened ‘capital punishment’ (Á¼Î¸ÂýË Á¸ÌŠÁÉÀÌÇÅ) entailed. De Zulueta thinks heavy ¿nes were in mind.26 Perhaps. But according to Ulpian (Edict, book 48), a person ‘condemned on a capital charge’ (rei capitalis damnatum) could face death, loss of citizenship, or slavery (Digesta 48.19.2). Grave robbery and vandalism of tombs were regarded as very serious offences in late antiquity. c. Section 3 The third and ¿nal opinion on the laws relating to bodies of the executed is quite brief. The opinion of Paulus (Views, book 1), or Julius Paulus Prudentissimus, a jurist who Àourished in the late second and early third centuries, is cited without quali¿cation or exception: ‘The bodies of persons who have been punished should be given to whoever requests [petentibus] them for the purpose of burial’. Bodies of the executed should be allowed burial, but of¿cial requests must be made; bodies cannot simply be taken down from crosses or gibbets without permission. Josephus himself makes such a request of Titus, son of Vespasian, and it is granted (Life 420-21). In the Gospel burial narratives Joseph of Arimathea goes to Pilate and requests the body of Jesus (Mk 15.43 ÿÌŢʸÌÇ Ìġ ÊľÄ¸ ÌÇı `¾ÊÇı). Joseph’s request (ÿÌŢʸÌÇ = petiit, Vulg.)27 for the body of Jesus is consistent with the opinion of Paulus. Moreover, it reÀects the language used in petitioning of¿cials, as we see in the 23. de Zulueta, ‘Violation of Sepulture’, p. 195. 24. Brown, The Death of the Messiah, vol. 2, p. 1294. 25. de Zulueta, ‘Violation of Sepulture’, p. 197; Metzger, ‘The Nazareth Inscription’, p. 91; McCane, ‘Where no one had yet been laid’. 26. de Zulueta, ‘Violation of Sepulture’, p. 195. 27. Forms of ¸ĊÌšÑ are often translated in the Vulgate with forms of peto. This includes Mk 15.43, the passage under review. 1

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papyri and ostraca. According to P.Pintaudi 52 (29 C.E.), a letter ‘has been written because of the herdsman, that he be released on the ¿fth, so now approach the centurion or his scribes or his representatives in my name. Request [¸ċ̾ÊÇÅ] a soldier.’ In a military dispatch (late ¿rst century C.E.) we read: ‘If you wish a leave (of absence), write me and I will request it for you [¸ĊÌŢÊÑ ÊÇÀ]. Farewell’ (O.Did. 344). There are additional parallels. According to Mk 15.44-45, Pilate summons a centurion to con¿rm the death of the Jesus. When the prefect learned from the centurion that Jesus was indeed dead, ‘he granted the body to Joseph’. We have at least two papyri from the second century that approximate the process followed by Pilate. In P.Oxy. 475 (182 C.E.) an of¿cial directs a subordinate to ‘take a public physician and view the dead body that has been shown and having delivered it up for burial make a report in writing’. In P.Oxy. 51 (173 C.E.) an of¿cial orders the inspection of a corpse. The steps taken by Joseph and others in order to bury Jesus, including securing a tomb and purchasing a linen shroud (Mk 15.46, ÒºÇÉŠÊ¸Ë ÊÀÅ»ŦŸ) and spices (Jn 19.39-41, ΚÉÑÅ ÄţºÄ¸ ÊÄŧÉÅ¾Ë Á¸Ė ÒÂŦ¾Ë; cf. Mk 16.1, óºŦɸʸŠÒÉŪĸ̸), ¿nd parallels in the papyri. In P.Grenfell II 77 (late third century C.E.), in a letter regarding funeral expenses, the ‘price of a linen shroud’ (ÌÀÄü ÊÀÅ»ŦÅÇË) is given as 20 drachmas. In P.Oxy. 736 (early ¿rst century C.E.) we hear of ‘perfume [ÄŧÉÇÍ] for the dispatch of the mummy’ (col. ii, line 13). See also P.Paris 18, as well as P.Oxy 493 (¿rst century B.C.E.), CPR VI 1 (125 C.E.), P.Oxy. 2857 (134 C.E.), and P.Diog. 11 and 12 (213 C.E.). The details of the burial of Jesus at the hands of Joseph are at points mirrored in popular Jewish literature. One thinks of the story of Adam’s burial: ‘And God said to Michael, Gabriel, Ouriel, and Raphael: “Cover the body of Adam with linen shrouds and [ÊÁ¼ÈŠÊ¸Ì¼ ļÌÛ ÌľÅ ÊÀÅ»ŦÅÑÅ Ìġ ÊľÄ¸ ÌÇı »ŠÄ], bringing the oil of ‘the oil of fragrance’, (pour it) upon him”. And so doing, they took charge of his body. The Lord spoke: “Let the body of Abel [Ìġ ÊľÄ¸ ÌÇı ¹¼Â] also be brought”. And bring other linen shrouds [ÊÀÅ»ŦÅ¸Ë î̚ɸË]; they also took charge of him’ (Life of Adam and Eve [a.k.a. Apoc. Moses] 40.2-3). One also thinks of the apocryphal burial story concerning Abraham: ‘And they tended the body of the just Abraham with divine ointments and perfumes [ÒÉŪĸÊÀÅ] until the third day after his death, and buried him in the land of promise, the oak of Mamre’ (T. Abr. A 20.11).

1

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IV. Concluding Remarks The burial narratives of the New Testament Gospels are not only ‘consistent with archaeological evidence and with Jewish law’, as Jodi Magness has said, they are consistent with Roman law and with Roman literary and archaeological evidence. The legal opinions provided in the sixth-century Digesta 48.24 are early and are corroborated by ¿rstcentury literary and archaeological evidence. The request to bury the body of Jesus was fully in keeping with law and practice throughout the Roman Empire and, especially, in the Jewish homeland, where a corpse left unburied overnight was seen as a de¿lement of the land. (This equally applies in an eschatological setting; see 4Q285 frag. 5 = 11Q14 frag. 1, col. i, where after the Kittim are defeated in battle, the priests give oversight to puri¿cation ‘from the guilty blood of the corpses’ of the enemy.) Every source we have indicates that the practice in Israel, especially in the vicinity of Jerusalem, in peacetime, was to bury the executed before nightfall. This was a practice that Roman authority permitted. War was another matter, of course. When Titus besieged Jerusalem from 69 to 70 C.E., thousands of Jews were cruci¿ed and very few of them were buried. The whole point of these thousands left unburied in plain view of the inhabitants of Jerusalem was to terrorize the resistance and bring the rebellion to an end (as recounted by Josephus, War 5.289, 449). This was the true ‘exception that proves the rule’: Roman authority in Israel normally did permit burial of executed criminals, including those executed by cruci¿xion (as Josephus implies), but it did not during the rebellion of 66–70 C.E.28 28. Even during war and siege, the Jewish desire to bury the dead was such that temporary burials were sometimes undertaken, even at great risk. Recently Mordecai Aviam has argued that the skeletons found in two cisterns during recent excavations at Yodefat were ‘emergency burials’ that took place when the city was besieged by the Roman army in the summer of 67 C.E. The intention, Aviam reasonably surmises, was to retrieve and bury properly the dead when conditions permitted. See M. Aviam, ‘People, Land, Economy, and Belief in First-Century Galilee and its Origins: A Comprehensive Archaeological Synthesis’, in The Galilean Economy in the Time of Jesus (ed. D. A. Fiensy and R. K. Hawkins; Early Christianity and its Literature; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2013), pp. 5–48, esp. 36–7. This may well explain the baskets of skulls found in the cave (in the so-called Niche of Skulls) at Naতal ণever by Yigael Yadin and his team and re-examined years later by Richard Freund and his team. See Y. Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Cave of Letters [3 vols.; Judean Desert Studies; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1963], vol. 1, p. 32; idem, Bar-Kokhba: The Rediscovery of the Legendary 1

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There is another important point that needs to be made. The process that led to the execution of Jesus, and perhaps also the two men cruci¿ed with him, was initiated by the Jewish Council. According to law and custom, when the Jewish Council (or Sanhedrin) condemned someone to death, by whatever means, it fell to the Council to have that person buried. This was the role played by Joseph of Arimathea, a member of the Jewish Council (Mk 15.43). The executed were to be buried properly, but not in places of honor, such as the family tomb. This is clearly taught in the earliest writings of the rabbis: ‘They did not bury (the executed criminal) in the burying-place of his fathers. But two burying-places were kept in readiness by the Sanhedrin, one for them that were beheaded or strangled,29 and one for them that were stoned or burnt’ (m. Sanh. 6.5, emphasis added). The place reserved for burial of criminals was sometimes referred to as a ‘wretched place’: ‘Neither a corpse nor the bones of a corpse may be transferred from a wretched place to an honored place, nor, needless to say, from an honored place to a wretched place; but if to the family tomb, even from an honored place to a wretched place, it is permitted’ (Sem. 13.7). Not only was the body of a criminal not to be buried in a place of honor, no public mourning for executed criminals was permitted: ‘they used not to make [open] lamentation…for mourning has place in the heart alone’ (m. Sanh. 6.6). None of this law would make any sense if executed criminals were not in fact buried. There would have been no need to set aside tombs for executed criminals. There would simply be no remains to transfer from a ‘wretched place’ to an ‘honored place’. The Jewish Council was responsible to oversee the proper burial of the executed because the bodies of the executed were normally not surrendered to family and friends. The burial of the executed in ‘wretched

Hero of the Last Jewish Revolt against Imperial Rome (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1971), pp. 60–5; R. A. Freund, Secrets of the Cave of Letters (New York: Humanity Books, 2004), pp. 193–207. We may further wonder if the twenty-¿ve skeletons thrown into one of the caves on the north face of Masada constitute yet another instance of ‘emergency burial’. For discussion of these remains, see Y. Yadin, Masada: Herod’s Fortress and the Zealots’ Last Stand (New York: Random House, 1966), pp. 193–9; J. Zias, D. Segal, and I. Carmi, ‘The Human Skeletal Remains from the Northern Cave at Masada – A Second Look’, in Masada IV: The Yigael Yadin Excavations 1963–1965 Final Reports. Lamps / Textiles / Basketry, Cordage and Related Artifacts / Wood Remains / Ballista Balls / Addendum: Human Skeletal Remains (ed. D. Barag et al.; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1994), pp. 366–7. 29. ‘Strangled’ would include those hanged and those cruci¿ed. 1

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places’, that is, in tombs set aside for criminals, was part of the punishment. No public mourning and lamentation were permitted. The remains of the executed could not be transferred from these dishonorable tombs for one year. After one year (see b. Qidd. 31b), the remains could be taken by family members to the family tomb or to some other place of honor. The terse, almost matter-of-fact burial narrative we ¿nd in Mark 15 exhibits realism at every point. The narrative agrees with what is known of the relevant literature and archaeological data, both Jewish and Roman, both Palestinian and elsewhere in the empire. That the body of Jesus was taken down from the cross and placed in a known tomb, under the direction of someone acting on behalf of the Jewish Council, should be accepted as historical. There are, of course, theological and apologetic touches present throughout the Markan narrative.30 To appreciate the evangelist’s literary achievement and his theological interests, these touches must be carefully interpreted. This is why it is equally important to discern the historical elements. Knowing where history ends and theology begins is vital for Gospel interpretation.

30. For nuanced discussion of some of these theological and apologetic elements, see Telford, The Theology of the Gospel of Mark, pp. 137–51. 1

THE NEWNESS OF THE GOSPEL IN MARK AND MATTHEW: CONTINUITY AND DISCONTINUITY* Donald A. Hagner

I. Introduction The question of the relation of the old and new covenants has been a much discussed issue in the church from the beginning. The New Testament’s extensive quotation and frequent allusion to the Old Testament, together with its stress on ful¿llment of the Old Testament promises, inevitably raise the perennial question of continuity and discontinuity. Although a priori it would seem clear enough that somehow both continuity and discontinuity are true and must be af¿rmed, the pendulum nevertheless has swung back and forth in the history of New Testament scholarship, depending on the climate of the times. Through most of the history of the church it is hardly surprising that the emphasis has been on discontinuity. Already in the early second century we encounter strong anti-Judaism, and hence stress on discontinuity, in the Apostolic Fathers Barnabas and Ignatius. In the middle of the second century, Marcion infamously posed the problem in the starkest terms, by the rejection of the Old Testament as scripture and the differentiation of the God of the Old Testament, the Demiurge, from the God of the New Testament. Further to be mentioned are Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho, the anti-Judaism of Melito’s Paschal Homily, and (Pseudo-)Tertullian. Particularly grievous is the Adversus Judaeos literature of the following centuries, represented by Cyprian and especially John Chrysostom’s homilies against the Jews.1 Christian polemic against the Jews continued through the Middle Ages down to Martin Luther’s venomous ‘On the Jews and their Lies’, and beyond. * It is my deep pleasure to present this modest essay as a celebration of, and tribute to, Bill Telford and Stephen Barton, two ¿ne scholars whose work I have long admired. 1. For a survey and analysis, see Lee Martin McDonald, ‘Anti-Judaism in the Early Church Fathers’, in Anti-Semitism and Early Christianity: Issues of Polemic and Faith (ed. Craig A. Evans and Donald A. Hagner; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), pp. 215–52.

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As to be expected, there was corresponding polemic from the Jewish side, also stressing discontinuity, although nowhere nearly the same volume as of the Christian polemic. Perhaps most notable here is the scandalous Toledoth Jesu (‘generations of Jesus’, i.e., ‘life of Jesus’), written down before the tenth century but based on much earlier oral sources including material from the Talmud and Midrashim. For the most part, however, the Jews were more content to ignore Christianity than the Christians were to ignore Judaism. With the coming of the Enlightenment and the Emancipation of the Jews, the climate began to change, and now for the ¿rst time came the possibility of a more positive Jewish approach to Jesus. This new, open attitude, exhibited almost exclusively among Reform Jews, and not among Orthodox Jews, gave rise in the twentieth century to what would become known as the Jewish reclamation of Jesus.2 These scholars emphasized the Jewishness of Jesus, attempting to show that Jesus could be ¿tted quite comfortably into the Jewish milieu of his day. As for the material in the Gospels that did not ¿t their preconception of the Jewish Jesus, following in the steps of radical critical Protestant scholars, they suggested that the faith of the post-resurrection church had been freely read into the Gospel narratives, creating at points a Jesus who did not correspond to historical truth. What is especially remarkable about this reclamation of Jesus, however, is that with it the pendulum swings away from discontinuity to an emphasis on continuity, even if it necessitated the denial of the authenticity of much of the content of the Gospels. Exactly because Jesus was so Jewish, it is not such a great surprise that Jews would be able to think of him as belonging within the fold. With ‘the homecoming of Jesus’, it was thought no longer possible for Jesus to be understood as the founder of Christianity. It was Paul who became regarded as mainly responsible for Christianity as we know it. Here again, however, Jewish scholars could appeal to Protestant critical scholarship (e.g. Wrede, Schweitzer, Bultmann) which had already driven a wedge between Jesus and Paul, making the latter the true founder of Christianity. In light of this emerging perspective, what is perhaps most surprising is the rise of a parallel movement that can be called the Jewish reclamation of Paul.3 Here again, and startlingly, the pendulum has shifted from

2. See D. A. Hagner, The Jewish Reclamation of Jesus: An Analysis and Critique of the Modern Jewish Study of Jesus (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1984). 3. An example may be seen in Pamela Eisenbaum’s Paul Was Not a Christian: The Original Message of a Misunderstood Apostle (New York: HarperOne, 2009). 1

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discontinuity to continuity. Given the hitherto common understanding of Paul as having broken with Judaism – a view prevalent from Luther onwards until recent times – the emphasis was always on the discontinuity between Paul’s Christianity and Judaism.4 The new emphasis on continuity has gained considerable momentum in recent decades through revisionist readings of Paul among Christian scholars,5 and especially in the so-called new perspective on Paul.6 Starting with the conclusion (not really new, but earlier neglected) that Judaism is a religion of grace, not of works-righteousness (a legalism wherein one earns acceptance with God through obedience to the Law), the argument is that Paul had no dif¿culty with the Law except for its establishment of identity markers that excluded the Gentiles from its scope. As Tom Wright succinctly puts it, the issue for Paul is not grace but race.7 This new view of Paul is of course largely possible only through the reinterpretation of much in Paul’s letters, especially in Galatians and Romans.8

4. See D. A. Hagner, ‘Paul’s Quarrel with Judaism’, in Anti-Semitism and Early Christianity: Issues of Polemic and Faith (ed. C. A. Evans and D. A. Hagner; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), pp. 128–50; idem, ‘Paul as a Jewish Believer in Jesus – According to His Letters’, in Jewish Believers in Jesus: The Early Centuries (ed. O. Skarsaune and R. Hvalvik; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2007), pp. 96–120. See too idem, ‘Paul in Modern Jewish Thought’, in Pauline Studies: Essays Presented to Professor F. F. Bruce on his 70th Birthday (ed. D. A. Hagner and M. J. Harris; Exeter: Paternoster; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980), pp. 143–65. 5. E.g. K. Stendahl, Paul among Jews and Gentiles and Other Essays (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1976); W. S. Campbell, Paul and the Creation of Christian Identity (LNTS 322; London: T&T Clark International, 2006). For the perspective of a Jewish scholar, see especially the writings of Mark D. Nanos: e.g., The Mystery of Romans: The Jewish Context of Paul’s Letter (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996); The Irony of Galatians: Paul’s Letter in First-Century Context (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002); ‘Paul and Judaism: Why Not Paul’s Judaism?’, in Paul Unbound: Other Perspectives on the Apostle (ed. Mark D. Given; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2010), pp. 117–60. 6. The de¿nitive essays are now collected together in J. D. G. Dunn, The New Perspective on Paul: Collected Essays (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005; rev. ed. Grand Rapids, Eerdmans, 2008). 7. N. T. Wright, The Climax of the Covenant: Christ and the Law in Pauline Theology (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), p. 168. 8. For critique of the new perspective, see S. Westerholm, Perspectives Old and New on Paul: The ‘Lutheran’ Paul and His Critics (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004); S. Kim, Paul and the New Perspective: Second Thoughts on the Origin of Paul’s Gospel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001). 1

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These developments, stressing the full continuity of early Christianity and Judaism, are consonant with the emerging view that Christianity from the beginning was and remained a sect within Judaism and that there never was a parting of the ways between synagogue and church.9 This extreme view is not shared by many, but an increasing number of scholars would place the parting no earlier than the fourth century. Nowadays, the pendulum is swinging completely to the side of continuity between Judaism and Christianity, on the part of both Jewish and Christian scholars. This development accords not only with the relativistic spirit of our age, but especially with the desiderata of postHolocaust Jewish Christian dialog.10 The recent, remarkable stress on continuity between Judaism and Christianity raises the question of whether and to what degree Christianity is to be regarded as new, and to what extent this creates discontinuity. In the following pages I intend to look at this issue so far as the Gospels of Mark and Matthew are concerned. II. Newness in the Gospel according to Mark The ¿rst word in the Gospel of Mark, the earliest of our Gospels, is ‘beginning’ (ÒÉÏû), namely the ‘beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ [the Son of God]’. The good news is the announcement of something dramatically new: the beginning of eschatological ful¿lment – ful¿llment, that is, of what the prophets had foretold and of what therefore the Israelites for generations had longed for. Immediately after Mark’s ¿rst sentence comes a reference (Mk 1.2-4) to what Isaiah had prophesied (Isa. 40.3 together with Mal. 3.1). The messianic forerunner of the Messiah was about to appear on the stage of history, followed quickly by the Messiah who was about to set up his kingdom. While John would baptize with water, the Promised One would baptize with the

9. See A. H. Becker and A. Y. Reed (eds.), The Ways That Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003; repr. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007). For a defense of a gradual parting of the ways, underway almost from the beginning, see D. A. Hagner, ‘Another Look at the “Parting of the Ways” ’, in Earliest Christian History: History, Literature and Theology. Essays from the Tyndale Fellowship in Honor of Martin Hengel (ed. M. F. Bird and Jason Maston; WUNT 2/320; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), pp. 381–427. 10. The impact of Jewish Christian dialog on the conclusions of New Testament scholarship is worth pondering. It has become more dif¿cult than ever for scholars to say anything negative about Judaism for fear of being labeled anti-Semitic. 1

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Holy Spirit, the Agent of eschatological newness (Mk 1.8). This good news was not ordinary or even special good news. Nor was it something new in the mere sense of something added or even something different in an ordinary succession of things. It referred rather to a pivotal turning point in the history of salvation, ushering in the era that would be the beginning of the realization of the end time. The ¿rst words of Jesus recorded in Mark present the fundamental assertion of ‘the good news of God’: ‘The time is ful¿lled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent and believe in the good news’ (Mk 1.14-15). The kingdom is not simply near, but something that has begun already to dawn in and through the ministry of Jesus. Thus the time of ful¿llment ‘has come’ (ȼÈÂûÉÑ̸À, perfect tense), namely the initiation of the long-awaited eschatological age, the apocalyptic age of which Isaiah had spoken (Isa. 2.2-4; 25.6-9; 35.1-10; 42.1-13; 65.17-25). In his incisive study of newness in the New Testament, Roy A. Harrisville concludes that Á¸ÀÅĠË and ÅñÇË, the New Testament words for ‘new’, are synonyms, and that ‘both words connote a temporal as well as a qualitative signi¿cation’. He adds that ‘This fact has led us to the eschatological aspect of the kerygma as the locus of the New Testament idea of newness’.11 The basic newness contained in the Gospels derives from the central af¿rmation of the dawning of the eschatological era. The claim of the presence of the eschatological kingdom here and now, but short of the consummation, entails a strong discontinuity with Judaism, just as today it constitutes a main area of disagreement between Jews and Christians. Jews understandably argue that the Messiah cannot have come because the world does not appear to have fundamentally changed. Whatever newness there may be in Christianity, it does not match the newness expected from the prophetic promises. And yet the whole of the New Testament depends on the fundamental af¿rmation that scripture is ful¿lled and the new, promised age has come in Jesus. It is clear that the announcement of the good news about the coming of the kingdom is vitally connected with christology, that is, the person of Jesus. Already in the beginning of Mark, Jesus has been identi¿ed as ‘the Son of God’ (Mk 1.1, if the texts of B, D, and W be allowed), and ‘my beloved Son’ by the voice from heaven (Mk 1.11). Still in ch. 1, a man with an unclean spirit in the synagogue of Capernaum cries out, ‘What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God’ (Mk 1.24).

11. Roy A. Harrisville, The Concept of Newness in the New Testament (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1960), p. 106.

1

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All who witnessed this and the exorcism that followed were amazed and asked ‘What is this? A new teaching – with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him’ (Mk 1.27). In response to the question posed by Jesus, Peter confesses the disciples’ conviction that Jesus is the Messiah (ĝ ÏÉÀÊÌĠË, Mk 8.29). A little later in the narrative the trans¿gured Jesus, with Moses and Elijah, appears to the inner circle of disciples, and again the words from heaven spoken at Jesus’ baptism are heard: ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!’ (Mk 9.7). A few lines later Jesus states that Elijah, the forerunner of the Messiah, ‘has come’ (Mk 9.13), thereby identifying John the Baptist with Elijah, and himself with the Messiah. Further in the narrative Jesus asks questions that involve the drawing of the conclusion that the Messiah, the son of David, is also David’s Lord (Mk 12.35-37). At his last meal with the disciples, this Messiah, who is also ÁįÉÀÇË, identi¿es the bread as ‘my body’, and the cup as containing ‘my blood of the covenant,12 which is poured out for many’ (Mk 14.22-24). The blood of Jesus, Messiah and Lord, establishes the new covenant and with it the new era of salvation history. The dramatic newness of the announced coming of the kingdom depends fully upon the presence of Jesus, the promised Messiah, the unique Son of God, among his people. That is why the new era is an unprecedented turning point in salvation history. With the coming of the Messiah, we have moved from promise and preparation to eschatological ful¿llment. Mark is not shy to draw certain consequences from the dawning of the kingdom and the presence of the messianic king. As along as the bridegroom is with the disciples, they cannot fast (Mk 2.19). He quotes words of Jesus concerning the incompatibility of the new with the old. ‘No one sews a piece of unshrunk cloth on an old garment; if he does, the patch tears away from it, the new from the old, and a worse tear is made. And no one puts new wine into old wineskins; if he does, the wine will burst the skins, and the wine is lost, and so are the skins; but new wine is for fresh skins’ (Mk 2.21-22). The new (all that Jesus brings) cannot simply be added to the old, as but another in a succession of ‘new’ things, with no effect upon the old. It is qualitatively different by its nature.

12. Some relatively inferior mss insert the word ‘new’ (Á¸ÀÅýË) before ‘covenant’ (»À¸¿ûÁ¾Ë) (so too in the Matthean parallel, Mt. 26.28). This is probably due to the inÀuence of the parallel in Lk. 22.20, which may in turn depend on 1 Cor. 11.25. In any event, the word ‘new’ is both assumed and appropriate. 1

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Morna Hooker concludes from this passage: ‘Both sayings show concern lest the old be lost; yet both point to the truth that something new and fresh cannot be contained within the limits of the old and indeed must inevitably destroy the old. So, for Mark, the new religion could not be contained within Judaism.’13 She writes further: …the time for restoration was past, and the time to accept the new age had arrived. It is perhaps no accident that the symbolism of tearing a garment reappears in the scene in ch. 14 where Caiaphas tears his clothes, for at that moment the old forms of religion are, in Mark’s view, doomed. Similarly, the tearing of the temple veil in 15.38 signi¿es the end of the old and the birth of the new.14

William Telford similarly concludes from the lesson of the new patch and new wine that ‘Judaism itself is shown to belong to “the old order” (Mk 2.21-22)’.15 Immediately following the passage concerning the incompatibility of the new patch and the new wine with an old garment and old skins, Mark records two consecutive examples where Jesus challenges at least commonplace interpretations of the sabbath commandment, if not the commandment itself. First, Jesus allows his disciples to pluck grain (technically harvesting) on the sabbath, and then defends their actions (Mk 2.23-28), concluding with this statement: ‘The sabbath was made for man, not man for the sabbath; so the son of man is lord even of the sabbath’ (Mk 2.27-28). Second, in a synagogue on the sabbath, Jesus heals a man with a withered hand (Mk 3.1-6). He says to those ready to accuse him: ‘Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the sabbath, to save life or to kill?’ That what Jesus does in these two passages is more serious than simply a matter of a difference of interpretation is clear from the reaction of the Pharisees. After he healed the man, the Pharisees, together with the Herodians, began to plot ‘how to destroy him’ (3.6). Telford properly sums up the matter: ‘The evangelist portrays Jesus as condoning the breaking of the sabbath (Mk 2.23ff.; 3.1-6)’.16 Mark draws a further startlingly new conclusion from the statement of Jesus that it is not what goes into a person that de¿les, but what comes out of the person (Mk 7.14-23). When the disciples expressed some confusion over what this meant, Jesus explains: ‘Do you not see that 13. M.D. Hooker, The Gospel according to Mark (BNTC; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), p. 100. 14. Ibid., pp. 100–101. 15. W. R. Telford, The Theology of the Gospel of Mark (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 126. 16. Ibid., p. 125. 1

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whatever goes into a person from outside cannot de¿le, since it enters, not the heart but the stomach, and goes out into the sewer?’ To which Mark adds the parenthetical comment: ‘Thus he declared all foods clean’ (Mk 7.19). The comment makes explicit what is more than implicit in the words of Jesus. The consequences could hardly be more signi¿cant for the question of continuity and discontinuity. It may well be that we have Pauline inÀuence at work here.17 In an ironic twist, according to Mk 10.1-12 Jesus makes the law more stringent than the Pharisees did, by his absolute prohibition of divorce, thereby superseding the allowance and regulation of divorce in Deut. 24.1-4. The Pharisees had put the question; although their reaction is not recorded, they were surely unhappy at this cancellation of Moses’ teaching. This issue involves not simply a matter of disagreement concerning the interpretation of the law, but something more grievous from the perspective of the Pharisees. The Gospel of Mark thus presents a considerable amount of material that points to the newness of what has come with the Christ and so too indicates a high degree of discontinuity. Telford points to Mark’s portrayal of the Jewish leaders as hard-hearted (e.g. Mk 3.5) and hypocritical (Mk 7.6-7). ‘Whatever the nuances in individual passages, it has to be maintained that the Markan Jesus is shown repeatedly throughout the Gospel being misunderstood or rejected by the various Jewish groups, and he in turn is pictured as one repudiating their authority or their doctrine… Time and again, their doctrinal beliefs are shown to be in error.’18 Mark shows how the Jewish leaders rejected Jesus. ‘In turn, Jesus is shown rejecting them, so appearing to the Markan reader as one who no longer has Jewish roots, as one no longer to be seen through Jewish eyes, as one no longer to be accorded a Jewish identity.’19 If this is perhaps somewhat overstated, it is nonetheless true. III. Newness in the Gospel of Matthew Given the extent of Matthew’s dependence on Mark, it is not surprising to see that most of the material set forth in the preceding section is found, with minor differences, also in Matthew. Matthew’s opening chapters, of course, contain unique material. The Gospel opens with a genealogy that begins with the words: ‘An account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham’ (Mt. 1.1), thus

1

17. Exploration of this possibility can be found in ibid., pp. 164–9. 18. Ibid., p. 125. 19. Ibid., p. 157.

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announcing the dawning of eschatological ful¿llment (the word ‘genealogy’ is ºšÅ¼ÊÀË, pointing to newness, just as ÒÉÏŢ does in Mk 1.1). The mention of Abraham and David allude to the covenant promises made to Israel, the periodizing of salvation history into three sets of fourteen generations, climaxing in the birth of the Messiah. Matthew begins with a narrative lacking in Mark, concerning ‘the birth of Jesus the Messiah’ (Mt. 1.18), who is given the name ‘Emmanuel’, meaning ‘God is with us’ (Mt. 1.23, via the quotation from Isa. 7.14). Throughout there is an emphasis on agency of the Holy Spirit, itself a mark of the promised age, in the birth of Jesus (see Mt. 1.18, 20) and angels (Mt. 1.20, 24; 2.13, 19) and dreams (Mt. 1.20; 2.12, 13, 19, 22), common traits of apocalyptic. The Magi from the East come seeking the ‘king of the Jews’, that is, ‘the Messiah’ (Mt. 2.2-5). The chief priests and scribes quote the prophet Micah where he says that he will come from Bethlehem ‘for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel’ (Mic. 5.2). What is particularly striking in the nativity account of Matthew are the ful¿llment formula quotations (using, for example, a formula such as ‘this happened to ful¿ll what the prophet spoke’), of which there are ¿ve in the ¿rst two chapters (Mt. 1.22; 2.5, 15, 17, 23). Matthew alone among the Synoptics gives the grounds for the Baptist’s call to repentance in his abrupt announcement of the arrival of the kingdom, ‘In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near” ’ (Mt. 3.1-2). This precedes the announcement of the kingdom made by Jesus, which is found ¿rst in Mt. 4.17. Matthew identi¿es John as ‘The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths” ’ (Isa. 40.3), omitting Mal. 3.1, quoted by Mark at the beginning of his Gospel. (Matthew quotes the passage later in the discussion about John in Mt. 11.10.) As in Mark, John notes that while he baptized with water, the one who comes after him ‘will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and ¿re’ (Mt. 3.11). The reference to ¿re introduces a strong note of eschatological judgment lacking in Mark at this point (see Mt. 3.12). But while the judgment motif here is obvious, at the same time the overall emphasis in the opening chapters of Matthew is on the positive, that is, on the saving sovereignty of God being realized in the dawning of the messianic kingdom, the coming of the Holy Spirit, and the joy of salvation. At the beginning of his ministry, Jesus comes to reside in Capernaum, which Matthew regards as a ful¿llment of prophecy: ‘so that what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah might be ful¿lled: “Land of Zebulun, land of Napthtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the 1

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Gentiles – the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned” ’ (Mt. 4.15-16). Only Matthew records the strong reluctance of John to baptize Jesus, adding his statement that ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’ (Mt. 3.14). Here, as in Mark, a voice from heaven states ‘This my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased’ (3.17), words repeated again, as in Mark, at the trans¿guration of Jesus (17.5). So here, by the time we have reached the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, we already have a stress on ful¿llment of an apocalyptic character. The apocalyptic perspective is more prominent in Matthew than in any other Gospel.20 In particular, it is apocalyptic eschatology, the arrival of a unique ful¿llment of the Old Testament promises, including the anticipated transformation of the present world order, that Matthew presents. Jesus announces the gospel in Mt. 4.17: ‘Repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near’. The disciples are sent out to proclaim the good news that ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near’ (10.7). In 12.28, Jesus states that ‘if it is by the Spirit of God that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come [ìο¸Ê¼Å] to you’. The era of the new covenant promised by the prophets has arrived. As in Mark, so too in Matthew, at the last supper, Jesus identi¿es the contents of the cup with the words, ‘this is my blood of the covenant,21 which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins’ (Mt. 26.28). A constellation of apocalyptic events at the time of the death of Jesus indicate the end of the old age and the dawning of the new era: the tearing in two of the temple curtain,22 the earthquake, the splitting open of the tombs, and the resurrection of dead saints (Mt. 27.51-52).23 As with all the Gospels, for Matthew the pivotal turning point of the ages, in the dawning of the kingdom of God in history, is dependent on 20. See my ‘Apocalyptic Motifs in the Gospel of Matthew: Continuity and Discontinuity’, HBT 7 (1985), pp. 53–82. 21. As in the Markan parallel, some inferior mss read Á¸ÀÅýË, ‘new’, before »À¸¿ûÁ¾Ë, ‘covenant’, through the inÀuence of Lk. 22.20. ‘New’ is clearly implied. 22. See especially D. M. Gurtner, The Torn Veil: Matthew’s Exposition of the Death of Jesus (SNTSMS 139; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 23. In the essay, ‘Apocalyptic Motifs in the Gospel of Matthew’, I suggested that these events could well be called examples of a ‘realized apocalyptic’ (p. 62), that is, apocalyptic events that occurred in the past. If that is too much of an oxymoron, Matthew’s apocalyptic is at least to be regarded as ‘an altered apocalyptic’ (p. 69), that is, apocalyptic phenomena short of the consummation. The paradox here is not essentially different from that of realized and future eschatology, a paradox that pervades the New Testament. 1

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christology. It is because Jesus is the prophesied Messiah that eschatology can be said to be inaugurated. Christology runs through the whole of Matthew like a rich vein of gold. The two demoniacs address Jesus as ‘Son of God’ and ask ‘Have you come here to torment us before the time?’ (Mt. 8.29) – the presence of the Son of God and his confrontation with evil being an anticipation of the turning point of the ages. In Mt. 9.27 the two blind men address Jesus as ‘Son of David’, expressing their faith in him as the promised Messiah, and ask him to restore their sight. A high christology is evident in the words of Mt. 10.32-33, ‘Everyone therefore who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven; but whoever denies me before others, I also will deny before my Father in heaven’ (see too 10.37-40). Perhaps most striking is the Johannine-sounding statement in Mt. 11.25-27: Jesus said, I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will. All things have been handed over to me by my Father: and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.

Peter’s confession that Jesus is the Messiah (Mt. 16.16) is a turning point in Matthew, as in Mark. From the beginning of the Gospel, Matthew has referred to Jesus as Messiah (so too ‘Son of David’, e.g. Mt. 9.27; 12.23; 15.22). The Messiah is the Son of David, but he is also David’s Lord (Mt. 21.41-46). John the Baptist’s question from prison, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’ (Mt. 11.3) is answered by a brief account of Jesus’ deeds corresponding to the prophetic expectations of the promised age to come (cf. the quotation of Isa. 42.1-4 in Mt. 12.18-21). Matthew’s added words in Mt. 16.16, ‘the Son of the living God’, suggest a unique, eschatological manifestation of God. The confession of Mt. 16.16 is anticipated in Mt. 14.33, where the disciples, witnessing Jesus walking on the water and causing the wind to cease, ‘worshiped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God” ’. Toward the end of the Gospel, the high priest demands: ‘tell us if you are the Messiah, the Son of God’ (Mt. 26.63). Jesus af¿rms, albeit indirectly, that he is, and then proceeds to identify himself with Daniel’s Son of Man, seated at the right hand of God: ‘From now on you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power and coming on the clouds of heaven’ (26.64). It is clear that in Matthew we encounter the same emphasis on newness that is contained in Mark. If anything, the newness is intensi¿ed. The coming of the Messiah, the Son of the living God, into history puts 1

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us into a new time frame. It is a time of ful¿llment, although paradoxically not the end of the story. It is the ful¿llment of Israel’s hope for so many generations, as Jesus points out: ‘blessed are your eyes for they see, and your ears for they hear. Truly I tell you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see, but did not see it, and to hear what you hear, but did not hear it’ (Mt. 13.16-17). With the coming of Christ and the kingdom we encounter ‘something greater’ than Jonah or Solomon (Mt. 12.41-42), something greater than even the temple itself (12.6). The christological implications of all of this are enormous. Just as the Shekinah glory is present among two who study Torah, so Jesus promises ‘where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them’ (18.20). Again, after the Trinitarian statement in the baptismal formula, ‘in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit’ (28.19), the ¿nal words of the Gospel state: ‘And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age’ (28.20). The amount of newness in Matthew not surprisingly results in signi¿cant discontinuity. This is unmistakable despite Matthew’s desire to minimize it for the sake of his Jewish Christian readers. The evangelist is keenly aware of both discontinuity and continuity. Not a few have seen Mt. 13.52 as his signature: ‘Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like the master of a householder who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old’.24 Taken in the most general way, the new refers to the announcement of the dawning of the kingdom in and through the presence of the Christ; the old refers to what precedes, represented most proximately by Second Temple Judaism. Stephen Barton rightly observes that in Mt. 13.52, ‘the new has priority over the old… But the conjunction is signi¿cant: the old retains its fundamental worth.’25 Matthew picks up from Mark the double parable concerning the incompatibility of a new patch and a new garment, and new wine with old wineskins (Mt. 9.16-17). In so doing he af¿rms the newness of the gospel and the resulting tension with the old. Nevertheless, when Matthew adds the ¿nal words ‘and so both are preserved’ (9.17), he reveals a concern for continuity with the old. Although the skins that are preserved are not precisely the old skins, but the new skins, the new skins are analogous to the old skins. This may well point to the fact that Jesus’ 24. K¸ÀÅÛ Á¸Ė ȸ¸ÀÚ, lit. ‘new things and old things’, reversing the expected order and thus emphasizing the new things. 25. Stephen C. Barton, ‘The Gospel of Matthew’, in The Cambridge Companion to the Gospels (ed. Stephen C. Barton; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 122. 1

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teaching, though new, also possesses a considerable degree of continuity with the old – in fact transforming it, but at the same time preserving its essence. (The same may be true of Mt. 5.17.) It is clear that Matthew wants to stress continuity and minimize discontinuity. A perfect example of this can be seen in his redaction of the pericope concerning what de¿les (Mk 7.1-23 in Mt. 15.1-20). Three redactional changes must be noted. First, Matthew slightly softens the Markan report of Jesus’ words, ‘there is nothing outside a person that by going in can de¿le’ to ‘it is not what goes into the mouth that de¿les a person’. Second, and most notably, Matthew omits the Markan editorial insertion, ‘Thus he declared all foods clean’ (Mk 7.19). Third, he rounds out the pericope by adding a reference back to its beginning subject with the words ‘but to eat with unwashed hands does not de¿le’ (Mt. 15.20), thus turning the attention away from food. Nevertheless, the implication that Mark draws is a justi¿able one, and Matthew’s redactional changes are unable to conceal the radicalism intrinsic to the pericope. The most famous and important Matthean passage concerning the law, unique to the Gospel of Matthew, is found in Mt. 5.17-18: ‘Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to ful¿ll. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished.’ From an initial impression, this would seem to be as strong a statement of continuity with Judaism as possible. In fact, however, when Mt. 5.17-18 is seen in the context of the whole Gospel, it is clear that the continuity has to be softened by aspects of discontinuity. One example of this in the ‘antitheses’ (a misnomer for what actually amounts to a heightening of the demands of the Torah) is Jesus’ absolute prohibition of oaths (Mt. 5.33-37). And while Jesus’ loyalty to the law is apparent in his instruction to the healed leper to ‘go, show yourself to the priest, and offer the gift that Moses commanded, as a testimony to them’ (Mt. 8.4), Jesus can also tell a scribe who wanted to follow him, but only after he buried his father, ‘Follow me, and let the dead bury their own dead’ (Mt. 8.22), thereby going against the law.26 Despite Matthew’s softening of the more radical parts of Mark, he cannot stiÀe the newness altogether. The radicalness of the statement that it is not what goes into the mouth that de¿les a person goes against the dietary law even without Mark’s editorial comment. Jesus does not 26. Note the remark of Martin Hengel, The Charismatic Leader and his Followers (trans. James Greig; New York: Crossroad, 1981), p. 14: ‘There is hardly one logion of Jesus which more sharply runs counter to law, piety and custom than does Mt 8.22’. 1

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hold to a strict interpretation of the sabbath law, allowing his disciples to pluck grain on the sabbath, and healing a man with a withered hand on the sabbath (Mt. 12.1-14). Matthew’s inclusion of the Markan statement that the Pharisees ‘went out and conspired against him, how to destroy him’ (Mt. 12.14) shows that the Pharisees did not regard Jesus’ actions as of minor signi¿cance. Matthew’s version of the discussion of divorce (Mt. 19.1-12) again softens the radicalism of his Markan source by the addition of the words ‘except for porneia’ (Mt. 19.9; see too Mt. 5.32). To be sure, Jesus still cancels out the teaching of Deut. 24.1-4, but his allowance of divorce on the ground of sexual immorality would have been acceptable to the Shammaites, though not to the Hillelites. There is something new here that causes a more fundamental difference and a degree of tension with the law. To be sure, the law is sustained in Matthew, but with one all-important quali¿cation – it is the law as interpreted by Jesus.27 The teachings of Jesus take central place in the Gospel. The commission at the end of the Gospel calls the disciples to teach new believers to obey not the Torah, but ‘everything that I have commanded you’ (Mt. 28.20).28 Graham Stanton rightly points out the importance of Jesus’ teaching in Matthew.29 This newness results in considerable discontinuity with the past, and constitutes one of the main causes of the eventual parting of the ways between synagogue and church.30

27. Arland Hultgren, ‘Things New and Old at Matthew 13.52’, in All Things New: Essays in Honor of Roy A. Harrisville (ed. A. J. Hultgren, D. H. Juel, and J. D. Kingsbury; Word and World Supplement Series 1; St. Paul, MN: Luther Northwestern Theological Seminary, 1992), pp. 109–17 (117), rightly states: ‘The will of God, [Matthew] contends, has been given in the Scriptures of Israel, as interpreted by Jesus, and in the teachings of Jesus himself, as interpreted by the scribe trained for the kingdom’. 28. Graham N. Stanton, A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1992), p. 383: ‘Matthew’s strong emphasis on the importance of “hearing and obeying” the words of Jesus encouraged many diverse Christian communities in the second century to set this gospel alongside the law and the prophets as “Scripture”, as a new set of authoritative traditions which in due course had to be distinguished from the “old” ’. 29. Ibid.: ‘In some respects, however, the sayings of Jesus (and Matthew’s gospel as a whole) must in practice (though not in theory) have taken priority over the law and the prophets in the community life of the “new people” ’. 30. Barton, ‘The Gospel of Matthew’, p. 131, makes the same observation: ‘It is evident, then, that a parting of the ways is taking place’ and it amounts to ‘a rebuke to Israel’s failed leadership’. Cf. Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 113–91. 1

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There can be no doubt concerning the importance of newness for the Gospel of Matthew. But there can also be no doubt that the evangelist intends to af¿rm continuity with the past. Barton expresses the tension beautifully: The encounter between the old and new gives to Matthew its dynamic quality. In Matthew’s story of Jesus there is continuity with the past and discontinuity, profound indebtedness to the scriptures and traditions of Judaism, but also rupture and innovation… God, in Matthew, is doing something new. The signs are manifold.31

IV. The Truth of Continuity and Discontinuity There can be no doubt that it is correct to say that there is substantial continuity between Christianity and Judaism. There is hardly much need to document this statement or review the vast discussion that supports this conclusion. Jesus and Paul are of course intensely Jewish, as indeed is the entire New Testament, and so too the early church and its theology. A church that is truly biblical cannot af¿rm Marcionism. What happens in Jesus and the coming of the kingdom of God is part of the one great metanarrative of the history of salvation. Christianity is a part of the story of Israel. Herein lies the continuity. For this reason, ful¿llment is the perfect word to describe the situation. It captures the unity of the realization together with its promise. Christianity is not other than Judaism, it is the ful¿llment of Judaism. The early church was at ¿rst entirely Jewish, and although it could not long remain a sect within Judaism, Christianity is to be understood as a ful¿lled Judaism, a Judaism that now includes the Gentiles. While all this is true, at the same time the extent of newness in Mark and Matthew – and indeed the whole of the New Testament – is such that an unavoidable discontinuity with Judaism is caused. It is the eschatological/apocalyptic character of what the Gospels announce in the coming of Jesus32 that marks the pivotal turning point in salvation history. Harrisville’s conclusion remains valid: 31. Barton, ‘The Gospel of Matthew’, pp. 121–2. So too Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, p. 383, ‘Above all, Matthew’s gospel provided the “new people” with a story which was new, even though it had deep roots in Scripture’. 32. David L. Baker, Two Testaments, One Bible: The Theological Relationship between the Old and New Testaments (3d ed.; Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2010), pp. 223–4: ‘Paradoxically, therefore, the greatest discontinuity is in the coming of Jesus. From one perspective he ful¿lled the promises and hopes of the Old Testament, and yet from another he surpassed all expectations so that his coming inaugurated a new and ¿nal stage in the history of salvation.’ 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives That which is concealed and only intimated here [in Mt 13.52] is that the new which Jesus employs is not merely the chronologically new, but above all, the eschatologically new. The element of continuity between new and old is indeed present, but it is a continuity which does not deprive the new of its uniqueness (its contrast with the old), its ¿nality, and its dynamic, i.e., its eschatological character.33

The extent of newness makes it impossible to describe Christianity as merely a sect or a reform movement within Judaism.34 Continuity and discontinuity is a rich and complex subject. As we have seen, what we have here is not a matter of either/or, but a paradoxical both/and. So, in the end, is this a matter where the glass can be thought of as half empty or half full, depending on one’s perspective? To an extent this may be true, yet the discontinuity by its very nature is ¿nally more determinative. The eschatological/apocalyptic character of the New Testament announcement of the kingdom of God alters everything. New Testament apocalyptic depends upon a high christology, and the death and resurrection of Jesus implies a new soteriology too. Christianity is not containable within the framework of Judaism. What is the signi¿cance of this undeniable newness and discontinuity for Judaism and Christianity? Newness and discontinuity can be expressed in wrong ways and with tragic consequences. For that reason the reality and importance of continuity must never be lost. The church is a relative latecomer into the family of faith, not by birthright, but by adoption. Following in the footsteps of the Jews, it enjoys a (new) covenant relationship with God. There is no room for haughtiness or feelings of superiority: the church does not support the root of the olive tree; rather, it is the root that supports the church (Rom. 11.18). And certainly there is no possible excuse or justi¿cation for anti-Semitism. Like Israel, the church depends solely upon the grace of God.

33. Harrisville, The Concept of Newness in the New Testament, p. 28. Harrisville goes on to note (p. 108) that the concept of newness ‘with its attendant aspects of continuity, contrast, ¿nality and the dynamic is central to the New Testament literature as a whole’. 34. Cf. M. D. Hooker, Continuity and Discontinuity: Early Christianity in its Jewish Setting (London: Epworth, 1986), p. 23. 1

EMOTIONS OF PROTEST IN MARK 11–13: RESPONDING TO AN AFFECTIVE TURN IN SOCIAL-SCIENTIFIC DISCOURSE Louise J. Lawrence

In his 2011 article ‘Eschatology and the Emotions in Early Christianity’, Stephen Barton was among the ¿rst voices in biblical studies to respond to the so-called affective turn in social-scienti¿c discourse. In so doing he aimed to ‘open up the question of the impact of early Christian belief and practice on the construction and display of the emotions…against the backdrop of cultures of the emotions in the Greco-Roman world’.1 Taking 1 Thess. 4.13-18 as a case study, he went on to demonstrate how Christian eschatological faith was transformed in multifaceted ways by the embodied experience of ‘grief’. William Telford’s classic study on The Barren Temple and the Withered Fig Tree (1980) implicitly acknowledged the importance of emotions when he underscored how (divine) wrath and anger lay behind the association of the cursing of the ¿g tree and Jesus’ violent action in the temple. Both interrelated episodes ultimately, in his view, signalled eschatological judgment and curse. His work envisages Mark impressing on his readers the ‘cultic aberration on the part of Israel’ and its failure to produce fruit synonymous with the messianic age.2 Here I want to juxtapose imaginatively Barton’s attention to the emotions with Telford’s close reading of the ¿g tree and temple incident to probe emotional dimensions of ‘protest’ encountered in the 1. Stephen C. Barton, ‘Eschatology and the Emotions in Early Christianity’, JBL 130 (2011), pp. 571–91. See also Renate Egger-Wenzel and Jeremy Corley (eds.), Emotions from Ben Sira to Paul (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2012); Matthew A. Elliott, Faithful Feelings: Rethinking Emotion in the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Kregel, 2006); Stephen Voorwinde, Jesus’ Emotions in the Fourth Gospel (London: T&T Clark International, 2005), as well as his Jesus’ Emotions in the Gospels (London: T&T Clark International, 2011), though note the section on Mark in this book does not address chs. 11–13. 2. William Telford, Barren Temple and the Withered Tree (JSNTSup 1; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 1980), p. 135.

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context of Mark 11–13. For, as the sociologist James Jasper has shown, as a fundamental grounding of both social movements and actions, ‘affective and reactive emotions enter into protest activities at every stage’.3 Mark’s speci¿c casting of the emotional fabric of these chapters, as will be seen, seems purposefully designed to rouse within his audience emotions which can be channelled into endurance in the face of persecution, and social and ideological protest against the status quo. I. Emotions and the Affective Turn in Social-Scienti¿c Discourse Whilst the 1970s ‘textual’ turn in social-science intentionally ‘bracket[ed] out all pre- or extra-discursive reality’,4 the ‘affective turn’ of the last decade (stimulated in part by queer and feminist theory) signals a renewed attention to the material, embodied and sensory.5 The textual paradigm which valued the rational and dialogical above all else is, in the affective turn, supplanted by a focus on the physical, performative, impulsive, and responsive elements of the ‘lived body’ and the ways in which it intersects with and indexes cultural forms of power and knowledge. A de¿nition of the emotions as ‘felt judgments’6 captures well the ways in which contemporary social-scienti¿c studies, inÀected by the ‘affective’, intentionally suffuse mind and body. Feeling(s) conceived as both sensory/physical phenomena and sentiments/emotions thus render Cartesian dualisms (mind/body; internal/external; psychic/ social; physical/moral; biological/political) as erroneous. For ‘if something is “touching” it moves us to feel; if we feel something we also

3. James Jasper, ‘The Emotions of Protest: Affective and Reactive Emotions in and around Social Movements’, Sociological Forum 13 (1998), pp. 397–424 (405). 4. Monica Greco and Paul Stenner, ‘Introduction’, in Emotions: A Social Science Reader (ed. Monica Greco and Paul Stenner; London: Routledge, 2008), pp. 1–21 (9). 5. Marianne Liljeström and Susanna Paasonen, ‘Introduction’, in Working with Affect in Feminist Readings: Disturbing Differences (ed. Marianne Liljeström and Susanna Paasonen; Oxford: Routledge, 2010), pp. 8–27. 6. David Lemmings and Ann Brooks, ‘The Emotional Turn in the Humanities and Social Sciences’, in Emotions and Social Change: Historical and Sociological Perspectives (ed. David Lemmings and Ann Brooks; New York: Taylor & Francis, 2014), pp. 3–17 (3). On the conception of the emotions as (a) psychobiological elements or (b) purely socially constructed, see Catherine Lutz and Geoffrey M. White, ‘The Anthropology of Emotions’, Annual Review of Anthropology 15 (1986), pp. 405-36. 1

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touch it…to feel deeply about something means to be “moved” ’.7 Feelings in this respect play important roles in social movements for they have the power to arouse af¿liation and identi¿cation, exclusion and segregation. As such they function as evocative ‘intensi¿cations’ or, in Sarah Ahmed’s terms, ‘emotional economies’8 which ‘shape the surfaces of individual and collective bodies’9 within cultural politics in general, and forms of protest against dominant cultural forms in particular. A couple of caveats at the outset: Western glosses of ‘emotions’ do not make all emotions themselves intelligible; culturally speci¿c evocations need to be probed. Emotions should also not be understood as static, essential or objective, but rather are evident in speci¿c interrelations between people, places, and events; they are as Ahmed argues, inherently social: Emotions create the effect of the surfaces and boundaries that allow us to distinguish an inside and an outside in the ¿rst place. So emotions are not simply something ‘I’ or ‘we’ have. Rather, it is through emotions or how we respond to objects and others, that surfaces and boundaries are made: the ‘I’ and ‘we’ are shaped by, and even take the shape of, contact with others.10

Emotions in such perspectives are not exclusively linked to individual psychologies, but rather are manifested in collective identities, interactions, performances and shared cultural values. II. Emotions and Protest ‘Protest’, as the Oxford English Dictionary asserts, is a noun that denotes ‘action[s] expressing disapproval of or objection to something’ and as a verb, ‘expression of an objection to what someone has said or done’.11 Given the intensity of ‘feelings’ (anger; indignation; alienation; fear; disgust; joy; love etc.) which such performances frequently involve, it is surprising, as James Jasper noted in the late 1990s, to ¿nd so little 7. Stephen Frosh, Feelings (Oxford: Routledge, 2011), p. 1. See also Michael Hardt’s comment that the affective involves ‘equally the body and the mind…reason and the passions’. See Michael Hardt, ‘Foreword’, in The Affective Turn: Theorizing the Social (ed. Patricia Ticineto Clough et al.; Duke University Press, 2007), pp. viiiíxiii, ix. 8. Sarah Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion (Oxford: Routledge, 2004), p. 4. 9. Ibid., p. 1. 10. Ibid., p. 10. 11. Oxford English Dictionary < http://www.oed.com/>.

1

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attention given to emotions within social-scienti¿c studies of protest.12 Jasper wondered whether overly cognitive, rationalistic, textual models purposefully discounted (/denigrated?) consideration of emotional dimensions due to suspicion (/fear?) that it would render the act of protest itself ‘irrational’: ‘they trot out emotions only to study Nazis, moral panics and other movements they dislike’.13 Now, however, in the wake of an ‘affective turn’, Jasper’s general thesis that ‘emotions accompany all social action, providing both motivation and goals’14 is much more openly entertained. Moreover, his assertion that ‘social movements are affected by transitory, context-speci¿c emotions, usually reactions to information or events, as well as more affective bonds and loyalties’ and that ‘some emotions exist or arise in individuals before they join protest groups; others are reinforced in collective action itself’ 15 seems reasonable. His versatile model of the emotional dimensions of protest detailed below constitutes a useful heuristic tool with which one can start to ‘feel’ one’s way around the ‘emotional economies’ of such movements. Jasper starts by identifying an array of affective (more stable) and reactive (more transitory) emotions and moods that often constitute the emotional capital of protest movements.16 Primarily Affective (Stable) Emotions Hatred, Hostility, Loathing. Love, Solidarity, Loyalty. Suspicion, Trust, Respect.

Primarily Reactive (Transitory) Emotions Anger. Grief, Loss, Sorrow. Outrage, Indignation. Shame.

Moods and Others In Between Compassion, Sympathy, Hope. Cynicism, Depression. De¿ance, Resignation. Enthusiasm, Pride. Envy, Resentment. Fear, Dread. Hope, Joy.

Emotions Relevant to Protest, Abstracted from James Jasper, 199617

12. Jasper, ‘Emotions’. 13. Ibid., pp. 420–21. 14. Ibid., p. 397. 15. Ibid. 16. Whilst the employment of speci¿c ‘feelings’ are of course culturally speci¿c, some sort of affective and reactive emotional resources are often employed crossculturally in movements of this sort. 17. Ibid., p. 406. The model is presented here with certain abstractions and modi¿cations. 1

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Jasper goes on to explore the social settings, both external and internal to the movement, which most usually develop and sustain affective and reactive emotions. Ongoing affects/loyalties outside the movement í love for kin; security of home; fear of war; trust in certain ¿gures and mistrust of others and racial or other prejudices í are compared with those inside the movement í love/attraction to other members; loyalty to shared symbols/identity; respect/trust for leaders; trust/mistrust of those in power. These ongoing affects are also contrasted with responses to episodic events/information. Outside the movement these may include shock or anger/outrage over a decision made by those in power, or indignation/resignation. Within the movement this is more likely to be channelled into social action: anger and indignation is transformed into outrage and performances that the movement demands.18 Jasper also delineates notions encompassing the emergence, recruitment, and endurance of protest movements.19 These include: x x x

x x

Moral Shock: ‘an event or piece of information raises such a sense of outrage…[persons are] inclined toward action’.20 Blame: ‘the ability to focus blame is central to protest’.21 Frame Alignment: ‘during recruitment…organizers and potential participants must “align” their “frames” achieving a common de¿nition of a social problem and a common prescription for solving it’.22 Collective Identity: ‘a sense of solidarity among members…an effective as well as cognitive mapping of the social world’.23 Membership Maintenance and Movement Culture: ‘reciprocal and shared emotions reinforce each other, thereby building a movement’s culture’.24

Whilst the above are not unfamiliar concepts in social-scienti¿c discourse, they have, Jasper contends, for the most part been understood as ‘structural’ rather than ‘emotional/affective’ phenomena. His model redresses this imbalance and outlines ways that emotions give ‘ideas, ideologies, identities and even interests their power to motivate’ and

1

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

Ibid., p. 407. Ibid., p. 408. Ibid., p. 409. Ibid., p. 410. Ibid., p. 413. Ibid., p. 415. Ibid., p. 417.

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underscores the point that once created, ‘protest itself is ¿lled with a variety of emotions’.25 It is with these insights that we approach and interrogate the ‘emotional economy’ inherent within Mark 11–13. III. Emotions of Protest in Mark 11–13 The temple, as presented in various biblical texts, is the heart of Israel’s religious life, ‘the symbol of national identity’26 and potent ‘emotional repository’.27 It not only provides the dominant landscape but also the central ideological focus of ‘protest’ in these three chapters. Jesus’ preparation for and entry into Jerusalem on a donkey (11.1-11) ends in the temple where ‘he looked around at everything’ therein (11.11). The next day, having cursed a fruitless ¿g tree (11.12-14), he again enters the temple to enact a protest against those who would make the ‘house of prayer’ a ‘den of robbers’ (11.17): ‘[he] began to drive out those who were selling and those who were buying in the temple and he overturned the tables of the money changers’ (11.15-17). The next day the disciples note that the accursed ¿g tree is now withered completely (11.21). Jesus’ actions and words unsurprisingly prompt hostility from the authorities and he is asked by them to account for his assumed ‘authority’ (11.27-33). These concerns are answered in a parable about violent tenants in a vineyard who, after killing slave messengers, ¿nally kill the landowner’s son (12.8). More questions follow regarding taxes (12.13-17), resurrection (12.18-27) and the greatest commandment (12.28-34). Jesus then sits again in the temple (12.35-44) and issues warnings against the scribes who garner honour for themselves on earth but who will ultimately ‘receive the greater condemnation’ (12.40). Next, gazing at the temple treasury he singles out a poor widow’s contribution as a foil for the rich: ‘for all of them [the rich] have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything…she had to live on’ (12.41-44). Exiting the physical space of the temple for the last time, Jesus delivers his apocalyptic prophecy of its destruction – ‘not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down’ (13.2). Referencing the wilted ¿g tree (13.28-30), once more he 25. Ibid., p. 420. 26. R. T. France, The Gospel of Mark: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), p. 436. 27. Stephen C. Barton, ‘Why Do Things Move People? The Jerusalem Temple as Emotional Repository’, unpublished paper kindly sent to me by the author. On temples in an Asian context, see Adam Yuet Chau, ‘The Sensorial Production of the Social’, Ethnos: Journal of Anthropology 73 (2008), pp. 485–504.

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underscores the imminence of divine judgment and the importance of readiness: ‘you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may ¿nd you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: Keep Awake’ (13.35-37). Within the course of these three chapters four main characters appear: (1) the crowd who remain an absorbed onlooker, (2) the religious authorities who are cast as opponents, (3) Jesus who provides the dominant focus of discourse and action, and (4) the disciples who play quite a minor role (with very few explicit emotions being attributed to them), but nonetheless function as the main recipients of Jesus’ prophetic dialogue. Adopting Jasper’s categorisations here, I will attempt to chart the affective and reactive emotional dimensions and moods respectively assigned to the crowds and religious authorities (who do not submit to the protest movement of Jesus) and contrast them to Jesus and the disciples addressed by his teaching, who constitute the movement itself. As will be seen, the text explicitly cites some emotions and evokes others implicitly within its audience. a. The Crowd Primarily Affective (Stable) Emotions Mark 11

Primarily Reactive (Transitory) Emotions ‘Hosanna (ĸʸÅÅÚ); ‘Blessed’ (¼ĤÂǺ¾Äñž) (vv. 9-10)

Moods and Others in Between Enthusiasm

Amazement: Spellbound (ëƼÈÂûÊʼÌÇ) at Jesus’ teaching (v. 18) Mark 12

Delight: listening gladly (÷»ñÑË) (v. 37)

Enthusiasm

As can be seen, the crowd are purely emotionally reactive to transitory events in this chapter – they shout in chorus, are absorbed by Jesus’ teaching and listen gladly to it í but do not exhibit more enduring or stable affective states. Whilst enthusiastic throughout, a positive emotion that Jasper argues protest leaders frequently try to mobilise,28 in this instance the crowd is not galvanised enough to join his movement. 1

28. Jasper, ‘Emotions’, p. 410.

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The crowd demonstrates intense emotional arousal (interest and excitement) in the performance of ritual actions in spreading cloaks and branches on the ground and their proclamation of ‘Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord’ (vv. 9-10). Michelle Duffy et al. have explored how rhythm, singing, or shouting orient bodies in spaces. Sounds can ‘trigger embodied responses’ and adrenaline-fuelled collective chanting can cultivate emotional ties in ‘sites-of-belonging’.29 But, in this instance, the bonds are short-lived and make little enduring difference to the crowd’s outlook. John LoÀand, in his study of ‘crowd joy’, signi¿cantly notes how such occasions ‘can differ in the degree to which they are institutionalized’ (pre-designed, pre-planned, and recurring). He notes that the most ‘high’ levels of ‘pure collective behaviour’ are when crowds do not follow a regularised ‘social script’ but rather convene in spontaneity or surprise.30 This directly prompts questions surrounding the nature of the crowd dynamics presented here. Many commentators have identi¿ed the scene as a ‘deliberate allusion to Zechariah’s prophecy of the king who comes to Jerusalem riding on a donkey (Zech 9:9–10)’31 and the term ‘Hosanna’ in its echoes of Psalm 118 as a plea for God to intervene and save. R. T. France, picking up on these echoes, impresses the campaigning fervour of the entry: If then, Jesus chose, on this one occasion in his public life, to ride into the city, he was aiming to be noticed. The great outburst of praise and nationalistic sentiment which Mark records in vv.8–10 did not take him by surprise, and indeed he could be said to have engineered it, with his own disciples acting like cheerleaders.32

However, Robert Stein’s contention that the ‘Hosanna’ formula’s meaning and use had itself transformed (institutionalized?) by the ¿rst century into a more colloquial understanding is instructive. He writes, ‘it was no longer understood literally as a cry by those shouting it for God (or on this occasion perhaps for Jesus) to now save the people of Israel from their enemies. Being repeated by pilgrims each year at the various major festivals it had become idiomatic in nature and was by then an

29. Michelle Duffy et al., ‘Bodily Rhythms: Corporeal Capacities to Engage with Festival Spaces’, Emotion, Space and Society 4 (2011), pp. 17–24 (17). 30. John LoÀand, Protest: Studies of Collective Behavior and Social Movements (New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2007), p. 73. This also calls to mind debates about rituals not needing scripts but as ‘spontaneous’ or transitory actions of power that draw on culturally embedded ‘symbols’ (whether objects, actions or words etc.). 31. France, Gospel, p. 429. 32. Ibid. 1

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expression of joy and jubilation.’33 This seems also to make more sense given the lack of lasting effect the chanting has on the people, and the fact it does not rouse or empower them to action. Stein also contends that ‘Blessed is the one coming in the name of the Lord!’ did not necessarily have messianic overtones; rather, it was the common greeting for all pilgrims entering Jerusalem34 and thus is employed here, at least by the crowd (for Mark’s listeners are in a privileged position to pick up deeper meanings regarding Jesus’ identity), as familiar and routine, rather, than an extraordinary or protest-stimulating call. Morna Hooker makes a similar point when she states: ‘as Mark tells the story [of the entry into Jerusalem] the incident is certainly not the unambiguous assertion of messiahship which later interpretation has made it, even though Mark regards it as clear enough to those with eyes of faith’.35 Here then it is a pilgrimage ritual, rather than a messianic ritual, which at least as enacted by the crowd is inÀected with repetition and conservatism, rather than an unprompted, chaotic ‘occasion for changes to break through’ and social protest to be stimulated.36 The crowd also listen with delight and ‘amazement’ to Jesus’ teaching (ëÁÈÂûÊÊÇĸÀ, 11.18), a trait they have exhibited previously in reaction to his actions and words (1.22; 6.2; 7.37; 10.26). The term ëÁÈÂûÊÊÇĸÀ, literally, ‘being struck out [of one’s mind]’ reÀects both the sensory and somatic affects his violent actions and words in the temple have had on them as a whole group. Whilst the NRSV translation, ‘spellbound’, perhaps conjures up for contemporary readers ideas of a sort of ‘hypnotic… emotional contagion’37 spread among the people, one should, given the fact that Mark references that the chief priests and scribes were fearful of the inÀuence Jesus had on the crowd (11.18), see it more as a potentially explosive emotionally charged call to action against the status quo: ‘The casual and conventional crowds may become acting crowds in some circumstances…whose members engage in, or are ready to engage in, violence against a speci¿c target – a person, a category of people, or physical property’.38 Here, however, the potential fervour soon dissipates 33. Robert H. Stein, Mark (BECNT; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008), p. 505. 34. Ibid. 35. Morna D. Hooker, The Gospel according to St Mark (London: A. & C. Black, 1991), pp. 256–7. 36. Andrew Ross, Mixed Emotions: Beyond Fear and Hatred in International ConÀict (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013), p. 47 37. John J. Macionis, Sociology (New Jersey: Pearson Education, 2007), p. 609. 38. Diana Kendall, Sociology in Our Times (Belmont: Wadsworth, 2008), p. 617. 1

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and dies down. As William Lane notes, whilst ‘the people are astonished…there is no indication that they have penetrated the veil of Jesus’ messianic dignity’;39 similarly for Telford, ‘amazement remains that of the unbeliever, or the one yet to be convinced’.40 Ultimately then, the crowd display transitory reactive emotions of enthusiasm and awe, but are not mobilised into action in response to Jesus’ actions or words. b. Religious Authorities Primarily Affective (Stable) Emotions Mark 11

Primarily Reactive Moods and Others (Transitory) Emotions In Between Fear (ÎǹñÑ): afraid Envy/Resentment/ Fear/Shame of Jesus and crowd (vv. 18-19, 32) Envy: ‘They kept looking for a way to kill him’ (vv. 18-19) Suspicion: Questioning Jesus about authority (vv. 27-33)

Mark 12

Fear (ÎǹñÑ): chief priests and scribes want to arrest him but feared crowd (v. 12)

Envy/Resentment Fear/Shame

Amazement (ëÁ¿¸ÍÄÚ½Ñ) at his answer about paying taxes (v. 17)

The performance and dialogues of Jesus ‘effectively throw down the gauntlet to the Jerusalem authorities and force them to respond’.41 Jesus completely dominates the narrative pace, space, script, and action and the religious leaders in turn are purely reactive in their emotional economy. 39. William Lane, The Gospel according to Mark (2d ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1974), p. 408. 40. Telford, ‘Maze and Amazement in Mark’s Gospel’, The Way 41 (2001), pp. 339–48 (347). 41. France, Gospel, p. 428.

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But whilst for the ‘reactive’ crowds the mood of response was primarily enthusiasm, here for the religious leaders, with the exception of 12.17 in which they are ‘amazed’ at Jesus’ cryptic and clever answer regarding tax payment, the mood is overwhelmingly marked by envy, resentment, and shame. Ahmed’s designation of these emotions as responses to perceived menace or intimidation í ‘the intensi¿cation not only of the bodily surface but also of the subjects’ relation to itself, or its sense of the self’42 í captures well the sense of threat and anxiety of which these sorts of reactive emotions are often symptomatic. Furthermore, such reactions are written on bodies: shame, Ahmed contends ‘consumes the subject and burns on the surface of bodies that are presented to others, a burning that exposes the exposure, and which may be visible in the form of a blush’.43 Throughout chs. 11–12 three main explicit emotions are embodied by the religious authorities: ¿rst, fear (ÎǹñÇĸÀ) of Jesus and the crowd (11.18-19, 32; 12.12); second, envy at Jesus’ popularity which fosters aggression and a will ‘to destroy (ÒÈÇÂñÊÑÊĕÅ) him’ (11.18-19); and third, suspicion regarding the source of authority of Jesus’ teaching (11.27-33). Of course these three responses are closely interlinked. Jerome Neyrey and Anselm Hagedorn captured this connectivity well when they characterised the action of Jesus in the temple as a fearinvoking invasion of ‘the physical space of the elite priests’44 and a challenge to their leadership; also in winning verbal ripostes set by them, Jesus effectively executed the religious authorities’ public shaming, thus arousing envy and aggressive responses within them. The image of limited good (goods, material and immaterial existing in ¿nite supply), the agonistic nature of agrarian societies (competitive and suspicious of those outside the in-group) and the honour and shame complex in which one’s reputation before others is of utmost importance was the cultural complex which made sense of the reactive emotions displayed.45 At ‘the heart of envy [was] social comparison’ and as Aristotle pointed out, ‘envy is felt chieÀy towards those who are peers for reasons having to do with notions of social justice’.46 Cultural beliefs surrounding the evil eye,

42. Ahmed, Cultural, p. 104. 43. Ibid., p. 104. 44. J. Neyrey and A. C. Hagedorn, ‘ “It was out of envy that they handed Jesus over” (Mark 15:10): The Anatomy of Envy and the Gospel of Mark’, JSNT 69 (1998), pp. 15–56. 45. Ibid. 46. W. Gerrod Parrott ‘The Emotional Experience of Envy’, in The Psychology of Jealousy and Envy (ed. Peter Salovey; New York: Guilford, 1991), pp. 3–28 (7).

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the energy of the envier’s gaze to deceive and destroy the object of their attention, are no doubt also relevant here in probing the religious leaders’ covert homicidal intent.47 In paying attention to the circulation of ‘hate’ within the narrative compelling insights also emerge. Ahmed explored how ‘feelings of injury get converted into hatred for others, who become read as “causing injury” ’.48 On one level of course, the religious leaders posit Jesus as such an ‘object of hate’ and wish to deal with him once and for all. However, as their emotion is presented as purely ‘reactive’ within the narrative, it has no affective appeal on the audience, indeed over and again the concealment of emotions on the part of the religious leaders is underscored (11.18; 12.12). However, if one conceives of hate circulating in the other direction in the emotional economy of this text, and acknowledges Mark’s speci¿c casting of the religious leader as ¿gures of hate, a different picture emerges. Ahmed talks about ‘affect[s] mov[ing]’. This process, she writes, ‘involves a “sticky” quality that endows objects and signs with emotional signi¿cance’. In exploring hate crimes she shows how pain and fear can be ‘mutated into hatred…through a process of repetition’.49 These chapters effectively embody this process. The evangelist purposefully inscribes over and again the Àat emotional traits of envy, fear, suspicion, resentment, and shame on the religious authorities, so much so that ultimately it is these, rather than Jesus, who are dramatically altered into a ‘common threat’ for his audiences. Moreover, Mark projects negative emotions onto the religious authorities as a group í internal dissent (11.30-33); hypocrisy (12.15); self-aggrandisement (12.38-40) í through Jesus’ discourse and narrator comments. If objects of hate are indeed created by ‘sticking’ traits together to ‘transform them into a common threat’50 í they are exposed as the villainous tenants in the parable (12.1-12) ‘they devour (Á¸Ì¼Ê¿ĕÑ) widow’s houses’ (12.40) and will ‘beat’ [you] ‘in their synagogues’ (13.9) í then these chapters do a sound emotional job of objectifying the religious leadership as such.

1

47. 48. 49. 50.

Neyrey and Hagedorn, ‘Envy’. Ahmed, Cultural, p. 15. Ross, Mixed, p. 44. Ahmed, Cultural, p. 15.

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c. Jesus’ Emotions Primarily Affective (Stable) Emotions Mark 11

Primarily Reactive (Transitory) Emotions Anger/Indignation: Cursing ¿g tree (vv. 12-14) Action in temple (vv. 15-17)

Moods and Others In Between Outrage/ Indignation/ De¿ance/ Hope

Faith: Jesus teaching disciples to have faith (ÈĕÊÌÀÅ) in God (vv. 22-24); Jesus teaching disciples that what they desire/ask for through prayer will be granted (vv. 2324) Mark 12

Forgiveness: Jesus teaching disciples to forgive (ÒÎĕ¼Ì¼) when praying (v. 25)

Solidarity/Hope

Mark 13

Love (Òº¸ÈÚÑ) greatest commandment (vv. 28-34)

Solidarity/Hope

Loyalty: beware (vv. 5, 9); one who endures (Òº¸ÈÚÑ), will be saved (v. 13) Vigilance: keep alert/awake (vv. 33, 35, 37) Fearlessness: do not be alarmed (v. 7); do not worry (v. 11); you will be hated (v. 13); kin betrayal (vv. 12-13) 1

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What immediately becomes clear in the mapping of an emotional dataset, in marked contrast to the crowds and religious authorities, is how Jesus’ teaching in these chapters is ¿rmly grounded in affective emotional elements. The two instances where Jesus seems to respond to ‘transitory’ events and embody ‘episodic/reactive’ emotions are the cursing of the ¿g tree (11.12-14) and the action in the temple (11.15-17). Through these two events Mark facilitates the channelling of anger and indignation into more affective and stable emotional capital throughout chs. 11–12, where core moral values traditionally held up by the law í faith (ÈĕÊÌÀË) in God (11.22-24), belief (ÈÀÊ̼įÑ) in the power of prayer (even to move mountains) (11.23-24), forgiveness (ÒÎĕ¾ÄÀ) (11.25) and love (Òº¸ÈÚÑ) of God and neighbour (vv. 28-34) í are celebrated as central emotional dispositions. Jasper, commenting on the appeal to collective identities both within protest movements and as a potential recruiting tool, notes how such demands are ‘affective as well as cognitive mapping[s] of the social world’.51 By drawing on core values that members held before joining a movement, ‘protest becomes a way of saying something about oneself and one’s morals, and of ¿nding joy and pride in them’.52 In ch. 13 the dialogue, prompted by a disciple’s question, turns the attention more ¿rmly to emotions inside the movement. Mark’s so-called little apocalypse, whilst not strictly ¿tting an ‘apocalyptic’ genre – for it has no ‘otherworldly mediator’, ‘visions of heaven or otherworldly tours’ nor ‘great quantities of apocalyptic verbiage or images or notions’ í can nonetheless be seen as ‘an example of late prophetic literature which includes some images and notions from apocalyptic discourse’.53 Apocalyptic, the genre of ‘protest literature’54 par excellence, inspires mobilization ‘not as an objective or as a cognitive indicator of the odds of success, but as an emotional inspiration…a reassuring sign that history…[is] on the side of the revolutionaries’.55 In Judith Diehl’s terms such literature also frequently acts cathartically í ‘a medical term… refer[ring] to the removal of a painful foreign object (or substance) from the body to promote the healing of the body’56 í in diffusing and 51. Jasper, ‘Emotions’, p. 415. 52. Ibid. 53. Ben Witherington III, The Gospel of Mark: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), p. 337. 54. Judith Diehl, ‘Anti-Imperial Rhetoric in the New Testament’, in Jesus Is Lord, Caesar Is Not: Evaluating Empire in New Testament Studies (ed. Scot McKnight and Joseph Modica; Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2013), pp. 38–81 (73). 55. Jasper, ‘Emotions’, p. 416. 56. Diehl, ‘Anti-Imperial’, p. 73. 1

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ameliorating anxiety and terror. It is no accident then that loyalty (13.5, 9), endurance (13.13), fearlessness (13.7, 11, 12-13), and vigilance (13.33, 35, 37) are here commended as core emotional values which foster hope and assurance that the movement will prevail, despite present or future indications to the contrary. This is also surely a speci¿cally constructed emotional resource for Mark’s own audiences ‘to understand the goal of their present experiences’ of suffering and persecution and to ‘persevere and, if necessary, give up their lives’.57 The emotional economy of hope is of course central to all protest, for as Ahmed states, ‘hope is what allows us to feel that what angers us is not inevitable, even if transformation can sometimes feel impossible… the moment of hope is when the “not yet” impresses upon us in the present, such that we must act…to make it our future’.58 If then Jesus’ discourse is ¿rmly directed into solidarity and hope as articulated by affective emotions, what are we to make of the two trigger incidents, his cursing of the ¿g tree (11.12-14) and his actions in the temple (11.15-17)? These ‘sandwiched’ episodes have long been seen as mutually informing. Frequently commentators cite how the internal story (the temple incident) is explained by the outer constructions (the references to the ¿g tree).59 Variously therefore the real heart of the action is conceived of as in the temple, where either a cleansing of commercial/ cultic practice or eschatological divine judgment is forcefully performed on an unproductive/defunct cult system and/or people.60 Rather than engage well-trodden debates about the possible meanings suggested by these episodes, here I want to focus more on the (performative) ‘hows?’ of the encounter, by exploring the emotional dimensions of these activities. More speci¿cally, we will explore the possibility that as ‘national symbols’ both ¿g tree and temple have potent appeal in the protest activities and emotional economy of this text and that Jesus’ emotional triggers of anger and indignation play an important motivating 57. Elizabeth E. Shively, Apocalyptic Imagination in the Gospel of Mark: The Literary and Theological Imagination in the Gospel of Mark (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2012), p. 105. 58. Ahmed, Cultural, p. 184. 59. See Telford’s classic work on this, Barren. James Edwards, ‘Markan Sandwiches: The Signi¿cance of Interpolations in Markan Narratives’, NovT 31, no. 3 (1989), pp. 193–216 (196). 60. Craig A. Evans is a representative of those who believe it is a ‘cleansing’ of an unclean cultic system. See Craig A. Evans, ‘Jesus and the “Cave of Robbers”: Toward a Jewish Context for the Temple Action’, BBR 3 (1993), pp. 93–110. E. P. Sanders famously sees it as an apocalyptic-eschatological symbolic destruction. See E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985). 1

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role for others. For as Adam Winn rightly recognised: ‘while the signi¿cance of Jesus’ action in the temple can be debated, Jesus’ authority and the power communicated through his action[s] cannot’.61 The performance of protest, as Marcyrose Chvasta notes, ‘is emotive, ambiguous, and confrontational. Its liminality provides and points toward possibilities, different ways of being in the world’,62 whether that be ‘boundary-crossing carnival’ or intense ‘anger to expose a wrong’.63 Two emotions are predominantly evoked in our text: Jesus’ anger í ‘visceral unease in reaction to information and events’64 í and indignation í ‘concerned with defending dignity65 í which in Aristotle’s terms evoked feelings for ‘whatever is undeserved and unjust’.66 Both are emotions which have popularly (and prejudicially) been seen as uncharacteristically ‘irrational and hot-headed’ for Jesus.67 Anger and indignation however are important motivating emotional resources and, as social-scientists have revealed, can often ¿nd outlets in ‘radical ridicule’68 which speci¿cally employs irreverent play within performances to ‘question or re-envision ingrained social arrangements of power’.69 Mikhail Bakhtin’s notion of ‘carnivalesque’ brings to mind such elements when he sees speci¿c (protest) performances dissolving all boundaries between spectators and performers and ‘celebrat[ing] temporary liberation from the prevailing truth of the established order: it marks the suspension of hierarchical rank, privileges, norms and prohibitions’.70 61. Adam Winn, The Purpose of Mark’s Gospel (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 123. 62. Marcyrose Chvasta, ‘Anger, Irony and Protest’, available online at . 63. Ibid., p. 13. 64. James Jasper, ‘Constructing Indignation: Anger Dynamics in Protest Movements’, Emotion Review 6 (2014), pp. 208–13 (210). 65. Robert B. McNeilly, Healing the Whole Person: A Solution-Focused Approach to Using Empowering Language (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 2000), p. 70. 66. Aristotle cited in Warren Frederick Morris, Emotion and Anxiety: A Philosophic Inquiry (Bloomington, IN: Xlibris, 2006), 18. 67. Krish Kandiah, Back to the Source: 30 Challenges to Live Like Jesus (Oxford: Monarch Books, 2013), 167. 68. A term taken from the subtitle of L. M. Bogad, Electoral Guerrilla Theatre: Radical Ridicule and Social Movements (London: Routledge, 2005). 69. Jan Cohen-Cruz, ‘Introduction’, in Radical Street Performance: An International Anthology (ed. Jan Cohen-Cruz; London: Routledge, 1998), pp. 1–7 (1). 70. Bakhtin cited in Silvija Jestrovic, Performance, Space, Utopia: Cities of War, Cities of Exile (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 51. 1

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In order to start to unpack the emotional economy within these two actions, it is important ¿rst to note the temple and the ¿g tree’s respective and evocative emotional appeal as ‘national symbols’.71 The temple was of course not only the dwelling place of the divine (Ps. 132.13; Ps. 9.11; Joel 3.17), but also the point of divine/human encounter and, through Jewish cultic rituals, the dispenser of law and justice. It is no accident then that prophetic traditions frequently evoked both anger and indignation if religious devotion was not attended to with the appropriate spirit of justice (Isa. 1.10-17; Hos. 6.6; Amos 5.21).72 The ¿g tree also fused diverse elements in its cultural repertoire and, to intentionally employ an anachronistic yet hopefully apt image, variously functioned as a ‘planted Àag’ – in which ‘a seemingly static and mute landscape [object] assumes life, expressing the cultural, economic, and legal dynamics that constantly shape and reshape it’.73 Signi¿cantly ¿g trees (and vines) are often idealised in prophetic texts as markers of an agrarian symbol of order, and purposively contrasted to urban models represented by the temple-city with its associations of empire and violence. As such it was used in some texts as an emblem for Israel’s covenant relationship: the productivity of the nation was shown in the fruits of the ¿gs (Hos. 9.10) or its failure in the lack of them (Mic. 7.1). Moreover the (eschatological) hope of national prosperity and peace was embodied in the image of ‘each man under his own vine and ¿g tree’ (1 Kgs 4.25; see also Zech. 3.10; Mic. 4.4; 7.1).74 Both temple and ¿g tree therefore stood as important ‘collective imaginaries’ or, in Sherry Ortner’s terms, ‘key symbols’ that could ‘catalyze the feelings and emotions of a group’s members’ and sustain collective identities even if people were physically dispersed.75 They both harboured an innate ability

71. See David A. Butz, ‘National Symbols as Agents of Psychological and Social Change’, Political Psychology 30 (2009), pp. 779–804. 72. ‘Temple’, in Dictionary of Biblical Imagery (ed. Leyland Ryken et al.; Downer’s Grove: IVP, 1998), p. 849. 73. Irus Braverman, Trees as ‘Planted Flags’: Trees, Lands and Law in Israel/Palestine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). See . 74. ‘Fig Tree’ in Ryken, Dictionary, pp. 283–4. 75. Michael E. Geisler, ‘Introduction: What are National Symbols?’, in National Symbols, Fractured Identities: Contesting the National Narrative (ed. Michael E. Geisler; Middlebury, VT: Middlebury College, 2005), pp. xxiíxlii (xxv). Sherry Ortner cited in Tamar Mayer, ‘National Symbols in Jewish Israel’, in Geisler (ed.), National, pp. 3–34 (3). 1

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to ‘condense meaning’ and variously evoked ‘an entire constellation of ideas and emotions’.76 It is no surprise then that such national symbols should also constitute powerful and emotive sites in times of protest, often featuring in ‘the most direct and radical style of the protest function’77 through deliberate assault or mutilation. For, as Nadia Seremetakis argues, ‘meaningendowed objects bear within them emotional and historical sedimentation that can provoke and ignite gestures, discourses and acts’.78 Karen Cerulo reveals that attacks on national symbols often transpire in contexts where people feel ‘most severed from power’.79 Moreover, ‘because national symbols are embodiments rather than mere representations, marring or defacing them serve as direct denunciation[s] of both the leaders who control these symbols and the ideals those leaders have attached to the symbols’.80 Many commentators have of course picked up on the deliberate impact Jesus’ actions would assumedly have had on the religious authorities. Morna Hooker, for example, noted that in purposefully inserting this tradition towards the closing stages of Jesus’ life, Mark presents it as the pinnacle of Jesus’ claim to authority over and against the religious establishment. She writes:81 His [Jesus’] action…[was] a protest against the way in which a concern with the outward niceties of religion (the insistence that the sacri¿cial animal must be without blemish, guaranteed pure, and the temple taxes were paid in the appropriate currency) led to other realities being ignored…in other words, his protests about the priest’s activities are exactly on a parallel with his protests about the teaching of the scribes and Pharisees… [H]ardly surprising then if the outcome was a collusion between the priests and scribes.82

In this sort of case, the protester uses symbols, in Cerulo’s terms, to ‘take command of them’ and thus appropriate the symbolic power inherent within them for their own cause. As a direct consequence, ‘by making the ruling elites the receivers rather than transmitters of the symbol, 76. Serena Nanda and Richard Warms, Culture Counts: A Concise Introduction to Cultural Anthropology (Wadsworth: Cengage Learning, 2009), p. 29. 77. Karen A. Cerulo, Identity Designs: The Sights and Sounds of a Nation (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 1995), p. 31. 78. Nadia Seremetakis, ‘The Memory of the Senses’, in The Senses Still: Perception and Memory as Material Culture in Modernity (ed. Nadia Seremetakis; Boulder, CO: Westview, 1996), pp. 1–22 (7). 79. Cerulo, Identity, p. 31. 80. Ibid. 81. Hooker, Mark, p. 263. 82. Ibid., p. 264. 1

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protestors inject their group with the national symbol’s power…social control from below’.83 However, in this text, the national symbols do not seem to be merely reattributed, but rather rendered completely extinct: the ¿g tree is not just wilted, it is irreversibly withered to its roots (11.20-21, ëÆûɸÅ̸À, literally ‘dried up’, ‘scorched’ and ‘stiffened’) and the temple ultimately will have ‘not one stone left upon another, all will be thrown down’ (13.2). Hans Dieter Betz seems to be more attuned to the extreme and carnivalesque suspension of social order in these actions, when he implicitly argues that Jesus’ temple demonstration was a radical, not merely a critical, protest: ‘His action was not part of the regular temple ritual…but a one-time performance of a single individual. It can be characterised as a violent intervention, disrupting what other people regarded as normality. As confrontation and provocation the action was meant to be symbolic or paradigmatic.’84 The temple as a result of the performance is ideologically transformed from a ‘house of prayer for all nations’ to ‘a den of thieves (ÂþÊÌľÅ)’ (11.17) or more speci¿cally ‘insurrectionists’. In reference to this term, France notes: its use here [ÂþÊÌľÅ] is because of the memorable LXX phrase…[which] recalled the prophet’s denunciation in his great Temple Sermon of the misplaced con¿dence of those whose behaviour belied their profession of respect for the temple… Jesus’ use of the phrase accuses the Jews of his day of the same crimes as Jeremiah’s contemporaries (including robbery) but highlights their lack of respect for God’s house by comparing it with that Àagrant abuse of the sanctuary.85

Ironically then, whilst Jesus in his non-linguistic embodied actions could be perceived as an ‘insurrectionist’ í effectively using violence to ‘invest [his] body with agency’ and, in Ahmed’s terms, ‘shaping the surface’86 of temple space into a territory of his own body – he nonetheless labels those inside as such. This chimes with those who interpret speci¿c protest acts as ‘performative expressions of anger’ and note how these frequently ‘carnivalesque tactics’ are utilized to transform anger into irony. Irony can ‘mock, attack and ridicule, exclude, embarrass and humiliate’87 and in the speci¿c context of ‘national symbols’ can 83. Cerulo, Identity, p. 29 (emphasis added). 84. Hans Dieter Betz, Antike und Christentum (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), p. 62. 85. France, Gospel, p. 446. 86. Ahmed, Cultural, p. 70. 87. Linda Hutcheon, Irony’s Edge: The Theory and Politics of Irony (New York: Taylor & Francis, 2005), e-edition. 1

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effectively facilitate transformations of them into satirical ‘disordered objects’. Jesus likewise deliberately and jarringly employs explosive verbal denunciations on the ¿g tree (11.14), which is changed from a rooted, leafy tree to a shrivelled and scorched one. In a Hebrew Bible context, to curse or damage a tree is a very dangerous, cosmically disruptive act; it was ironically what imperial aggressors did, not only to starve the conquered peoples, but to destroy social and cosmic regeneration. Such performances therefore serve as markers of total cosmic disempowerment, as exempli¿ed in Ezekiel’s prophetic words: ‘Which among the trees of Eden was like you in glory and in greatness? Now you shall be brought down with the trees of Eden to the world below; you shall lie among the uncircumcised, with those who are killed by the sword’ (Ezek. 31.18; cf. also Deut. 20.19-20). There are of course a number of other ironic tactics operating within the narrative, which also serve to effect this symbolic change. The ¿g tree is cursed for not bearing fruit to satisfy Jesus’ hunger despite ironically it ‘not being the season for ¿gs’ (11.13).88 The reference to ‘hunger’ here is important and deliberately inscribes Jesus’ body as ‘an articulate signifying agent’89 which effectively objecti¿es the ¿g tree as ‘disordered’: it is incapable of satisfying his need and will thus be accursed. Jesus also goes into the temple and overturns tables of money changers, seats of dove sellers and ‘would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple’ (11.15-16), which, given the physical dimensions and crowdedness of the building, must surely be received as ironic hyperbole. Betz’s eminently sensible question of how ‘in reality could one person disrupt the extensive business conducted by many merchants in the…outer courtyards of the temple area?’, demonstrates this. Additionally, Betz’s contention that ‘in the real world we would expect the merchants would have quickly stopped Jesus’ action, protected their merchandise and called in temple guards’, seems highly probable. Betz concludes, ‘if the merchants did none of this the action must have been insigni¿cant. But if it were insigni¿cant, how could it have attracted so much attention?’90 If, however, received ironically, the almost unimaginable interference created by one body here demonstrates 88. Hooker, Mark, p. 262. See also Jerry Camery-Hoggatt, Irony in Mark’s Gospel: Text and Subtext (SNTSMS 72; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 69–70. 89. Susan Leigh Foster, ‘Choreographies of Protest’, Theatre Journal 55 (2003), pp. 395–412 (396). 90. Hans Dieter Betz, ‘Jesus and the Purity of the Temple (Mark 11:15-18): A Comparative Religion Approach’, JBL 116 (1997), pp. 455–72 (456). 1

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the inherent vulnerability and feebleness of the cultic power and architectural structure of the temple – for ‘irony invokes notions of hierarchy and subordination, judgement and moral superiority’91 – here the emotionally saturated space of the temple, evoking ‘past, familiarity, belonging and safety’, is objecti¿ed as errant ‘as a result of particular con¿gurations of social scripts, the performance of the actor present and the staging’92 of that space. Mark provides in his portrayal of Jesus’ actions and emotions within these chapters a prototype and stimulus for similar emotional responses within his hearers/readers. Throughout the entire episode, Jesus is shown to act intentionally from anger and indignation, the ‘prototypical protest emotions’,93 and, through re-categorising the national symbols of ¿g tree and temple as ironic ‘objects of disorder’, starts ‘to create moral outrage and anger [in others] and to provide a target against which these can be vented’.94 Whilst fear fosters passivity, anger generates and stimulates action by ‘put[ting] ¿re in the belly and iron in the soul’.95 It is in this respect that the protest should be seen not as narrowly addressed to a particular group (whether that be, as commentators have variously proposed, ‘the Jewish crowds, the Jewish religious leaders, the Temple, the sacri¿cial worship enacted in the temple, Israel as God’s people, Judaism as a religious system’96), but rather a more multi-vocal performance. Peter Richardson has noted how many anthropological studies have shown how protestors employ ‘both subtle as well as overt acts to convey their point’ and, as such, protest is frequently received differently by different audiences.97 Like the thief in the night, ‘Jesus breaks “into the House” ’98 and through ‘irreverent play’ manages to perform socially 91. Chamberlain cited in Hutcheon, Irony’s Edge. 92. G. Brown and J. Pickerill, ‘Space for Emotion in the Spaces of Activism’, Emotion, Space and Society 2 (2009), pp. 24–35 (29). 93. Bert Klandermans, ‘Framing Collective Action’, in Media and Revolt: Strategies and Performances from the 1960s to the Present (ed. Kathrin Fahlenbrach et al.; New York: Berghahn Books, 2014), pp. 41–57 (51). 94. Ibid., p. 51. 95. William A. Gamson, Talking Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 32. 96. John Donahue and Daniel Harrington, The Gospel of Mark (SP; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical, 2002), p. 331. 97. Peter Richardson, Building Jewish in the Roman East (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2004), p. 18. 98. George Aichele, ‘Jesus’ Violence’, in Violence, Utopia and the Kingdom of God: Fantasy and Ideology in the Bible (ed. George Aichele and Tina Pippin; London: Routledge, 1998), pp. 72–90 (84). 1

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explosive actions that are powerful catalysts for some (the disciples are urged to follow and the crowd are spellbound by him, 11.18), yet for others presumably they were perceived as the chaotic motions and ramblings of a madman. George Aichele elegantly captured this mixed reception, and complexity inherent in the oft-cited sandwich structure of the narrative, when he stated: The unreasonableness of Jesus’ violence in the temple is emphasised by the unseasonableness of his expectations from the ¿g tree…because of its juxtaposition…the cursing of the ¿g tree becomes more signi¿cant, and tells the reader more about Jesus than it would otherwise. Conversely the cleansing of the temple becomes less signi¿cant í just another violent outburst by a man who curses trees.99

Activists frequently ‘deploy apparatuses to create anger during interactions, and to display it to audiences’.100 Affronted dignity (indignation) can eventually be routed into passionate outrage and assurance. In the emotional economy of Jesus in these chapters we have identi¿ed this sort of pattern: the one aroused by reactive emotions of anger and indignation, must then through more stable affective bonds including loyalty in the face of violence, fearlessly endure. For only those who demonstrate such emotional capacities ‘to the end will be saved’ (13.13). For Mark’s house churches also, the temple (probably already fallen) had lost its iconic power and was irreversibly ruptured; national symbols were likewise re-categorised in an ethnically mixed church context.101 Early Christian believers’ bodies, like Jesus’, were called to respond to, and protest against, the powers that be in their own age, in the face of suffering and torture. IV. The Affective Turn and Emotions of Protest in Mark 11–13 The ‘affective turn’ signi¿ed a move to take seriously the sensory, performative and somatic encounters of the ‘lived body’ and in so doing question Cartesian dualisms of mind/Àesh, internal/external, reason/ emotions.102 Michelle Rosaldo consequently described emotions as 99. Aichele, ‘Jesus’ Violence’, p. 85. 100. Jasper, ‘Constructing’, p. 212. 101. See Brian J. Incigneri, The Gospel to the Romans: The Setting and Rhetoric of Mark’s Gospel (Leiden: Brill, 2003), p. 149. 102. Melissa Gregg and Gregory Seigworth, ‘An Inventory of Shimmers’, in The Affect Theory Reader (ed. Melissa Gregg and Gregory Seigworth; Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), pp. 1–27 (1). 1

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‘embodied thoughts, seeped with the apprehension that “I am involved” ’,103 meaningfully felt in ‘Àushes, pulses, movements of our livers, minds, hearts, stomachs and skin’.104 ‘Feelings’ towards emotions have hitherto been pretty thin in biblical studies, yet biblical texts are redolently marked by such interests. Commenting on the book of Job, for instance, Harm van Grol rightly asserts: We are not informed about the nature of his sin, his illness…obviously the text was not written to inform us. This vagueness which irritated ‘enlightened’ scholars in Western Europe disappears if it is about emotions…but that was a non-topic for these bourgeois academics. They characterized the description of emotions as hyperboles and Near Eastern exaggerations. Ironically these emotions are depicted with sharpness and one does not need an academic education to discern them. Maybe these texts were written to involve us.105

Barton’s recent call for attention in biblical studies to the emotions in general and social-scienti¿c treatises on the emotions in particular is both timely and crucial in this respect. He recognised how such accounts could highlight ways in which emotions variously ‘communicate culturally mediated moral judgments’; ‘arise in the course of social relations and actions’; ‘draw attention to the importance of certain kinds of practice, especially moral-legal and ritual practice’; the ‘ways in which words and things offer symbolic resources for Christianity’s distinctive emotional rationality’; how emotions ‘are bodily and related to attitudes to the body’ and most importantly how emotions are ‘generated between bodies’ and ‘express individual and group identity in the context of social engagement and process’.106 In this light, Mark 11–13 does important affective work in constructing an emotional economy of protest: ‘it taps into…moral sensibilities and involves powerful emotions’.107 ‘Moral shock’ is induced through the ironic re-positioning of central national symbols as ‘disordered objects’ and accordingly outrage and indignation are stimulated on account of these. Blame is not only projected onto 103. Michelle Rosaldo, ‘Toward an Anthropology of Self and Feeling’, in Culture Theory: Essays on Mind, Self, and Emotion (ed. R. A. Shweder and R. A. LeVine; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), pp. 137–57 (143). 104. Ibid., p. 143. 105. Harm van Graol, ‘Emotions in the Psalms’, in Wenzel and Corley (eds.), Emotions, pp. 69–101 (76). 106. Barton, ‘Eschatology’, pp. 579–80. 107. James Jasper, ‘Recruiting Intimates, Recruiting Strangers: Building the Contemporary Animal Rights Movement’, in Waves of Protest: Social Movements Since the Sixties (ed. Jo Freeman and Victoria Johnson; Lanham, MD: Rowland & Little¿eld, 1999), pp. 65–82 (68). 1

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immaterial objects of temple and ¿g tree, but also through the speci¿c repetitions (in Ahmed’s terms, ‘sticking’) of negative emotional responses (envy, fear etc.) on the religious leaders themselves, so much so that they effectively are transformed into objecti¿ed targets of ‘hate’ who should be guarded against, and who will ultimately ‘receive the greater condemnation’ (12.40). Frame alignment, the process whereby ‘leaders make their activities, ideas, and goals congruent with the interests, beliefs and values of potential new recruits’,108 is particularly seen in the predominant use of affective/stable emotions by Jesus within teaching discourses to the disciples, and more generally. By accentuating and celebrating common values upheld in the law (faith; belief in the power of prayer; love for God and neighbour) the importance of the positive beliefs the movement stands for are continually re-emphasised. Collective identity, not only ‘a sense of “we-ness” or “one-ness” that derives from perceived shared attributes’ but more importantly ‘pre-requisites for collective action’,109 is particularly sharpened in the discourse of ch. 13, where the importance of loyalty and endurance in the face of suffering and persecution are accentuated. ‘The way’ í whether that be understood as a ‘prophetic recon¿gur[ation] of the New Exodus imagery into an eschatological pilgrimage to the temple’110 or ‘the way of suffering (a via dolorosa)’111 í is unquestionably a ‘way’ which will be journeyed together, and by this ‘physical co-presence of other participants, protestors realize that they are part of a greater whole’.112 Emotions and feelings are undeniably ‘implicated in historical and social change’113 and thus provide ‘rich territories’ for probing the ideologies and performances of individuals and groups. Similarly, protest is never an ‘occupier’ of a neatly de¿ned social, political, religious or other monolithic space; it is on the contrary lived and breathed both 108. Robert Brym and John Lie, Sociology: Your Compass for a New World (Wadsworth: Cengage Learning, 2010), p. 444. 109. Catherine Corrigall-Brown, Patterns of Protest: Trajectories of Participation in Social Movements (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2012), e-book. 110. Timothy C. Gray, The Temple in the Gospel of Mark: A Study in its Narrative Role (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), p. 16. 111. Ibid., p. 19. In these chapters the trigger emotions of anger and indignation are activated for the sake of collective empowerment; later in the gospel, the display of hurt and victimization will also be strategically employed in the passion. 112. Dunya van Troost et al., ‘Emotions of Protest’, in Emotions in Politics: The Affect Dimension in Political Tension (ed. Nicolas Demertzis; New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), pp. 186–202 (198). 113. Lemmings and Brooks, ‘The Emotional Turn in the Humanities’, p. 4. 1

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individually and in the collective. The author of the Gospel of Mark undoubtedly realised the signi¿cance of bolstering the emotional economy of his ‘good news’ when he wrote amidst social destruction, discrimination, and persecution. Mark 11–13, with its powerful protest actions which channel anger and indignation into hope, solidarity, and expectant vigilance, thus speaks profoundly to that wider context of tortured, desperate, and enduring lived bodies who were likewise urged to ‘Keep alert’, awake, fearless, and faithful in what sometimes must have felt a very uncertain present.

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THE SPIRITUALITY OF FAITH IN THE GOSPEL OF MATTHEW Nijay Gupta

I. Introduction In 1991, Dr. Stephen C. Barton was invited to deliver four lectures on the Gospels at St. Anne’s College, Oxford. Barton deeply desired to wrestle with the true meaning and substance of the Gospels, especially as they were written ‘from faith for faith’. These lectures eventually became the book The Spirituality of the Gospels.1 Little did Barton know that he was at the very forefront of a movement that would blossom in the early twenty-¿rst century called by some ‘theological interpretation of Scripture’, sharing a similar interest, intent, and goal, namely, reading Scripture to know God. In the early 1990s, though, it would seem Barton’s work was done, not as a contribution to a ¿eld of study (e.g. ‘Christian spirituality’), but out of a personal desire to relate academic biblical studies to a life of worship, and particularly in a context of work and ministry where Barton was responsible for training ordinands at Salisbury and Wells Theological College in Salisbury before he moved on to teach at the University of Durham.2 According to Barton, ‘spirituality’ in the context of his study on the Gospels implied attentiveness to ‘life under God or life lived in response to the sense of the divine presence of God – speci¿cally, the presence of God revealed in Jesus Christ through the Spirit’.3 Again, it could be described as ‘the sense of the divine presence and living in the light of that presence’.4 For Barton, spirituality involves both how God relates to humans as well as how humans relate to God. What Barton describes in 1. Stephen C. Barton, The Spirituality of the Gospels (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1992). 2. For a helpful discussion of how a discipline of ‘spirituality’ has developed in religious scholarship over the last twenty-¿ve years, see Bonnie Thurston, ‘The New Testament in Christian Spirituality’, in The Blackwell Companion to Christian Spirituality (ed. A. Holder; Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), pp. 55–70. 3. Barton, Spirituality of the Gospels, p. ix. 4. Ibid., p. 1.

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this book rather closely aligns with the sentiment of those who today practice theological interpretation of Scripture, insofar as they recognize that the Scriptures were given to the people of God as texts that undergird and strengthen faith.5 While a variety of academic tools are necessary for deep and responsible study of Scripture, its goal is formation. As Barton explains: I too am concerned to engage in an interpretation of the meaning of the gospel texts in their historical context, to describe with as much historical sensitivity as I can how the four evangelists envisaged life under God in the light of the coming of Christ. Furthermore, within the historical paradigm, the ¿ndings of redaction criticism – the investigation of the meaning of the gospel texts in their ¿nal form as compositions of the respective evangelists – are crucial for the present study. Nevertheless, historical investigation does not take us far enough. In particular, it tends to pay insuf¿cient heed to the fact that the gospels are documents of the canon of Christian scripture held as sacred within the communities of Christian faith which scripture sustains and nourishes. Typically, historical method works by creating a critical distance between reader and text, whereas the expectation and hope of the believer is for inspiration and illumination in the life of faith, gained through a sympathetic proximity between reader and text.6

In this essay, I wish to pay respect to Dr. Barton’s important contribution to the theological study of the Gospels by looking at the Gospel of Matthew with a similar interest in the First Gospel’s spirituality. In his chapter on Matthew, Barton rightly notes Matthew’s interest in discipleship, righteousness, purity/integrity, and radical love. To this we will add Matthew’s interest in ÈĕÊÌÀË, ‘faith’. In the study of the Synoptic Gospels in particular, despite the ubiquity of the language of faith, there has been little study of this subject. When it comes to the spirituality of the Gospels, though, there can hardly be a more important concept related to the human response to God than faith. 5. See ibid., p. 3. 6. Ibid. This seems to relate closely to Richard Hays’ approach in his essay ‘Salvation by Trust? Reading the Bible Faithfully’, Christian Century (2–9 February 1994), pp. 104–8. Also, notice the conceptual similarities between Barton’s statement and that of Kevin Vanhoozer as editor of the Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible: ‘Theological interpretation of the Bible, we suggest, is biblical interpretation oriented to the knowledge of God… Knowing God is more than a merely academic exercise. On the contrary, knowing God, like theological interpretation of the Bible itself, is at once an intellectual, imaginative, and spiritual exercise. To know God is to love and obey him, for the knowledge of God is both restorative and transformative.’ See the Introduction to Dictionary of the Theological Interpretation of the Bible (ed. K. J. Vanhoozer; Grand Rapids: Baker, 2005), p. 24. 1

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II. The Language of ‘Faith’ in the Time of Jesus There is a presumption today that one identi¿es with Jesus by adhering to a particular set of ‘beliefs’, ideas, and doctrines that determine one’s religious outlook. We must be careful not to impose this understanding of ‘faith’ on the language used by Jesus and the earliest Christians. As Luke Timothy Johnson points out, ‘belief’ is not the sum total of what the Gospels refer to if by this terminology we mean ‘the cognitive dimension of faith’. As we will see, there is something critically connected to cognition and epistemology in Jesus’ call for faith in Matthew, but his language of faith is much larger than this.7 In the First Gospel, Matthew’s key terms for faith are ÈĕÊÌÀË and ÈÀÊ̼įÑ, along with several cognates: ĚÂÀºĠÈÀÊÌÇË, ÒÈÀÊÌĕ¸, ÓÈÀÊÌÇË, and ÈÀÊÌĠË. Our focus in this essay will primarily be on ÈĕÊÌÀË since it is the most important word in Matthew’s ‘faith’ vocabulary.8 While it is easily recognized that the canonical Gospels present a Jesus who called for faith (ÈĕÊÌÀË), this is in striking contrast to the fact that in the Hebrew Jewish Scriptures, this was not common parlance for Israel’s response to God.9 A.-J. Levine underscores this point in a discussion of modern Jewish-Christian dialogue. Often, in such a setting, Christians may speak of ‘interfaith dialogue’. Levine points out that using the word ‘faith’ already sets the discussion in distinctly Christian terms. She writes: ‘For many Jews involved in such dialogue, the issue is not a “faith” matter. To talk of “faith” or “faith communities” already skews the conversation toward Christian terms.’10 7. See L. T. Johnson, The Creed: What Christians Believe and Why It Matters (New York: Doubleday, 2003), p. 44. 8. See R. T. France, ‘Faith’, DJG, pp. 223–6. 9. See G. von Rad, Old Testament Theology (trans. D. M. G. Stalker; repr.; OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001; ¿rst ed. New York: Harper & Row, 1962–65), p. 378; also G. D. Preuss, Old Testament Theology (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), vol. 2, p. 160: ‘The discourse in the Old Testament about faith in YHWH as an attitude of a person toward and before God occurs more seldomly than might be expected by a reader of the Old Testament who is conditioned by the New Testament’s and perhaps also Paul’s understanding of faith’. Preuss (and von Rad) are quick to note, though, that while the narrow terminology of ‘faith’ is not commonly used in the Old Testament, the concepts of trust, ¿delity, and commitment are foundational to covenantal life as they understood it (see Preuss, Old Testament Theology, pp. 165–7). 10. A.-J. Levine, ‘Jesus in Jewish–Christian Dialogue’, in Soundings in the Religion of Jesus (ed. B. Chilton, A. Le Donne, and J. Neusner; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012), pp. 175–88 (185). 1

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In a sense, then, the Jesus tradition itself bears witness to the move towards a focused set of language to describe spirituality. But, of course, Jesus’ language of faith did not appear out of thin air. Undoubtedly it developed through the burgeoning use of ÈĕÊÌÀË in Hellenistic Jewish literature. In the Septuagint, ÈĕÊÌÀË appears over sixty times, representative of Hebrew terms such as 0#/, !1#/ and =/.11 The Septuagint translators often found ÈĕÊÌÀË to be a suitable noun to represent these Hebrew terms, bringing them together under a broadly common meaning of loyalty or faithfulness (cf. Deut. 32.20; 1 Sam. 26.23; Ps. 33.4 [LXX 32.4]; Hos. 2.22; Jer. 5.1, 3). This reÀects the common employment of ÈĕÊÌÀË in Hellenistic usage, though it could be used in relation to intellectual beliefs as well.12 Philo bears witness to a wide range of uses for ÈĕÊÌÀË, including logical ‘proofs’ (Opif. 93), loyalty (Plant. 82), and beliefs (Mut. 201).13 The tendency of Josephus is to focus more strictly on the social meaning of ÈĕÊÌÀË as loyalty.14 In fact, it appears that Josephus tended to use the term ÈĕÊÌÀË (‘loyalty’) instead of »À¸¿ûÁ¾ in his Antiquities – what this implies is that, in this period of time we see an interest amongst Jews in using the language of faith (ÈĕÊÌÀË) to represent, as a circumlocution or perhaps an approximation, Jewish covenantal relationships.15 11. See R. Bultmann, ‘ÈÀÊ̼įÑ’, TDNT, vol. 6, pp. 197–203. 12. See L. H. Feldman, Judaism and Hellenism Reconsidered (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 57–62 (on ÈĕÊÌÀË in particular, see p. 60). 13. On Philo’s use of ÈĕÊÌÀË, see D. A. Campbell, The Quest for Paul’s Gospel (London: T&T Clark International, 2005), pp. 178–80. 14. See Campbell, Quest, pp. 181–2; also D. R. Lindsay, Josephus and Faith: ţÊÌÀË and ÀÊ̼ŧ¼ÀÅ as Faith Terminology in the Writings of Flavius Josephus and in the New Testament (Leiden: Brill, 1993). 15. Christopher T. Begg has written extensively on this subject; see his Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Vol. 4, Judean Antiquities 5–7 (Leiden: Brill, 2005), passim. In relation to the question of why Josephus preferred ÈĕÊÌÀË, Begg speculates; ¿rstly, »À¸¿ûÁ¾ had a different meaning (‘testament’) in secular Greek. Second, Josephus may have had ‘concern not to arouse Roman suspicions by using the term à la LXX with political overtones’. Thirdly, perhaps the preference of ÈĕÊÌÀË offered an ‘indirect polemic against a nascent Christianity with its emphasis on the “new covenant” (recall that in post-LXX Jewish OT translations »À¸¿ûÁ¾ is replaced by a variety of other renditions, e.g., ÊÍÅ¿ûÁ¾)’. See Begg, Josephus’ Account of the Early Divided Monarchy (AJ 8.212–240) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1993), pp. 100–101 n. 609. Cf. see E. Riggenbach, ‘Der Begriff der diatheke im Hebräerbrief’, in Theologische Studien Theodor Zahn zum 10 Oktobert 1908 dargebracht (Leipzig: Deichert, 1908), pp. 291–316 (295–7); Also A. Jaubert, La notion d’alliance dans le Judaïsme aux abords de l’ère chrétienne (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1963), pp. 339–49. 1

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Before turning to the Gospels, we can brieÀy summarize the state of the use of ÈĕÊÌÀË in the time of Jesus by observing that (a) it was a polyvalent term that could cover a number of meanings and nuances, and (b) it was increasing in popularity particularly as a term used for distinctly Jewish covenantal commitment. We should be reminded, though, that ÈĕÊÌÀË has an unusual kind of elasticity because of its range of meaning demonstrated in the notably different cognates ÈÀÊÌĠË (‘faithfulness’) and ÈÀÊ̼įÑ (‘I believe’). Therefore, when the Evangelists were writing their Gospels, ÈĕÊÌÀË was a noun that could play many semantic roles; one might even think of it as a term that could modulate across a continuum from cognitive-belief on one end (aligning with ÈÀÊ̼įÑ) to social ¿delity and loyalty on the other (aligning with ÈÀÊÌĠË). If nothing else we can say that ÈĕÊÌÀË is a noun that deserves care in translation and it is perhaps hasty to allow it to be only understood and translated into English as a single word (‘faith’).16 III. Repent and Believe: The Message of the Prophet Jesus (Mark 1.14-15) Before turning to Matthew’s ÈĕÊÌÀË-spirituality, it behooves us to consider the ministry-launching message of Jesus at the beginning of the Gospel of Mark (presupposing Mark’s inÀuence upon Matthew). After John the Baptist was arrested, Jesus went to Galilee and proclaimed the good news of God: ‘The time is ful¿lled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the gospel’. This is the summons of a prophet, urging Israel to turn from sin and return to God.17 Jesus was carrying forward John the Baptist’s message in his absence.18 He was

16. For an incisive criticism of how the Common English Bible handles the translation and interpretation of ÈĕÊÌÀË in Romans, see R. B. Hays, ‘Lost in Translation: A ReÀection on Romans in the Common English Bible’, in The Unrelenting God: Essays on God’s Action in Scripture in Honor of Beverly R. Gaventa (ed. D. Downs and M. Skinner; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013), pp. 83–101. 17. See C. A. Evans, ‘Prophet, Sage, Healer, Messiah: Types and Identities of Jesus’, in Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus (ed. T. Holmén and S. E. Porter; Leiden: Brill, 2010), pp. 1219–22; R. T. France, The Gospel of Mark (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), p. 93. On the subject of repentance, and how it relates to ‘faith’, see M. J. Boda, ‘Return to Me’: A Biblical Theology of Repentance (Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2015), pp. 163–4, 184 (more generally pp. 145–61 on the theology of repentance in Scripture). 18. See W. D. Davies and D. Allison, Matthew (3 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1988), 1.72. 1

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calling Israel to ‘abandon a whole way of life, and to trust him for a different one’.19 A new era had dawned, the rule of God was imminent – participants were inspired to repent, not necessarily because their sins compelled them to, but because God was ful¿lling the promise of his reign on earth.20 John, though, while he did preach ‘repentance’, did not call for belief. In the Old Testament, when repentance was called for, the counterpart for turning away from sin would naturally be to commit to God and to do what is right (Jer. 34.15; Ezek. 18.21). Jesus does not say ‘Repent and obey God’, but rather ‘Repent and believe the good news’. That Israel had to believe this seems to imply that it was not a matter of accepting a plain ‘fact’. It would take belief, a leap of faith, as it were, to live into a reality that Jesus was ‘the one who discloses God’s sovereignty’ and that one must respond to him with trust and obedience to the expectations of the kingdom he was inaugurating.21 As Frank Matera explains, there is a critical epistemological quality to the way Mark expresses the nature of faith: Faith, in Mark’s Gospel, is not merely one virtue among others. In the Markan narrative, it is the all-embracing term that describes the moral and ethical life of those who embrace the kingdom of God. Faith is perceiving and understanding, whereas the lack of faith is blindness and incomprehension. Those who believe, perceive, and understand what Jesus says and does can see the presence of God’s kingdom in his ministry even though the manifestation of the kingdom is presently hidden and seemingly insigni¿cant. Convinced that the kingdom of God is present, although not yet in power, such people live lives of discipleship in a community of disciples gathered around Jesus. Within Mark’s Gospel, people believe in order to see.22

19. N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), p. 258; Wright makes a good case for this nationalistic reading of Jesus’ repentancecall, but he is less convincing in his more speci¿c argument that the problem was ‘nationalistic violence’ (p. 253). 20. See G. D. Nave, The Role and Function of Repentance in Luke–Acts (Leiden: Brill, 2002), p. 132. 21. See C. D. Marshall, Faith as a Theme in Mark’s Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994; ¿rst ed. 1989), p. 54; more broadly pp. 44–56; also Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God, p. 263; Frank Matera, New Testament Ethics: The Legacies of Jesus and Paul (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), p. 22. 22. Frank Matera, New Testament Ethics (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1996), p. 23. 1

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For Mark, though, ÈÀÊ̼įÑ means more than simply believing in the good news of the kingdom of God; it also implies immersing oneself wholeheartedly into this good news, tethering oneself to it.23 As Jack Dean Kingsbury aptly puts it, for Mark ‘faith connotes radical con¿dence, an unconditional turning towards the gospel in complete trust’.24 IV. The Spirituality of Faith in Matthew b. Introduction Matthew, as noted above, shares Mark’s interest in faith language.25 Several episodes and teachings of Jesus are parallel, such as the link between healing and faith in particular miracle stories (cf. Mt. 9.2-8//Mk 2.1-12; Mt. 9.18-26//Mk 5.21-43; Mt. 15.21-28//Mk 7.24-30). He also includes the statement about faith in relation to the cursing of the ¿g tree (Mt. 21.18-22//Mk 11.20-26). Matthew, though, inserts faith-miracle episodes not included in Mark (e.g. Mt. 9.27-31). Matthew offers a similar storm-stilling episode as Mark, but famously Jesus questions his disciples’ meager faith in Matthew (ĚÂÀºĠÈÀÊÌÇË, Mt. 8.26), whereas Mark’s Jesus accuses them of having no faith (ÇĥÈÑ ìϼ̼ ÈĕÊÌÀÅ, Mk 4.40). In our discussion of Matthew, we will presuppose as true what we identi¿ed in Mark – despite more speci¿c nuances to faith language in the Gospel, there is a kind of comprehensive connection made between the good news of Jesus Christ and faith (e.g. Mk 1.14-15). This seems to be implied in Mt. 27.42 where the mockers in the crowd jeer at Jesus saying, ‘He saved others; he cannot save himself. He is the King of Israel; let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him (ÈÀÊ̼įÊÇļŠëÈЏ ¸ĤÌĠÅ).’ This may be what the crowd said, or perhaps it was something similar and Matthew has reframed it in terms of Christian confessional language.26 Such brief glimpses of belief-inJesus (cf. Mt. 18.6) language offers an important reminder that Matthew 23. See R. T. France, The Gospel of Matthew (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans 2007), p. 94. 24. J. D. Kingsbury, The Christology of Mark’s Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), p. 73. 25. Mary Ann Beavis’ excellent short essay on ‘faith’ in Mark’s Gospel underscores this point cogently, although she goes too far in assuming that Matthew and Luke contribute little to the notion of faith in the Synoptics; see ‘Mark’s Teaching on Faith’, Biblical Theology Bulletin 16.4 (1986), pp. 139–42. 26. See Davies and Allison, Matthew, vol. 3, p. 620; they note similar language in Acts 11.17; 16.31; 1 Tim. 1.16. 1

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saw, as the ultimate expression of Christian spirituality, faith in Jesus which was evident in wholehearted discipleship.27 Below we will explore Matthew’s spirituality of ‘faith’ in three categories: seeking faith, trusting faith, and loyal faith. It is probable that Matthew himself did not distinguish these kinds of categories, but it would seem that he did use faith language in a variety of ways, such that this arti¿cial taxonomy may be helpful if only for heuristic purposes. b. Seeking Faith Of the seven key episodes where Matthew focuses his faith language, ¿ve of them involve the faith of those who seek out Jesus and desire healing/help from him for someone (8.5-13; 9.2-8, 18-26, 27-31; 15.2128). As often noted, this faith is not the fully-formed faith of a disciple of Jesus. Rather, these are people who seek out Jesus as someone who has the power of God at his disposal.28 The very ¿rst occurrence of ÈĕÊÌÀË in Matthew is in the story of the healing of the centurion’s servant. When Jesus agrees to come and heal this paralyzed man, the centurion stops him: ‘Lord, I am unworthy to have you come into my home. Just say the word from where you are, and my servant will be healed. For I also am a man under authority, with soldiers under me; And I say to one, “Go”, and he goes, and to another, “Come”, and he comes, and to my slave, “Do this”, and the slave does it’ (Mt. 8.8). Jesus was amazed and said, ‘Truly I tell you, in no one in Israel have I found such faith (ÈĕÊÌÀË)’. Why does Jesus compare this man’s faith to Israel? Matthew is interested in pointing out the slowness of Israel to believe, and also sensitivity of certain Gentiles to respond to Jesus.29 Jews ought to have been the ¿rst sort of people to seek Jesus out and place their trust in him – here a pagan, without hesitation, con¿dently appeals to the authority of Jesus. Jesus appears to be referring to a phenomenon that is alien, unprecedented, operating outside the normal realm of human knowledge and decision-making. To borrow language from Paul, a faith has been revealed apart from the law (cf. Rom. 3.21). Those like the centurion who pursue Jesus, without normal reasons, demonstrate a unique kind of faith, one might even call 27. France, Matthew, p. 681, points to the clear, but unusually rare, Johanninequality of belief focused on Jesus in Mt. 18.6 – the only time this speci¿c phrasing occurs in the Synoptic Gospels. 28. See James D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), p. 501. 29. D. Hagner, Matthew (2 vols.; WBC 33A-B; Dallas, TX: Word, 1993–95), vol. 1. p. 205. 1

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it a kind of sixth sense.30 Somehow, they just know this man Jesus is something special. Gerald Hawthorne refers to this kind of faith as ‘spiritual insight’: I mean by faith that which gives eyes to the soul (cf. Heb. 11), so that the person of faith has the ability to see beyond the limiting barriers of matter and sense, and to penetrate the secret of spiritual reality, to see beyond human predicaments to God, and the goodness and wisdom and power of God, to see beyond the problems to the possibilities that God presents, to see beyond natural limitations to the limitlessness of the omnipotence of God, and to believe God for the solutions to life’s problems, for making the possible a reality, for bursting the boundaries of human constrictions.31

Jesus marvels, as it were, at a faith that is ahead of everyone else, a few steps beyond where physical evidence led. With all the privileges that Israel possessed, Jesus implies that they ought to have been the ones to sense ¿rst the power of God present in Jesus, but this is simply not the case.32 Jesus tells the centurion – ‘Go; let it be done for you according to your faith (ĸË ëÈĕÊ̼ÍʸË)’. Some have tried to downplay the necessity of faith for the healing to take place,33 but here it should be clear. As Jürgen Moltmann boldly observes, The divine power of healing does not come from [Jesus’] side alone. Nor is it simply his own ‘ministry’, as and when he wishes to perform it. It is rather something that happens between him and the people who seek this power in him, and importune him. When Jesus and faith meet in this reciprocal activity, healing can happen… The healings are stories about faith just as much as they are stories about Jesus. They are stories about the reciprocal relationship between Jesus and the faith of men and women. Jesus is dependent on this faith, just as the sick are dependent on the power that emanates from Jesus.34 30. Matthew tips us off regarding the origin of this special insight. When Peter confesses Jesus as Messiah, Jesus commends him and explains: ‘Àesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven’ (16.17). 31. G. F. Hawthorne, ‘Faith: The Essential Ingredient of Effective Christian Ministry’, in Worship, Theology, and Ministry in the Early Church (ed. M. H. Wilkins and T. Paige; JSNTSup 87; Shef¿eld: JSOT, 1992), pp. 249–59 (250). 32. See J. Nolland, The Gospel of Matthew (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), p. 356. 33. See S. Grindheim, ‘ “Everything Is Possible for One Who Believes”: Faith and Healing in the New Testament’, Trinity Journal 26 (2005), pp. 11–17. 34. J. Moltmann, The Way of Jesus Christ: Christology in Messianic Dimensions (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), p. 111; see also Gerd Theissen, The Miracle Stories of the Early Christian Tradition (trans. F. McDonagh; ed. J. Riches; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1983), p. 140. 1

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In Matthew’s story of the healing of the paralytic (9.2-8), Jesus is impressed again with faith, and, again, not with the faith of the person in need, but with the faith of those who brought the paralytic to Jesus (9.2). We are reminded that Jesus responds to those who act boldly in pursuit of him. As is true in Mark’s Gospel, Matthew’s Jesus ‘measures faith not by its orthodoxy but by its determination, courage, and persistence. It is not the “i’s” dotted or the “t’s” crossed but the obstacles overcome that count.’35 The third episode where Matthew highlights seeking faith is that of the bleeding woman. She is desperate (as with the above seekers) to encounter Jesus for help – but this time it is for herself. For some reason she believes that merely touching his garment will suf¿ce (9.21). Despite her efforts to touch his clothes, Matthew notes that Jesus relates her healing to her faith (9.22).36 This is the ¿rst time in the First Gospel that Jesus himself uses the language of salvation (Êň½Ñ) after the prophecy was uttered in 1.21: ‘She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save (Êň½Ñ) his people from their sins’. Jesus is working out his saving ministry, but he connects his healing power to the woman’s faith.37 In another healing passage two blind men call upon Jesus (son of David) to have mercy on them (9.27-31). Jesus responds with a question: ‘Do you believe that I am able to do this?’ (9.28). When they reply af¿rmatively, he touches their eyes and says ‘According to your faith let it be done to you’ (9.29; cf. 8.13; 15.28). This is the only occasion in Matthew where Jesus inquires about human faith.38 The ¿nal episode to consider here is Jesus’ discourse with the Canaanite woman (15.21-28). While Jesus was in the region of Tyre and Sidon, this Gentile woman approached him out of concern for her daughter possessed by a demon (15.22). At ¿rst, the disciples plead with Jesus to send her away (‘she is bothering us’, 15.23 NLT) and Jesus proclaims to her, ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel’ (15.24). However, she kneels before him and pleads with him. Jesus appears to rebuff her by telling her that the ‘children’s food’ should not 35. Note here A. Culpepper’s comments on Mk 2.5; Mark (SHBC; Macon, GA: Helwys, 2007), p. 77; see similarly D. Rhoads, Reading Mark (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004), p. 82; also cf. Marshall, Faith as a Theme, p. 237, who refers to faith in Mark’s Gospel as ‘sheer dogged perseverance’. 36. See G. Twelftree, Jesus the Miracle Worker (Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 1999), pp. 118–19, 337. 37. See Walter T. Wilson, Healing in the Gospel of Matthew: ReÀections on Method and Ministry (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014), pp. 217, 224–5. 38. France, Matthew, p. 367. 1

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be given to ‘dogs’. The Canaanite woman plays along and responds, ‘Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table’ (15.27). Jesus is impressed, answering ‘Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish’ (15.28a). Her daughter was instantly made whole again (ĊÚÇĸÀ). This story underscores signi¿cantly Matthew’s interest in faith, moreover the faith of Gentiles, despite the ‘privileges’ of Israel. Jesus tests the woman’s resilience and she responds with amazing faith (ļºÚ¾ ÊÇÍ ÷ ÈĕÊÌÀË, Mt. 15.28).39 What do these stories in Matthew teach us about faith? None of these characters were disciples of Jesus, they did not profess faith in him as messiah. Yet, the way Matthew portrays them, they are ‘models of faith’. What were they modeling to the readers of his Gospel? As noted in the quote by Gerald Hawthorne above, the Gospels are trying to demonstrate the strangeness of faith in Jesus, the backward-ness of it. Consider the old Irish hymn Be Thou My Vision – the version in the hymnal of my youth had a single Scripture verse written at the top: ‘And when they lifted up their eyes, they saw no one but Jesus only’ (Mt. 17.8, the Trans¿guration). Seeing only Jesus, forsaking everything else, this is the nature of the faith of the centurion, the Canaanite, and the others. There is a carelessness to their faith, a recklessness, not unlike selling everything to buy a pearl (Mt. 13.46). The most popular theory about the origins and purpose of Matthew’s Gospel involves a community of Jewish Christians who are struggling with an identity crisis towards the end of the ¿rst century. As Donald Hagner explains, To their Jewish family they have always had to answer charges such as disloyalty to the religion of Israel, disloyalty to the Mosaic law (or at least of association with others who fail to observe it), and af¿liation with an alien, if not pagan, religion, the large majority of whose adherents are Gentiles…Matthew’s original readers were in an unenviable position, in a kind of ‘no-man’s-land’ between the Jews and Gentile Christians, needing to reach back for continuity with the old while at the same time reaching forward to the new work that God was doing in the largely Gentile church – simultaneously answerable, so to speak, to both Jews and Gentile Christians.40 39. See Twelftree, Jesus the Miracle Worker, pp. 134–5. For an insightful reading of the Markan version, see M. L. Skinner, ‘ “She Departed to Her House”: Another Dimension of the Syrophoenician Mother’s Faith in Mark 7.24-30’, Word & World 26, no. 1 (2006), pp. 14–21, especially pp. 18–19. 40. Hagner, Matthew, vol. 1, p. 209; see also D. A. Hagner, ‘Matthew: Christian Judaism or Jewish Christianity?’, in The Face of New Testament Studies: A Survey of Recent Research (ed. S. McKnight and G. Osborne; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2004), pp. 263–82. 1

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To survive in the midst of this identity crisis, faith was needed, the kind of faith that forsakes all to see only Jesus. Despite the fact that those who pursue healing and help from Jesus are not committed disciples, they are held up as role models because of the awkward, unnatural pursuit of Jesus, their shameless faith. The disciples in Matthew’s Gospel want to turn these noisy seekers away from Jesus. Jesus calls these seekers forward and commends them for their faith. c. Trusting Faith From an examination of the ‘faith’ of those who seek out Jesus (for healing for themselves or someone else), we turn now to consider the ‘faith’ of the disciples. Because these are men who have some sense of the messianic identity of Jesus (see Mt. 16.16, 20), we will call the faith that is required of the disciples trusting faith. While the Matthean Jesus does use ÈĕÊÌÀË in regards to the disciples (17.20; 21.21-22), his favorite term for their faith is ĚÂÀºĠÈÀÊÌÇË (6.30; 8.26; 14.31; 16.8; 17.20; cf. Lk. 12.28). This word does not occur outside of the Synoptic Gospels, and the way it is used in Matthew (and Luke), it is employed more as a nickname than a description – for example ‘Why are you afraid, Little Faith-ers?’ (8.26). Again, in Mark, the disciples are accused of having no faith, while Matthew allows for a small measure of faith.41 Ulrich Luz offers an explanation regarding what Matthew might mean by ĚÂÀºĠÈÀÊÌÇË: ‘ “Little faith” is the faith of those who set out with Jesus only to lose heart. Little faith is faith mingled with fear and doubt. Little faith is the faith of those who would like to believe but cannot.’42 Similarly, John Meier comments that ĚÂÀºĠÈÀÊÌÇË ‘designates not unbelievers or apostates, but true disciples who panic in a moment of crisis and act as though they did not believe’.43 We will keep this in mind as we look at the two uses of ÈĕÊÌÀË vis-àvis the disciples, both of which occur in the second half of the First Gospel (17.14-21; 21.18-22). Beginning in 16.5, the disciples are given more attention by Matthew (though note Mt. 13.36). As Daniel Harrington notes, the curing of the demon-possessed boy is followed by 41. See P. Perkins, Introduction to the Synoptic Gospels (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), p. 187. 42. U. Luz, The Theology of The Gospel of Matthew (NTT; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), p. 68. 43. J. P. Meier, Matthew (Wilmington, DE: Michael Glazier, 1980), p. 67; cf. M. Wilkins, The Concept of Disciple in Matthew’s Gospel as ReÀected in the Use of the Term MathƝtƝs (Boston: Brill, 1988), p. 182. For a classic study of Matthew’s use of faith language in regards to the disciples, see G. Barth, ‘Glaube und Zweifel in den synoptischen Evangelien’, ZTK (1975), pp. 269–92. 1

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a passion prediction. This sequence climaxes with the teaching given to the disciples in Matthew 18.44 In Mt. 17.14-16, a man approaches Jesus and explains that his son, suffering from seizures, could not be cured by the disciples. Jesus responds, ‘You faithless (ÓÈÀÊÌÇË) and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you? How much longer must I put up with you?’ (17.17a-b). Immediately, Jesus rebukes the demon and heals the child (17.18). The disciples inquire as to why they could not do this (17.19). Jesus explains, ‘Because of your little faith (ĚÂÀºÇÈÀÊÌĕ¸). For truly I tell you, if you have faith (ÈĕÊÌÀË) the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, “Move from here to there”, and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you’ (17.20).45 What went wrong? Why were these disciples not able to perform the healing? One possibility is that they were treating the power to heal as a kind of ‘magic’, presuming that they could do this on their own.46 More likely, though, their faith failed because they were not with Jesus, and began to shrink. They were overcome by doubt.47 An interesting paradox presents itself, though, in this episode. Jesus’ nickname for the disciples is ‘Little Faith’, a chiding moniker; and yet he commends faith as small as a mustard seed. Apparently there is a good kind of ‘small faith’ and a bad kind of ‘small faith’.48 What is mustard-seed faith? Looking horizontally to Mark’s account, Jesus explains, ‘This kind can come out only through prayer’ (Mk 9.29). The failure on the disciples’ part is not a matter of training, but one of trust; ‘The little faith of the disciples is a faith which understands and assents, but which does not trust totally. A faith which trusts God can be, in the world’s estimation, as small and unimpressive as a mustard seed. Yet such trust can do the impossible.’49 The second key episode that concentrates on the faith of the disciples is the cursing of the ¿g tree (21.18-22). Jesus, feeling hungry, notices this tree by the road. When he approaches it, he sees no ¿gs, only leaves (21.18-19). He condemns the tree, saying, ‘May no fruit ever come from 44. See D. Harrington, The Gospel of Matthew (Collegeville: Liturgical, 1991), p. 259. 45. Note ¿rstly that, while faith language was used earlier in Matthew for those seeking healing (for themselves or another), here the emphasis is on the faith of the one performing the healing; see Hagner, Matthew, vol. 2, p. 505. 46. See L. Morris, The Gospel according to Matthew (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992), p. 448. 47. See France, Matthew, pp. 662–3. 48. This paradox was brought to my attention by F. D. Bruner, Matthew. Vol. 2, The Churchbook (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), p. 191. 49. Meier, Matthew, p. 194. 1

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you again!’ (21.19b). The ¿g tree withers. The disciples are amazed and perplexed by its instantaneous desiccation (21.20). Jesus instructs them, ‘Truly I tell you, if you have faith and do not doubt [ëÛÅ ìϾ̼ ÈĕÊÌÀÅ Á¸Ė Äü »À¸ÁÉÀ¿ý̼], not only will you do what has been done to the ¿g tree, but even if you say to this mountain, “Be lifted up and thrown into the sea”, it will be done. Whatever you ask in prayer, you will receive, if you have faith [ÈÀÊ̼įÇÅ̼Ë]’ (21.21). Here again Jesus relates faith to the moving of mountains (see Mt. 17.20; cf. Isa. 40.4; 49.11; 54.10). The statement that they can receive whatever they ask harks back to Jesus’ teaching in Matthew 7: ‘Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will ¿nd; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches ¿nds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened’ (7.7-8). While the focus of the ‘asking’ in the Sermon on the Mount is on God, in the context of the teaching after the cursing of the ¿g tree, Matthew transitions to the challenging of Jesus’ authority by the chief priests and elders (21.23-27). The disciples are called to have faith in God, but Matthew is clear that the faith must center on Jesus (Mt. 1.23; cf. 18.6; 27.42; 28.18). What was Matthew trying to teach through these stories about the disciples’ little faith and their need to trust and not doubt? Donald Senior is probably correct that the experiences of Christians as Matthew writes drive the way he shapes the gospel story. The church believes that its Lord has given it a share in his own power over sin and darkness. But fear and doubt are realities, too, and they seem to smother faith’s vitality. Yet even then prayer is not in vain. Even we ‘in the boat’, we ‘of little faith’ can be lifted from the waves by a merciful Lord. …He chose them, human beings practically identical with the ‘sick’ he came to save. He endured their dullness. He dealt with them honestly, exactingly, but neither his critique nor his commands were ever destructive. The disciples’ record was not good. They complained, they misunderstood, they quarreled, they deserted, they denied. Only one was lost. But the part of the story that becomes ‘gospel’ – ‘good news’ – is that in the face of the master they failed, the disciples detected the in¿nite compassion of God, and they committed this memory to the church.50

d. Loyal Faith The last occurrence of ÈĕÊÌÀË we will consider appears in the fourth ‘woe’ of Jesus’ denunciation of the Scribes and Pharisees (23.23; see 23.1-36). Jesus condemns them for meticulously tithing on their mint, dill, and cumin, but neglecting the ‘weightier matters of the law’, namely

1

50. D. Senior, Jesus: A Gospel Portrait (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist, 1992), p. 61.

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justice, mercy, and faithfulness (ÌüÅ ÁÉĕÊÀÅ Á¸Ė Ìġ ì¼ÇË Á¸Ė ÌüÅ ÈĕÊÌÀÅ). Translators are divided as to how ÈĕÊÌÀË should be rendered here: some prefer ‘faithfulness’ (NIV; NET; ESV), while others ‘faith’ (RSV/NRSV; NLT; cf. KJV). Those who opt for the English translation ‘faith’ here attempt to draw 23.23 into Matthew’s wider use of faith language in his Gospel. Robert Gundry, for example, notes that Matthew seems to have placed a distinct emphasis on faith (in God) here, given that the parallel statement by Jesus in Luke omits ÈĕÊÌÀË (Lk. 11.42).51 Others, however, prefer ‘faithfulness’ (probably the majority position amongst commentators now), because it would appear that Matthew is referring to covenantal faithfulness, acting in a manner of loyalty in view of what is called for by the covenant.52 France makes the important observation that ÈĕÊÌÀË is used here in an ethical sense, as attested by the fact that Jesus can refer to such things as being ‘done’ – here ÈĕÊÌÀË is a virtue, ‘faithfulness’ (cf. Gal. 5.22-23). This use of ÈĕÊÌÀË presents itself as a third type of ‘faith’ in Matthew’s spirituality – loyal faith, faith as faithfulness. This use of ÈĕÊÌÀË would have been commonly found in settings in the Greco-Roman world where friends and allies (even nations) pledged ¿delity to one another.53 Is Matthew promoting this kind of ÈĕÊÌÀË within his own Christian readers, or is this condemnation purely a denunciation of the Scribes and Pharisees?54 Given the signi¿cant role that ÈĕÊÌÀË plays in the First Gospel as a whole, Matthew’s underscoring of the centrality of ÈĕÊÌÀË, it would be seem unlikely to me that this particular instance would be irrelevant to his readers. Surely if Matthew did not want to apply this to his readers, he would have used another word, or simply left ÈĕÊÌÀË out (cf. Lk. 11.42).

51. R. Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on his Literary and Theological Art (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), pp. 463–4. 52. See Hagner, Matthew, vol. 2, p. 670. Several scholars consider the possibility that Jesus’ statement echoes Mic. 6.8; see, e.g., Nolland, Matthew, pp. 937–8. 53. For the use of the language of faith/loyalty in the patronage system, see Z. Crook, Reconceptualising Conversion: Patronage, Loyalty, and Conversion in Religion of the Ancient Mediterranean (BZNW 130; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), pp. 199–250. 54. D. A. Carson, for example, argues that this statement in 23.23 does not address matters pertaining to continuity/discontinuity between the old covenant and the new, but rather only involves ‘the relative importance of material within the OT’. See D. A Carson, ‘Matthew’, in Matthew and Mark (New Expositor’s Bible Commentary; ed. T. Longman III and D. E. Garland; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2005), pp. 23–670 (540). 1

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Jesus, undoubtedly, was contrasting the disobedience of the Jewish religious leaders with Jesus’ own true loyalty to God and to God’s covenant and, as David Bauer observes, ‘their unfaithfulness serves as a foil to the faithfulness which is expected of the disciples. Since the disciples are aligned with Jesus, who himself stands over against unrepentant Israel and especially the religious leaders, the disciples are to be like Jesus by being unlike those opponents.’55 Matthew’s Jesus, thus, was not only calling his disciples to believe – seeing the world in a new light56 – and and not only to trust, but also to be faithful, the kind of ÈĕÊÌÀË that is demonstrated in action. V. Conclusion In the Gospel of Matthew, ÈĕÊÌÀË is a central way in which humans ought to respond to Jesus and God. This is obvious to note on the surface of the text, but once one examines more closely what Matthew means in his use of faith language, there is a richness that is rarely considered carefully. Matthew places a large emphasis on the faith of those who seek out Jesus – those who know virtually nothing about Jesus except that he is special, and yet they have reached the bottom of their rope and they cling to hope hat Jesus can bring healing and help in their desperate hour of need. have called this seeking faith. Matthew writes primarily to Christians, no doubt – those who have already sought Jesus in some way. But it should be clear enough that these seekers in the First Gospel are held out as models of great faith. What these exemplars of faith demonstrate is a peculiar sensitivity to realizing the uniqueness of Jesus. It is all too easy for Christians (then and now) to let that slip away. Once we lose sight of what makes Jesus different, what makes him special, then it affects how we see everything else.57 Matthew commends to us a faith never stagnant, always seeking and reaching, ever in pursuit of Jesus and the kingdom of God. The second kind of faith Matthew highlights is that of those who need to trust God (trusting faith). The disciples, despite having a leg up on the blind religious leaders, are stamped with the label of ‘little faith’. They 55. D. Bauer, Structure of Matthew’s Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (new ed.; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015), p. 106. 56. Stephen Westerholm, Understanding Matthew (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2006), p. 39, makes an apt analogy using Matthew’s lamp lesson (6.22-23): ‘To know, trust and love God, Jesus says, is like having one’s vision suffused with light. To live without God, by way of contrast, is to walk in the dark’. 57. See France, Matthew, p. 224. 1

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have made a beginning with Jesus, but yet do not understand who he is, what he will achieve, and how this will transform all things. Moreover, they do not understand the role they can and should play in this new order. He has called them to do the impossible (17.20), but they can only do this by placing their full trust in God. Given what Jesus taught his disciples in Matthew 10, doing the impossible in the context of teaching his disciples probably meant both the performing of great works of healing and deliverance (10.1, 8), as well as enduring persecution and rejection in their mission (10.14–39). We have also made the case that Matthew emphasizes ÈĕÊÌÀË as faithfulness (‘loyal faith’, 23.23). What the religious leaders lack is a commitment to covenant faithfulness, doing what is right vis-à-vis God’s expectations for his people. More or less, this is nearly Matthew’s way of making reference to obedience. Faith is not private or hidden, though it may be hard to understand. It is public and active, it is doing and working (1 Thess. 1.3). It is tethered together with active mercy and active justice. The danger sometimes with talking about ‘spirituality’ is that it can carry a sense of interiority. The inside matters, of course, no less in Matthew’s Gospel. But, though the Gospel’s power works ‘inside out’, it must ¿nally come ‘out’ to ful¿ll its purpose of cosmic redemption. Barton addresses this in view of Matthew’s emphasis on fruit-bearing and doing righteousness.58 The Gospel according to Matthew, and the nature of its spirituality, is about becoming something new by God’s grace by faith. As Barton writes, ‘In short, the church is to become the embodiment and reÀection of the coming kingdom of heaven, on earth in the here and now’.59 Only God, God with us, can bring this to pass, and only we can participate in this by faith, trust, and loyalty.

58. Righteousness is a leitmotif of Matthew’s Gospel and we have only been able to touch upon it in this essay; see further B. Pryzbylski, Righteousness in Matthew and his World of Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980). 59. Barton, The Spirituality of the Gospels, p. 28. 1

MATTHEW – A JEWISH GOSPEL FOR JEWS AND GENTILES* James D. G. Dunn

If the Gospel of Matthew can be regarded as a ‘second edition’ of the Gospel of Mark,1 what did Matthew hope to achieve in writing it? Bearing in mind that, by common consent, Matthew was written after A.D. 70, it may tell us a great deal about the relation of emerging Christianity to emerging rabbinic Judaism in the aftermath of the disastrous end to Jerusalem’s second temple. In fact, the way in which Matthew handled the Jesus tradition and the way it informed and served Matthew’s purpose in relation to late ¿rst-century Judaism are equally fascinating. We will study this in light of three concerns in Matthew’s Gospel: the signi¿cance of Jesus for Israel, jousting with the Pharisees over Israel’s heritage, and the mission to Gentiles. I. The Signi¿cance of Jesus for Israel The signi¿cance of Jesus for Israel is indicated by the way Matthew presents Jesus. We will examine this phenomenon in relation to seven concepts or themes: Son of God, Messiah/Son of Man, Son of David, the ful¿lment motif, a Moses prophet, the divine presence, and Divine Wisdom. Son of God. Somewhat surprisingly for a Gospel of Jesus, Matthew breaks Mark’s inclusio formed by Mk. 1.1 and 15.39. He retains the confession of the centurion (Mt. 27.54/Mk 15.39), but his opening verse designates Jesus Christ as ‘son of David, son of Abraham’ (Mt. 1.1). Matthew also omits one of Mark’s summary accounts of unclean spirits hailing Jesus as ‘the Son of God’ (Mk 3.11). * I offer this abstract from Christianity in the Making, vol. 3, to Stephen and Bill, with warmest congratulations and in celebration of our long-standing friendship and colleagueship. 1. G. N. Stanton, A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1992), thinks that ‘F. C. Burkitt’s seventy year old formulation can hardly be bettered: “Matthew is a fresh edition of Mark, revised, rearranged, and enriched with new material” ’ (pp. 51–2), citing F. C. Burkitt, The Earliest Sources for the Life of Jesus (London: Constable, 1922), p. 97.

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On the other hand, Matthew signi¿cantly heightens the Son of God motif.2 He begins his Gospel with his version of the birth narratives whose core assertion is that Jesus was both son of God and son of David,3 though Matthew delays the explicit reference to Jesus’ divine sonship till the quotation from Hos. 11.1 in Mt. 2.15 (‘Out of Egypt I called my son’). Secondly, the temptations following Jesus’ baptism are presented as tests of Jesus’ sonship – ‘If you are God’s son…’ (4.3, 6) – a double temptation echoed in the mocking of the cruci¿ed Jesus (27.20, 43). Third, Matthew draws from the Q material the powerful saying, ‘All things have been handed over to me by my Father (cf. 28.18), and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son, and whoever the Son chooses to reveal him’ (11.27). Next, Matthew presents a revised account of Jesus walking on the water, which ends with the disciples confessing, ‘Truly you are God’s son’ (14.33). We may also note that Peter’s confession is elaborated – ‘You are the Christ, the son of the living God’ (16.16). Not to be ignored is the considerable expansion of references to God as ‘Father’ in sayings of Jesus.4 Messiah, Son of Man. Matthew refers to Jesus as the Messiah (Christ) about as often as Mark, slightly emphasizing the titular signi¿cance of ‘Christ’ (1.16; 27.17, 22), but he has weakened the messianic secret motif so prominent in Mark.5 As for ‘the son of man’ motif, its more frequent usage in Matthew (principally due to Matthew’s incorporation of Q material) somewhat diminishes the effectiveness of Mark’s abrupt juxtaposition of Peter’s confession of Jesus as messiah with the ¿rst of the suffering Son of Man predictions (Mk 8.29-31).6

2. J. D. Kingsbury, Matthew: Structure, Christology, Kingdom (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975), summarized his discussion at this point: ‘while Jesus Messiah is to be sure the Son of David and the Son of Abraham, he is preeminently the Son of God’ (p. 78). 3. See my Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), pp. 342–3. 4. J. Jeremias, The Prayers of Jesus (1966; ET: London: SCM, 1967), pp. 30, 38, 44, drew attention to the following statistics: God as ‘Father’ in the sayings of Jesus – Mk 3, Q 4, special Lk. 4, special Mt. 31; Jesus referring to God as ‘my Father’ – Mk 1(?), Q 1, special Lk. 3, special Mt. 13; Jesus referring to ‘your Father’ – Mk 1, Q 2, special Lk. 1, special Mt. 12. 5. See, of course, W. Wrede, The Messianic Secret (Cambridge: James Clarke, 1971). 6. Mark has only the Mk. 2.10 and 28 references to ‘the son of man’ prior to the ¿rst of the passion predictions (8.31); but Matthew adds another eight references prior to Peter’s confession, and the ¿rst passion prediction in Matthew is not a ‘son 1

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Son of David. In contrast to Mark, Matthew highlights the messianic theme of Jesus as ‘son of David’.7 The few references in Mark8 are all taken over.9 But the theme is signi¿cantly strengthened. The genealogy in Matthew 1 emphasises the line of descent from David (1.1, 6, 17, 20). Seeing Jesus’ healing power, the crowds ask, ‘Can this be the son of David?’, a distinctive element in Matthew’s version (12.23). Even the Syrophoenician woman appeals to Jesus as ‘son of David’, a feature again distinctive of Matthew’s version (15.22), along with the insertion of Jesus’ af¿rmation that he had been sent only for the lost sheep of the house of Israel (15.24). In the triumphal entry, the crowd’s acclamation (‘Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord; blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David’, Mk 11.9-10) becomes ‘Hosanna to the son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord’ (Mt. 21.9). And, seeing Jesus’ amazing cures in the temple, the children repeat the acclamation, ‘Hosanna to the son of David’ (21.15), another distinctive feature of Matthew’s account. Where Mark may have been hesitant to highlight Jesus’ royal descent – at the climax or immediate aftermath of the Jewish revolt, Roman authorities would hardly be sympathetic towards any claimant to the throne of Israel – Matthew presumably believed that any such political fear had faded suf¿ciently.10 This speculation is strengthened by the fact that Matthew also shows less inhibition in referring to Jesus as ‘King (of the Jews)’.11 of man’ saying (Mt. 16.21). The Markan ‘messianic secret’ is dissolved (J. Gnilka, Das Matthäusevangelium [2 vols.; HTKNT; Freiburg: Herder, 1986, 1988], vol. 2, p. 541). 7. That ‘son of David’ was a messianic title would be recognized by anyone familiar with Israel’s scriptures and traditions; see, e.g., 2 Sam. 7.11-13; Isa. 11.1-3; Jer. 23.5-6; Ps. Sol. 17.21-25; also L. Novakovic, Messiah, the Healer of the Sick: A Study of Jesus as the Son of David in the Gospel of Matthew (WUNT 2/170; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003). 8. Mk 2.25; 10.47-48; 12.35-37; cf. 2.25. 9. Mt. 9.27 and 20.30-31; 22.42-45; cf. Mt. 12.3. 10. J. Willitts, Matthew’s Messianic Shepherd-King: In Search of ‘the Lost Sheep of the House of Israel’ (BZNW 147; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007), ¿nds in the motif evidence of ‘the presence of a Jewish nationalism within at least one stream of Jewish Christianity of the mid to late ¿rst century’ (p. 232). Stanton ¿nds indications of Jewish hostility to claims that Jesus is Son of David (Mt. 2.3; 9.27-28; 12.23; 21.9, 15) as well as to Jesus’ exorcistic ministry (9.34; 10.25; 12.24, 27) (Gospel for a New People, Chapter 7). 11. Mt. 2.2; 21.5; 25.34, 40; 27.11, 29, 37, 42; see Gnilka, Matthäusevangelium, vol. 2, p. 538. 1

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Ful¿lment motif. That Jesus was the answer to the hopes and expectations of Israel is one of Matthew’s great emphases, indicated particularly by his concern repeatedly to note that Jesus ful¿lled various scriptures – scriptures whose messianic signi¿cance Jesus had brought to light:12 x x x x x x x x x x

1.22-23 – the virginal conception and Emmanuel prophecy (Isa. 7.14); 2.15 – ‘Out of Egypt I called my son’ (Hos. 11.1); 2.23 – ‘He will be called a Nazarene’ (?); 4.14-16 – ‘Galilee of the Gentiles’ (Isa. 9.1-2); 8.17 – Isa. 53.4 ful¿lled in Jesus’ ministry of exorcism and healing; 12.17-21 – another Servant song ful¿lled in Jesus (Isa. 42.1-4); 13.35 – prediction of Jesus’ constant use of parables (Ps. 78.2); 21.4-5 – entry into Jerusalem ful¿lling Zechariah’s prophecy (Zech. 9.9, with Isa. 62.11); 26.56 – unspeci¿ed scriptures ful¿lled in Jesus’ arrest in the garden of Gethsemane; 27.9 – prophecy ful¿lled in the use of Judas Iscariot’s betrayal price to buy a potter’s ¿eld (Zech. 11.13).13

The prominence of Isaiah should be noted – a con¿rmation of the important inÀuence which Isaiah had on earliest Christian thinking.14

12. ‘In order that what had been spoken (through the prophet) might be ful¿lled’ is one of the hallmarks of Matthew’s Gospel – 1.22; 2.15, 17, 23; 4.14; 8.17; 12.17; 13.35; 21.4; 26.56; 27.9. Note also 2.5-6, 17-18; 3.3; 11.10; 13.14-15; 21.16, 42; 22.43-44. See also U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (4 vols.; EKK 1; Düsseldorf: Benziger, 1985, 1990, 1997, 2002), vol. 1, pp. 189–99; Stanton, Gospel for a New People, Chapter 15; M. Konradt, ‘Die Rezeption der Schrift im Matthäusevangelium in der neueren Forschung’, TLZ 135 (2010), pp. 919–32. 13. Matthew refers to the prophecy as Jeremiah’s, presumably indicating that the Zechariah passage had become merged with Jeremiah’s well-known encounter with the potter and his symbolic act in buying a ¿eld (Jer. 18–19; 32); see further my Unity and Diversity in the New Testament (3d ed.; London: SCM, 2006), pp. 100– 101, 103–4, 108; M. Knowles, Jeremiah in Matthew’s Gospel: The Rejected Prophet Motif in Matthean Redaction (JSNTSup 68; Shef¿eld: JSOT, 1993), pp. 52–81; C. M. Moss, The Zechariah Tradition and the Gospel of Matthew (BZNW 156; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008), Chapter 9. 14. See the tabular analysis in W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison, The Gospel according to Saint Matthew (3 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1988, 1991, 1997), vol. 1, pp. 33–57. 1

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Moses prophet. More disputed is the inÀuence of a Moses prophet expectation (rooted in Deut. 18.15, 18);15 but Matthew does seem to present Jesus as a new Moses,16 or as the ful¿llment of Israel’s divinely intended purpose. The opening words of Matthew’s Gospel (ĕ¹ÂÇË º¼ÅñʼÑË) are clearly an echo of the opening of the ¿rst of Moses’ books (Gen. 2.4; 5.1).17 The infant Jesus is spared from the murderous wrath of King Herod (Mt. 2.16-18), just as the infant Moses had been saved from the murderous command of the Pharaoh (Exod. 1–2). The exodus motif is obviously a factor in Mt. 2.15: ‘Out of Egypt I called my son’ (Hos. 11.1). The temptation of Jesus in the wilderness after his forty-day fast is interpreted by reference to passages from Deuteronomy 6 and 8, evoking the parallel with Israel’s wilderness wanderings (Mt. 4.1-10).18 Furthermore, only Matthew gathers most of Jesus’ various teachings into ¿ve blocks or sermons,19 the ¿rst (the Sermon on the Mount) when he had gone up a mountain, presumably in some echo of the ¿ve books of Moses.20 Matthew articulates a strong af¿rmation of the Law (especially 5.17-19). And, although Matthew follows Mark in his account of the trans¿guration, he adds the note that Jesus’ face ‘shone like the sun’, echoing the description of Moses in Exod. 34.29-35, and he would probably have recognized and af¿rmed the echo of Deut. 18.15 in the heavenly voice’s command, ‘Listen to him’ (Mt. 17.5).21 Jesus as ‘prophet’ is not usually regarded in the New Testament as a suf¿ciently positive evaluation of Jesus,22 and the identi¿cation of Jesus as the Moses prophet appears elsewhere only in Acts (3.22-23 and 7.37).23 15. See Jesus Remembered, §15.6. 16. See particularly D. C. Allison, The New Moses: A Matthean Typology (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993). 17. See Luz, Matthäus, vol. 1, pp. 117–19; Davies and Allison, Matthew, vol. 1, pp. 150–5. 18. See particularly B. Gerhardsson, The Testing of God’s Son (Matt 4:1-11 & PAR): An Analysis of an Early Christian Midrash (ConBNT 2; Lund: Gleerup, 1966). 19. Each block is concluded with the same phrase – ‘And it happened when Jesus ¿nished (these sayings)’ (7.28; 11.1; 13.53; 19.1; 26.1) – in effect designating ¿ve blocks of teaching, 5.3–7.27; 10.5-42; 13.3-52; 18.1-35; 24.2–25.46. 20. B. W. Bacon, Studies in Matthew (London: Constable, 1930), famously suggested that Matthew’s Gospel should be apportioned into ¿ve books – chs. 3–7, 8–10, 11.1–13.52, 13.53–18.35 and chs. 19–25. 21. So, e.g., Gnilka, Matthäusevangelium, vol. 2, pp. 96–7; D. A. Hagner, Matthew (2 vols.; WBC 33; Dallas: Word, 1993, 1995), vol. 2, p. 494; and further A. D. A. Moses, Matthew’s Trans¿guration Story and Jewish-Christian Controversy (JSNTSup 122; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 1996). 22. See again Jesus Remembered, §15.6. 23. See my Beginning from Jerusalem (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), p. 93. 1

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Within the New Testament, then, Matthew’s use of the motif is the most positive christological af¿rmation along these lines, and is a strong indication of Matthew’s concern that his Gospel should speak forcefully to his fellow Jews. The divine presence. In regards to a Jewish-style theme of the divine presence, Matthew goes beyond what might be regarded as the traditional Jewish expectations. The birth of Jesus is not simply symbolic of God’s presence with his people (Mt. 1.23), as in Isaiah’s prophecy (7.14). Jesus himself expresses or embodies the divine presence – ‘Emmanuel, God is with us’. Matthew 1.23 by itself would not be suf¿cient to make this point.24 But it is con¿rmed by Jesus’ extraordinary promise that ‘where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them’ (18.20), a saying utterly unique to Matthew and clear evidence of Matthew’s own theology.25 Regularly noted is the parallel with m. ’Abot 3.2: ‘But if two sit together and words of the Law (are spoken) between them, the Divine Presence rests between them’. Although attributed by the Mishnah to a rabbi (Hananiah b. Teradion) who was killed in the Bar Kokhba revolt, the saying may well express a rabbinic commonplace (cf. m. ’Abot 3.3, 6).26 Like the rabbis, the post-70 Christians were faced with the crisis that the Jerusalem temple, the expression and location of the divine presence in Israel,27 had been destroyed. But where the rabbis saw the divine presence as relocated to the Torah, the Christians saw it as relocated to Jesus. In effect the same point is made in the ¿nal words of Matthew’s Gospel (Mt. 28.20), ‘And behold, I will be with you until the end of the age’ – making a neat inclusio with the Emmanuel saying, ‘God is with us’, of 1.23;28 the universal authority (‘all authority in heaven and earth’) given to the exalted Jesus (28.18) simply enhances the point. For Matthew, Jesus was 24. S. J. Gathercole, The Pre-existent Son: Recovering the Christologies of Matthew, Mark and Luke (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), reads Mt. 1.23 as asserting ‘Jesus’ identi¿cation with God’ (pp. 75–6) without asking how Isa. 7.14 would have been understood. 25. Davies and Allison, Matthew, vol. 2, p. 790: ‘18.20 is almost universally regarded not as a saying of the pre-Easter Jesus but as an utterance of the risen Lord, this because it presupposes the “spiritual” presence of Jesus among his disciples’. 26. Ibid., vol. 2, pp. 789–90; Luz, Matthäus, vol. 3, p. 53. 27. E.g. 1 Kgs 9.3; Pss. 11.4; 76.1-2; 80.1; Ezek. 43.6-9; Zech. 2.10-11; Sir. 36.18-19; 11QTemple 46.12. 28. See further D. Kupp, Matthew’s Emmanuel: Divine Presence and God’s People in the First Gospel (SNTSMS 90; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 1

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not simply Son of God, son of David, Messiah, Son of Man, Moses prophet. He embodied God’s presence and universal authority in a way that no other servant of God had done before him.29 Divine Wisdom. In a similar way, Matthew seems to go beyond the Q material in regarding Jesus not simply as the spokesman of divine Wisdom, but as himself embodying divine Wisdom. Where Lk. 7.35 identi¿es Jesus and the Baptist as the children of Wisdom, Mt. 11.19 identi¿es Jesus with Wisdom: ‘Wisdom is justi¿ed from her works’, alluding back to Matthew’s distinctive reference to ‘the works of the Christ’ (11.2). In Lk. 10.21-22/Mt. 11.27 Jesus speaks in language characteristic of a teacher of wisdom; in contrast, however, in Mt. 11.28-30 (unique to Matthew) Jesus echoes ben Sira’s invitation to his pupils to put their necks under the yoke of Wisdom (Sir. 51.25-27), whereas Jesus’ invitation is for his disciples to take his own yoke upon them.30 In Lk. 11.49 ‘the Wisdom of God said, “I will send them prophets…” ’; but in Matthew’s parallel (Mt. 23.34) it is Jesus himself who says, ‘I will send you prophets…’ In Mt. 23.37-38, the imagery of a mother hen (‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem, …how often have I desired to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her brood under her wings’) could be as much of divine presence/protection as speci¿cally of Wisdom.31 If 23.38 (‘your house is left to you’) is an allusion to the belief that the Shekinah (the divine presence) had departed from the temple,32 then it strengthens the implication that Matthew saw Jesus as the embodiment of the divine presence/Wisdom, who had now taken the place previously ¿lled by the Jerusalem temple. 29. Mt. 28.16-20 is frequently regarded as the key to Matthew’s theology, the goal to which the Gospel has been driving; see, e.g., U. Schnelle, The History and Theology of the New Testament Writings (1994; ET: London: SCM, 1998), pp. 230– 1, with bibliography. 30. See further C. Deutsch, Hidden Wisdom and the Easy Yoke: Wisdom, Torah and Discipleship in Matthew 11.25-30 (JSNTSup 18; Shef¿eld: JSOT, 1987), Chapter 4, summary p. 142. 31. Deut. 32.11; Ruth 2.12; Pss. 17.8; 36.7; 57.1; 61.4; 63.7; 91.4; Isa. 31.5. The imagery is used of Wisdom in Sir. 1.5. See further M. J. Suggs, Wisdom, Christology and Law in Matthew’s Gospel (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970), p. 67; J. D. G. Dunn, Christology in the Making (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), pp. 202–4. 32. Davies and Allison, Matthew, vol. 3, pp. 321–2, and Luz, Matthäus, vol. 3, p. 382, note the report of Josephus (War 6.300) that at the feast of Pentecost before the destruction of the Temple the priests heard the voice of a host saying ‘We are departing hence’, a tradition evidently known also to Tacitus (Hist. 5.13). 1

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There is a danger of reading too much into these data, and even if it helps us to see from Matthew’s perspective, there is a question of how much of such a thrust would have been recognized by Matthew’s audiences (it only became clear to modern critics when Matthew could be read alongside Luke). However, for a motif to be recognized as part of Matthew’s theology, it is not necessary to argue that it would have been obvious to his audiences (especially on a ¿rst hearing of the Gospel). And the fact that it dovetails so neatly with the more obvious motif of divine presence strengthens the probability that for Matthew Jesus = Wisdom is an entirely fair way of reading his Gospel and of his intention in composing it. Worship of Jesus. One other feature worthy of note con¿rms the conclusion that Matthew drew on and shaped the Jesus tradition to present a higher christology than his predecessors. This is the fact that Matthew uses the term ÈÉÇÊÁÍÅñÑ far more frequently than either Mark or Luke.33 The term itself is ambiguous and may be used to express submission or petition before one of high authority.34 This arguably is how the term should be understood when Matthew uses it of various petitions made to Jesus during his mission (the leper, Jairus, the Syrophoenician woman, the mother of James and John).35 But Matthew was certainly well aware that the same word was regularly used in the sense ‘worship’ – as in the temptation to worship the devil (Mt. 4.9-10/ Lk. 4.7-8). The sense ‘pay homage’ may still be most appropriate in Matthew’s account of the magis’ ÈÉÇÊÁÍÅñÑ of the infant Jesus (2.2, 8, 11), as in Mark’s account of the sham homage offered to the condemned Jesus (Mk 15.19). But in the two usages in Matthew’s account of the appearances of Jesus after his resurrection, the most natural rendering is that they ‘worshipped’ Jesus (Mt. 28.9, 17; as also Lk. 24.52). It is presumably signi¿cant, then, that Matthew uses ÈÉÇÊÁÍÅñÑ so often, and that in the earlier petitioning references he elected to use or insert ÈÉÇÊÁÍÅñÑ where other versions used other terms. For Matthew there was a direct continuity between the humble petitioning of Jesus during his mission and the worship offered to the resurrected Jesus. Such overtones are con¿rmed by Matthew’s one other ÈÉÇÊÁÍÅñÑ reference, where, as noted above, he radically departs from Mark’s downbeat conclusion of 33. Mt. 13; Mk 2; Lk. 2; Jn 11. 34. There is an equivalent range of meaning and signi¿cance in the title ÁįÉÀÇË (‘lord/Lord’); cf., e.g., Mt. 8.2, 6, 8, and 17.15 with Mt. 8.25; 10.24-25; 14.28, 30; 17.4 and 22.43-45; discussion in Kingsbury, Matthew, pp. 103–13. 35. Mt. 8.2; 9.18; 15.25; 20.20; also 18.26; similarly Mk 5.6.

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the account of Jesus walking on the water (Mk 6.51-52) to read, ‘Those in the boat worshipped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God” ’ (Mt. 14.33). This too is of a piece with Matthew’s christology of divine presence: worship is offered to Jesus precisely because he expresses and embodies the divine presence.36 Intriguingly, all this elaboration of the gospel of Jesus Christ was derived from the Jesus tradition. The elaboration is quite substantial, but nothing that twists the Jesus tradition unnaturally or indeed forcedly, or bends it out of shape to make a claim for Jesus which the tradition itself could not support. Jesus as God’s son was ¿rmly rooted in the Jesus tradition. The issue of him as Messiah, and his use of ‘the son of man’ terminology, likewise. The son of David and Moses prophet themes were little taken up elsewhere, but were hardly foreign to the impact which Jesus made during his mission. The argument from prophecy ful¿lled pushed a case but used well-established tradition. The claims of Jesus as divine presence and Wisdom and worthy to be worshipped certainly reÀected the absorption of the full impact made by his mission, teaching and resurrection; but they were still expressions of that impact and indicate how deep an impression that impact had made on those who followed him. Even when Matthew’s shaping and elaboration of the Jesus tradition is acknowledged, the impact made by Jesus himself during his mission is still clearly evident. Matthew’s Jesus is still Jesus remembered. II. Jousting with the Pharisees over Israel’s Heritage There is a broad consensus that Matthew’s Gospel was written some time after 70 and reÀects some degree of confrontation with the rabbinic Judaism that began to emerge in Palestine after the disastrous failure of the ¿rst Jewish revolt. But Matthew does not merely ‘reÀect’ such confrontation. The Gospel is itself the best evidence for such confrontation, and a major reason for its being written was no doubt to engage in such confrontation. The key evidence for this can be brieÀy indicated: x x

Jesus presented as Israel’s Messiah, son of David, king of the Jews; the parallel of Jesus with Moses – Jesus as the ful¿lment of the hope for a prophet like Moses;

36. For further discussion, see my Did the First Christians Worship Jesus? The New Testament Evidence (London: SPCK, 2010), here pp. 10–11. 1

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x x x x x

the repeated emphasis on Jesus as having ful¿lled Israel’s scriptures; the birth narrative asserts both that Jesus ‘will save his people (¸ĠË) from their sins’ (1.21) and that he ‘is to shepherd my people (¸ĠË) Israel’ (2.6); the church (ëÁÁ¾Êĕ¸) as the continuation of Israel as the assembly of Yahweh (16.18); Jesus’ mission as to ‘the lost sheep of the house of Israel’ (10.6; 15.24); and the twelve’s future role in judging the tribes of Israel (19.28).

In addition, Matthew’s increased attention to the Pharisees, as Jesus’ opponents and as the chief objects of Jesus’ own criticisms, underscores the likelihood that all these emphases in Matthew’s Gospel had a common objective: to make the case that emerging Christianity was the eschatological outworking of Second Temple Judaism;37 and to do so in opposition to a Pharisaic Judaism making the same claim. Nothing makes this clearer than Matthew’s presentation of Jesus in relation to the Law. For there is no suggestion that Matthew wanted to present Jesus as rejecting the Law, as, in effect, yielding the Law entirely to the Pharisees. As embryonic rabbinic Judaism began to reconstitute Judaism round the Law and the Halakhah, it would have been quite natural for embryonic Christianity to abandon the Law altogether as a community marker, to yield the Law entirely to the successors of the Pharisees. In contrast, however, Matthew was evidently concerned to demonstrate his (and his community’s) loyalty to the Torah. To the Pharisees with whom he was in conÀict, the Matthean Jesus says in effect, We are as loyal to the law as you: Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have not come to abolish but to ful¿ll. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one yodh, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. (Mt. 5.17-19)

Indeed, the claim is that the followers of Jesus were more devoted to what the Law demands. In the same paragraph, Jesus continues: ‘For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and 37. A. J. Saldarini entitles Chapter 2 of Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), ‘Matthew’s People: Israel’.

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Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven’ (5.20). The Matthean church was as much motivated to perform ‘righteousness’ as any Pharisee (6.1), though the righteousness they hungered for and were to seek was God’s righteousness (5.6; 6.33).38 So in the rest of ch. 5, Jesus goes on to penetrate below the wording of various commandments to their deeper meaning. The commandment against murder is more fully to be understood as a warning against anger and insult and denigration of a brother (5.21-22); the commandment against adultery is more fully to be understood as a warning against lust (5.27-28). It is not so much that Jesus replaces Moses or abrogates the Law at certain points (Mt. 5.3348); it is rather that Jesus gives a de¿nitive interpretation of the Law as it bears on human relations, ful¿lling its deeper intention.39 Doing the will of the heavenly Father is what really counts,40 with the implication that the Father’s will is not to be identi¿ed with a narrow reading of the Law or a super¿cial declaration of loyalty.41 We may infer that Paul’s view was similar in his talk of ‘the law of Christ’ (Gal. 6.2).42 Like Hillel, so highly regarded by the rabbis, the Matthean Jesus was ready to sum up the Law in a single word – ‘In everything do to others what you would have them do to you’ (Mt. 7.12) – a positive version of ‘the golden rule’, where Hillel’s was a negative form.43 Similarly, like Mark, Matthew depicts Jesus as summing up the law and the prophets by 38. G. Friedlander, The Jewish Sources of the Sermon on the Mount (1911; New York: KTAV, 1969), famously maintained that ‘Four-¿fths of the Sermon on the Mount is exclusively Jewish’ (p. 266). 39. The antitheses which take issue with particular commandments or concessions (Mt. 5.31-42; 19.3-9) actually make responsibility before God more demanding. See further J. A. Overman, Matthew’s Gospel and Formative Judaism (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), pp. 73–90; Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community, Chapter 6; D. C. Sim, The Gospel of Matthew and Christian Judaism: The History and Social Setting of the Matthean Community (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1998), pp. 123–39, who reads the antitheses ‘as intensi¿cation rather than abrogation’ (p. 130); Luz, Matthäus, vol. 1, p. 333. 40. Mt. 6.10; 7.21-23; 12.50; 21.31; 26.42; another motif extended by Matthew. 41. Cf. R. Hummel, Die Auseinandersetzung zwischen Kirche und Judentum im Matthäusevangelium (Munich: Kaiser, 1966), p. 50, 56. 42. See also H. D. Betz, The Sermon on the Mount (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), pp. 626–7; R. Deines, ‘Not the Law but the Messiah: Law and Righteousness in the Gospel of Matthew – An Ongoing Debate’, in Built Upon the Rock: Studies in the Gospel of Matthew (ed. D. M. Gurtner and J. Nolland; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), pp. 53–84. 43. ‘What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbour; that is the whole Torah, while the rest is commentary thereon; go and learn it’ (b. Šabb. 31a); see further Davies and Allison, Matthew, vol. 1, pp. 686–8. 1

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referring to the Shema (‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind’), and by pulling out Lev. 19.18 from the sequence of commandments in Leviticus 19 (‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’) to give it a unique primacy: ‘On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets’ (Mt. 22.3740).44 In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus had already rejected the current elaboration of ‘You shall love your neighbour – and hate your enemy’. For Matthew’s Jesus the love command should be differently extended: ‘Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you’ (5.43-44). At the beginning of the story of the disciples plucking and eating grain on the Sabbath Matthew adds that they did so because ‘they were hungry’ (12.1); thus he increases the parallel with David (12.3) and makes the disciples’ action less reprehensible. In Mt. 15.1-20, Matthew takes up the same tradition as Mark, where Jesus teaches about purity, that the impurity of the heart is more serious than the impurity of the hands. But where Mark infers from this that Jesus thus abolished the distinction between clean and unclean foods (Mk 7.15, 19), Matthew simply underlines that inner cleanliness is much more important than the cleanliness of some foods (Mt. 15.17-20).45 Similarly Mt. 23.25-26. The authority given to Peter (Mt. 16.19) and the disciples (18.18) to ‘bind and loose’, so distinctive of Matthew’s Gospel, echoes the authority traditionally claimed by the rabbis – to declare what is not permitted (to bind) and to declare what is permitted (to loose).46 Matthew claims that the same authority was given by Jesus to Peter and his immediate disciples, and evidently believed that the scribes and Pharisees were using such authority to build walls of exclusion (23.13). Matthew’s version of Jesus’ teaching on divorce is also signi¿cant. In Mk. 10.1-9 Jesus seems to deny the legitimacy of divorce, and thus overrules the Mosaic ruling which permits divorce (Deut. 24.1-4). In Matthew, however, Jesus’ teaching is presented as a contribution to the debate about how Deut. 24.1, 3 should be interpreted (Mt. 19.3-9). The 44. The earliest parallel focus on Lev. 19.18 in Jewish tradition is attributed to Rabbi Akiba, early second century – that Lev. 19.18 is ‘the greatest general principle in the Torah’ (Sipra on Lev. 19.18) – perhaps another indication of the post-70 interaction between emerging Christianity and emerging rabbinic Judaism. 45. Mt. 15.1-20 should not be read simply as Matthew’s redaction of Mk 7; rather, Mt. 15 may well be evidence that Matthew knew a different version of Jesus’ teaching, the oral tradition of Jesus’ teaching on purity which circulated in Jewish Christian assemblies (see further Jesus Remembered, pp. 573–7). But the contrast with Mark still stands (Sim, Gospel of Matthew, pp. 132–5). 46. Str-B 1.738-41. Full discussion in Davies and Allison, Matthew, vol. 2, pp. 635–41. 1

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Matthean Jesus in effect participates in the debate between the schools of Hillel and Shammai, and seems to side with the more rigorous Shammaite ruling, that divorce is only permitted in the case of immorality.47 In the denunciation of ‘scribes and Pharisees’ in ch. 23, Jesus acknowledges the scribes’ and Pharisees’ teaching authority (they ‘sit on Moses’ seat’, 23.2) and commands his followers to ‘do whatever they teach you and follow it; but do not do as they do, for they do not practise what they preach’ (23.3). Later Jesus’ denunciation is that the scribes and Pharisees ‘tithe mint, dill, and cumin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy and faith. It is these you ought to have practised without neglecting the others’ (23.23) – a prophetic word very much in the spirit of Isaiah, Amos, and Micah.48 As with the prophetic critique of failure to observe the spirit of the Law, so the Matthean Jesus’ critique of Pharisaic casuistry is a critique not of the Law, but of how it was being interpreted. In the same vein we should note that only in Matthew does Jesus quote Hos. 6.6, and does so twice: ‘Go and learn what this means, “I desire mercy, not sacri¿ce” ’ (Mt. 9.13; also 12.7). The twofold citation of Hos. 6.6 in Matthew probably reÀects a different evaluation of the theological signi¿cance of the destruction of the temple from that of the ‘Pharisees’.49 To the warning of Mk. 13.18, ‘Pray that the catastrophe may not happen in winter’, Matthew adds, ‘Pray that it may not happen in winter or on a Sabbath’ (Mt. 24.20). Clearly implied is the fact that the Matthean community continued to observe the Sabbath; so far as the Matthean Christians were concerned, Jesus had not called for the Sabbath Law to be abrogated. The implication is that the two Sabbath stories taken over from Mark (Mt. 12.1-13) were intended by Matthew not to teach that the Sabbath is no longer important, but to teach how it should be observed in the light of Jesus’ ful¿llment of the Law. Probably not insigni¿cant are the terms of the ¿nal commission of Matthew’s Gospel: they are to teach the converts of the nations ‘to observe all that I (Jesus) have commanded you’ (28.20). Matthew did not hesitate to characterize Christian catechesis as command(ment)s to be observed.

47. See also D. R. Catchpole, ‘The Synoptic Divorce Material as a TraditioHistorical Problem’, BJRL 57 (1974), pp. 93–127. 48. See, e.g., Isa. 58.1-12; Amos 5.21-24; Mic. 6.6-8. 49. Hummel, Auseinandersetzung, pp. 98–9. 1

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A striking feature of Matthew’s Gospel at this point is his use of two words distinctive of his own vocabulary. Matthew is the only Gospel writer to speak of ÒÅÇÄĕ¸, ‘lawlessness’.50 Clearly this is Matthew’s own word. In warning against ‘lawlessness’, as Jesus does in these passages, Matthew was clearly proclaiming Jesus’ loyalty to the Law, and his own and the gospel’s loyalty to the Law at the same time. Almost as distinctive of Matthew’s vocabulary is his use of the word ‘righteousness’, »ÀÁ¸ÀÇÊįž.51 Note again 5.20: ‘Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven’.52 This jousting with the Pharisees may also help explain Matthew’s distinctive emphasis on Jesus as the divine presence and as Wisdom, noted above. For, as again we have seen, for the rabbis, in the aftermath of the Temple’s destruction, the focus of the divine presence in effect shifted from the Temple to the Torah. And we should remember that already well before 70 Israel’s wisdom tradition had identi¿ed divine Wisdom also with the Torah (Sir. 24.23; Bar. 4.1). So what Matthew was doing was in effect saying to his Pharisaic/rabbinic opponents: the line of continuity runs from Moses into and through Jesus, not the Law; the focus of the divine presence now is in Jesus not in the Torah. We should note, then, that Matthew’s taking over of the Gospel format from Mark did not mean that he saw the gospel of Jesus as set in antithesis to the Law. Matthew would not have welcomed the antithesis between gospel and Law which the Lutheran Reformation read too quickly into Paul.53 And he certainly would not have welcomed the suggestion that Christianity had abandoned its Jewish heritage. The Gospel for him was a thoroughly Jewish gospel – entirely in the spirit of the Law and the prophets. There was disagreement between Jesus’ followers and the rabbis on how the Law and the prophets should be interpreted, but there was a basic agreement with the rabbis that the Law and the prophets continued to be of major importance. Jesus as the

50. Mt. 7.23; 13.41; 23.28; 24.12; also Overman, Matthew’s Gospel, pp. 16–19. 51. Mt. 3.15; 5.6, 10, 20; 6.1, 33; 21.32. Elsewhere in the Gospels only Lk. 1.75 and Jn 16.8, 10. 52. B. Przybylski, Righteousness in Matthew and his World of Thought (SNTSMS 41; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), plausibly argues that righteousness in Matthew ‘is essentially a Jewish concept’ (p. 123) and is different from that in Paul, in that in Matthew righteousness ‘deals solely with God’s demand rather than gift’ (p. 106). See also Overman, Matthew’s Gospel, pp. 91–4. 53. See my The New Perspective on Paul (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), p. 22 n. 88. 1

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ful¿llment of the Law had brought home the deepest meaning of the Law. His life and teaching showed how the Law should be obeyed. Relation to God was now to be worked out from Jesus as the centre, with reference to the Law but not the Law as the centre or starting point. Ful¿lment was not abrogation. It was focus on Jesus which brought the Law also into focus, by being read through the lens which was Jesus and his gospel. III. Mission to Gentiles Despite its Jewish character and concerns,54 a notable feature of Matthew’s Gospel is its commitment that the gospel of Jesus Messiah, Son of God, should be taken to the (other) nations, linked with the thought, expressed more than once, that Israel was in danger of being replaced in God’s purpose of salvation.55 By tracing Jesus Messiah’s genealogy back to Abraham, Matthew (1.1) may be implicitly acknowledging Paul’s argument that the sons/ heirs of Abraham include Gentile believers (Rom. 4; Gal. 3). Several stories and features of Matthew attest to this interest in the mission to and incorporation of Gentiles. In Mt. 1.3-6, the only women mentioned in the genealogy of Jesus prior to Mary (Tamar, Ruth, Rahab and the wife of Uriah) are all non-Jews, a subtle reminder at the very beginning of the Gospel that Gentiles had played an integral part in Israel’s own history.56 In the birth narrative the central characters, apart from Mary, Joseph and Jesus, are the magi ‘from the East’ (2.1), who alone worship Jesus (2.11), in contrast to the current king of the Jews (Herod) who tries to eliminate him (2.16). John the Baptist warns against his Jewish devotees presuming on their descent from Abraham; ‘God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham’ (3.9).

54. Note that Mt. 18.17 (let the unrepentant brother ‘be to you as a Gentile [ë¿ÅÀÁĠË] and a tax-collector’) reÀects and retains a traditional Jewish attitude to the non-Israelite as someone to be shunned and kept separate from. Sim argues that the ‘swine’ of Mt. 7.6 refers to Gentiles (cf. 15.26) (Gospel of Matthew, pp. 237–9). 55. This is the consensus position in Matthean scholarship. Sim questions whether any texts in Matthew reÀect recognition of or advocacy of a current Gentile mission (ibid., pp. 236–47), but he ignores most of the following data, ¿nding only two verses (Mt. 24.14 and 28.19) which envisage a Gentile mission, that is, a Lawobservant mission (pp. 242–7). 56. Schnelle, History and Theology, p. 231: ‘The four Gentile women at the beginning correspond to “all nations” at the end’. 1

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To the story of the healing of the centurion’s boy, Matthew transfers Jesus’ conclusion so af¿rmative of the centurion’s faith and so despairing of Israel: ‘I tell you, many will come from east and west and will eat with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven, while the heirs of the kingdom will be thrown into the outer darkness…’ (8.11-12). Despite 10.5-6 (‘Go nowhere to the Gentiles’), 10.18 envisages testimony being given also to the Gentiles. Matthew inserts Isa. 42.1-4, one of the most positive of Israel’s prophecies with regard to the Gentiles, into his description of Jesus’ healing ministry, climaxing with, ‘And in his name the Gentiles will hope’ (Mt. 12.18-21). Matthew cites Jesus sharply contrasting the repentance of the men of Ninevah, and the queen of the south’s eagerness to learn, with the lack of response to Jesus’ message evidenced by Jesus’ own generation (12.4142); the sayings are drawn from Q material (Lk. 11.31-32), but in Matthew’s Gospel they have a sharper bite. The interpretation of the parable of the tares envisages the seed (‘the sons of the kingdom’) being sown in the ¿eld, which is ‘the world’ (Mt. 13.38). Similarly 24.14 envisages ‘the gospel of the kingdom’ being preached ‘throughout the whole world, as a testimony to all the nations’. The parable of the labourers in the vineyard (Mt. 20.1-16) implies that the Gentiles, though responding late to the gospel’s summons, will not be disadvantaged. To the parable of the tenant farmers Matthew adds the shocking conclusion: ‘Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken from you and will be given to a people (ì¿ÅÇË) who produce its fruits’ (21.43); also added is the note that the chief priests and Pharisees recognized that Jesus was speaking about them (21.45).57 Also, noteworthy is Matthew’s elaboration of the parable of the wedding feast, with the king’s angry destruction of the city of the initially invited guests’ (Jerusalem), includes the king’s verdict, ‘Those invited were not worthy. Therefore go into the main streets and invite everyone you ¿nd to the wedding’ (22.89) – where again the clear implication is that for Matthew the Gentile mission has taken over from the unsuccessful Jewish mission.58 Perhaps most signi¿cant of all, Matthew makes a point of ending his Gospel with the mission commission of the disciples: ‘Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations…’ (28.19-20). For whatever length of time the earlier commission of Jesus (not to go the way of the nations/ Gentiles, 10.5) was held to be valid, Matthew’s conclusion with the great

57. It is from this verse that Stanton derives his title – A Gospel for a New People. 58. Disputed by Sim, Gospel of Matthew, pp. 239–42. 1

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commission to ‘all the nations’ made it clear that Jesus’ earlier instruction had been long superseded.59 Matthew’s apparent pro-Gentile and anti-Jewish emphasis is strong enough for some commentators to conclude that Matthew himself was a Gentile,60 or at least that he writes from a Gentile-Christian viewpoint. But the pro-Gentile emphasis is more accurately described as proGentile-mission, being held out as a continuing challenge to Israel.61 As such it becomes fairly obvious that for Matthew this was the inevitable outworking of Jesus’ own teaching on and practice of mission, in the light of Jesus’ resurrection. Matthew faithfully retained the words which underlined the more limited objectives of Jesus’ own mission (10.5-16; 15.24); but the climax of 28.19-20 makes it clear enough that Jesus’ resurrection had revolutionized everything for his disciples.62 But not in a way that ignored or left behind Jesus’ own teaching and commission. For even if 21.43 is to be assigned to Matthew’s redaction, as Mk 13.10/ Mt. 24.14 have to be read as expressions of early Christian conviction, and even if Mt. 12.17-21 was clearly added by Matthew, there was still suf¿cient evidence in the Jesus tradition to indicate that the fresh post-Easter perspective was one which derived from Jesus and in continuity with his earlier mission. The memory of Jesus’ own response to the few Gentiles, to whose need he was able to minister, was itself probably proof enough for Matthew. And the prospect of Gentiles being welcomed in heaven and faring better in the ¿nal judgment was one which Jesus himself was clearly remembered as af¿rming.63 The retention 59. It is important that ÈÚÅ̸ ÌÛ ì¿Å¾ be translated ‘all the nations’ rather than ‘all the Gentiles’; Matthew had not given up hope of ‘making disciples’ of his fellow Jews (Davies and Allison, Matthew, vol. 3, p. 684; and particularly Luz, Matthäus, vol. 4, pp. 447–52). 60. Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, pp. 131–9; Schnelle, History and Theology, p. 220 n. 235, pp. 235–6. See particularly the very full discussion of Davies and Allison, Matthew, vol. 1, pp. 9–58; on Matthew’s Semitisms (pp. 80–5). 61. Luz justi¿ably argues that the decision in favour of a Gentile mission must have been a signi¿cant turning point (cf. 10.5-6!) for the Matthean community, perhaps under the inÀuence of Mark’s Gospel (Matthäus, vol. 1, pp. 91–3). 62. P. Stuhlmacher, ‘Matt 28:16 and the Course of Mission in the Apostolic and Postapostolic Age’, in The Mission of the Early Church to Jews and Gentiles (ed. J. Ådna and H. Kvalbein; WUNT 127; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), pp. 17–43, argues that Matthew has taken over a very old Jewish-Christian tradition (going back to the pillar apostles in Jerusalem – Gal. 2.7-9) which advocated mission to the nations as the way in which the hope both of ‘eschatological restoration of greater Israel’ and of the pilgrimage of the nations to Zion will be ful¿lled. 63. Mt. 8.11-12/Lk. 13.28-29; Mt. 12.41-42/Lk. 11.31-32. 1

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of Mt. 10.5-6 and 15.24, however, may imply that Matthew and his community did not come very quickly to appreciate that the restriction on Jesus’ mission had now been removed. In sum, then, Matthew was a faithful tradent of the Jesus tradition, handling the memory of Jesus’ mission and teaching in much the same way that it had been handled from the ¿rst time that Jesus’ disciples shared their impressions of Jesus and began to formulate the Jesus tradition for worship, preaching and catechetical purposes. He followed Mark’s lead in putting the tradition into a Gospel framework and slotted in the Q material to that framework. He elaborated the tradition at various points to bring out what he and his community saw to be its continuing signi¿cance. He interpreted the tradition at various points to make clearer its relevance to the situation of what most infer was a community made up primarily of Jews who believed in Messiah Jesus. He added some sentences to sharpen the point of a more ambiguous tradition. And overall the thrust of the gospel was illuminated for him by the light of Jesus’ resurrection, particularly as con¿rming that as gospel it is also good news for the nations as a whole, gentiles of course, but Jews not excluded. Yet all the time the outlines of the impression originally made by Jesus are quite perceptible. The Jesus of Matthew is not a different Jesus from the Jesus of Mark. The impact he made was being read slightly differently or distinctively by Matthew, but that was always how the Jesus tradition had been celebrated and transmitted, and the impact was clearly made by the person who is at the centre of his Gospel – Jesus.

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THE ‘APOCALYPTIC’ JEWISH JESUS AND CONTEMPORARY INTERPRETATION* Loren T. Stuckenbruck

When religious ideas and practices in the New Testament are compared with the same in Second Temple literature, at least two basic issues ¿gure prominently. One of these, of course, has to do with religioushistorical ‘backgrounds’: to what extent does the diverse Jewish constellation of traditions known around the turn of the Common Era furnish a more satisfactory framework for interpretation than, for example, Jewish traditions preserved in later rabbinic sources or to evidence for the vast array of socio-religious and political ideologies in the Graeco-Roman world? The other issue, put more simply, relates to the question: what does such an investigation matter to begin with? The former concern focuses on contextualization along religious historical lines; the latter relates to meaning and insight. Though these emphases are conventionally distinguished, it is impossible to engage with each as wholly separate activities. Even devaluations of historical study as naively objective cannot escape the formative function of knowing about the past which, then, is not merely the past. Likewise, on the other side, investigations into ‘what sacred texts meant’ cannot extricate themselves from predispositions, whether they arise from attitudes shaped by experience or some theological Vorverständnis. What I have just described holds especially true in relation to the topic taken up below: Jesus and his Jewish apocalyptic context. It is well known that for Ernst Käsemann, the category of ‘apocalyptic’ became a comprehensive way of describing early Christian thought: ‘Apocalyptic * It is a privilege to present the following essay in honour of Stephen Barton and William Telford, both of whom were dear colleagues in the Department of Theology and Religion at Durham University. Over a number of years and in the context of sharing many of life’s experiences, we taught courses together, coordinated department life, and on many occasions listened and responded to one another’s papers. Their collegiality and scholarship have accompanied me to other places, and I shall always remain in their debt.

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was the mother of all Christian theology – since we cannot really class the preaching of Jesus as theology’.1 As his teacher Rudolf Bultmann before him,2 Käsemann hesitated to associate the historical Jesus with theology per se; the twinning of ‘apocalyptic’ with ‘theology’ meant that Jesus’ proclamation of the nearness of God and the attendant emphasis on obedience and love3 broke from the contemporary apocalyptic milieu, which anticipated the restoration of the twelve tribes, the coming of a messianic ¿gure, and a retributive judgment against the wicked. Thus the doing of theology, with the proclamation about Jesus with the framework of an apocalyptic framework, had its beginnings in the church after Easter. Käsemann’s distancing of Jesus from ‘apocalyptic’ was bound up with the way he understood the term. For him, in relation to Christianity, it was essentially a matter of hope in the parousia (the return of Jesus as the Son of Man as agent of the ¿nal judgment), while in Judaism it was essentially marked by a concern with divine judgment, against the criterion of obedience to the Torah, at the end of history. Käsemann never clearly de¿ned the term, though there is hardly an instance when it does not denote a concern with eschatology. While Käsemann properly recognised the existence of an apocalyptic world-view during the time of Jesus and was no doubt correct in asserting its signi¿cance for interpreting early Christianity, he never really concerned himself with ‘the real Jewish apocalyptic’.4 Like many before and after him, the expression was inextricably linked not only to the notion of time, but also, beyond this, to future time. There are many now, as we shall see, who reject Käsemann’s dissociation of Jesus from apocalyptic and prefer, instead, to think of Jesus’ preaching of God’s kingdom as a signi¿cant modi¿cation thereof. Comparisons between Jesus and contemporary Judaism focus on continuity and departure. We need not look far for justi¿cation for such 1. Ernst Käsemann, ‘The Beginnings of Christian Theology’, in idem, New Testament Questions of Today (trans. W. J. Montague; London: SCM, 1969), pp. 82–107 (102). 2. Cf. especially Rudolf Bultmann’s oft-repeated dictum in his Theology of the New Testament (trans. Kendrick Grobel; 2 vols.; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1951), vol. 1, p. 3: ‘The message of Jesus is a presupposition for the theology of the New Testament rather than a part of that theology itself’. 3. See Ernst Käsemann, ‘Primitive Christian Apocalyptic’, in New Testament Questions of Today, pp. 108–37 (114). 4. Cf. Florentino García Martínez, ‘Is Jewish Apocalyptic the Mother of Christian Theology?’, in idem, Qumranica Minora I: Qumran Origins and Apocalypticism (STDJ 63; Leiden: Brill, 2007), pp. 129–51 (139). 1

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drawing of analogies and contrasts. There is no question that Jesus was ethnically Jewish5 and that his ministry took place within and in relation to Jewish traditions that were shaping both his immediate and extended environment. Whatever other factors were in play, no quest for identity of either Jesus or his early followers can dispense with how they related to this framework. The challenge remains, of course, to pinpoint what, more exactly, set the Àedgling Jesus movement apart and lent it a momentum that would lead over time to a more formal ‘parting of the ways’. While it is clear that exclusivist beliefs about Jesus were indispensable to Christian origins, it is less apparent how much these convictions were accompanied by essentially new structures of religious thought. Studies of apocalyptic thought in Jewish antiquity have frequently highlighted the importance of eschatological time, and it is this area, understood more broadly in relation to past and present time as well, that draws our present focus. As I hope to make clear below, the way time is understood in relation to Jesus in the gospel tradition and in Second Temple literature has important implications for how a faith perspective, which interprets the past and anticipates the future, can be understood as an effective means to negotiate evil in the present. To be sure, it is tempting to link novelties or innovations among beliefs about the function and person of Jesus (Christology) with a theological perspective that regards Christianity as a superior way of dealing with evil than Judaism, whether ancient or contemporary. Though not expressed in precisely this way, this view constitutes a subtext behind studies that strain to ascertain what is unique about Jesus and the early Christian movement. If most writings of the New Testament place the death and resurrection of Jesus at the very heart and centre of God’s activity, even as a guiding presupposition behind the gospel narratives, it should not be surprising to ¿nd a claim accompanying this belief that human wrongdoing and demonic evil are more completely and decisively dealt with than anything previous or contemporary traditions could offer. Indeed, theological convictions and ritual practices amongst 5. While this point seems obvious, we should be reminded that nearly one hundred years ago, the degree of Jesus’ ethnic Jewishness as one coming from Galilee was a matter of debate; cf., e.g., Gerhard Kittel, Jesus und die Juden (Berlin: Furche-Verlag, 1926), who struggled with this question. For Kittel, Jesus’ Jewishness was an undeniable fact, though he regards with signi¿cance the possibility that Jesus, ‘wenn er Galiläer war, ein paar Tropfen nichjüdisches Blut in seinen Adern hatte’ and emphasizes that Jesus, who ‘aufhörte, Jude zu sein’, inaugurated a movement, ‘die nicht Judentum ist…die das Judentum gesprengt und weit hinter sich gelassen hat!’ (pp. 7–8). 1

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early Christians make it clear that innovations were emerging, inspired by very recent events.6 Notwithstanding the signi¿cance attached to innovation – which, by de¿nition, could be made to characterize the ideas of any theological composition from the Second Temple period – to proceed unquestioningly from persuasion about Jesus’ uniqueness to a supersessionist attitude towards Judaism is not without problems. To what extent does a link between such differentiation through comparison and superiority in effectiveness hold? Is the claim that God has uniquely acted through Jesus necessarily bound up with a theological judgment that considers Christian tradition as a better or more effective approach than that of non-Christian Second Temple religiosity to the vicissitudes of human experience? To what extent should exegetes, through comparison, strain to deny Jewish tradition an ef¿caciousness that Christian tradition af¿rms? While the problem just articulated might not support an agenda to pair up the ‘new’ with the ‘better’ in early Christianity, I would nevertheless like to suggest that there is something theologically constructive when it comes to describing where points of continuity lie. In particular, with respect to time and its relation to evil, the Jewish ‘apocalyptic’7 world and traditions about Jesus preserved in the Synoptic Gospels – and one might add, Paul8 – share a basic, if not crucial perspective, the sight of which should not be lost when comparisons are drawn. These opening thoughts bring us to the point of comparison itself: ‘apocalyptic eschatology’. In relation to ancient Judaism, this expression is made to refer to a speculative hope that the God of Israel will deliver 6. In this respect, see, e.g., Larry Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), pp. 1–78. 7. The use of this term, as the review of scholarship in sections below makes clear, can be varied. It is in any case appropriate to offer a de¿nition of the adjective ‘apocalyptic’ that shall be my point of departure. I apply the term in close relation to the etymological meaning of the root verb ÒÈÇÁ¸ÂįÈÌÑ, ‘to reveal’; it therefore refers to mediated knowledge of a hidden reality, whether spatial or temporal in character or both, that is linked to God as its source. Applied to Second Temple Judaism it refers to a complex, multi-dimensional world-view reÀected in writings such as 1 Enoch, Jubilees, Daniel, 4 Ezra, 2 Baruch, and many texts among the Dead Sea Scrolls. Although more recently there has been justi¿ed emphasis on the recognition of sapiential features as integral to apocalyptic thought, in this contribution I focus deliberately on the temporal dimension (in the sense of ‘revealed’ time), in order to nuance theological discourse that has been preoccupied by ‘apocalyptic eschatology’. 8. See my discussion in Loren T. Stuckenbruck, The Myth of Rebellious Angels: Studies in Second Temple Judaism and New Testament Texts (WUNT 335; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), pp. 240–56. 1

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God’s people and the world at large from all manifestations of malevolent chaos at the end of history, whether that end is imminent or remote in time. Attributed to a range of Jewish writings from the Second Temple period, this kind of future expectation is frequently distinguished from the ‘prophetic’ eschatology, according to which the restoration of Israel and, with it, the triumph of God over evil can be anticipated sometime within history as we know it.9 What has this distinction meant for scholarly attempts to come to terms with Jesus? In the following sections, I shall discuss a select group of scholars for whom an understanding of time has played a role in their presentations of Jesus, before brieÀy offering an alternative approach to time within an apocalyptic framework.10 I. ‘Apocalyptic’, Evil, and the Historical Jesus Since the end of the nineteenth century, especially the works of Johannes Weiss11 and Albert Schweitzer,12 the eschatology attributed to Second Temple Jewish writings has become the bedrock upon which many have attempted to put together a portrait of the historical Jesus. One major point of discussion, for example, has revolved around whether Jesus can be thought to have essentially proclaimed God’s rule as a future event (called an eschatology that is ‘consistent’ with those of his contemporaries) or to have imagined that the kingdom of God, the consummation of which lies in the future, was already manifesting itself through his 9. The distinction between prophetic and apocalyptic eschatology was underscored during the twentieth century by H. H. Rowley, The Relevance of Apocalyptic: A Study of Jewish and Christian Apocalypses from Daniel to the Revelation (3d ed.; New York: Association Press, 1963), and D. S. Russell, Apocalyptic: Ancient and Modern (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1978). See the informative and critical discussion of Martinus de Boer, ‘Paul and Apocalyptic Eschatology’, in John J. Collins (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Apocalypticism. Vol. 1, The Origins of Apocalypticism in Judaism and Christianity (London: Continuum, 2000), pp. 345–83. 10. Although the discussion below draws on previous publications, it also serves as a prolegomenon to a monograph-length study on which I am currently working. Until now, see Loren T. Stuckenbruck, ‘Overlapping Ages at Qumran and “Apocalyptic” in Pauline Theology’, in The Dead Sea Scrolls and Pauline Literature (ed. Jean-Sébastien Rey; STDJ 102; Leiden: Brill, 2014), pp. 309–26; and The Myth of Rebellious Angels, pp. 240–56 (‘Posturing ‘Apocalyptic’ in Pauline Theology: How Much Contrast to Jewish Tradition?’). 11. Johannes Weiss, Die Predigt Jesu vom Reiche Gottes (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, repr., 1900 [1892]). 12. Albert Schweitzer, Von Reimarus zu Wrede: Eine Geschichte der Leben Jesu Forschung (2d ed.; Tübingen: Mohr, 1913 [1906]). 1

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ministry. Both these reconstructions, though distinguishable as far as Jesus is concerned, nevertheless proceed from a commonly held view of contemporary Jewish apocalyptic thought: in terms of temporality, hope for salvation out of the desperate circumstances of the present lies entirely in the hands of the God of Israel who in a decisive moment of reckoning at the end of history will rescue the faithful and punish the wicked. Alternative constructions of Jesus draw on this picture of apocalyptic: on the one hand, if, as in Jewish apocalyptic, Jesus anticipated the kingdom of God as a forthcoming reality, it was his followers’ convictions about salvation through him that departed from Jewish tradition; on the other hand, if his teaching and activities brought God’s rule to bear on the present world order, the departure from apocalyptic Judaism goes back to Jesus himself. We look brieÀy below at some examples for a portrait of Jewish tradition on which many New Testament scholars are agreed. In the English-speaking world, C. H. Dodd, already in the 1930s, presented Jesus as one who proclaimed the nearness of God’s kingdom in such a way that it was no longer merely a matter of hope.13 This presentist emphasis, which Dodd not only discerned in Jesus’ parables (Mk. 4.1-34 and Mt. 13.1-52; cf. Lk. 8.1-18) but also in other activities of his ministry, set Jesus apart from his environment; this is not what apocalyptic eschatology could offer14 and, instead, builds on the earlier assumption among the biblical prophets that change, based on repentance, could be effected in the here and now.15 Many others, in the wake of Dodd, have taken a similar tack. For instance, in his book on Jesus 13. See C. H. Dodd, The Parables of the Kingdom (3d ed.; London: Nisbet, 1936); Apostolic Preaching and Its Developments (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1936); and History and the Gospel (rev. ed.; London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1964 [1938]). 14. C. H. Dodd, The Founder of Christianity (New York: Macmillan, 1970), who argues that, in contrast to Jewish ‘apocalyptic’ hopes, which many early Christians shared, a ‘clearly original’ and ‘characteristic’ feature of Jesus’ teaching is ‘his declaration that the kingdom of God is here’ (pp. 114–15). In this way, Dodd, as many others, regarded apocalyptic as a problematic paradigm through which to understand Jesus. Cf. also in this vein Albert Nolan, Jesus before Christianity (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1978), p. 90: ‘What Jesus had to say about the last day was not apocalyptic, it was prophetic. We can recover what Jesus meant to the people of his own time…only by “de-apocalyptising” the gospels.’ 15. This view, which regards prophetic paradigms in the Hebrew Bible as the matrix for emerging apocalyptic thought, has been worked out in more detail than anywhere else by Paul Hanson, The Dawn of Apocalyptic: The Historical and Sociological Roots of Jewish Apocalyptic Eschatology (rev. ed.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979). 1

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and the Kingdom (1966), George Eldon Ladd emphasized that through Jesus, ‘[t]he Kingdom is not only an eschatological gift belonging to the age to come; it is also to be received in the old aeon’.16 Jesus was able to convey something that none of his Jewish contemporaries, not least those with an apocalyptic orientation, had been able to do, and in so doing he was more effective at curbing evil in his ministry. Despite his emphasis on early Christian thought remaining within a Jewish framework, even N. T. Wright has maintained that when it comes to the Messiah, ‘The vital difference between this view [that God completes his purpose for creation through the Messiah] and those we ¿nd in non-Christian second Temple literature is that the kingdom is in a sense already present, as well as in another sense still future’.17 The operating assumption is that Jewish apocalyptic thought was consumed by a futurist expectation (for Wright imagined as a return from exile) that Jesus’ proclamation of God’s kingdom – including concrete manifestations of the defeat of evil in his ministry – was beginning to ful¿ll.18 This view is also well represented in German scholarship. Werner Georg Kümmel, in responding to the notion of Jesus’ proclamation of the kingdom of God as future and in modifying the work of Dodd, underscored that God’s rule in the proclamation of Jesus was both future and present.19 Evidence for the latter is not only discernible in activities implying Jesus’ ‘messianic acts’ and ‘parables’, but is also clear from his exorcisms, the like of which Kümmel claimed has no equivalent in Second Temple literature.20 Whether Jesus is speaking about the present 16. See also George Eldon Ladd, Jesus and the Kingdom: The Eschatology of Biblical Realism (London: SPCK, 1966), pp. 91–213 (202). 17. N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (London: SPCK, 1996), p. 216. 18. Ibid., p. 243 (and pp. 147–97). Though the expectation had its roots in prophetic texts (e.g. Isaiah, Ezekiel and Jeremiah), its continuation into the time of Jesus is apparent in Jewish apocalyptic literature (pp. 177–8). 19. Werner Georg Kümmel, Promise and Ful¿lment (trans. Dorothea M. Barton; Naperville: Alec R. Allenson, 1957), pp. 105–40. 20. Kümmel refers only to Assumption of Moses 10.1 and the expectation therein that the binding of Satan will happen in the eschatological future (Promise and Ful¿lment, p. 109 n. 14). This demarcation between Jesus and contemporary apocalyptic tradition is widely held among recent interpreters; see, e.g., Wright, Jesus, p. 195; Graham H. Twelftree, Jesus the Exorcist: A Contribution to the Study of the Historical Jesus (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1993), pp. 157–74; idem, In the Name of Jesus: Exorcism among Early Christians (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007); Hartmut Stegemann, The Library of Qumran: On the Essenes, Qumran, John the Baptist, and Jesus (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans; Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 237–8; Eric Eve, The Jewish Context of Jesus’ Miracles (JSNTSup 231; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 2002); Thomas Söding, ‘ “Wenn ich mit dem Finger Gottes die Dämonen 1

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or even future, Kümmel is at pains to distance him from Jewish apocalyptic expectation; in particular, he insists that even Jesus’ ‘eschatological message stands in complete contrast to the ‘Weltanschauung’ of apocalyptic’.21 Among numerous examples,22 two more recent publications illustrate how much this approach to the Jewish context of Jesus continues into the present. The ¿rst of these to mention is Ferdinand Hahn’s two-volume Theologie des Neuen Testaments, the third edition of which was published in 2011.23 As Hahn begins in the second volume to comment on the message of Jesus in the Gospels, he matter-of-factly declares the following: austreibe” (Lk 11,20): Die Exorzismen im Rahmen der Basileia-Verkündigung Jesu’, in Die Dämonen – Demons (ed. Armin Lange, Hermann Lichtenberger, and K. F. Diethard Römheld; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), pp. 519–49. 21. Kümmel, Promise and Ful¿lment, p. 104. A number of works, which share the same approach to Jewish apocalyptic thought, follow Kümmel’s notion of God’s kingdom as essentially future, yet partly realized through Jesus; cf., e.g., Herbert Braun, Jesus of Nazareth: The Man and his Time (trans. Everett R. Kalin; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979, from 1969 ed.); Eduard Schweizer, Jesus (trans. David E. Green; Richmond: John Knox, 1971), pp. 21–6 (for whom any trace of God’s kingdom in Jesus’ message as a present reality would have not have been understood by his contemporaries); John Riches, Jesus and the Transformation of Judaism (New York: Seabury, 1980), pp. 168–89 (Jesus’ miracles and table fellowship with sinners mark a clear departure from contemporary Judaism); Leonhard Goppelt, Theology of the New Testament (trans. John E. Alsup; 2 vols.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1981), vol. 1, pp. 51–5 (who stresses time and again Jesus’ ‘uniqueness’ over against apocalyptic and rabbinic Judaism); and, though replacing language about ‘realized’ with ‘nearness’ that had formative consequences for Jesus’ hearers, Jürgen Becker, Jesus of Nazareth (trans. James E. Crouch; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1998), pp. 49–83 and pp. 85–224. 22. Cf. further Robert A. Spivey, D. Moody Smith, and C. Clifton Black, Anatomy of the New Testament: A Guide to its Structure and Meaning (6th ed.; Upper Saddle River, NJ: Pearson/Prentice Hall, 2007), pp. 204–5; Hans Weder, Gegenwart und Gottes Herrschaft (Neukirchen–Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1993), p. 49; Udo Schnelle, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), p. 82 n. 104. A more spatially orientated view, though not really different in emphasis, is maintained by Martin Karrer, Jesus Christus im Neuen Testsament (NTD Ergänzungsreihe 11; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), pp. 222–36: whereas contemporary Jewish literature could, with Jesus, maintain a sense of God’s rule in the present, that rule was relegated more to the heavenly sphere (e.g. in Songs of the Sabbath Sacri¿ce of the Dead Sea Scrolls) more than it was seen to be effective in the world of religious experience. 23. Ferdinand Hahn, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (2 vols.; 3d ed.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). 1

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During the course of history, Israel’s hope for salvation became increasingly future in orientation… Salvation could only be partially experienced in the present, while expectation of salvation in the future gathered strength. This emphasis developed to such a degree that (Jewish) apocalyptic tradition was essentially empty of salvation as far as the present is concerned (cf. e.g. 4 Ezra 7.116-127), with the result that hope could only be realized by a decisive act of God. The future character of God’s activity is supported by the notion of ‘this age’ in which God’s reign can not become a reality, and that the current world and time, for salvation to occur at all, must be replaced by an ‘age to come’ when things will be different (cf. 4 Ezra 7.49f.).24

In anticipation of the discussion below, it should be noted for now that the basis for Hahn’s view of apocalyptic is grounded mostly on writings from the late ¿rst to early second century (e.g. 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch) that were responding to the crisis of the Jerusalem Temple’s destruction in 70 C.E., and much less obviously on other compositions such as 1 Enoch, Jubilees, or related texts from the Dead Sea Scrolls. A second example to be mentioned is furnished by Michael Tilly, through his introductory book on Apokalyptik, published in 2012. While drawing an insightful portrait of Jesus’ proclamation of the kingdom of God as breaking into the present and describing the character of early Christian faith in general, Tilly states that, [f]rom a socio-religious perspective, early Christianity shows many parallels with Jewish apocalyptic. Nevertheless, the claim that there is unbroken continuity between apocalyptic and Christian faith or that apocalyptic is the ‘Mother’ of Christianity (as the Protestant theologian Ernst Käsemann has maintained) is inappropriate. Christian faith is in no way simply shaped by an apocalyptic world-view. The most important difference between the early Christian kerygma and Jewish apocalyptic has to do with the early Christian conviction regarding the activity of God in the world and in history… Determinative and descriptive of early

24. Ibid., vol. 2, pp. 168–70 (author’s translation; italics added). The German original reads: ‘Im Laufe der Geschichte hat aber die Heilserwartung Israel simmer starker Zukunftscharakter erhalten… Heil wurde nur noch partiell in der Gegenwart erfahren, und die Erwartung richtete sich verstärkt auf zukünftiges Heilsgeschehen. Das ging schließlich so weit, daß in der apokalyptischen Tradition mit einer völligen Heilsleere der Gegenwart gerechnet wurde (vgl. z.B. 4 Esra 7,116–127), so daß sich die Hoffnung allein auf die Verwirklichung künftigen Heils durch Gott konzentrierte. Der Charakter der Zukünftigkeit dieser Gottesherrschaft wird vor allem dadurch unterstrichen, daß in “diesem Äon” die Königsherrschaft Gottes nicht verwirklicht wird, sondern daß die gegenwärtige Welt und Zeit durch einen ganz andersartigen “kommenden Äon” abgelöst werden muß (vgl. 4 Esra 7,49f).’ 1

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Matthew and Mark Across Perspectives Christian apocalyptic is the ‘already’ of God’s salvi¿c activity. This very point is in tension with the understanding of the world and eschatology of Jewish apocalyptic. History is (for early Christianity) no longer the place of godlessness and a lack of salvation. Christian faith is not only grounded in the hope of the coming kingdom of God, but is at the same time a recognition of the historical reality of salvation (i.e. in Jesus).25

Again, Tilly af¿rms something in the proclamation of Jesus and the faith of his adherents that he does not detect in Second Temple Jewish apocalyptic.26 While neither Hahn nor Tilly might wish to be associated with supersessionist attitudes towards ancient Judaism, their comparisons of Jesus and his followers with early Jewish apocalyptic thought betray an underlying assumption: Jesus (and his devotees) offered a message of God’s presence that exceeded anything contemporary Judaism could have imagined. This existential supersessionism, as I would call it, by and large reÀects what a majority of Christian theologians and scholars in New Testament studies think about how early Christian apocalyptic tradition departed from its non-Christian Jewish counterpart.27 This way of considering Jewish apocalyptic thought is not much different among advocates of a Jesus who proclaimed God’s kingdom as 25. Michael Tilly, Apokalyptik (Tübingen: A. Francke, 2012), pp. 90–1 (author’s translation). The German original reads: ‘Das frühe Christentum weist in religionssoziologischer Sicht durchaus deutliche Parallelen zur jüdischen Apokalyptik auf. Dennoch ist die Behauptung einer ungebrochenen Kontinuität zwischen der Apokalyptik und dem christlichen Glauben oder gar die pauschalisierende Bezeichnung der Apokalyptik als “Mutter aller christlichen Theologie” (so der evangelische Theologe Ernst Käsemann) unzutreffend. Der christliche Glaube ist keinesfalls nur eine besondere Ausprägung der apokalyptischen Vorstellungswelt. Die wichtigste Differenz zwischen dem frühchristlichen Kerygma und der jüdischen Apokalyptik besteht nämlich in der christlichen Annahme des Wirkens Gottes in der Welt und in der Geschichte… Bestimmend und kennzeichnend für die frühe christliche Apokalyptik war also das “schon jetzt” des Heilshandelns Gottes. In diesem Punkt besonders deutlich zu erkennen ist die Spannung zur Weltdeutung und zur Eschatologie der jüdischen Apokalyptik.’ 26. For Tilly’s inclusion of Jesus in his description of early Christian faith, see Apokalyptik, pp. 93–6. 27. This point is already recognized in principle by the following publications: García Martínez, ‘Is Jewish Apocalyptic the Mother of Christian Theology?’, pp. 150–1; Matthias Henze, Jewish Apocalypticism in Late First Century Israel (TSAJ 142; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), pp. 253–320 (in nuancing the notion of time in 2 Baruch); Grant Macaskill, Revealed Wisdom and Inaugurated Eschatology in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity (JSJSup 115; Leiden: Brill, 2007); and Jill Hicks-Keeton, ‘Already/Not Yet: Eschatological Tension in the Book of Tobit’, JBL 132 (2013), pp. 97–117. 1

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coming in the future. The association of this portrait with what has been called ‘consistent’ or ‘thorough-going eschatology’ assumes that, in terms of temporality, the apocalyptic world-view expressed itself in a speculative preoccupation with the end of history. In addition to Schweitzer and Weiss mentioned above, this perspective underpinned the work of Wilhelm Bousset28 and, with modi¿cations, found support in the inÀuential work of Rudolf Bultmann,29 Ernst Käsemann,30 and Günther Bornkamn.31 More recently, it is represented in studies by Albert Nolan,32 Gerd Theissen and Annette Merz,33 Dale C. Allison,34 Paula Fredriksen,35 and Bart Ehrman.36 The emphasis on eschatology as a feature of Jesus’ preaching made it possible for some to ¿nd analogies between apocalyptic thought of Jesus’ time and prophetic expectations of the Hebrew Bible, with the latter harbouring a more ‘imminent’ hope in history and the former a more ‘transcendent’ one that involved a break between this and a ‘new’ world. In turn, Jesus ‘revitalized apocalyptic in prophetic form’.37 Whatever is claimed about Jesus, the non-Jesus, non-Christian

28. So in Wilhelm Bousset, Kyrios Christos (FRLANT N.S. 4; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1913), pp. 57–63. 29. Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, pp. 3–32 (‘The Message of Jesus’); cf. also idem, Jesus and the Word (trans. L. P. Smith and E. H. Lantero; New York: Scribner’s, 1958). 30. Cf. n. 3 above. 31. Günther Bornkamm, Jesus of Nazareth (trans. Irene and Fraser McLuskey; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995 [1956]). Bornkamm, as Rudolf Bultmann before him, regarded Jesus’ proclamation of God’s rule as concerned with the future, on the one hand, while posing an ‘existentialist’ challenge to decision, on the other, to those challenged by his message. 32. Albert Nolan, Jesus before Christianity (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1978), pp. 44–9. 33. See Gerd Theissen and Annette Merz, Der historische Jesus (2d ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1997), pp. 221–55. 34. See, e.g., Dale C. Allison, ‘A Plea for Thoroughgoing Eschatology’, JBL 113 (1994), pp. 651–68; idem, Jesus of Nazareth: Millenarian Prophet (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998). Allison, however, has more recently moved away from such a onesided emphasis without dispensing Jesus as a proclaimant of eschatology; see idem, The Historical Christ and the Theological Jesus (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), pp. 95–7. 35. Cf. Paula Fredriksen, From Jesus to Christ (2d ed.; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), pp. 127–30. 36. Bart D. Ehrman, Jesus: Apocalyptic Prophet of the New Milllennium (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999). 37. Cf. Theissen and Merz, Der historische Jesus, p. 229 (‘Seine Verkündigung ist Revitalisierung von Apokalyptik in prophetischer Form’); this statement functions as a summary of their comparative table for ‘Prophetie’ and ‘Apokalyptik’. 1

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Jewish apocalyptic tradition with which he is compared is made to look much the same: the effective activity of God in apocalyptic is relegated to the distant past or is speculatively assigned to the future, when God is to create a new world order. Accordingly, the notion of God being active in the present to counter forces of evil in anticipation of the end suffers neglect or is simply downplayed as negligible. Of course, not a small number of scholars have chosen to base their presentations of Jesus on a notion of time he is supposed to have proclaimed. Examples for this abound in recent decades, notoriously through the collective publications of the Jesus Seminar (established in 1985),38 as well as through Jesus books of prominent scholars such as Marcus J. Borg,39 Burton L. Mack,40 John Dominic Crossan,41 and John S. Kloppenborg.42 This ‘unapocalyptic’ approach to Jesus, which often lends particular weight to the Gospel of Thomas and a layered reconstruction of the saying source ‘Q’,43 has distanced Jesus from any notion

38. See, e.g., Robert W. Funk, Roy W. Hoover, and The Jesus Seminar, The Five Gospels: What Did Jesus Really Say? (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1993), pp. 1–35 (esp. pp. 3–4) and, on a more popular scale, Robert W. Funk, Honest to Jesus: Jesus for a New Millennium (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996), pp. 297–314. 39. E.g. Marcus J. Borg, ‘A Temperate Case for a Non-Eschatological Jesus’, Foundations and Facets Forum 2 (1986), pp. 81–102; idem, Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time: The Historical Jesus and the Heart of Contemporary Faith (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1994). 40. So, e.g., in Burton L. Mack, The Lost Gospel: The Book of Q & Christian Origins (New York: Harper Collins, 1993). 41. Among many publications, notably John Dominic Crossan, The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1991); idem, Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1994). 42. Cf. John S. Kloppenborg, Q, the Earliest Gospel: An Introduction to the Original Stories and Sayings of Jesus (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2007), who offers a ¿rm denial of ‘apocalyptic’ (in the sense of ‘historical determinism’ involving a timetable for eschatological events) as a feature of Q. As with others, the narrow working de¿nition of ‘apocalyptic’ restricts what dimensions and as to be argued below (section 3), even those relating to time, can be associated with this expression. Cf. further Kloppenborg’s discussion of de¿nition in his ‘Symbolic Eschatology and the Apocalypticism of Q’, HTR 80 (1987), pp. 287–306 (esp. p. 306). 43. The sayings source is, accordingly layered in a way that assigns Q-sayings regarding the future to a later stage of development, on the basis that they cohere with apocalyptic hopes preserved in Second Temple sources. For a helpful overview and discussion of the scholarly literature, along with tenets and methodological 1

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of God’s future reign; instead, it highlights his role as a sapiential teacher for whom the notion of God’s kingdom opens up what is possible for life in the present. In this branch of scholarship, as even more generally, there is a tendency to de¿ne ‘apocalyptic’ rather narrowly as a worldview primarily concerned with time. While the notion of God’s presence is not remote, it emerges through the profound instructions of a sage rather than from Jewish apocalyptic itself. As we shall see below, this reductionistic perspective risks overlooking the continuing value of redemption history in apocalyptic writings. Although the Jesus Seminar’s orientation to the historical Jesus has properly raised the question of how sapiential and apocalyptic elements may in fact be interrelated,44 the point to make here is not whether ‘apocalyptic’ should be expanded to take on a broader de¿nition, but rather to ask whether the understanding of time in apocalyptic sources should be reconsidered to begin with. If Jesus confronted manifestations of evil around him with God’s presence, how much was this in line with at least some apocalyptic thinkers of his day? II. Redressing Evil in Second Temple ‘Apocalyptic’ Thought The overview thus far attests a variety of ways ‘apocalyptic’ functions in scholarship concerned with Jesus, while the attendant understanding of the term in its Jewish context has been rather static. Accompanying the former is not infrequently the assumption that such a world-view in the New Testament is superior or at least innovative in comparison to what we ¿nd in Second Temple materials. Of course, it is impossible within the space of this contribution to problematize ‘apocalyptic’ adequately, not to mention the noun ‘apocalypse’ with which it is often attached.45 points of departure of the International Q Project, see the collection of essays by Christoph Heil, Das Spruchevangelium Q und der historische Jesus (SBAB 58; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2014). 44. For an important and incipient correction in relation to the ‘Q’ tradition, see Matthew J. Goff, ‘Discerning Trajectories: 4QInstruction and the Sapiential Background of the Sayings Source Q’, JBL 124 (2005), pp. 657–73. 45. After his thorough review of twentieth century scholarship on Paul, Barry Matlock, in Unveiling the Apocalyptic Paul: Paul’s Interpreters and the Rhetoric of Criticism (JSNTSup 127; Shef¿eld: Shef¿eld Academic, 1996), pp. 247–316, joins a chorus of those who question the casual use of ‘apocalyptic’ and counsel, where possible, against the use of the term at all; cf. also Philip R. Davies, ‘The Social World of the Apocalyptic Writings’, in The World of Ancient Israel: Sociological, Anthropological, and Political Perspectives (ed. Ronald E. Clements; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 251–71. 1

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What can be asserted nonetheless is that notions of evil and the problem of how and in what sense evil is overcome do not lie far underneath use of the expression.46 It remains here to sketch out something of the complexity and theological possibilities opened up by a brief, but fresh, look at selected Second Temple materials. As we have seen above, much of the scholarly discussion of an apocalyptic world-view (as well as of ‘apocalypse’ as a literary genre) in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries has been dominated by a model oriented around the future involving divine retribution and reward. Such a framework privileged ways of reading works such as Daniel, John’s Apocalypse, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch.47 As we have seen above, this portrait has served New Testament scholarship as a foil, that is, as a way to describe the world-view behind Jesus and then, on this basis, to mark a clear shift away from contemporary Jewish apocalyptic. To be sure, scholarship has already highlighted the shortcomings of a one-dimensional future orientation of Jewish apocalyptic thought. However, this has not so much resulted in a revisioning of an understanding of temporality than it has led to the addition or inclusion or other dimensions that can be considered in the literature to have been ‘revealed’.48 Thus one notes that the earliest recoverable ‘apocalypses’ seem just as interested in a spatial understanding of the world made

46. In this sense, it would be wrong simply to abandon the expression. Closer examination of texts actually containing the verb ‘to reveal’ in relation to overcoming evil is now a desideratum. Cf. n. 7 above. 47. It remains uncertain, however, whether each of these writings can be pressed into this scheme in a simplistic way. Following a sensitive consideration of vocabulary regarding time in 2 Baruch, see Henze, Jewish Apocalypticism, pp. 318– 19, concludes, ‘The past that is remembered in 2Bar is not simply the paradigmatic past that becomes the basis for mapping out the utopian future, as if the eschaton meant a return to the idealized origins. The past is the time when the eschaton began – by remembering the past, Baruch remembers the future.’ Equally, in the Book of Revelation, that Jesus the Lamb conquers does not simply rest on the very recent event of Jesus’ cruci¿xion (mentioned in passing in Rev. 11.8), but on a principle established from the beginning of time (13.8). 48. In this respect, the critique by Christopher Rowland of the one-dimensionally eschatological reading of Jewish apocalyptic literature is of enduring value; see idem, The Open Heaven: A Study of Apocalyptic in Judaism and Early Christianity (New York: Crossroad, 1982), pp. 9–72. Such an understanding of apocalyptic as the disclosure of esoteric wisdom has not gone lost, for example, on de Boer, ‘Paul and Apocalyptic Eschatology’, pp. 352–4, who offers several points of critique to reinforce the signi¿cance of ‘apocalyptic eschatology’, and Matlock, Unveiling, esp. pp. 258–62 and 282–7. 1

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possible through revealed knowledge, and in the disclosure of esoteric wisdom, as they are in the anticipated transformation of the present into a future cosmos.49 While both sapiential and cosmological dimensions of apocalyptic thought have enriched the way some have reÀected on Jesus (not to mention Paul), the structuring of temporality in apocalyptic writings, conveniently thought to be clear enough, has not been the recent subject of closer attention, beyond the casual contrasting between present and future reality. This does that mean scholarhips has overlooked all notions of temporality. Some writers of apocalyptic texts can be said to have demonstrated a concern with divine activity as a constant that shaped the unfolding story of Israel as a way of understanding and posing questions about the present. Thus God’s activity in the past leaves certain problems unresolved; in this light ‘apocalyptic’ marks an unfolding of history that returns to and brings closure to such residual, ‘open wounds’.50 Another, even more inÀuential way of understanding the temporal dimension of apocalyptic thought has been to recognize the correspondence found in some of the writings between primordial time (Urzeit) and projected time at the end of history (Endzeit). This framework, however, is placed in service of eschatology:51 here, various ideological snapshots of the 49. So the often repeated de¿nition by John J. Collins, ‘Introduction: Towards the Morphology of a Genre’, in Apocalypse: The Morphology of a Genre (ed. John J. Collins; Semeia 14; Missoula: Scholars Press, 1979), pp. 1–20 (9); The Apocalyptic Imagination (2d ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), pp. 2–11, esp. pp. 4–9. 50. So especially the so-called historical apocalypses (e.g. Animal Apocalypse of 1 En. 85–90; Apocalypse of Weeks, 1 En. 93.1-10 and 91.11-17; 4 Ezra, cf. ch. 14). This perspective is underscored by N. T. Wright, The Climax of the Covenant: Christ and the Law in Pauline Theology (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1991), for whom the Sin–Exile–Return framework enables a reading that regards Paul’s gospel as formulated to exhort Israel to return from a present state of being in ‘spiritual exile’. Wright handles Jesus tradition similarly in Jesus and the Victory of God (London: SPCK, 1996), e.g. pp. 193–7, 226–9. Referring to Jesus’ logion in Lk. 11.20//Mt. 12.28 (‘if by the ¿nger of God I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you’), Wright concludes that Jesus’ exorcisms are ‘clear signs’ that the God of Israel is beginning to defeat the enemy that has ‘held Israel captive’ (228). 51. The most important third- and second-century B.C.E. documents which draw on such a correspondence between beginning and end include the Enochic Book of Watchers (1 En. 1–36), the Dream Visions (1 En. 83–84 and 85–90), Apocalypse of Weeks (1 En. 93.1-10 and 91.11-17), Exhortation (1 En. 91.1-10, 18-19), Birth of Noah (1 En. 106–107), Similitudes (1 En. 37–71), Book of Giants and Jubilees. Except for the Similitudes, the impact of the perspectives upheld by these works in Second Temple literature (including writings among the Dead Sea Scrolls and Jewish literature composed in Greek) was signi¿cant. 1

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primordial past furnish images, symbols, and motifs that helped writers to imagine what the future will be like. Thus paradisical existence, once lost, will be restored (Rev. 2.7); a messianic ‘white bull’ concludes a story that began with an Adamic ‘white bull’ (Animal Apocalypse, 1 En. 85.3 and 90.37; cf. Rom. 5.12-21); eschatological judgment draws on imagery from the Great Flood as pre¿gures of the salvation of God’s people (1 En. 10.16-22; 91.4-9; 106.13–107.3). Such considerations of time in apocalyptic texts may reÀect on the past and future. But other than giving emphasis to hope and furnishing the imagination with details on what to expect, they do not suf¿ciently come to terms with what some texts think about the present. And so, within the framework of temporality, especially the sacred past, yet another dimension has been neglected, not only by New Testament scholars but also by specialists in ancient Jewish apocalyptic literature.52 In addition to helping to describe deteriorating conditions in the world and how the God of Israel will inaugurate a new age, language relating to both primordial or even to more recent time in apocalyptic writings also provided recipients a basis in the present for being con¿dent about such an outcome.53 That is, God’s de¿nitive activity is not only the object of hope in a near or distant future, but is ongoing, a continuum that connects the future with the past and present: God’s invasive presence to overcome and defeat evil in the past (e.g. at the time of the Great Flood), which can be manifested in the present, guarantees its annihilation in the future (1 En. 10; 15–16; 91.5-10; 106.13–107.1; Jub. 5–10; Book of Giants at 4Q530 2 ii + 6–7 + 8–12, lines 4-20). As is well known, for example, the Nephilim and mighty men in Gen. 6.4 were interpreted in several inÀuential Jewish compositions as giant-sized offspring of disobedient angels and daughters of humanity whose destructive activities led to a crisis in which God intervened to destroy their bodies, punish the angels, and ensure the survival of humans, who are integral to

52. For all its excellence in reviewing recent scholarship on Jewish ‘apocalyptic’ thought and literature and its implications for New Testament scholarship, the overview by Jörg Frey, ‘Die Apokalyptik als Herausforderung der neutestamentlichen Wissenschaft. Zum Problem: Jesus und die Apokalyptik’, in Apokalyptik als Herausforderung neutestamentlicher Theologie (ed. Michael Becker and Markus Öhler; WUNT 2/214; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), pp. 23–94, does not press towards the emphasis of the discussion. 53. In order to recover the perspectives of ancient readers to texts such as Jubilees and 1 Enoch, further audience-orientated work is needed; for an important beginning in this direction, see Rodney A. Werline, ‘Ritual, Order and the Construction of an Audience in 1 Enoch 1–36’, DSD 22, no. 3 (2015), pp. 325–41. 1

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the created order.54 Texts that pick up this tradition, among others, were not simply an attempt to retell the sacred past in order to reÀect on the future; they retold revered traditions so that they could be revealed anew. From the third century until the beginning of the Common Era, they communicated to Jewish contemporaries that evil, in whatever form and however rampant and overwhelming in the present age, is but a defeated power whose time is marked. Divine victory in the past, now revealed and interpreted in a particular way, could be perceived as an expression of God’s royal power (1 En. 84.2-6; Book of Giants at 4Q203 9 and 10; cf. the angels’ address of God as ‘king of kings’ in 1 En. 9). Since God’s rule has asserted itself in the cosmos on a global scale (e.g. through the Great Flood) and on behalf of God’s people Israel (so Exod. 15, in the Song of the Red Sea that celebrates the rescue of Israel from inimical destruction), then it cannot in principle be thought to have disappeared or to have withdrawn into the heavenly sphere, as one might be tempted to imagine.55 In light of such traditions, the present, contemporary world of experience can be re-imagined. Those who are pious can proceed with a measure of con¿dence; they can deal with the effects, for example, of demonic power, knowing that although it cannot be eradicated altogether before the ultimate end of things, it is nevertheless possible to address, curtail or manage its effects. This understanding of past as revealed and therefore sacred past and imminent future was therefore not ultimately a matter of charting or speculating about how time works, nor was it an escapist attempt to seek refuge from harsh reality. It was more a way of reclaiming religious identity, of recovering what it means for now to be God’s people. It could, in addition, manifest itself in terms of a theological anthropology that negotiated between the relentless vicissitudes and troubles of life and con¿dence within the framework of God’s covenant with Israel, that these will be overcome.56

54. Cf. Archie T. Wright, The Origin of Evil Spirits: The Reception of Genesis 6:1–4 in Early Jewish Literature (rev. ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2015); Stuckenbruck, The Myth of Rebellious Angels, pp. 1–57, 78–102. 55. The complaint raised by the souls of humans who have been killed in 1 En. 8.4–9.3 may give voice to a concern that in the midst of cultural and political upheaval God seems to have withdrawn; however, the apparent lack of injustice is met by a decisive defeat in the past of powers (10.1-16), a defeat that now conditions and informs the perspective of those who now receive the text. 56. Cf. further Loren T. Stuckenbruck, ‘The Human Being and Demonic Invasion: Therapeutic Models in Ancient Jewish and Christian Texts’, in The Myth of Rebellious Angels, pp. 161–86. 1

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In its inÀuential retelling of the story from creation until the Israelites’ freedom from bondage in Egypt, the Book of Jubilees, composed during around the middle of the second century B.C.E., describes the condition of humankind after their rescue from the Great Flood. Here (so Jub. 5.12) God is said to have given human beings a new and righteous nature, in order that with their whole being they live righteously and never again sin. After this momentous point in the storyline, the remaining narrative of the book con¿rms time and again that missteps among Jews continue to take place and that forces of evil continue to leave their mark among God’s people. However, both this new nature and the defeated condition of demonic powers, though they afÀict people and lead them astray to disobedience (narrated in Jub. 10), also persist in the story; the recreation of humanity after the deluge anticipates the ¿nal outcome, namely, the destruction of all evil and with it, the ful¿lment of God’s design for those who remain faithful. In other words, the ‘already’ of evil’s defeat principle and the ‘not yet’ of its destruction functioned as a revealed framework during the Second Temple period that could be taken for granted and re¿ned by Jesus and presentations about him in the New Testament. There were Jews whose religiosity was shaped by eschatological tension; the effects of God’s activity in the past could manifest themselves in the present, thus guaranteeing ultimate healing and salvation to come. It is therefore simply misleading, if not wrong, to infer that such piety was merely the domain of the historical Jesus and those who presented or reÀected on his signi¿cance in the New Testament. One storyline that guaranteed the establishment of God’s eschatological rule in the cosmos has been brieÀy mentioned above. The sociorhetorical function of retelling sacred stories for recipients can be appreciated by readings of apocalyptically oriented texts with a view to clues therein as to how they were to be received.57 Without retelling the traditional storyline, some texts reÀect its relevance for present maneuvers that can be undertaken to counteract evil. Motifs traceable to the Great Flood are discernible, for example, in references to the ‘bastard’ spirits in the Dead Sea materials (so 4Q510 1, 4-8 par. 4Q511 10, 1-6); these mamzerim, spirits that were thought to have emanated from the giants whose physical bodies had been destroyed in the Flood 57. A more obvious example for this is Noah’s prayer in Jub. 10.3-6 that God not allow evil spirits to rule over his children and ‘over the children of righteousness now and forever’ (10.6) is presented as a petition whose force extends to the recipients of the work. Cf. Werline, ‘Ritual, Order and the Construction of an Audience in 1 Enoch 1–36’.

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(cf. 1 En. 10.9), are powers of the present age that are described in the Songs of the Maskil as follows: …a time of the dominion [of] wickedness and in the eras of the humiliation of the sons of lig[ht] in the guilt of the times of those plagued by iniquities, not for an eternal destruction, [but] for the era of the humiliation of transgression. (4Q510 1.6b-7 par. 4Q511 10.4-5, my translation)

Here, it is by declaring the splendour of God’s radiance and celebrating God’s power that the activities of a catalogue of malevolent forces can be curbed. The Maskil presumes that his declarations about God are potent enough to diminish or counteract demonic powers that are at work in the present order of things (‘the dominion [of] wickedness’). The text works within a framework that holds in tension (a) the existence of a community who can unambiguously be declared ‘righteous’ and ‘upright’ and (b) the present world order as ‘a time of the dominion [of] wickedness’. Despite the latter, some measure of effective dealing with demonic evil is granted to the faithful. What God did in the sacred past remains effective. The age may be ‘evil’, but not in a hopeless sense. This is, of course, not the only way powers in the present age are dealt with. In some of the more explicitly community orientated and Ya‫ۊ‬ad texts, curses are pronounced again against a chief angel (cf. 4QBerakot at 4Q286 7 II, 3, 7) and Belial (Serekh ha-Ya‫ۊ‬ad at 1QS I, 16–III, 11; cf. Serekh ha-Mil‫ۊ‬amah at 1QM XIV, 9–10 par. 4Q491=4QMa 8–10 I, 6-7 and 4QCatena A at 4Q177 III, 8). The pronouncements against Belial and his lot bring together and merge several evolving features that in their speci¿city are partly lost yet whose conceptual framework is preserved within a new form. The eschatological framework found in earlier Enochic pronouncements of doom against the fallen angels (1 En. 15.4–16.3), exorcisms (11Q11 V and 4Q560), and hymns of protection (Songs of the Maskil), is retained in the community’s treatment of a chief demonic ¿gure, under whose activity evil as a whole is subsumed. In the Serekh ha-Ya‫ۊ‬ad, curses against Belial adapt language from the Aaronic blessing (Num. 6.24-27) and should be understood in relation to the larger context of covenant blessings and curses found in Deuteronomy (cf. Deut. 28–30). If we may read the liturgy near the beginning of 1QS in tandem with the hymn at the end (1QS X–XI), the way of dealing with Belial presupposes the community’s present communion in the present with ‘the sons of heaven’ (cf. 11Q XI, 6–8); already in ‘the council of the Àesh’ God has granted them a participation in an eternal possession.58 58. Though without recourse to the wider Jewish apocalyptic literature, this perspective is presented within the ‘Qumran literature’ in studies by HeinzWolfgang Kuhn, Enderwartung und gegenwärtiges Heil: Untersuchungen zu den 1

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Traditions that are pivotal in receiving Enochic tradition and paving the way for the Ya‫ۊ‬ad way of dealing with Belial may be seen not only in the Songs of the Maskil, but also in Jubilees. The book of Jubilees, to which mention has been made above, presents demonic activity under the leadership of Mastema as an inevitable characteristic of this age until the ¿nal judgment (10.7-13; cf. 10.8 – qedma kwennaneya [Eth. text], ‘until my judgment’). Thus, in Jubilees not only do angels reveal remedies to Noah (and his progeny) for the warding off or neutralizing the effects of evil spirits (Jub. 10.10-13), but also the patriarchs – Moses (1.19-20), Noah (10.1-6), and Abraham (12.19-20) – are made to utter prayers of deliverance against them (cf. also 11Q5 XIX). Torah tradition, recast in this way, both frames and takes its place among these means of guiding Jewish communities along the paths of faithful obedience in anticipation of an end whose outcome is already known. The present is shaped by both an eschatological past and a future that loops back as an inclusio to bring God’s activity in history to its proper end. III. Conclusion The revealed world-view of many apocalyptic texts does not focus myopically or simply speculatively on hope for a world yet to come. The recasting of stories and traditions relating to the past helped writers and those for whom they wrote to put contemporary life into perspective. The unveiling of key episodes in the sacred past made it possible for many Jews seeking to be faithful to regard themselves as covered by these events. God can be perceived as having defeated evil so categorically that malevolent powers that continue to threaten the well-being of God’s people are themselves already defeated. There remains a time of the end, often regarded as imminent, when this triumph of God will manifest itself fully. In the meantime, the power and effects of what God has done against evil can be experienced in the present as proleptic manifestations of eschatological reality. The revealed retelling of the past did something for at least some apocalyptic circles; recipients of both the widespread and inÀuential traditions found in 1 Enoch and Jubilees, as well as in many of the Dead Sea documents, would have understood themselves

Gemeindeliedern von Qumran (SUNT 4; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1965), and, more as a comparison between Pauline thought and the Two Spirits Treatise in Serekh ha-Ya‫ۊ‬ad, by Christian Grappe, ‘Philippiens 3,21–4,1 et 1QS IV 6-8’, in The Dead Sea Scrolls and Pauline Literature (ed. Jean-Baptiste Rey; STDJ 102; Leiden: Brill, 2014), pp. 109–21. 1

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to have been covered by the authority of and prayers against evil uttered by patriarchs on their behalf. They would have regarded demonic attack and danger – whether manifest through misdeeds, multiple forms of afÀiction, or socio-political oppression – as threats that do not vanish, but that can already be curbed or put into perspective by various means. Conditions of the eschaton, even if only provisionally, can already be put into effect. I do not wish to deny that some reconstructions of the historical Jesus are misguided in claiming that Jesus introduced something extraordinarily new on the scene. Like the perspectives of many others during the Second Temple period, Jesus, at least as presented in the Gospel tradition, represented criticisms of and departures from what other Jews were advocating as a way of responding to their contemporary world. Departures from contemporary forms of religiosity should, however, not be construed as a break from the whole, taking with it fundamental categories of thought, such as that regarding time. Rather than introducing an ‘already’ versus ‘not yet’ tension that modi¿ed a doctrine of the two ages attributed casually to contemporary apocalyptic, it is better to think that the early Jesus tradition built on and intensi¿ed such a framework, now ¿ltered through the Galilean Jesus. In his recent discussion of Jesus’ announcement of God’s kingdom, James H. Charlesworth has rightly noted, that ‘Jesus’ eschatology does not mean a preoccupation with the end of time. It does not mean a focus on what has not yet happened… [F]or Jesus, eschatology means a focus and emphasis on the present.’59 It is my contention here that, in a quali¿ed sense, this observation also holds true for many Second Temple writings deemed ‘apocalyptic’. With some quali¿cation, one can say that there is continuity in this respect between Jesus and contemporary Jewish apocalyptic. If we wish to argue for a measure of continuity between Jesus and his religious world, it is not inappropriate if a ¿nal word is said about why this matters, a question raised at the beginning of this essay. By placing Jesus in an apocalyptic world of thought and practice, we gain an understanding of what it meant for the New Testament Gospels. While the Gospels invite a reading of Jesus’ ministry in light of how they end – that is, with Jesus’ death and resurrection – their presentation of Jesus offered no Àight from persisting troubles or anxieties. Like some of his apocalyptically minded contemporaries, Jesus is not one whose activities make problems, whether suffering or the problem of disobedience,

59. James H. Charlesworth, The Historical Jesus (Nashville: Abingdon, 2008), p. 99.

1

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disappear. The demonic world may be defeated, but it has not vanished.60 However, like his contemporaries, too, Jesus is the herald of manifest hope, that puts at once the demonic world and the human predicament into perspective. Categorical descriptors such as ‘righteousness’, ‘being forgiven’, and being ‘healed’ or ‘saved’ claim a clear change on the part of those affected. While the old patterns and problems continue as long as the current world order remains, the net result of Jesus’ transformative acts – even the message that places his death and resurrection at the centre – is a hope secured through a conviction that God’s activity, revealed in sacred history, has a bearing on the present.

60. The Gerasene demoniac narrative in Mk 5.1-20, when read closely, does not recount a destruction of the demons themselves; rather it is the swine (v. 13) who drown in the sea. On the other hand – and to be understood as an exception – in order to reinforce the extent of Jesus’ power, the Greek text of the parallel passage in Mt. 8.28-34 suggests that the demons are destroyed as well. 1

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1

INDEXES INDEX OF REFERENCES HEBREW BIBLE/ OLD TESTAMENT Genesis 2.4 129 5.1 129 6.4 158 35.19 53 Exodus 1–2 15 34.29-35

129 159 129

Leviticus 13.45-46 14.1-32 19 19.18

5 4 136 136

Numbers 6.24-27

161

Deuteronomy 6 8 10.6 18.15 18.18 20.19-20 21.17 21.22-23 24.1-4 24.1 24.3 28–30 32.11 32.20

129 129 53 129 129 102 44 53, 54 74, 80, 136 136 136 161 131 111

Judges 8.32 12.7 12.10 12.15

53 53 53 53

Ruth 2.12

131

1 Samuel 26.23

111

2 Samuel 7.11-13

127

1 Kings 2.9-15 4.25 9.3 19.20 19.20 LXX

43 99 130 43 44

2 Kings 1.8 LXX 2.9-15

43, 44 44

Psalms 9.11 11.4 17.8 21 LXX 32.4 LXX 33.4 36.7 57.1 61.4 63.7 69.21 76.1-2

99 130 131 29, 33 111 111 131 131 131 131 25 130

78.2 80.1 91.4 118 132.13 Isaiah 1.10-17 2.2-4 6.9-10 7.14

128 130 131 90 99

9.1-2 11.1-3 25.6-9 31.5 35.1-10 40.3 40.4 41.1-13 41.1-4 42.1-4 49.11 54.10 58.1-12 58.3-6 62.11 65.17-25

99 71 7 75, 128, 130 128 127 71 131 71 70, 75 121 71 77 128, 140 121 121 137 49 128 71

Jeremiah 5.1 5.3 14.12 18–19 23.5-6 32 34.15

111 111 49 128 127 128 113

184 Ezekiel 18.21 31.18 39.14 39.16 43.6-9 Hosea 2.22 6.6 9.10 11.1

Joel 3.17

Index of References

113 102 53 53 130

111 99 99 126, 128, 129

Matthew 1–7 1 1.1 1.3-6 1.6 1.16 1.17 1.18 1.20 1.21 1.22-23 1.22 1.23

99

Amos 5.21-24 5.21

137 99

Micah 4.4 5.2 6.6-8 6.8 7.1

99 75 137 122 99

Zechariah 2.10-11 3.10 9.9-10 9.9 10.35-45 11.13 14 15.20-27

130 99 90 128 32 128 31 32

Malachi 3.1 4.1

43, 70, 75 43

NEW TESTAMENT Q 1 126 2 126 4 126

1.24 2.1 2.2-5 2.2 2.3 2.5-6 2.5 2.6 2.8 2.11 2.12 2.13 2.15 2.16-18 2.16 2.17-18 2.17 2.19 2.22 2.23 3–7 3.1-12 3.1-2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.9 3.11 3.12 3.13-17

12 127 74, 125, 127, 139 139 127 126 127 75 75, 127 117, 134 128 75, 128 75, 121, 130 75 139 75 127, 132 127 128 75 134 132 132, 139 75 75 75, 126, 128, 129 129 139 128 75, 128 75 75 75, 128 129 12 75 128 48 41 139 38, 42, 75 75 12

3.14 3.15 3.17 4.1-11 4.1-10 4.3 4.6 4.9-10 4.14-16 4.14 4.15-16 4.17-22 4.17 4.25–5.3 5 5.3–7.27 5.6 5.10 5.17-19 5.17-18 5.17 5.20 5.21-22 5.27-28 5.31-42 5.32 5.33-48 5.33-37 5.42 5.43-44 6.1 6.10 6.22-23 6.30 6.33 7 7.1-23 7.6 7.7-8 7.12 7.14 7.19 7.21-23 7.23 7.25 7.27-28 7.28

76 138 76 50 129 126 126 132 128 128 76 12 75, 76 11 135 129 135, 138 138 129, 134 79 79 135, 138 135 135 135 80 135 79 21 136 135, 138 135 123 119 135, 138 121 79 139 121 135 130 79 135 138 41 127 129

Index of References 8–10 8 8.2 8.4 8.5-13 8.6 8.8 8.11-12 8.13 8.17 8.22 8.25 8.26 8.28-34 8.29 9.2-8 9.2 9.13 9.14 9.16-17 9.17 9.18-26 9.18 9.21 9.22 9.27-31 9.27 9.29 9.34 10 10.1 10.5-42 10.5-16 10.5-6 10.5 10.6 10.7 10.8 10.14-39 10.18 10.24-25 10.25 10.32-33 10.37-40 11.1–13.52

129 12 132 5, 79 12, 115 132 115, 132 140, 141 117 128 79 132 119 164 77 114, 115, 117 117 137 48, 49 78 78 114, 115 132 117 117 114, 115, 117 77, 127 117 127 124 124 129 141 140–2 140 134 76 124 124 140 132 127 77 77 129

11.1 11.2 11.3 11.8-9 11.9 11.10 11.12-13 11.12 11.13.14 11.18 11.19 11.25-27 11.27 11.28-30 12 12.1-14 12.1-13 12.1 12.3 12.6 12.7 12.14 12.17-21 12.17 12.18-21 12.22-32 12.23 12.24 12.25 12.27 12.28 12.29 12.41-42 12.50 13 13.1-52 13.3-52 13.10-18 13.11-12 13.14-15 13.16-17 13.19 13.35 13.36

129 131 77 41 42 75, 128 44 45–7 38 48, 49, 51 48, 50, 131 77 126, 131 131 126 80 137 136 127, 136 78 137 80 128, 141 128 77, 140 47 77, 127 127 46 127 48, 76, 157 45, 47 78, 140, 141 135 126, 132 148 129 7 7 128 78 45 128 119

185 13.38 13.41 13.46 13.52 13.53–18.35 13.53 14.12 14.28 14.30 14.31 14.33 15 15.1-20 15.17-20 15.20 15.21-28 15.22 15.23 15.24

15.25 15.26 15.27 15.28 16.5 16.14 16.16 16.17 16.18 16.19 16.20 16.21 17.4 17.5 17.8 17.12 17.14-21 17.14-16 17.15 17.17 17.18 17.19

140 138 118 78, 82 129 129 39 132 132 119 77, 126, 133 136 79, 136 136 79 114, 115, 117 77, 117, 127 117 117, 127, 134, 141, 142 132 139 118 117, 118 119 41 77, 119, 126 116 134 136 119 127 132 76, 129 118 38 119 120 132 120 120 120

186 Matthew (cont.) 17.20 119–21 18 120 18.1-35 129 18.6 114, 119, 121 18.17 139 18.18 136 18.20 78, 130 18.26 132 19–25 129 19.1-12 80 19.1 129 19.3-9 135, 136 19.9 80 19.28 134 20.1-16 140 20.20 132 20.30-31 127 21.4-5 128 21.4 128 21.5 127 21.9 127 21.15 127 21.16 128 21.18-22 114, 119, 120 21.18-19 120 21.19 121 21.20 121 21.21-22 119 21.21 121 21.31 135 21.32 138 21.41-46 77 21.42 128 21.43 141 21.45 140 22.8-9 140 22.37-40 136 22.42-45 127 22.43-45 132 22.43-44 128 23 137 23.1-36 121 23.2 137 23.3 137

Index of References 23.13 23.23 23.25-26 23.27 23.28 23.34 23.37-38 23.38 24.2–25.46 24.12 24.14 24.20 25.34 25.40 26.1 26.28 26.42 26.56 26.63 26.64 27.9 27.11 27.17 27.20 27.22 27.29 27.34 27.37 27.42 27.43 27.51-52 27.54 27.57-61 27.62-66 28.7-10 28.8 28.9 28.11-15 28.16-20 28.17 28.18 28.19-20 28.19

136 121, 122, 124, 137 136 53 138 131 131 131 129 138 139–41 137 127 127 129 72, 76 135 128 77 77 128 127 126 126 126 127 25 127 114, 121, 127 126 76 125 52 62 9 8 132 62 10, 131 132 121, 126, 130 13, 140, 141 78, 139

28.20 31 Mark 1 1.1–16.8 1.1–3.19 1.1 1.2-4 1.2-3 1.5 1.6 1.7 1.8 1.9-10 1.9 1.11 1.14-15 1.17 1.22 1.24 1.27 1.40-45 1.44 2 2.1-12 2.5 2.10 2.18 2.19 2.21-22 2.23-28 2.23 2.25 2.27-28 2.28 3 3.1-6 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.11 3.13-19

78, 80, 130, 137 126

71, 126 3 12 71, 75, 125 70 21 41 43, 44, 48 38, 42, 44, 51 71 44 38 71 71, 112, 114 28 91 71 72 4 4, 5 132 114 117 126 48, 49 72 72, 73 73 73 127 73 126 126 73 74 73 41 125 11

Index of References 3.20-30 3.20 3.21 3.22 3.27 3.31 4.1-34 4.1-20 4.1-2 4.10-14 4.10 4.11-12 4.13-20 4.13-14 4.14-15 4.36 4.40 5.1-20 5.4 5.6 5.13 5.21-43 6.1 6.2 6.4-5 6.5 6.14-15 6.14 6.15 6.31 6.51-52 7 7.6-7 7.14-23 7.15 7.19 7.24-30 7.37 8 8.1 8.22–10.52 8.28 8.29-31 8.29 8.31 8.33–9.1

47 48 48 48 45 48 148 7 5 5 6 5 5 6 45 5 114 164 42 132 164 114 39 91 41 39 41 39, 42, 51 41 48 133 136 74 73 136 4, 74, 136 114 91 20 48 28 41 126 72 28, 126 20

8.34 9.7 9.13 9.18 9.29 9.31 10.1-12 10.1-9 10.21 10.26 10.28 10.33-34 10.35-45 10.39 10.42-45 10.47-48 10.52 11–13

11–12 11 11.1-11 11.9-10 11.11 11.12-14 11.13 11.14 11.15-18 11.15-17 11.15-16 11.17 11.18-19 11.18 11.20-26 11.20-21 11.21 11.22-24 11.23-24 11.27-33 11.27-28 11.28-34 11.30-33

20, 22, 28, 29 72 38 42, 43 49, 120 28 74 136 28 91 28 28 20 29 28 127 28 83, 84, 88, 104, 105, 107 93, 96 31, 89, 92, 95 31, 88 89, 90, 127 31, 88 88, 95–7 102 102 58 88, 95–7 102 88, 101 92, 93 89, 91, 94, 104 114 101 88 95, 96 95, 96 88, 92, 93 59 96 94

187 11.32 12 12.1-12 12.8 12.12 12.13-17 12.15 12.17 12.18-27 12.25 12.28-34 12.35-44 12.35-37 12.37 12.38-40 12.40 12.41-44 13 13.2 13.5 13.7 13.9 13.10 13.11 13.12-13 13.13 13.18 13.28-34 13.28-30 13.33 13.35-37 13.35 13.37 14 14.3-9 14.22-24 14.26-30 14.27 14.28 14.29 14.50 14.65 15

92, 93 89, 92, 95 59, 94 88 92–4 88 94 92, 93 88 95 88 88 72, 127 89 94 88, 94, 106 88 28, 95, 96, 106 88, 101 95, 97 95, 97 29, 94, 95, 97 141 95, 97 95, 97 95, 97, 104 137 95 88 28, 95, 97 89 28, 95, 97 28, 95, 97 73 21, 23 72 8 8 8, 9 8 19 24 30, 66

188 Mark (cont.) 15.2 15.6-15 15.9-15 15.9 15.12 15.15-20 15.15 15.16-27 15.16-20 15.18 15.19 15.20 15.21 15.22-24 15.22 15.23 15.24 15.25 15.26 15.27 15.29 15.2932 15.31-32 15.32 15.38 15.39 15.42-47 15.42-46 15.43 15.44-45 15.44 15.46 16.1 16.3 16.4 16.7 16.8 16.9-20 16.9-11 16.11 16.12-13 16.13 16.14-18 16.14

Index of References

29, 30 30 59 30 30 23 23 25 24–6, 30, 34 30 132 23 18 23 23 24, 25 23, 33 23 24, 30 23 25 24 30 30 73 21, 23, 30, 125 52 21, 23 62, 65 63 23, 52 52, 63 63 8 8 8, 9, 13 8, 14, 52 12 13 13 13 13 13 13

16.15 16.17-18 16.19-20 16.19 16.20

13 13 13 12 13, 52

Luke 1.1 1.4 1.17 1.75 2 3 3.1–6.19 3.16 3.27 4 4.1-13 4.7-8 4.18-31 5.1-11 5.33 6.12-20 7.16 7.26 7.33 7.35 8.1-18 9.6 9.7 9.8 9.19 10.21-22 11.14-23 11.20 11.31-32 11.42 11.49 12.28 13.28-29 13.38 16.16 16.22 22.20 23.50-56 24.13-35 24.19

11 11 42, 51 138 132 126 12 42 42 126 50 132 12 12 48, 49 11 41 42 48, 50, 51 131 148 40 39 41 41 131 47 157 141 122 131 119 141 140 45 53 72, 76 52 13 41

24.52 John 1.9 1.15 1.19-24 1.21 1.25 1.30 2.13-22 3.28 3.29 3.30 6.14 10.41

132

11 16.8 16.10 18.31 19.17 19.31 19.38-42 19.39-41 20.11-18 21

38 38 38 38 38 38 59 38 38 38 41 36, 38–40, 42, 43, 51 132 138 138 54 24 53 53 63 13 9

Acts 3.22-23 7.37 11.17 16.31

129 129 114 114

Romans 3.21 4 5.12-21 11.18

115 139 158 82

1 Corinthians 11.25 15.3-4 15.4 15.5-8

72 53 53 9

2 Corinthians 2.14 32

Index of References Galatians 3 5.22-23 6.2

139 122 135

1 Thessalonians 1.3 124 4.13-18 83 1 Timothy 1.16

114

Hebrews 11

116

Revelation 2.7 11.3-12 11.8 13 13.3 13.8 13.13-14

158 42 156 41 41 156 41

APOCRYPHA Wisdom of Solomon 7.20 47 Ecclesiasticus 1.5 24.23 36.18-19 48.12-14 48.12 51.25-27 Baruch 4.1

131 138 130 44 44 131

138

PSEUDEPIGRAPHA 1 Enoch 1–36 157 8.4–9.3 159 9 159 10 158 10.1-16 159

10.9 10.16-22 15–16 15.4–16.3 37–71 83–84 84.2-6 85–90 85.3 90.37 91.1-10 91.4-9 91.5-10 91.11-17 91.18-19 93.1-10 106–107 106.13–107.3 106.13–107.1

161 158 158 161 157 157 159 157 158 158 157 158 158 157 157 157 157 158 158

4 Ezra 7.49 14 7.116-127

151 157 151

Apocalypse of Elijah 1.20-22 49 Apocalypse of Moses 40.2-3 63 Assumption of Moses 10.1 149 Jubilees 1.19-20 5–10 5.12 10.1-6 10.3-6 10.6 10.7-13 10.8 10.10-13 12.19-20

162 158 160 162 160 160 162 162 162 162

189 Liber Antiquitum Biblicarum 59–60 47 Psalms of Solomon 17.21-25 127 Sibylline Oracles 4.119-24 40 5.137-41 40 5.361-96 40 Testament of Abraham A 20.11 63 Testament of Jacob 7.17 49 DEAD SEA SCROLLS 1Q11 V 161 1QM XIV, 9-10

161

1QS I, 16–III, 11 X–XI

161 161

4Q177 III, 8 p

161

4Q203 9 10

159 159

4Q285 frag. 5

64

4Q286 7 II, 3, 7

161

4Q510 1, 4-8 1.6b-7

160 161

190 4Q511 10.1-6 10.4-5

Index of References

160 161

4Q530 2 ii +6-7+8-12, ll. 4-20 158 4QMa 8-10 I, 6-7

161

11Q XI, 6-8

161

11Q5 11Q14 frag. 1, col. i

64

11Q19 64.7-13

54

XIX

162

11QTemple 46.12

130

PHILO In Flaccum 36–39 38 72.84-85

26 34 26

Legatio ad Gaium 300 53 De mutatione nominum 201 111 De opi¿cio mundi 93 111 De plantatione 82 111

JOSEPHUS Jewish Antiquities 8.2.5 47 18.63-64 59 18.85-87 41 18.116-17 36 19.270 33 20.97-99 41 20.167-68 41 20.188 41 20.200-203 54 Against Apion 2.73 25, 53 2.211 53 2.220 53 The Life 420-21

62

Jewish War 2.117 2.259 2.261-63 2.285-86 4.317 5.2 5.289 5.449 6.300

54 41 41 41 54 26 64 64 131

MISHNAH ’Abot 3.2 3.3 3.6 Sanhedrin 6.5-6 6.5 6.6

130 130 130

53, 60 65 65

BABYLONIAN TALMUD Qiddušin 31b 53, 66

abbat 31a

135

Sanhedrin 43a 65b

25 49, 50

MIDRASH Sipra on Leviticus 19.18 136 OTHER RABBINIC WORKS Sema‫ۊ‬ot 13.7 53, 60, 65 NEW TESTAMENT APOCRYPHA AND PSEUDEPIGRAPHA Gospel of Peter 11.44 8 12.53-54 8 12.55 8 13.56-57 8 14.58-59 9 14.60 9 Gospel of Thomas 9 6 14 49 CLASSICAL AND ANCIENT CHRISTIAN LITERATURE Artemidorus Oneirocritica 2.56 20 Chariton Chaereas and Callirhoe 4.2.7 20, 26 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Roman Antiquities 769.2 33

Index of References Eusebius Historia ecclesiastica iii.39.16 15 v.8.1-5 16 vi.14.6-7 16 Hermogenes Epitome of Law 1 60 Irenaeus Against Heresies 1.24.4 22 iii.1.1 16 iii.10.5 12 Jerome Commentariorum in Matthaeum libri IV 27.32 24 John Chrysostom Homiliae in Matthaeum 54.1 40 Justin Dialogue with Trypho 7.14-15 42 Justinian Digesta 48.4 48.4.1-11 48.4.1 48.19 48.19.2 48.19.13 48.19.16.9 48.19.22 48.19.38 48.19.38.2 48.24 48.24.1-3 48.24.3

58 58 58 59 62 59 60 60 60 60 56, 57, 64 57 58

lex Puteolana II.13 57

191

Livy Ab urbe condita 1.8 33

Ad Marciam de consolatione 6.20.3 26

Lucian Demonax 1–2

Tacitus Annals 15.44.4

26

Marcian Public Matters 2 57

Histories 4.3 5.13

20 131

Origen Commentarii in evangelium Joannis 6.30 40

Theophylactus Explanation of Matthew 14.2 40

Paulus Views 1 5

27

57, 62 60

Edict 48

Plato Gorgias 473bc

26

Plautus Carbonaria 2

20

Plutarch Aemilius Paullus 1 27 Demetrius 1.4-6 Moralia 554 A/B Pericles 1–2

Ulpian Duties of Proconsul 7 58 9 56, 57

62

OSTRACA, PAPYRI AND TABLETS CPR VI 1 63 O.Did. 344

63

P.Diog. 11 12

63 63

P.Grenfell II 77

63

27

20

27

Seneca De vita beata 19.3 20

P.Oxy 51 475 493 736 736, col. ii, l. 13 2857

63 63 63 63 63 63

192 P.Pintaudi 52

Index of References

63

Greek Magical Papyri I.42-195 49 IV.47-829 49 IV.3209-54 49 V.145 42 VII.319-34 49 VII.359-69 49 VII.664-85 49 VII.703-26 49 VII.740-55 49 XIII.203 42

INSCRIPTIONS Egerton GEger fr.1r/ P. Koln 255r, 19-23 4 GEger fr.1r, 12-15 4

SEG VII, no. 13 VII, no. 13 l. 10 VII, no. 13 l. 11

61 62 62

INDEX OF AUTHORS Ahmed, S. 85, 93, 94, 97, 101 Aichele, G. 103, 104 Allison, D. C., Jr. 37, 46, 112, 114, 128–31, 135, 136, 141, 153 Ashton, J. 3 Aune, D. E. 40 Aviam, M. 64 Bacon, B. W. 129 Baker, D. L. 81 Bammel, E. 37, 41, 43 Barnes, T. D. 33 Barnett, P. 41 Barth, G. 119 Barton, S. C. 10, 48, 78, 80, 81, 83, 88, 105, 108, 109, 124 Bauckham, R. 2, 15 Bauer, D. 123 Beard, M. 32 Beavis, M. A. 114 Becker, A. H. 70 Becker, J. 36, 150 Begg, C. T. 111 Best, E. 29 Betz, H. D. 101, 102, 135 Betz, O. 47 Black, C. C. 150 Blount, B. K. 20, 22, 31 Böcher, O. 49 Boda, M. J. 112 Bøe, S. 19 Boer, M. de 147, 156 Boffo, L. 61 Bogad, L. M. 98 Bond, H. K. 20, 24, 26 Borg, M. J. 154 Bornkamm, G. 153 Bousset, W. 153 Brandon, S. G. f. 59 Braun, H. 150 Braverman, I. 99 Brooks, A. 84, 106 Brower, K. E. 20

Brown, G. 103 Brown, R. E. 20, 22, 33, 38, 43, 61, 62 Bruner, F. D. 120 Brym, R. 106 Bultmann, R. 4, 39, 111, 144, 153 Burkitt, F. C. 125 Burridge, R. A. 27, 28, 30 Butz, D. A. 99 Camery-Hoggatt, J. 30, 102 Campbell, D. A. 111 Campbell, W. S. 23, 69 Capes, D. B. 28 Carmi, I. 65 Carson, D. A. 122 Catchpole, D. R. 137 Cerulo, K. A. 100, 101 Chapman, D. W. 56, 58 Charlesworth, J. H. 163 Chau, A. Y. 88 Chilton, B. D. 58 Chvasta, M. 98 Cohen-Cruz, J. 98 Coleman, K. M. 26 Collins, A. Y. 19, 40 Collins, J. J. 33, 157 Cook, J. G. 55, 57 Corley, J. 83 Corrigall-Brown, C. 106 Crook, Z. 122 Crossan, J. D. 6, 55, 154 Crowder, S. B. 19, 21 Cullmann, O. 39 Culpepper, A. 117 Cumont, F. 60, 61 Dapaah, D. 37 Davies, P. R. 155 Davies, S. L. 48 Davies, W. D. 46, 112, 114, 128–31, 135, 136, 141 Deines, R. 135 DelCogliano, M. 22, 24

194

Index of Authors

Derrett, J. D. M. 21 Deutsch, C. 131 Dewey, J. 20, 28, 29, 30 Dibelius, M. 46, 47 Diehl, J. 96 Dodd, C. H. 148 Donahue, J. 103 Dowd, S. E. 28 Duff, P. D. 31 Duff, T. 27 Duffy, M. 90 Duling, D. C. 47 Dunn, J. D. G. 36, 48, 53, 69, 115, 126, 128, 129, 131, 133, 136, 138 Edwards, J. 97 Egger-Wenzel, R. 83 Ehrman, B. D. 55, 153 Eisenbaum, P. 68 Elliott, J. K. 23 Elliott, M. A. 83 Elliott, S. S. 29 Epplett, C. 26 Ernst, J. 38 Evans, C. A. 55, 97, 112 Eve, E. 149 Feldman, L. H. 111 Ferda, T. S. 37 Fitzmyer, J. A. 42, 53 Foster, S. L. 102 France, R. T. 37, 88, 90, 92, 101, 110, 112, 114, 115, 117, 120, 123 Frayer-Griggs, D. 37 Fredriksen, P. 153 Freund, R. A. 65 Frey, G. 158 Friedlander, G. 135 Frosh, S. 85 Funk, R. W. 20, 37, 154 Gamson, W. A. 103 García Martínez, F. G. 144, 152 Gardner, A. E. 21 Gathercole, S. 6, 130 Geisler, M. E. 99 Gerhardsson, B. 129 Ginzberg, L. 44 Gladigow, B. 33 Gnilka, J. 34, 39, 127, 129

Goff, M. J. 155 Goodacre, M. 6, 11 Goppelt, L. 150 Graol, H. van 105 Grappe, P. 162 Gray, T. C. 106 Greco, M. 84 Gregg, M. 104 Grindheim, S. 116 Grundmann, W. 39 Gundry, R. H. 22, 122 Gurtner, D. M. 76 Hagedorn, A. C. 93, 94 Hagner, D. A. 68–70, 76, 115, 118, 120, 122, 129 Hahn, F. 150, 151 Hanson, P. 148 Hardt, M. 85 Harrington, D. J. 103, 120 Harrisville, R. A. 71, 82 Hawthorne, G. F. 116 Hays, R. 109, 112 Heil, C. 155 Hengel, M. 25, 39, 59, 79 Henze, M. 152, 156 Hicks-Keeton, J. 152 Hollenbach, P. 37, 38, 50 Honoré, T. 56, 57 Hooker, M. D. 4, 28, 43, 73, 82, 91, 100, 102 Hoover, R. W. 154 Hope, V. M. 26 Horst, P. W. van der 60, 61 Horster, M. 34 Hultgren, A. 80 Hummel, R. 135, 137 Hurtado, L. 146 Hutcheon, L. 101, 103 Iersel, B. van 21 Incigneri, B. J. 104 Jasper, J. 84, 86–9, 96, 98, 104, 105 Jaubert, A. 111 Jeremias, J. 6, 126 Jestrovic, S. 98 Johnson, L. T. 110 Joseph, S. 37

Index of Authors Kandiah, K. 98 Karrer, M. 150 Käsemann, E. 144 Kendall, D. 91 Kim, S. 69 Kingsbury, J. D. 114, 126, 132 Kittel, G. 145 Klandermans, B. 103 Kloppenborg, J. S. 154 Klutz, T. 48–50 Knowles, M. 128 Koester, H. 6 Konradt, M. 128 Koskenniemi, E. 25, 41 Kraeling, C. H. 40, 43, 46 Kraus, T. J. 4, 8 Kruger, M. J. 4 Kuhn, H.-W. 161, 162 Kümmel, W. G. 47, 149, 150 Kupp, D. 130

Matera, F. J. 30, 113 Matlock, B. 155, 156 Mayer, T. 99 McCane, B. R. 55, 62 McDonald, L. M. 67 McNeilly, R. B. 98 Meier, J. P. 38, 45, 119, 120 Merz, A. 153 Metzger, B. 12, 13, 49, 52, 60–2 Meyer, R. 39 Michie, D. 20, 29 Mitchell, P. D. 34 Moltmann, J. 116 Mommsen, T. 56 Morris, L. 120 Morris, W. F. 98 Moses, D. A. 129 Moss, C. M. 128 Murphy-O’Connor, J. 37, 40 Myers, C. 19, 31

Ladd, G. E. 149 Lane, W. L. 42, 92 Le Donne, A. 47 Leander, H. 32 Lemmings, D. 84, 106 Levine, A.-J. 110 Lewis, I. M. 50 Lie, J. 106 Liljeström, M. 84 Lindemann, A. 53 Lindsay, D. R. 111 LoÀand, J. 90 Lohmeyer, E. 40 Loos, H. van der 42 Lührmann, D. 4, 5 Lutz, C. 84 Luz, U. 119, 128–31, 135, 141

Nanda, S. 100 Nanos, M. D. 69 Nave, G. D. 113 Neufeld, D. 48–50 Neyrey, J. 93, 94 Nicklas, T. 4, 5, 8 Nisula, K. 25 Nolan, A. 153 Nolland, J. 48, 116, 122 Novakovic, L. 127

Macaskill, G. 152 Macionis, J. J. 91 Mack, B. L. 154 Madlen, M. W. 34 Magness, J. 55 Malbon, E. S. 21, 28 Marcus, J. 3, 19, 20, 23, 24, 26, 33, 40, 42, 43 Marshall, C. D. 113, 117 Mason, S. 10

Overman, J. A. 135, 138 Paasonen, S. 84 Parrott, W. G. 93 Perkins, P. 119 Perrin, N. 45, 47 Perrot, C. 41 Pickerill, J. 103 Pobee, J. 30 Preuss, G. D. 110 Przybylski, B. 124, 138 Rad, G. von 110 Reed, A. Y. 70 Reinach, S. 20 Reiser, M. 37 Rhoads, D. 20, 28, 29, 117

195

196

Index of Authors

Richardson, P. 103 Riches, J. 150 Riggenbach, E. 111 Robinson, O. 56 Rosaldo, M. 105 Roskam, H. 29 Ross, A. 91, 94 Rowland, C. 156 Rowley, H. H. 147 Russell, D. S. 147 Ryken, L. 99 Saldarini, A. J. 134 Sanders, E. P. 59, 97 Schmidt, T. E. 32, 33 Schnabel, E. J. 56, 58 Schnelle, U. 131, 139, 141, 150 Schweitzer, A. 46, 147 Schweizer, E. 150 Segal, D. 65 Seigworth, G. 104 Senior, D. 28, 30, 121 Seremetakis, N. 100 Sherwin-White, A. N. 54 Shiner, W. 29 Shively, E. E. 97 Sim, D. C. 135, 136, 139, 140 Skinner, M. L. 118 Smith, D. M. 150 Smith, M. 40 Söding, T. 149, 150 Spivey, R. A. 150 Stanton, G. N. 80, 81, 125, 127, 128, 140, 141 Stegemann, H. 149 Stein, R. H. 91 Stendahl, K. 69 Stenner, P. 84 Stinespring, W. 49 Stuckenbruck, L. T. 146, 147, 159 Stuhlmacher, P. 141 Suggs, M. J. 131

Taylor, J. 37, 38 Telford, W. R. 2, 37, 39, 53, 66, 73, 74, 83, 92 Theissen, G. 19, 22, 31, 116, 153 Thurston, B. 108 Tilly, M. 152 Tolbert, M. A. 30 Toppari, J. 25 Troost, D. van 106 Twelftree, G. H. 37, 117, 118, 149 Vanhoozer, K. J. 109 Versnel, H. S. 32 Voorwinde, S. 83 Warms, R. 100 Warren, L. B. 32 Watson, F. 1 Webb, R. 38 Weder, H. 150 Weiss, J. 147 Wellhausen, J. 14 Werline, R. A. 158, 160 Westerholm, S. 69, 123 White, G. M. 84 Wilkins, M. 119 Williams, J. F. 21 Willits, J. 127 Wilson, W. T. 117 Wink, W. 38 Winn, A. 98 Wintermute, O. S. 49 Witherington, B., III 20, 96 Wrede, W. 126 Wright, A. T. 159 Wright, N. T. 69, 113, 149, 157 Yadin, Y. 64, 65 Zias, J. 65 Zulueta, F. de 60–2