Muted Voices of the New Testament: Readings in the Catholic Epistles and Hebrews 9780567667786, 9780567667809, 9780567667793

Citation preview

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Muted Voices of the New Testament

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Library of New Testament Studies 587 Formerly the 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

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Muted Voices of the New Testament Readings in the Catholic Epistles and Hebrews Edited by Katherine M. Hockey, Madison N. Pierce and Francis Watson

T&T CLARK Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2017 Paperback edition first published in 2019 © Katherine M. Hockey, Madison N. Pierce and Francis Watson, 2017 Katherine M. Hockey, Madison N. Pierce, and Francis Watson have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified 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. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Hockey, Katherine M., editor. Title: Muted voices of the New Testament : readings in the Catholic Epistles and Hebrews /edited by Katherine M. Hockey, Madison N. Pierce, and Francis Watson. Description: New York : Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2017. |Series: Library of New Testament studies ; 565 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017013753 (print) | LCCN 2017021939(ebook) | ISBN 9780567667793(epdf) | ISBN 9780567667786 (hb : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Bible. Catholic Epistles–Criticism, interpretation, etc. | Bible. Hebrews–Criticism, interpretation, etc. Classification: LCC BS2777 (ebook) | LCC BS2777 .M88 2017(print) | DDC 227/.906–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017013753 ISBN: HB: 978-0-5676-6778-6 PB: 978-0-5676-8651-0 ePDF: 978-0-5676-6779-3 Series: Library of New Testament Studies, volume 587 Typeset by Newgen Knowledge Works Pvt Ltd., Chennai, India. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

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Contents List of Contributors List of Abbreviations

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Introduction Katherine M. Hockey, Madison N. Pierce and Francis Watson Tradition and Innovation: Reassessing 1 Peter’s Contributions to the Making of Christian Identity David G. Horrell 1 Peter 4.16: Shame, Emotion and Christian SelfPerception Katherine M. Hockey Building a Holy House: Identity Formation in the Community Rule, 4QFlorilegium and 1 Peter 2.4–10 Katie Marcar Identity, Eschatology and Ethics in 2 Peter 2.17–22 Scott Hafemann ‘From the Beginning’: The Formation of an Apostolic Christian Identity in 2 Peter and 1–3 John David R. Nienhuis Remember ‘Jesus Saved a People Out of Egypt’ Ruth Anne Reese Messianic Jewish Identity in James Richard Bauckham ‘Every Perfect Gift’: James, Paul and the Created Order Francis Watson ‘Handsome is . . .’: Profiling the Children of God in 1 John Wendy E. S. North Wilderness Identity and Pentateuchal Narrative: Distinguishing between Jesus’ Inauguration and Maintenance of the New Covenant in Hebrews David M. Moffitt Hebrews 3.7–4.11 and the Spirit’s Speech to the Community Madison N. Pierce ‘In’ or ‘Near’? Heavenly Access and Christian Identity in Hebrews Nicholas J. Moore Epilogue: A Reflection Robert W. Wall

Bibliography Subject Index Scripture Index

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1 9 27 41 55 71 87 101 121 139

153 173 185 199 211 231 233

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Contributors Richard Bauckham (PhD, University of Cambridge) is Professor Emeritus at the University of St Andrews. Scott Hafemann (Dr.theol., Eberhard-Karls-Universität Tübingen) is Reader in New Testament at the University of St Andrews. Katherine M. Hockey (PhD, Durham University) is Postdoctoral Research Associate at the University of Exeter. David G.  Horrell (PhD, University of Cambridge) is Professor of New Testament Studies and Director of the Centre for Biblical Studies at the University of Exeter. Katie Marcar (PhD, Durham University) is Teaching Fellow at Otago University, Dunedin, New Zealand. David M. Moffitt (PhD, Duke University) is Senior Lecturer at the University of St Andrews. Nicholas J. Moore (DPhil, University of Oxford) is Assistant Curate at All Saints’ Church, Stranton, UK. David R.  Nienhuis (PhD, University of Aberdeen) is Professor of New Testament Studies at Seattle Pacific University. Wendy E. S. North (PhD, Bangor University) is Honorary Research Fellow at Durham University and previously taught at the University of Hull. Madison N.  Pierce (PhD Candidate, Durham University) is Assistant Professor of Biblical Studies & Theology at Tyndale University College, Toronto, Canada. Ruth Anne Reese (PhD, University of Sheffield) is Professor of New Testament and Chair of the New Testament Department at Asbury Theoloical Seminary. Robert W. Wall (ThD, Dallas Theological Seminary) is Paul T. Walls Professor of Scripture and Wesleyan Studies at Seattle Pacific University. Francis Watson (DPhil, University of Oxford) is Research Chair in Biblical Interpretation, Durham University, and Editor of the New Testament Studies with Cambridge University Press.

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Abbreviations All abbreviations are taken from the The SBL Handbook of Style. 2nd edn. Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014.

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Introduction Katherine M. Hockey, Madison N. Pierce and Francis Watson

I In the year 1740 the distinguished Italian scholar Lodovico Antonio Muratori published an incomplete ancient document, eighty-five lines in length, listing the books authorized for public reading in church. No original title has survived, and so this document is known as the Muratorian Fragment. It seems to have been written in Rome, and it may date from the first half of the third century, although earlier and later dates have also been proposed.1 Whatever its date, the Muratorian Fragment reflects a stage when there was as yet no ‘New Testament’ – no collection of twenty-seven books coordinated with a much larger ‘Old Testament’ collection and together forming what is now called the Bible. Instead, the Fragment identifies two much smaller collections. The first of these is made up of the four ‘books of the gospel’. The second contains thirteen Pauline letters, nine addressed to churches in seven different locations and four to three different individuals. Bridging the gap between the two collections is a second work by Luke, entitled here the ‘Acts of all the Apostles’. The Fragment’s author knows of various letters falsely attributed to Paul that he rejects, warning us against mingling gall with honey, heresy with the true faith. Yet, he adds, the catholic church does recognize three non-Pauline letters: Jude, and 1 and 2 John. Several other texts also receive a mention here: the Wisdom of Solomon, the Apocalypses of John and of Peter and the Shepherd of Hermas. Yet there is no reference to Hebrews, 1 and 2 1

For an English translation, see James Stevenson, ed., A New Eusebius:  Documents Illustrative of the History of the Church to A.D. 337 (London:  SPCK, 1960), 144–7; for the original Latin, see Geoff rey Mark Hahneman, The Muratorian Fragment and the Development of the Canon (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 6–7.

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Katherine M. Hockey, Madison N. Pierce and Francis Watson

Peter, James or 3 John. These five texts are not included in the canonical list, nor are they excluded like the heretical letters, nor are they regarded as borderline cases like the Apocalypse of Peter or the Shepherd of Hermas. They are simply absent. Most probably, the Fragment’s author does not know them, even though he claims to speak not just on his own behalf but for the entire catholic church. At least in the Christian environment this author inhabits, their distinctive voices remain unheard. If we take the standard twenty-seven-book New Testament for granted, this absence may well seem puzzling. Yet the explanation is quite simple. Canonical authority can only be recognized or bestowed where a text is already known. For a text to be known, physical copies must reach a particular location (Rome or wherever), and be esteemed highly enough there to be recopied and to pass into widespread and regular use. Circulation is a precondition of canonical status, and circulation does not happen automatically, but reflects the choices made by user communities about the texts they value most highly. If texts such as Hebrews or 1 Peter were present in Rome at the time of the Muratorian Fragment (as they probably were), they had not as yet circulated widely enough or been valued highly enough for the author to register their existence and express a view on them. Various factors may help to explain why the New Testament’s Pauline letters were disseminated and recognized so much more rapidly than the nonPauline ones. From an early date the Pauline letters seem to have circulated as a collection, and thus as a substantial literary entity; their editors must take some share of the credit for their success. In contrast, the ‘catholic epistles’ attributed to James, Peter, John and Jude do not appear to have formed a clearly defined collection until the fourth century, in spite of their prestigious authorship. Several of these letters – James and 2 Peter in particular – may date from well into the second century, and a late origin may have proved a hindrance to canonical recognition. While Hebrews is included in some early manuscripts or listings of the Pauline letters, it is omitted from others. Its anonymity may have been a stumbling block. The weighty and popular letters of Barnabas and of Clement may have seemed to many to possess greater intrinsic significance than more modest letters even when attributed to apostles (Peter, John) or to Jesus’ family members (James, Jude). In the later manuscript tradition Hebrews is firmly established as part of the Pauline collection, while the Catholic Epistles collection in its present

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shape is linked with the Acts of the Apostles to create a composite portrait of apostolic Christianity. Yet, arguably, these letters have never quite recovered from their less-than-enthusiastic early reception. Influential figures such as Eusebius of Caesarea in the fourth century and Martin Luther in the sixteenth were unimpressed by them. Their voices have remained muted.

II Following Martin Luther’s prioritizing of the Pauline material and the Gospel of John over other New Testament texts (see Watson’s essay in this volume), the secondary status of the Catholic Epistles, and to some extent Hebrews, continued into the modern era. A notable and influential example of this is Bultmann’s Theology of the New Testament in which we find that a large proportion of Volume 1, the larger of the two volumes, is devoted to Pauline theology.2 Even in his section on ‘Beginnings toward Development of Ecclesial Forms’, where one might expect later, but still early, Christian witness to be discussed, the Catholic Epistles and Hebrews are notably absent; only the letters of Paul (including Ephesians), the Gospels, Acts and the Didache are referenced.3 In Volume 2, after a lengthy treatment of Johannine theology, 1 Peter and James are referenced in passing, alongside 1 Timothy and Titus, but merely as evidence of historical phenomena such as the development of Church offices.4 Their theological content is not discussed, nor is their witness to the early church and its characteristics given mention. In fact, as Volume 2 progresses, the CE and Hebrews are only really of interest for understanding the development of the history of religions; for theological matters, Paul and the Gospels remain prominent.5 Yet Bultmann himself comments, ‘Unity [of the NT canon] is only a relative one. For in point of fact, the canon reflects a multiplicity of conceptions of Christian faith or of its content.’6 However, because the apostolic witness is the most important, and in fact, Paul is 2

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Volume 2 gives significant space to Johannine theology, thus evidencing a similar prioritization of New Testament material to Martin Luther. R. Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, trans. Kendrick Grobel, 2 vols, 2nd SCM Cheap edn (London: SCM Press, 1967–8), 1:53– 62. Bultmann, Theology, 2:100–2. See Bultmann, Theology, 2:111–18 for an example of the primacy of Pauline and Johannine material. Bultmann, Theology, 2:141.

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considered the apostle, Bultmann deals with the CE and Hebrews generally comparatively and certainly with less weighting.7 Consequently, the variation of witness present in the CE and Hebrews that Bultmann alludes to remains muted. This is not to say that all those who approach a larger New Testament theology have the same emphases.8 However, when one examines the content of research outputs and the number of conferences or seminar groups focused on the CE and Hebrews versus the Pauline corpus and the Gospels, one finds that the same imbalance present in Luther and Bultmann remains in the academy.9 This phenomenon is in one sense understandable given the respective size of these groups of texts in the New Testament canon; the influence of the Pauline and Johannine material on ecclesiastical history; and the progress of modern protestant scholarship throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. All of these influences, of course, we cannot ignore. However, the implication of muting the voices of the CE and Hebrews is that when we seek to understand early Christianity without listening to these texts, we open ourselves up to the problem of forming a distorted, or at least limited, picture of history and of Christianity – its formation, theology and ethics. This is particularly the case when it comes to the question of Christian identity (or perhaps identities), a key theme of this collection. If we ignore the CE and Hebrews, we restrict ourselves to having a heavily Pauline view of Christianity.10 It may be that after a fuller investigation this remains a realistic

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Bultmann, Theology, 2:140; see fuller discussion on Christology and Soteriology where Pauline material acts as the starting point; Bultmann, Theology, 2:155–202. Two brief examples are Goppelt and Matera. Though Goppelt devotes the fi rst volume of his New Testament Theology to the Gospels, and a large part of his second volume to the ‘primitive’ and Hellenistic church, which deals mostly with Paul and Acts, he does have a notable section devoted to ‘The Theology of the Post-Pauline Writings’ in which 1 Peter, James, Hebrews and 1 John are given scope; L. Goppelt, Theology of the New Testament. Volume 2. The Variety and Unity of the Apostolic Witness to Christ, ed. Jürgen Roloff, trans. John E.  Alsup, 2 vols (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 1982), 151–305. See also F. J. Matera, New Testament Theology: Exploring Unity and Diversity (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2007) who likewise gives the fi nal part of his volume to ‘Other Voices’ (333– 422) – Hebrews, James, 1–2 Peter and Jude. 1 John is dealt with as Johannine tradition. For example, at the time of writing, there is only one SBL Annual Conference section focusing on the letters of James, Peter and Jude collectively and one for Hebrews, whereas the Gospels and Paul/the Pauline corpus have eight and nine sections respectively. The letters of John are grouped under the ‘Johannine Literature’ section. An example of this includes B. Holmberg and M. Winninge, eds, Identity Formation in the New Testament, WUNT 227 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), in which there is only one brief section in one essay that deals with a small passage of 1 Peter. Instead the weighting falls on the Paulines, Deutero-Paulines and the Gospels. A more recent collection that does better in acknowledging

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impression of early Christianity. But if we do not explore the CE and Hebrews in their own right and allow them to speak, how can we reliably draw this conclusion? Thus, this book aims to start to address this imbalance by focusing on the CE and Hebrews with specific questions of identity in mind. It is our hope that, in doing so, this volume will not only raise the profile of the CE and Hebrews within the academy but also initiate explorations of early Christian identity formation and theology that take a wider canonical approach, reflecting the diversity of early Christianity that it surely had from the outset.

III In the chapters that follow, our contributors privilege the muted voices of the Catholic Epistles and Hebrews in hopes of stimulating further interest in these texts. Our unifying question for this book is:  what do these texts contribute to early Christian constructions of identity? This is particularly so of David Horrell’s essay on the use of Scripture and other early Christian traditions in an innovative way. His discussion of 1 Peter’s designations for the Christian community likewise addresses another question for the volume: how do these authors frame or shape identity? Among those addressing this second question is Katherine Hockey, who utilizes recent studies on emotion to examine 1 Peter 4.16 and its command ‘not to be ashamed’. She also explores the result of this command on the believers’ identity (see question three); by actively not being ashamed, they can confidently wear their new label, ‘Christian’. Implied within this label is a certain understanding of eschatology. Drawing upon studies that link 2 Peter’s eschatology and its prescribed ethics, Scott Hafemann goes a step further to claim that 2 Peter 2.17–21 presents eschatology and ethics to be inseparable from identity. While the aforementioned contributions generally highlight distinct aspects of Christian identity, some essays focus on the continuity between Jewish and Christian identity constructions. One such essay is Richard Bauckham’s on messianic Jewish identity in James. Bauckham challenges the CE and Hebrews is J. B. Tucker and C. A. Baker, eds, T&T Clark Handbook to Social Identity in the New Testament (London: T&T Clark, 2014). See also J. G. Van der Watt and F. S. Malan, eds, Identity, Ethics, and Ethos in the New Testament (Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 2006).

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claims that James is exclusively ‘Christian’ or ‘Jewish’ in order to show that James envisions his community as fully integrated within both traditions. Similarly, Wendy North explores 1 John’s focus on ‘love’ in light of the Shema. Looking to later interpretative traditions surrounding this text (e.g. in John’s Gospel and the Mishnah), she evaluates John’s understanding of ‘love in action’. Ruth Anne Reese looks instead to key Jewish events when discussing Jude’s construction of identity in terms of collective memory. She presents how that Christian audience is encouraged to ‘remember’ key events from the history of the Jewish community, such as the exodus and Sodom and Gomorrah, as though they too experienced them first-hand. This interplay between Jewish and Christian identity constructions can also be found in our three essays on the Epistle to the Hebrews. David Moffitt explores how the author envisions the ‘New Covenant’ both inaugurated and maintained through his connections to the corresponding sacrificial rites in the Pentateuch. By combining these elements, the author connects the community not only ‘once-for-all’, but also continuously to Christ their ‘forerunner’. While Moffitt looks primarily to the past and present of the community’s identity, Nicholas Moore explores the present and future. Examining the author’s prominent use of prefi xed forms of the verb ἔρχομαι, Moore finds that Hebrews systematically uses different prefi xes to describe different facets of the community’s Christian experience. Madison Pierce explores Hebrews’ presentation of Greek Psalm 94 as the Spirit’s speech. With these words, the author calls his audience to imagine themselves within the wilderness, journeying toward rest – if ‘they hear God’s voice’. Pierce also explores the effect of this constructed identity on its recipients. Will they indeed band together to avoid the peril of their ancestors? Likewise addressing constructions of corporate identity, Katie Marcar explores the ‘temple’ metaphor in 1 Peter, comparing the author’s use of this image with its use in the Community Rule and 4QFlorilegium. Even though 1 Peter may appear to promote ‘sectarian’ principles, Marcar shows how the author uses this metaphor to define their relationships within and without their own religious community. Our fi nal question looks primarily beyond the texts to the ways they have been read. David Nienhuis discusses the distortion of the Catholic Epistles collection when 2 Peter and 1–3 John are not read together, as

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they are presented in the canonical arrangement. Th is also has a negative effect on the reception of the Pauline corpus, since the CEs represent those who have taken up Paul’s ethical teachings and in some instances tempered them. Francis Watson’s essay on the created order in James and Paul explores one such intra-canonical conversation. Whereas Paul primarily presents creation in light of what it will be  – thus marred in the here-and-now  – James offers a more positive view of the world in which human beings are fi rstfruits who steward God’s creation. Acknowledging the dissonance between these two authors, Watson also proposes a way forward for readers of the NT. Th is proposal resonates with the ‘Epilogue’ to this collection by Robert Wall. Synthesizing the essays just summarized, Wall recalls the essays themselves as well as the questions they raise for the study of these letters in light of their canonical and, by extension, ecclesial contributions.

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Tradition and Innovation Reassessing 1 Peter’s Contributions to the Making of Christian Identity David G. Horrell

Recent years have seen something of an increase in the attention paid to 1 Peter, yet it remains among the more neglected texts in the New Testament. Certainly it receives much less scholarly attention than Pauline letters of a similar length. A range of perspectives on 1 Peter in the history of its scholarly interpretation has contributed to this relative neglect and to a sense that it is of limited importance in terms of the crucial developments through which Christianity emerged. This is especially so in comparison to Paul, whose theological innovations are often seen as key. For Ferdinand Christian Baur, for example, whose reconstruction of early Christian history continues to shape the contours of contemporary NT studies, 1 Peter was one of those postapostolic, pseudonymous texts that contributed to a gradual reconciliation in the emerging second-century Catholic synthesis between the Jewish and Pauline factions of the earliest Church.1 A somewhat different perspective on 1 Peter came to prominence from the late nineteenth century onwards, especially in German scholarship, one that placed 1 Peter firmly and specifically within the Pauline tradition, as one of the post-Pauline pseudepigrapha in the NT.2 While this put

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Ferdinand Christian Baur, Das Christenthum und die christliche Kirche der drei ersten Jahrhunderte, ed. Klaus Scholder, 2nd edn, Ausgewä hlte Werke in Einzelausgaben; (StuttgartBad Cannstatt: Friedrich Frommann, 1966 [1860]), 123– 4. See, e.g., W.  G. Kü mmel, Introduction to the New Testament, 2nd edn (London:  SCM, 1975), 423. For the history of this perspective, and further references, see David G. Horrell, Becoming

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1 Peter much more squarely (if questionably) on the side of Paul, it located the letter among the later Pauline letters, which are widely seen as lacking the theological creativity of the genuine Paul, and concerned much more with preservation of tradition, protecting sound doctrine against the threat of heresy and dealing with the fading hope for an imminent parousia. These features, indeed, were among those taken to indicate what came to be known as ‘early Catholicism’ (Fr ühkatholizismus), another label ostensibly of historical classification but with scarcely concealed criticism – from a Protestant perspective  – at its heart.3 As part of both the later pseudoPauline tradition and the collection of Catholic Epistles, 1 Peter might seem doubly guilty of the negative characteristics often associated with this phase of early Christian history. More recently, the idea that 1 Peter is essentially Pauline in character has come to be replaced by a widespread consensus that the letter is not specifically Pauline, but rather represents a wide range of early Christian traditions, Pauline and non-Pauline.4 It is, in an oft-quoted phrase of Ceslas Spicq’s, ‘an epistle of tradition’.5 This characterization too, while serving in part to liberate 1 Peter from what John Elliott has called its ‘Pauline bondage’,6 hardly directs attention to the innovative and influential moves that the author of 1 Peter makes. In short, various aspects of scholarly views of 1 Peter have engendered a categorization of the letter as rather unoriginal, consolidating and conservative in character, not theologically innovative or especially creative. Part of the solution to this problem, I want to suggest, is to reconceptualize the relationship between tradition and innovation, rejecting both the dichotomy between the two and the negative associations of ‘tradition’.7 In a sense, this has been precisely the force of the notion of intertextuality.

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Christian: Essays on 1 Peter and the Making of Christian Identity, LNTS/ECC 394 (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2013), 7–8. For the main features of ‘early Catholicism’, see, e.g., James D. G. Dunn, Unity and Diversity in the New Testament, 2nd edn (London: SCM, 1990), 341– 66. Scathing critique of this ‘early Catholic’ theology can be found in Ernst Käsemann’s essay on 2 Peter, ‘An Apologia for Primitive Christian Eschatology’, in Essays on New Testament Themes (London: SCM, 1964), 169. See Horrell, Becoming Christian, 8–9. Ceslas Spicq, Les Épitres de Saint Pierre, Sources Bibliques (Paris: Gabalda, 1966), 15. John H. Elliott, ‘The Rehabilitation of an Exegetical Step-Child: 1 Peter in Recent Research’, JBL 95 (1976): 243–54, 248. Cf. the classic essay of T. S. Eliot, ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’, fi rst published in 1917, available in T.  S. Eliot, Selected Essays 1917–1932 (New  York:  Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1932), 3–11.

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First introduced by Julia Kristeva, drawing on the work of Mikhail Bakhtin, this concept is fundamentally opposed to the post-Enlightenment notion of the independent, creative, originating author, stressing instead that all texts exist in a complex relation of repetition and difference from other texts:  ‘every text is a mosaic of other texts’.8 As Heinrich Plett explains, ‘[w]henever a new text comes into being it relates to previous texts and in its turn becomes the precursor of subsequent texts’.9 Th is applies to modern writers, despite the value placed on ‘originality’; but it is arguably even more true of ancient writers, for whom imitation was a valued aspect of the process of composition.10 As should be clear from any study of the use of scripture in early Christian or Jewish texts, engagements with earlier texts do not entail mere repetition but much more creative forms of reformulation and interpretation. The fact that an early Christian author may be working with tradition does not imply a lack of creativity or significant innovation. Indeed, it is interesting that some of Paul’s most influential passages  – 1 Cor. 13; Gal. 3.26–29; Phil. 2.6–11 – are often seen, rightly or wrongly, as reworkings of early Christian tradition.11 Drawing on tradition, then, does not mean an absence of innovation; put positively, innovations are achieved and expressed precisely in relationship with, and through creative deployment of, tradition. In the following sections of this essay, I want to examine briefly some of the creative and innovative ways in which the author of 1 Peter engages with tradition, and to argue that these interpretative moves are of considerable significance for the history of Christian theology and the making of early Christian identity. All of my case studies involve some engagement with Jewish scripture, so it makes sense to begin with the text in 1 Peter that establishes the basis for this hermeneutical activity: 1.10–12.

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Susanne Gillmayr-Bucher, ‘Intertextuality: Between Literary Theory and Text Analysis’, in The Intertextuality of the Epistles: Explorations of Theory and Practice, ed. Thomas L. Brodie, Dennis R. MacDonald and Stanley E. Porter (Sheffield: Phoenix, 2006), 14. Heinrich F.  Plett, ‘Intertextualities’, in Intertextuality, ed. Heinrich F.  Plett, Research in Text Theory/Untersuchungen zur Texttheorie 15 (Berlin and New York: De Gruyter, 1991), 17. On the ancient practices of imitation in writing, see Thomas L.  Brodie, The Birthing of the New Testament: The Intertextual Development of the New Testament Writings, New Testament Monographs 1 (Sheffield: Phoenix, 2004), 3–17. For interesting reflections on some of the ideological influences in such identifications, see Michael Peppard, ‘ “Poetry”, “Hymns” and “Traditional Material” in New Testament Epistles or How to Do Th ings with Indentations’, JSNT 30 (2008): 319– 42.

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A Christological, Eschatological and Ecclesial Hermeneutic: 1 Peter 1.10–12 At the end of 1 Peter’s opening blessing, in which the author outlines the glorious salvation that is the goal of the readers’ faith (1.3–9), attention turns to the prophets of old, and their earlier concern to find out about this salvation (1.10–12). These prophets are most plausibly seen as the prophets of Israel’s past and Israel’s scriptures,12 but their activity is here described as an intense search  – emphasized by the juxtaposition of two verbs with overlapping meaning (ἐξεζήτησαν καὶ ἐξηραύνησαν, ‘searched and inquired carefully’ [ESV]) – focused precisely on this salvation (σωτηρία). Moreover, the focus of their prophecy is defined as ἡ εἰς ὑμᾶς χάρις (‘the grace destined for you’). The content and character of the anticipated salvation is thus described with the central Christian (and especially Pauline) word χάρις, and is also seen as specifically intended for ‘you’ – the readers of the letter. In other words, the focus of the prophets’ intense enquiry was a salvation that would specifically be revealed at the last time (1.5), at the time – and for the benefit – of the letter’s recipients. The following verse (1.11) specifies this even further, though its grammar is notoriously difficult.13 What the prophets were enquiring into was both the person (τίνα) and the kind of time (ποῖον καιρὸν) through which this salvation would be brought to fulfilment. And it was through ‘the Spirit of Christ’,14 in or among them (ἐν αὐτοῖς), that they foresaw both the sufferings and the glories destined for Christ.15 In other words, their prophecy concerned the 12

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Edward Gordon Selwyn, The First Epistle of St. Peter, 2nd edn (1946; London and Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1947), 134–9, 259– 68, argued that these were Christian prophets, but most recent commentators have rightly rejected this view, which (inter alia) gives insufficient weight to the apparent temporal distinction between the era of the prophets and the time of the readers (προμαρτυρόμενον . . . νῦν; cf. Gal 3.8). For a thorough refutation of Selwyn’s view, see Mark Dubis, Messianic Woes in First Peter: Suffering and Eschatology in 1 Peter 4:12–19, Studies in Biblical Literature 33 (New York and Oxford: Peter Lang, 2002), 108–10. Space precludes a detailed treatment here, but the key issue is whether τίνα is to be taken as an adjective qualifying καιρόν (‘what time’; hence ‘what time and circumstances’, NIV) or as a pronoun (‘whom’; hence ‘what person and time’, ESV, NRSV). Among those who take the view followed here, reading τίνα as pronominal, see, e.g., John H. Elliott, 1 Peter: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB 37B (New York: Doubleday, 2000), 345– 6. For the opposite view see, e.g., J. Ramsey Michaels, 1 Peter, WBC 49 (Waco, TX: Word Books, 1988), 41–2. A rare phrase in the NT, only elsewhere at Rom. 8.9; for similar formulations see Acts 16.7; 1 Cor. 10.4; Gal. 4.6; Phil. 1.19. Th is seems more likely than that these sufferings are the messianic woes to be endured by God’s people, as is suggested by Selwyn, First Epistle, 136–7, and Dubis, Messianic Woes, 110–17 (who sees these ‘woes’ as those experienced both by Christ and his followers).

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central facets of the Easter story:  Christ’s suffering, death and subsequent vindication. Furthermore (v. 12), these prophets had it revealed to them (οἷς ἀπεκαλύφθη) that their service was for the benefit of a future generation, the readers specifically (οὐχ ἑαυτοῖς ὑμῖν δὲ), who have had the things that the prophets predicted, concerning Christ, announced to them (ἃ νῦν ἀνηγγέλη ὑμῖν). The mystery and importance of ‘these things’ is stressed by the declaration that even the angels long to ‘peer in’ to see and understand them. Thus, as Benjamin Sargent has recently argued, it seems that the author sees the meaning of scripture as singularly focused on the Christian community that has been constituted in these final days.16 In this perspective on biblical prophecy, christological, eschatological and ecclesial dimensions are inextricably woven together. First, there is the claim that the focus of the prophets’ enquiries was essentially eschatological, on a future time that has now arrived (cf. νῦν, v. 12). Like the members of the community at Qumran, the author of 1 Peter holds the belief that the focus of the ancient prophecies was indeed the ‘end-time’, the eschatological καιρός in which the community now finds itself.17 At the same time, this eschatological focus is an ecclesial one, since the message of grace and salvation was intended for ‘you’. Believers in Christ, who stand at the threshold of the promised salvation (1.5), are the focus of the promise and story of salvation announced long before. This ‘for-you-ness’ – to use Elliott’s phrase – is a consistent emphasis in 1 Peter.18 Yet perhaps most striking are the christological aspects of this passage: the author declares not only that the central focus of biblical prophecy is the sufferings and glories of Christ but also that this revelation was made known to the prophets by the spirit of Christ. Two key points are thus articulated in this short passage, both of them highly significant for Christian theology and its engagement with scripture. 16

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Benjamin Sargent, Written to Serve:  The Use of Scripture in 1 Peter, LNTS 547 (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2015), esp. 19, 44, 98–9, 192– 4. I am less convinced that this characteristic of 1 Peter marks it out as ‘primitive’ and is likely indicative of an early date, as Sargent argues (see, e.g., 163–9). See esp 1QpHab 7.1–13, and the comments of William L. Schutter, Hermeneutic and Composition in 1 Peter, WUNT II 30 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1989), 109–23. Travis Williams has further argued that the author of 1 Peter sees himself as an inspired exegete and interpreter, like the pesherist at Qumran, making the parallel closer. See Travis B. Williams, ‘Ancient Prophets and Inspired Exegetes: Interpreting Prophetic Scripture in 1QpHab and 1 Peter’, in Bedrängnis und Identität. Studien zu Situation, Kommunikation und Theologie des 1.  Petrusbriefes, ed. David S. du Toit, BZNW 200 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), 223– 46. Elliott, 1 Peter, 336.

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First, the true subject of biblical prophecy – and, by extension, of the Jewish scriptures as a whole – is Christ: the prophets point to Christ, and predict in advance what he will go through. Second, the proper focus of this message of salvation is ‘you’ – the generation of early Christian believers, for whom this time of eschatological promise is ‘now’ (cf. 1 Cor. 10.11). Such a christological, eschatological and ecclesial reading of scripture is, of course, hardly unique in early Christian literature. On the contrary, whether one thinks of the opening of Mark, Matthew’s fulfilment quotations, Paul’s appeals to Adam and Abraham, Hebrews’ appropriation of priestly and cultic tradition and so on, this kind of conviction about the fulfilment of scripture in Christ – understood and expressed in highly varied ways – is characteristic of earliest Christianity. Indeed, Paul occasionally expresses in nuce an explicit claim about scripture’s relevance to the Christian community (Rom. 15.4; cf. 1 Cor. 10.6). But what we find in 1 Pet. 1.10–12, as William Schutter and Paul Achtemeier have pointed out, is a hermeneutical key – a text that indicates how and why the author reads the Jewish scriptures as he does, interpreting them as pointing to Christ and to the salvation now available to those who believe in Christ.19 As far as I can see, there is nowhere else in the NT where the basis for reading scripture in this way – the hermeneutical theory, as it were – is so clearly or explicitly set out. This makes 1 Peter’s explicit claim upon the Jewish scriptures – problematic though that claim be – much more significant within the wider context of early Christian history and theology than has generally been recognized.

Scripturalizing the Passion: 1 Peter 2.21–25 The clearest and most developed example of the author of 1 Peter putting this hermeneutical theory into practice is in 2.21–25, part of the household-code material in 1 Peter (2.18–3.7). In his distinctive appropriation of this paraenetic tradition, the author turns first to domestic slaves (οἰκέται). These slaves are encouraged to bear even unjust suffering while continuing to do good, 19

Schutter, Hermeneutic, 100–9; Paul J. Achtemeier, ‘The Christology of 1 Peter: Some Reflections’, in Who Do You Say That I Am? Essays on Christology in Honor of Jack Dean Kingsbury, ed. Mark A. Powell and David R. Bauer (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1999), 144–7; also Sargent, Written to Serve, 18– 49.

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thus exemplifying the pattern of conduct to which the whole community is called.20 The author then inserts a lengthy section showing how Jesus himself displayed precisely this pattern of conduct, serving as an example not only to suffering slaves but to all followers of Christ (2.21–25). In setting out this christological paradigm, the author draws extensively on Isaiah’s suffering servant material (Isa. 52.13–53.12, esp. 53.3–12), thus instantiating the scriptural hermeneutic outlined in 1.10–12.21 Several phrases from Isaiah 53 are woven into vv. 22–25, but the passage cannot be explained solely as a midrashic exposition of this text. The author’s presentation seems also to be shaped by early Christian traditions, including memories of Jesus’ character and conduct at his trial and execution.22 In v. 21, for example, the headline phrase Χριστὸς ἔπαθεν ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν probably reflects an established credal formula: Χριστὸς ἀπέθανεν ὑπὲρ (τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν) ὑμῶν/ ἡμῶν.23 The use of ἔπαθεν rather than ἀπέθανεν here reflects the author’s general and distinctive preference for the verb πάσχω (used twelve times in the letter),24 favoured, at least in part, and particularly here, because it enables a closer link to be drawn between Christ’s suffering and the suffering of Christians. In v. 22 the direct use of phrases from Isaiah 53 begins, but the series of clauses beginning with ὅς may suggest that the author is already following a hymnic or credal tradition; the nominative relative pronoun appears elsewhere in 1 Peter only at 3.22, another passage often thought to contain traditional material.25 Moreover, in v. 23, which functions as a kind of expansive 20

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On the slaves as paradigmatic for the community as a whole, see John H. Elliott, A Home for the Homeless: A Social-Scientific Criticism of 1 Peter, Its Situation and Strategy, 2nd edn (1981; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 206; idem, 1 Peter, 523; further David G. Horrell, ‘The Image of Jesus in 1 Peter and its Paradigmatic Significance: Sociological and Psychological Correlations’, in Jesus  – Gestalt und Gestaltungen. Rezeptionen des Galiläers in Wissenschaft, Kirche und Gesellschaft (FS Gerd Theissen), ed. Petra von Gemü nden, David G. Horrell and Max Küchler, NTOA/SUNT 100 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 299–315, esp. 305–8. Cf. Paul J.  Achtemeier, ‘Suffering Servant and Suffering Christ in 1 Peter’, in The Future of Christology: Essays in Honor of Leander E. Keck, ed. Abraham J. Malherbe and Wayne A. Meeks (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1993), 187; Schutter, Hermeneutic, 138– 44. For a detailed treatment, see David G.  Horrell, ‘Jesus Remembered in 1 Peter? Early Jesus Traditions, Isaiah 53, and 1 Peter 2.21–25’, in James, 1 & 2 Peter, and Early Jesus Traditions, ed. Alicia J. Batten and John S. Kloppenborg, LNTS 478 (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2014), 123–50. 1 Cor. 15.3; cf. Jn 11.50–51; 18.14; Rom. 5.6, 8; 14.15; 1 Cor. 8.11; 2 Cor. 5.14–15; 1 Thess. 5.10. At 2.19, 20, 21, 23; 3.14, 17, 18; 4.1 (bis), 15, 19; 5.10. See the classic analysis of Rudolf Bultmann, ‘Bekenntnis- und Liedfragmente im ersten Petrusbrief’, Exegetica:  Aufsätze zur Erforschung des Neuen Testaments (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 1967), 285–97 (orig. in Coniectanea Neotestamentica 11, in honorem Antonii Fridrichsen; Lund: Gleerup, 1947, 1–14).

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commentary on the second phrase of v.  22,26 the influence of Isaiah 53 is much less apparent and the echoes of the traditions of Jesus’ Passion more prominent. The phrases here concisely encapsulate some of the memories and traditions found in the Synoptic Passion Narratives, though not in a way that would suggest direct literary dependence: Jesus refused to answer his accusers back;27 Jesus rejected the use of violence, even in self-defence;28 and Jesus freely and willingly handed himself over to death.29 In v. 24, which focuses more on the significance and achievement of Christ’s death, we return again to phrases from Isaiah 53, though other traditional phrases – the use of ξύλον to denote the cross, the Pauline language of dying to sin and living to righteousness – are also woven into the material. And even where the specific vocabulary is drawn from Isaiah 53, as in the phrase οὗ τῷ μώλωπι ἰάθητε (Isa. 53.5), the selection of material is driven by other factors: in this case, knowledge of the tradition that Jesus was whipped30 – since a μώλωψ is specifically the welt caused by a whip (Sir. 28.17) – and the particular relevance of this image to household slaves, for whom beatings were common.31 In v.  25 it is the readers’ conversion that is the focus of attention rather than the events of Christ’s Passion. The image of the people as straying sheep is clearly drawn from Isaiah 53 (v. 6), and the notion of God or leaders as shepherds is well established in the prophetic literature (e.g. Ezek. 34; Jer. 23; cf. also 1 Pet. 5.1–4). As Kelly Liebengood has argued, Zechariah’s eschatological vision, with its depiction of the people wandering like sheep (10.2) and their scattering due to the ‘striking’ of Yhwh’s shepherd (13.7), may also be a significant influence,32 as it clearly is in the Synoptic Passion Narratives.33 26

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Cf. Michaels, 1 Peter, 145, who describes the opening of v. 23 as ‘commentary on the last clause of v. 22’. Mk 14.56– 61; 15.3–5, 16–20, 29–32 and parallels, a recollection also implicit in the use of Isaiah 53 in Acts 8.32–33. Mk 14.46– 48; Mt. 26.51–55; Lk. 22.48–53; Jn 18.3–11, 36. Cf. also the (Q?) teaching concerning non-retaliation (Mt. 5.38– 44; Lk. 6.27–31) taken up in early Christian paraenesis (Rom. 12.17; 1 Thess. 5.15; 1 Pet. 3.9). See, e.g., Mk 8.31–34; 9.31; 10.33–34; 10.45; 14.22– 42; Lk. 13.31–33. On the multiple traditions that record Jesus’ assent to his death and acceptance of it as part of God’s plan, see Dale C.  Allison, Constructing Jesus:  Memory, Imagination, and History (Grand Rapids, MI/ London: Baker/SPCK, 2010), 427–33. Mk 15.15 and parallels; Jn 19.1; cf. Mt. 20.19//Lk. 18.33. See esp. Sir. 23.10: ‘a servant [οἰκέτης] who is constantly under scrutiny will not lack bruises [μώλωπος]’ (NRSV). Kelly D. Liebengood, The Eschatology of 1 Peter: Considering the Influence of Zechariah 9–14, SNTSMS 157 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). On the echoes of Zech. 9–14 in Mark’s passion narrative, see Joel Marcus, The Way of the Lord: Christological Exegesis of the Old Testament in the Gospel of Mark, SNTW (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1992), 154– 64.

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This passage, then, draws extensively on the language and phraseology of Isaiah 53 to depict the sufferings of Christ, but the selection and use of this material is shaped by the author’s apparent awareness of key aspects of Jesus’ trial and execution, as well as by early Christian traditions about the significance and meaning of Jesus’ death. It is unlikely that the author of 1 Peter was the first to see christological significance in Isaiah’s Suffering Servant material. There have long been arguments about how far back into earliest Christian tradition – even into the self-consciousness of Jesus himself – the identification of Jesus with the Suffering Servant goes. The substantial quotation in Acts 8.32–33 as well as the shorter citations and (possible) allusions in Mt. 8.17, Mk 10.45 (?), Lk. 22.37, Jn 12.38, Rom. 4.25 and Heb. 9.28 (?)34 may be enough to suggest that the significance of this prophetic passage had been noticed relatively early, and the author of 1 Peter may in any case be drawing to some extent on pre-formed tradition. But none of that should detract from the unique significance of what we find here in 1 Peter. Even in Acts 8.32–35, the other extensive NT engagement with Isaiah 53, there is, as Paul Achtemeier notes, ‘no further explication’ as to the christological significance of the text, and ‘[w]hen Luke does come to describe the Passion, he ignores the Isaianic material’.35 In 1 Peter, by contrast, we find a kind of Passion Narrative in nuce – reminiscences of the trial and execution of Jesus, and of the character and conduct of Jesus himself – expressed, for the first time in Christian literature, in a form that draws extensively on Isaiah 53. This may be of more significance as a part of the quest for the historical Jesus than has generally been recognized, adding what Dale Allison refers to as ‘recurrent attestation’ to some features of the Passion Narratives.36 Moreover, in this depiction, the story of Christ’s Passion is, in a sense, scripturalized – presented and expressed in the language of scripture.37 In doing this, the author of 1 Peter makes a unique and highly influential move for the history of Christian theology and scriptural exegesis, not to mention liturgy, art and so on. Yet once again the important and singular 34

35 36 37

Citations of Isa. 53 in Rom. 10.16, 15.21 and an allusion in Rev. 14.5 are not directed towards depicting the redemptive suffering and death of Christ. Achtemeier, ‘Christology’, 147. Allison, Constructing Jesus, 20. See further Horrell, ‘Jesus Remembered?’, 143–50. I  derive the term from Mark Goodacre, ‘Scripturalization in Mark’s Crucifi xion Narrative’, in The Trial and Death of Jesus:  Essays on the Passion Narrative in Mark, ed. Geert van Oyen and Tom Shepherd (Leuven:  Peeters, 2006), 39– 45.

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contributions of this text are too often marginalized. It is striking, for example, that in two major edited volumes dealing with Isaiah 53 in the NT, not a single essay focuses exclusively on 1 Peter, and nowhere is the text given a thorough consideration.38 A similar neglect of 1 Peter is evident in John Sawyer’s major study of the use of Isaiah in the NT, a work which, according to its own index, has no specific references at all to 1 Pet. 2.21–25. The failure to attend adequately to this text is apparent, for example, in Sawyer’s comment: ‘As the Church established itself, interpretations already present in the Gospels and Paul, such as the identification of Christ with the Suffering Servant in Isaiah 53 . . . were confirmed and disseminated throughout the rapidly expanding Christian world’.39 Such ‘interpretations’ are, as we have noted, explicit in Acts and most developed in 1 Peter, but, pace Sawyer, nowhere clear in either the Gospels or in Paul.

Appropriating Israel’s Identity as Chosen Race: 1 Peter 2.9–10 Another passage in 1 Peter reflecting a rich and extensive engagement with scriptural tradition is 2.4–10, aptly described by Richard Bauckham as ‘a particularly complex and studied piece of exegesis’.40 Unlike 2.21–25, where the consistent scriptural source is Isaiah 53, here the author weaves together a number of texts and interpretative comments. Verses 4–5 serve as an introduction to the more detailed exposition that follows, summarising its key themes in advance. There are two main themes in this passage: Jesus as the precious and elect stone, and the Church, comprised of ‘living stones’, as the elect and holy people of God.41 In vv. 6–8, the first main block of quotation and comment, three texts, linked together by the catch-word ‘stone’ (λίθος), are presented. 38

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William H.  Bellinger and William R.  Farmer, eds, Jesus and the Suffering Servant:  Isaiah 53 and Christian Origins (Harrisburg, PA: TPI, 1998); Bernd Janowski and Peter Stuhlmacher, eds, The Suffering Servant: Isaiah 53 in Jewish and Christian Sources (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004). In this latter volume, Otfried Hofius gives a brief consideration of 1 Pet. 2.21–25 (185–7) but only in considering what kind of view of Christ’s (atoning) death is evident here. John Sawyer, The Fifth Gospel:  Isaiah in the History of Christianity (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1996), 44. Richard J. Bauckham, ‘James, 1 and 2 Peter, Jude’, in It Is Written: Scripture Citing Scripture, ed. D. A. Carson and Hugh G. M. Williamson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 310. See further the classic study of John H. Elliott, The Elect and the Holy: An Exegetical Examination of 1 Peter 2:4–10 and the Phrase βασίλειον ἱεράτευμα , NovTSup 12 (Leiden: Brill, 1966).

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They are taken from Isa. 28.16, Ps. 118.22 (117.22 LXX) and Isa. 8.14. As in 2.21–25, texts from the Jewish scriptures are here interpreted christologically. And again, as with the use of Isaiah 53 in 2.21–25, the author of 1 Peter is probably not being innovative in seeing messianic significance in these particular ‘stone’ texts, which are already cited as messianic texts elsewhere in the NT (Mk 12.10–11 and par.; Rom. 9.32–33; cf. Acts 4.11). But what the author of 1 Peter does do – again uniquely in the NT – is to draw all three of these texts together and weave them into a depiction of Christ’s identity and fate, which also serves as a basis for assurance about the contrasting fate of those who believe in him – (vv. 6–7) and those who do not (vv. 7–8). The second main section of the passage (vv. 9–10) focuses on the Christians themselves, and their identity as the people of God. Here again a number of biblical texts are cited, this time linked by the catch-word ‘people’ (λαός). Unlike vv. 6–8, however, here the texts – drawn from Isa. 43.20–21, Exod. 19.6 and Hos. 1–2 – are woven into an integrated patchwork of phrases. It is striking that the author has managed to pull together from a variety of scriptural sources a collection of phrases that together encapsulate the central identity designations of Israel, what commentators have long called the Ehrentitel Israels.42 For example, in a study of the book of Jubilees that has no direct interest in 1 Peter, Eberhard Schwarz identifies three fundamental identityforming designations (Identitätsgründende Aussagen) of Israel: Israel as ‘holy people’, Israel as ‘chosen people’ and Israel as a people who belong to God, God’s special possession (Eigentumsvolk).43 These are, of course, precisely the designations presented here, along with βασίλειον ἱεράτευμα, drawn from Exod. 19.6. In effect, the author here appropriates the key identity designations of Israel and uses them to describe the identity of the largely gentile communities of believers in Christ addressed in the letter. This appropriation of Jewish identity terms to describe members of the Christian movement is, of course, by no means unique to 1 Peter, but characteristic, in various ways, 42

43

See, e.g., Hans Windisch, Die Katholischen Briefe, 2nd edn, HNT 15 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1930 [1911]), 61; Johannes Schneider, Die Briefe des Jakobus, Petrus, Judas und Johannes:  Die Katholischen Briefe, NTD 10 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1961), 62. Eberhard Schwarz, Identität durch Abgrenzung: Abgrenzungsprozesse in Israel im 2. vorchristlichen Jahrhundert und ihre traditionsgeschichtlichen Voraussetzungen. Zugleich ein Beitrag zur Erforschung des Jubiläenbuches, Europä ische Hochschulschriften, Series 23 Theology, 162 (Frankfurt/Bern: Peter Lang, 1982), 53–7. Schwarz sees Deut. 7.6 as a key text in this regard, though similar declarations are made in Exod. 19.5– 6, which is clearly the source text (along with Isa. 43 and Hos. 1–2) here.

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of the NT as a whole and Paul in particular. However, this passage in 1 Peter represents a particularly striking and developed example of this facet of early Christian identity formation. Th is strategic appropriation of Jewish identity designations raises challenging questions about the extent to which the author of 1 Peter represents a problematic form of Christian supercessionism.44 It is at least notable that, while he appropriates Israel’s identity for the communities of believers in Christ, he does not explicitly deny that identity to the Jewish people, even though he nowhere grapples with the issues as Paul so famously does in Romans 9–11. Indeed, from 1 Peter one would not get any sense that there was any ‘other’ people of God besides the worldwide ‘brotherhood’ addressed in the letter (2.17; 5.9), an observation that raises further complex questions about the relation between ‘Israel’ and ‘Church’ in the author’s view. But whatever the difficult historical and ethical questions raised, the importance of this move for the making of early Christian identity – and the uniqueness of 1 Peter’s contribution in this regard  – emerges clearly when we set 1 Peter in the context of the NT and other early Christian writings. Th is is the only place in the NT where the significant term γένος is applied to the Christians, and the only place where γένος, ἔθνος and λαός appear together. Th is is, moreover, one of only two places in the NT that describes Christians as members of an ἔθνος , the other (much less direct, and debatable) being Mt. 21:43. In other words, the author seems skilfully and deliberately to have pulled together the most significant ‘people’ designations and phrases derived from biblical traditions,45 making 1 Pet. 2.9 a uniquely full and forceful designation of the ‘peoplehood’ of believers in Christ in the NT. Equally significant is the observation that the innovative move made by the author of 1 Peter – especially the move to denote Christians as a γένος – initiates an influential aspect of early Christian discourse that became established

44

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See further David G. Horrell, 1 Peter, New Testament Guides (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2008), 102–5; Betsy J. Bauman-Martin, ‘Speaking Jewish: Postcolonial Aliens and Strangers in First Peter’, in Reading 1 Peter with New Eyes: Methodological Reassessments of the Letter of First Peter, ed. Robert L. Webb and Betsy Bauman-Martin, LNTS 364 (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2007), 144–77. Th is combination of the various people words  – γένος, ἔθνος and λαός  – is perhaps why the author adopts the phrase ἔθνος ἅγιον from Exod. 19.5 rather than the more common λαὸς ἅγιος (see Deut. 7.6; 14.2, 21; Hos. 12.1 LXX; Isa. 30.19).

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in the second century and beyond.46 Sometimes this designation is deployed in the context of a threefold distinction among Greeks, Jews and Christians, as in the opening of the Epistle to Diognetus, where ‘this new race’ (γένος) of the Christians is contrasted with both Greeks and Jews (Diogn. 1).47 Closely related and also emerging during this period is the specific notion that Christians constitute a ‘third race’ (τρίτον γένος; Latin:  tertium genus), an expression that seems to be used both positively by Christians48 and critically by their opponents.49 First Peter’s use of γένος, ἔθνος and λαός to denote Christians as a people, drawing on Jewish scriptures and identity markers to do so, thus represents a move that was of considerable significance in the developing discourse of Christian identity.

Articulating a Stance towards the Empire: 1 Peter 2.17 My final example comes from the short section of teaching concerned with the appropriate stance towards the governing authorities (2.13–17), placed immediately prior to the household code itself (2.18–3.7). In constructing this larger section of instruction in this way, the author of 1 Peter draws together, adapts and reformulates the Pauline teaching on submission to rulers (Rom. 13.1–7) and on conduct in the household (Col. 3.18–4.1; Eph. 5.21– 6.9). He was the first author to juxtapose these traditions (though 1 Timothy 2 also combines various elements, but in a less structured and systematic manner).50 However, once again, the author of 1 Peter is no mere compiler of traditions, but someone who, drawing on a range of traditions, skilfully and creatively articulates a perspective that will prove to be of major influence in the further development of Christian theology and practice. My particular focus is on v.  17, a concise and pithy series of four imperative phrases which summarizes and concludes this short section of 46 47

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See further Horrell, Becoming Christian, 145–52. See also Clem. Alex. Strom. 5.14.98.4; and note the earlier formulation in 1 Cor. 10.32. See further Denise Kimber Buell, Why This New Race:  Ethnic Reasoning in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005). Possibly in the Kerygma Petrou [apud Clem. Alex. Strom. 6.5.41.6–7]; also ps-Cyprian, De Pascha comp. 17. See Tertullian, Ad. Nat. 1.7–8; further Adolf von Harnack, The Expansion of Christianity in the First Three Centuries (Vol. 1; London: Williams and Norgate, 1904), 300–52. My comment therefore presumes no particular position on the relative dates of 1 Peter and 1 Timothy.

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instruction: πάντας τιμήσατε, τὴν ἀδελφότητα ἀγαπᾶτε, τὸν θεὸν φοβεῖσθε, τὸν βασιλέα τιμᾶτε. The best way to read this series of phrases, doing justice to the different tenses used for the imperatives – aorist for the first, present for the following three – is as an opening summary exhortation which is then specified in three particular ways.51 These specific instructions demonstrate the appropriate way to give honour in each case. It is the final two phrases in which I am particularly interested. Here the author draws a clear distinction between what is appropriately offered to God – φόβος, fear, with the sense of reverent awe and worship – and what is due to the emperor – τιμή, honour, which is the essential orientation required towards all, as the opening imperative makes clear. There are a variety of traditions that may have influenced the author’s formulation here. Commentators have long noted the influence of Prov. 24.21:52 φοβοῦ τὸν θεόν . . . καὶ βασιλέα . Paul’s instruction concerning submission to the governing authorities (Rom. 13.1–7) also seems to be an influence on this section of 1 Peter (2.13–17), given a considerable number of verbal and thematic links, not least Paul’s use of both φόβος and τιμή (Rom. 13.7).53 Jesus’ reply to the question about paying tax  – ‘Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s’ (Mk 12.17, ESV)  – notably draws a similar distinction between what is owed to God on the one hand and to the emperor on the other. Yet given this range of traditions and influences, what the author does in just six Greek words – especially in the choice of two Greek verbs – is both precise and profound. While Proverbs advocates the same stance towards both God and king, the author of 1 Peter – deliberately one must assume, given this precursor – carefully distinguishes them. Jesus’ infamous reply might imply something of the same distinction, but does so in a way that is notoriously enigmatic, perhaps an evasion as much as a declaration regarding the particular issue at hand.

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See further David G.  Horrell, ‘ “Honour Everyone . . .” (1 Pet. 2.17):  The Social Strategy of 1 Peter and its Significance for the Development of Christianity’, in To Set at Liberty:  Essays on Early Christianity and its Social World in Honor of John H.  Elliott, ed. Stephen K.  Black (Sheffield: Phoenix, 2014), 192–210, esp. 193– 6. E.g. F. J. A. Hort, The First Epistle of St. Peter I.1–II.17: The Greek Text with Introductory Lecture, Commentary, and Additional Notes (London: Macmillan, 1898; repr. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2005), 146; Windisch, Die Katholischen Briefe, 64. See Horrell, Becoming Christian, 16–18.

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In comparison with Paul, it is notable that the author of 1 Peter is much more equivocal in urging submission to imperial authority. Paul’s instruction is universal in scope and unqualified in character: ‘Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God’ (Rom. 13.1, ESV). The author of 1 Peter, by contrast, offers no divine legitimation to Roman rule, referring merely to the facts, as it were, of the emperor’s supremacy and his governors’ duties (2.13–14). He urges submission to these ruling authorities only as one facet of a general obligation to be subject to every human creature (πάσῃ ἀνθρωπίνῃ κτίσει, v. 13),54 thus insisting that the emperor is no more than a human creature, like everyone else.55 This same insistence is reiterated in the final phrases of the passage (v. 17): the specific imperative to honour the emperor mirrors the general imperative to honour everyone (v. 17), showing once again how the stance towards the emperor, while respectful of his supreme position, places him firmly among human beings and differentiates him clearly from God. The importance of the distinction drawn so concisely yet carefully in this verse becomes clear when we consider the adoption of precisely the same kind of distinction – often in clear dependence on 1 Pet. 2.17 – in Christian writings from the second-century onwards, particularly in Martyrologies and Apologies.56 I note just two among many examples, one martyrological, one apologetic. In the Martyrdom of Apollonius, which took place around 180–5 CE, the protagonist faces the demand to ‘swear by the Genius of our lord the emperor’ (ὄμοσον τὴν τύχην τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν [Mart. Apol. 3]). Apollonius gives his reasons for refusal: ‘Would you want me to swear that we pay honour to the emperor (βασιλέα τιμῶμεν) and pray for his authority? If so, then I would gladly swear, calling upon the one, true God’ (Mart. Apol. 6). As he later goes on to explain: ‘For he [Christ] taught us . . . to obey any law passed

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While modern English translations tend to render κτίσις here as ‘institution’ (e.g. RSV, NRSV, ESV), most commentators argue that ‘creature’ is the more likely meaning. See, e.g., Michaels, 1 Peter, 124; Elliott, 1 Peter, 489; Paul J. Achtemeier, 1 Peter, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1996), 182. Thus, as Elliott (1 Peter, 489) notes, the author adopts an expression in which ‘imperial power is subtly but decisively demystified, desacralized, and relativized’. For further detail, see Horrell, ‘Honour Everyone’, 201– 4. For a similar position, see also Robert Louis Wilken, ‘1 Peter 2.13–17 and Martyrdom’, in To Set at Liberty: Essays on Early Christianity and its Social World in Honor of John H. Elliott, ed. Stephen K. Black (Sheffield: Phoenix, 2014), 348–52.

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by the emperor and to respect him, but to worship God alone (βασιλέα τιμᾶν, θεὸν σέβειν μόνον)’ (Mart. Apol. 37).57 It should be clear that this reference to Christ’s teaching depends much more directly on 1 Pet. 2.17 than on Jesus’ teaching in Mark 12. In the early Apologies, the closest and most extensive echoes of 1 Pet. 2.17 are found in Theophilus of Antioch (c. 180 CE): ‘I will pay honour (τιμήσω) to the emperor not by worshipping (προσκυνῶν) him but by praying for him . . . worship must be given to God alone . . . Honour the emperor (τὸν δὲ βασιλέα τίμα) by wishing him well, by obeying him, by praying for him’ (Ad Auto. 1.11).58 Other examples might be added to the list, but already this should be enough to indicate not only the literary influence of 1 Pet. 2.17 but also – and more importantly – its influence in encapsulating a stance that Christians frequently took in relation to the Roman Empire, a stance I have elsewhere called one of polite resistance. 59 Indeed, the broader pattern of 1 Peter’s exhortation – that Christians should ‘do good’ and remain innocent of wrongdoing, while holding fi rmly to their allegiance to God and to Christ  – sets out a paradigm for such qualified engagement with the world. First Peter 2.17 draws on a range of Jewish and Christian tradition, but innovatively and distinctively articulates a careful stance towards the Empire that would be followed in much subsequent Christian teaching and practice.

Conclusion Time and space have permitted only a brief and selective examination of some of the distinctive features of 1 Peter, specifically of the letter’s innovative use of biblical and early Christian traditions. There are other respects too in which 1 Peter represents innovative moves that turned out to be pivotal for the making of early Christian identity, such as the attempt to claim the outsiders’ label ‘Christian’ as one that insiders can and should proudly bear

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Text and ET (slightly altered here) in Herbert Musurillo, The Acts of the Christian Martyrs: Introductions, Texts and Translations (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 90–105. Text and ET from Robert M.  Grant, Theophilus of Antioch, Ad Autolycum, Oxford Early Christian Texts (Oxford: Clarendon, 1970), 14–15. Horrell, Becoming Christian, 236–8.

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(4.16).60 But enough has hopefully been done to demonstrate that this short letter contains much that is of unique and crucial importance to the theology and practice of emergent Christianity. 1 Peter may be ‘an epistle of tradition’, but that does not by any means imply that its author is lacking in creativity and innovation. In 1.10–12 we find a concise articulation of the hermeneutic that undergirds Christian appropriation of the Jewish scriptures:  the true subject of prophecy – indeed of scripture as a whole – is Christ, who has appeared at the eschatological time for the salvation of those who believe. In 2.21–25 we find this hermeneutic at work in the use of Isaiah 53 to depict the Passion of Christ, a scripturalizing of the Passion traditions that would go on to be of enormous influence in Christian theology and liturgy. In 2.9– 10 we find a rich collection of scriptural phrases that denote Israel’s identity used to describe the identity of the Christian people, including the specific term (γένος) that would inaugurate the discourse about Christians as a new, or third, race. Finally, in 2.17 we find a concise but nuanced articulation of what came to be a prominent Christian stance towards the Roman Empire, offering a level of qualified obedience and loyalty as well as a clear point of limit, which as such would still be deemed a culpable resistance to imperial demands. It may be unrealistic to expect that 1 Peter might begin to receive the same level of scholarly attention as Pauline letters of a comparable length, such as Galatians or Philippians, let  alone the longer ones such as Romans or 1 Corinthians. But the various reasons why it has long been relatively neglected are insubstantial or questionable as a basis for scholarly enquiry. In a number of respects, 1 Peter turns out to be of unique and pivotal importance for the making of early Christian identity and as such warrants sustained and careful attention.

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Horrell, Becoming Christian, 164–210.

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1 Peter 4.16: Shame, Emotion and Christian Self-Perception* Katherine M. Hockey

Emotions are one of the ways that we, as humans, navigate our world and make sense of our place within it. Therefore, if we want to understand more about early Christian self-understanding, we must take account of early Christian emotion. Due to a modern focus on rational thought, emotions have frequently been sidelined in biblical studies, being viewed as irrational and bodily, and therefore of little use for investigating the content of biblical discourse. However, over the last three decades psychologists and philosophers have persuasively argued that emotions are cognitive and evaluative, thus not irrational or arbitrary. As Stephen Barton correctly recognizes, This implies that study of early Christian emotions offers a window on the ethos, ethics, and identity of Christianity in a crucial formative period in a way that supplements traditional approaches.1

Shame, an emotion that focuses on the self, is a particularly useful emotion for investigating early Christian identity. John Elliott and Barth Campbell have previously identified the importance of honour and shame in 1 Peter.2 However, by tending to emphasize the honour ascribed to the audience, neither adequately reveals the importance of shame language. For example, in 4.16 where the author says, ‘but if you suffer as a Christian, do not * 1 2

Th is research was funded by AHRC, UK. S. C. Barton, ‘Eschatology and the Emotions in Early Christianity’, JBL 130 (2011): 578. J. H. Elliott, ‘Disgraced Yet Graced: The Gospel according to 1 Peter in the Key of Honor and Shame’, BTB 25 (1995): 166–78; B. L. Campbell, Honor, Shame, and the Rhetoric of 1 Peter, SBLDS 160 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998).

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be ashamed’, Campbell reads the shame terminology in the positive as a bestowal of honour: [B]ut if they unjustly suffer for Christ, such suffering is honourable and the sufferer ought not to count it shame, but as an honor.3

Honour terms are important for affirming, theologically and rhetorically, the positive identity of the audience. However, to read μὴ αἰσχυνέσθω (do not feel ashamed) as, in effect, ‘honoured’ fails to appreciate what the shame language in particular is doing.4 This essay will demonstrate that it is, in fact, the shame language in 4.16 that is most useful for shaping the believers’ understanding of their Christian identity.5 Before addressing shame specifically, it is necessary to lay some theoretical foundations: (1) what I mean by ‘emotion’ and (2) what aspects of emotion can be examined in an ancient text. For our purposes, ‘emotion’ refers to a ‘class of affective processes’. Thus, ‘an emotion’ is one type of that class.6 Contrary to popular usage, ‘emotion’ does not mean a ‘feeling’, but categorizes a mental and physiological process.7 As Moors details, an emotion includes: (a) a cognitive component; (b) a feeling component, referring to emotional experience; (c) a motivational component, consisting of action tendencies or states of action readiness (e.g. tendencies to flee or fight); (d) a somatic component, consisting of central and peripheral physiological responses; (e) a motor component, consisting of expressive behaviour (e.g. fight and flight and facial and vocal expressions). These components correspond to functions such as: (a) stimulus evaluation or appraisal; (b) monitoring (which may serve the further function of control or regulation); (c) preparation and support of action; and (d) action.8

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Campbell, Honor, 212. Elliott demonstrates more awareness of the role of shame in an honour-shame culture. Since the 1980s there has been much scholarship on honour and shame as a socio-cultural phenomenon in the ancient world, notably influenced by Bruce J. Malina’s The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology. I will not enter this discussion here. I am interested in shame as an emotion and its function within the discourse of the letter. I hope that, in keeping the argument clear of this secondary discussion, the function of the emotion can stand prominently in view. K. Mulligan and K.  R. Scherer, ‘Toward a Working Defi nition of Emotion’, Emotion Review 4 (2012): 345. See Mulligan and Scherer, ‘Working Defi nition’, 345, 353–5. A. Moors, ‘Theories of Emotion Causation: A Review’, Cognition and Emotion 23 (2009): 626; cf. Mulligan and Scherer, ‘Working Defi nition’, 346, 352; R. S. Lazarus, ‘Progress on a CognitiveMotivational-Relational Theory of Emotion’, American Psychologist 46 (1991): 822.

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However, due to working with an ancient text, certain components are inaccessible. We cannot ascertain the physical experience of the audience nor observe its bodily expressions. Consequently, our discussion will be constrained to stimulus (object), appraisal (evaluation) and action tendency. Furthermore, we are not dealing with the audience’s actual emotion, but its idealized emotion as concretized by the author. As noted above, I  take a cognitive view of emotion, understanding an emotion to be an evaluative judgement (or appraisal) about the salience of an intentional object for one’s attainment of goals.9 At a basic level this includes ascribing a value (good or bad) to the object and assessing whether the object is beneficial or detrimental to one’s flourishing. Subsequently, each emotion can be differentiated by its judgement and resulting action tendency.10 Therefore, reflexively, through appreciating which emotion is being employed, we can understand how the object is being evaluated and the implications of this for the audience’s behaviour. Furthermore, anthropologists, such as Catherine Lutz, have shown that emotions, because of their intertwining with values and goals, are not universal, but are culturally constructed.11 This cultural construction influences both the naming and categorizing of emotion and the social negotiation of emotion through which ‘emotion rules’ are established. Such emotion rules tell the person how she should position herself in relation to objects and infer the appropriate action to take on account of this.12 Consequently, if emotions are culturally-constructed, we cannot assume that we automatically have the same understanding of each emotion as the ancients. Therefore, to be historically and culturally sensitive in our investigation of 1 Peter 4.16 we must first locate shame within the emotional repertoire of the 9

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‘Intentional’ because it is the object as it is viewed by the person experiencing the emotion; M. C. Nussbaum, Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 27. In this understanding of emotion, I follow psychologists such as Richard Lazarus and Nico Frijda along with philosophical cognitivists such as Martha Nussbaum and Robert Solomon. See R. S. Lazarus et al., ‘Towards a Cognitive Theory of Emotion’, in Feelings and Emotions: The Loyola Symposium, ed. Magda Arnold (New York: Academic Press, 1970), 207–32; N. H. Frijda et al., ‘Relations Among Emotion, Appraisal, and Emotional Action Readiness’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 57 (1989): 212–28; R. C. Solomon, The Passions: Emotions and the Meaning of Life (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1993). See also A. Moors et al., ‘Appraisal Theories of Emotion: State of the Art and Future Development’, Emotion Review 5 (2013): 119–24. See C.  A. Lutz, Unnatural Emotions:  Everyday Sentiments on a Micronesian Atoll & their Challenge to Western Theory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988). Lutz acknowledges that she is building of the work of Jean Briggs, Robert Levy and Michelle Z. Rosaldo. See O.  Riis and L.  Woodhead, A Sociology of Religious Emotion (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2010) for more on the social construction an implications of an ‘emotional regime’.

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Table 2.1 Stoic primary emotions

Πάθος Εὐπάθεια

Object

Present

Future

Perceived Good Perceived Bad Well-reasoned Good Well-reasoned Bad

ἡδονή (Pleasure) λύπη (Distress) χαρά (Joy)

ἐπιθυμία (Desire) φόβος (Fear) βούλησις (Will) εὐλάβεια (Caution)

time. This will require two things: (1) defining shame (αἰσχύνη) and (2) identifying the scenarios in which shame was typically thought to be appropriate.

Locating Shame The Stoics provide the most thorough examination of emotion in the ancient world. Therefore, because they are the most comprehensive and because by the 1st century CE Stoicism was a highly influential philosophical school particularly with regard to ethics (under which emotions fall), we will utilize Stoic sources to help determine the shape of shame.13 Aristotle, though 4th century BCE, will also be of use, because he provides a detailed treatment of shame in On Rhetoric and because his ideas appear to have been referenced by later schools. From these sources we will tease out the basic components of shame to inform our analysis of 1 Peter.14 According to the Stoics, there were four primary negative emotions – the passions (πάθη):  ἡδονή, ἐπιθυμία, λύπη and φόβος – and three counterpart good emotions  – the εὐπαθεῖαι:  χαρά, βούλησις and εὐλάβεια. They were related as shown in Table 2.1. Other emotions were grouped under these primary emotion categories. Shame (αἰσχύνη) was listed under φόβος as a kind of fear. Shame is defined as follows: Αἰσχύνη δὲ φόβος ἀδοξίας. Shame is fear of ill repute / dishonour (Andronicus, [Pass.] 3 = SVF 3.409).15 13

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See F.  H. Sandbach, The Stoics, 2nd edn (Bristol:  Bristol Press, 1989), 16; A.  A. Long, ‘The Socratic Legacy’, in The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, ed. Keimpe Algra, et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 617. Of course, this requires being aware of Stoicism’s particular perspective on emotions generally. In using Stoic sources for ascertaining a defi nition of shame, we will seek to separate out the Stoic nuancing from the basic defi nition, so as not to import specifically Stoic perspectives onto our reading of 1 Peter. Cf. Diogenes Laertius 7.112 = SVF 3.407 and Stobaeus 2.92 = SVF 3.408.

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Thus, we must also detail fear: φόβος δὲ ἄλογος ἔκκλισις· ἢ φυγὴ ἀπὸ προσδοκωμένου δεινοῦ. Fear is an irrational shrinking [aversion], or avoidance of an expected danger (Andronicus, [Pass.] 1 = SVF 3.391 [trans. Long and Sedley]; cf. Cicero, Tusc. 4.7.14–15).

We can outline three things from this definition of fear: (1) fear is futureorientated; (2) it judges the object as bad or harmful and therefore as detrimental to one’s goals; and (3) its action tendency is avoidance. Two of these three elements can be applied to shame:  shame expects harm, specifically dishonour, and therefore evaluates dishonour negatively as detrimental to the person;16 further, as a kind of fear, shame encourages avoidance of harm. However, the temporal aspect of shame is harder to discern as Aristotle evidences: ἔστω δὴ αἰσχύνη λύπη τις ἢ ταραχὴ περὶ τὰ εἰς ἀδοξίαν φαινόμενα φέρειν τῶν κακῶν, ἢ παρόντων ἢ γεγονότων ἢ μελλόντων, Let shame [aiskhynē] be [defined as] a sort of pain and agitation concerning the class of evils, whether present or past or future, that seem to bring a person into disrespect (Rhet. 2.6, 1383b12–14, trans. Kennedy).17

Aristotle’s definition also reveals that shame is concerned with certain evils (τῶν κακῶν). These ‘evils’ are ‘misdeeds’, specifically vice-ridden actions (Rhet. 2.6; 1383b).18 Aristotle goes on to list behaviour that would be so categorized, including one’s own actions or the wrongful actions of one’s associates (see Rhet. 2.6; 1383b15–18; 1384a9–15; 1385a37–39; cf. Seneca Ep. 95.9).19 Therefore, it is clear that wrong actions are what bring someone into disrepute and are productive of shame.20 If Aristotle is correct, then shame highlights a person’s behaviour and associations, categorizing them as negative. If we follow this reasoning, shame must be deeply cultural, for how can one assess 16

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Th is is typical of an honour-shame culture in which honour is the highest commodity. Cf. Cicero Tusc. 2.24.58–9; Elliott, ‘Disgraced’, 168–9. Aristotle uses both αἰσχύνη and αἰδώς to refer to types of shame. In Eth. nic. 4.9, 1128b10–12 he defi nes αἰδώς as φόβος τις ἀδοξίας. Thus, for Aristotle, like the Stoics, shame can exhibit qualities of fear. See J. H. Freese’s translation (Loeb Classical Library 193). For Aristotle, the wrongful actions are due to faults of character such as cowardice, injustice and licentiousness. Cf. Epictetus, Diatr. 3.26.1. Cf. D. Konstan, The emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature (Toronto:  University of Toronto Press, 2006), 100–1; Nemesius De Natura Hominis 20 (SVF

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what behaviour is deviant and therefore worthy of shame without having some standard to evaluate it by? The cultural group in which one lives – and, more importantly, to which one subscribes – provides the framework for such categorization. From the above we can also identify that the object of shame is the self. Thus, shame provides an evaluation of the emotion bearer herself. Modern theorist Gabriele Taylor has termed shame an emotion of self-assessment. As Taylor comments: [I]n experiencing one of these emotions [pride, humiliation, shame and guilt] the person concerned believes of herself that she has deviated from some norm and that in doing so she has altered her standing in the world. The self is the ‘object’ of these emotions, and what is believed amounts to an assessment of that self.21

Yet, even though the self is the object, the other is also very important. This is because, with shame, the self is assessed from the socio-cultural perspective of the other.22 Hence, shame requires an audience, for, as Taylor puts it, ‘feeling shame is connected with the thought that eyes are upon one.’23 Aristotle had recognized this, commenting: They are also more ashamed of things that are done before their eyes and in broad daylight; whence the proverb, ‘The eyes are the abode of shame’. That is why they feel more ashamed before those who are likely to be always with them or who keep watch upon them, because in both cases they are under the eyes of others. (Rhet. 2.6, 1384a33–1384b1, [Freese, LCL])

How one is seen is crucial. It is not enough for there to be a ‘seeing’ audience; there has to be a ‘judging’ one.24 Only through seeing oneself from the other’s critical viewpoint can the person recognize her behaviour as outside expected norms and therefore shameful.25 Since one views the self by the standards of the other, shame also gives a person a sense of her place in the world, thus

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3.416) who links shame with shameful deeds. For Epictetus, one can be ashamed on account of both thinking (ἐνθυμούμενος) and doing (ποιῶν) (Diatr. 2.8.14). G. Taylor, Pride, Shame, and Guilt:  Emotions of Self Assessment (Oxford:  Clarendon Press, 1985), 1. Cf. Taylor, Pride, 54. Taylor, Pride, 53; cf. Konstan, Emotions, 103. Taylor, Pride, 60, 64–5. Taylor, Pride, 58; cf. Epictetus, Diatr. 4.1.18; Seneca, Ep. 94.44.

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shaping identity. In an honour-shame culture it is not easy to distinguish between self-esteem and public esteem. If honour is the primary way to know one’s value, then loss of honour inevitably means loss of self-value and identity.26 Of course, one has to value the audience for shame to occur. Aristotle recognizes this when he comments that one only feels ashamed before those one esteems and therefore whose opinion one cares about (Rhet. 2.6, 1384a21– 25 cf. 2.6, 1384b23–26; Eth. eud.3.7.3, 1233b26–29; cf. also Epictetus, Diatr. 3.9.7).27 The other here is the ‘honour-group’ to which one subscribes and by whose norms one judges oneself.28 Therefore, an occurrence of shame allows us to see, reflexively, which ‘honour-group’ the person is valuing and subsequently the standards to which the self is subscribed and those by which it is judged. This leads to the final aspect of shame. For shame to occur, one has to accept the judgement on the self from the viewpoint of the other.29 This means seeing oneself as deviant and devalued. Therefore, shame does not just make a judgement about one’s actions; it judges the self. With this understanding of shame, we can turn to the significance of shame language in 1 Peter.

Shaping Self-assessment In 1 Peter 4.14–16 the author says: If you are reproached for the name of Christ (εἰ ὀνειδίζεσθε ἐν ὀνόματι Χριστοῦ), you are blessed because the spirit of glory and of God rests on you. But do not let anyone among you suffer as a murderer, thief, wrongdoer, or as a meddler; but if as a Christian (ὡς Χριστιανός), do not be ashamed (μὴ αἰσχυνέσθω), but glorify God in this name.30

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28 29 30

Taylor, Pride, 55; see also Elliott, ‘Disgraced’, 168. Cf. Elliott, ‘Disgraced’, 168. The individual may care about the other’s judgement purely for the sake of status, or she may desire to appear honourable because she needs the esteem of the other to secure necessary goods (Rhet. 2.6, 1384b27–31). In either of these scenarios, the other is given power. Taylor, Pride, 55. Taylor, Pride, 56–7. See P. J. Achtemeier, 1 Peter: A Commentary on First Peter, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), 303; J.  H. Elliott, 1 Peter:  A  New Translation with Commentary, AB 37B (New York: Doubleday, 2000), 796; D. G. Horrell, ‘The Label Χριστιανός (1 Pet. 4.16): Suffering, Confl ict, and the Making of Christian Identity’, in Becoming Christian: Essays on 1 Peter and the Making of Christian Identity, LNTS 394 (London: T&T Clark, 2013), 179–81 for why, due to manuscript evidence and context, ὀνόματι is to be preferred over μέρει (NA28). Contra J. R. Michaels, 1 Peter, WBC 49 (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1988), 269–70.

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Earlier, in 2.6, the author uses Isaiah 28.16 to declare that whoever believes in Christ will not be put to shame. Here, in 4.16, he addresses the audience’s own subjective emotional stance.31 The use of αἰσχύνω in the passive can mean to be dishonoured, but often means to feel ashamed.32 We have established that shame is occasioned by behaviour that is judged to be a transgression of group norms. In 4.16 feeling ashamed is explicitly linked to suffering as a Christian (ὡς Χριστιανός).33 Thus, it is evident that the ‘misdeed’ the author is encouraging his hearers not to be ashamed of is their association with Christ. That it is their allegiance to Christ, rather than their suffering, that is potentially shameful is indicated in 4.14 where the audience is reproached ἐν ὀνόματι Χριστοῦ (‘on account of Christ’).34 Moreover, suffering as a Christian is contrasted with suffering as a murderer (φονεύς), thief (κλέπτης), wrongdoer (κακοποιός) and meddler (ἀλλοτριεπίσκοπος). It is notable that these terms attribute an identity to the person.35 It does not say on account of murder, theft, or doing evil. The focus is identity demonstrated in behaviour. The identity terms used could even be said to be identity labels usually ascribed by others. So, thus far, we can conclude, rather simply, that the author is exhorting the believers not to be ashamed of their Christian identity.36 But, given our understanding of shame, what more can we learn from this? Why might the author deem this emotional exhortation necessary? At this point, it is worth noting that the author’s presentation is

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Cf. Mk. 8.38; Phil. 1.20; 2 Tim. 1.12; Michaels, 1 Peter, 269; Elliott, 1 Peter, 794–5; contra Achtemeier who thinks that αἰσχύνω refers to denying one’s faith rather than a subjective feeling; see also N. Brox, Der Erste Petrusbrief, EKKNT 21 (Zürich: Benziger Verlag, 1979), 221–2. Achtemeier misses the connection that it is the subjective feeling of shame that leads towards the actions of denial (see discussion below); Achtemeier, 1 Peter, 314. See ‘αἰσχύνω’ in BDAG (30), which lists 1 Peter 4.16 under ‘to have a sense of shame, be ashamed’; cf. LSJ (43) which lists the passive as ‘to be ashamed, feel shame’ and ‘more commonly, to be ashamed at a thing’. Th is verse provides one of the oldest references to the term ‘Christian’ (cf. Acts 11.26; 26.28). According to Feldmeier, it provides the earliest reference to the ‘stigmatization and criminalization . . . connected to this designation’; R. Feldmeier, The First Letter of Peter: A Commentary on the Greek Text, trans. Peter H. Davids (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2008), 227; cf. Brox, Petrusbrief, 221. See Horrell, ‘Χριστιανός‘, 165–76 for the origins of the term. Cf. Mt. 10.22; Lk. 6.22; Michaels, 1 Peter, 264. See Elliott, 1 Peter, 780–1 who argues that ἐν ὀνόματι Χριστοῦ means ‘because you belong to, are affi liated with, Christ’. Horrell’s comments on the etymology of Χριστιανός suggest that the designation specifically indicates dependence on or allegiance to Christ; Horrell, ‘Χριστιανός’, 165– 6. Achtemeier, 1 Peter, 309. However, Horrell has shown that this is not such a simple point after all, for 1 Peter 4.16 ‘represents the earliest witness to the crucial process whereby the term [Χριστιανός] was transformed from a hostile label applied by outsiders to a self-designation borne with honour’; Horrell, ‘Χριστιανός’, 165.

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in the negative: he is highlighting shame’s judgement and declaring it void. Consequently, we can detail what shame would assert and understand that the author is emphasizing the opposite. Firstly, the object of shame is the self. Thus, through highlighting this emotion, the author is pinpointing the believers’ self-perception. Their understanding of the self is likely being shaped by their experience of reproach and persecution. 37 So, through tying shame to suffering as a Christian and subsequently refuting the appropriateness of shame, the author is asking the believers to re-evaluate the situation and subsequently their own identity. Secondly, shame categorizes the believers’ behaviour as a deviation from accepted norms.38 Thus, by denying shame, the author is stating that being associated with Christ is appropriate, not miscreant behaviour. To be ashamed of their Christian identity would be to agree that their allegiance to Christ is deviant and that reproach is fitting. The author categorically refutes this. Furthermore, by removing shame, the author also nullifies the harm that shame would fear, whether this is the harm of dishonour or the loss of goods that dishonour might bring. From the author’s perspective, there is no true negative outcome of being associated with Christ. In fact, Christ is the only route to the good (e.g. salvation, inheritance, divine protection; 1.3–5, 7–9). Here we can recall 2.4–7 in which Christ is presented as chosen and honoured by God. The believers set themselves apart from non-believers and show their agreement with God’s judgements by recognizing the value of Christ. As they do so, they partake in Christ’s honour and life. Thus, in severing the link between shame and being a Christian, the author is re-affirming the value of Christ for the believer. Lastly, we know that shame requires a critical other. The mention of reproach (4.14) and suffering (4.13, 15) implies that this section is concerned with the relationship between the believers and their hostile neighbours. Furthermore, Horrell has shown that Χριστιανός is the negative label applied to believers by outsiders as a form of stigma, and Elliott notes that ὀνειδίζω

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For more on the types of persecution that the Christians could have experienced, see T.  B. Williams, Persecution in 1 Peter: Differentiating and Contextualizing Early Christian Suffering, NovTSup 145 (Leiden: Brill, 2012). If Horrell is right that Xριστιανός was used as a form of stigma, then the label itself discredits the person ‘in terms of the wider society’s values and assumptions’; Horrell, ‘Χριστιανός’, 198.

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is ‘the standard term for abuse and public shaming’.39 Therefore, the most plausible judging eyes in this context are those of surrounding society.40 Consequently, it is this society’s critical assessments that are being scrutinized by the use of shame language. Moreover, because the others’ evaluations are based on the norms and values of their culture, by denying shame the author is refusing to allow this cultural framework to provide the standard for the believers’ behaviour and identity. The result is that the negative opinion of the hostile other is devalued and the supporting norms are torn down.41 In negating shame, the author counters the hostile other’s viewpoint and assessment. In fact, he declares the exact opposite: suffering on account of Christ reveals that they are blessed and that the spirit of glory and of God rests upon them.42 So, what are the consequences of our three outlined observations? To this we can now turn.

Implications for the Believer The implications can be split into three categories: sociological, ethical and therapeutic.

Sociological The most important sociological consequence is the change in the relative importance of the critical other. The believers were part of their surrounding society and would have understood their identity in relation to it. Furthermore, they would have shared the view of reality and adopted the standards of the socio-cultural group into which they had been socialized. However, the Christ-event has given them a new view of reality and brought a new framework of norms centred on God (1.3–5, 14–21). Through denying shame the 39

40 41

42

Horrell, ‘Χριστιανός’, 167–9; Elliott, 1 Peter, 775, 778–9; see also Michaels, 1 Peter, 268; Achtemeier, 1 Peter, 313. At other points in the letter the judging eyes are God’s (1.17; 2.6; 3.16; 4.17). Cf. Elliott, 1 Peter, 795. Thus, there is more taking place here than simply breaking with the social principle of syncretism; see L. Goppelt, A Commentary on I Peter, ed. Ferdinand Hahn, trans. John E. Alsup (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1993), 328. For Holloway this is a clear example of an ‘emotion-focussed’ coping strategy, where the author seeks ‘to regulate the internal psychological effects of stigma and stigma-related outcomes.’ One way of doing this is restructuring one’s self-concept; P. A. Holloway, Coping with Prejudice: 1 Peter in Social-Psychological Perspective, WUNT 244 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 122, 226.

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believers are asked to see the world, including their behaviour and their status, no longer through the critical eyes of the hostile other. Consequently, the importance of the hostile other’s opinion is denied. Instead, negating shame suggests another viewpoint provides truth. For the author, this is God’s perspective (cf. 2.4–10). Subsequently, God’s critical eyes usurp the assessments of the other.43 Th is displacement of the human other in favour of God also affects the believers’ sense of group belonging and identity. The believers now have a new ‘honour-group’  – God and his people (2.10)  – whose judgements are significant.44 The revaluing of the hostile others’ opinions is seeking to affect the believers’ desire to be associated with them. If the outsiders’ judgements and their supporting norms are misguided, and subsequently their behaviour deviant (2.7– 8; 3.16), why would one want to be accepted by this group? Rather, the denial of shame suggests that the author is encouraging an emotional detachment from surrounding society.45 For, where the other is devalued, the emotional response to the other is altered because her significance for one’s flourishing has been reduced. Here, negating shame asks the believers not to care so strongly about the opinion of the hostile other and therefore indicates that their relationship with the other is less important to the believers’ flourishing than their allegiance to Christ. Over time this will likely reduce the strength of bonds between the believer and their society and will bolster new in-group bonds.46 Thus, it is precisely because of their desire to associate with God through Christ that the believers stand alienated from their previous socio-cultural groups.47 As Horrell comments, An ironic and surely unintended consequence . . . of the outsiders’ hostile labelling of believers as Χριστιανοί is that it confirms and increases the salience of this aspect of the insiders’ shared social identity, increases the extent to which this facet of their identity defines their commonality and

43 44 45 46

47

God’s judgement becomes more explicit in 4.17–19 that immediately follows. See 3.8; 4.7–11; 5.5. Such disidentification is typical of those coping with prejudice; see Holloway, Coping, 126–7. Awareness of their communal identity is ‘an essential element in their coping with the abuse of outsiders and presenting a collective front of resistance’; Elliott, 1 Peter, 444. See Feldmeier, Peter, 132. The polarization of believer and non-believer in 2.4–10 (Brox, Petrusbrief, 95; J. Schlosser, La Première Épître de Pierre, CBNT 21 (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 2011), 126) is likely to produce social and eventually emotional detachment.

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sense of belonging together, increases, indeed, their sense that this badge is the one they must own or deny in the face of hostility.48

What the above treatment of shame has added to Horrell’s insights is a recognition that in 4.16 there is a shift in the evaluating/valued audience. Those who have applied the term Χριστιανός as a means of censure are no longer the objects of concern. Instead, through addressing the emotion of shame, the author asks the audience to internalize a reality in which allegiance to Christ is of most value. Moreover, denying shame removes the other’s power to harm. If dishonour is an evil in itself, and can lead to other negative consequences, then to care about the evaluation of others and to seek to be honoured in their eyes gives the others power. If one looks to humans for the good (e.g. honour), then shame and reproach are problematic for one’s attainment of goals. Because of this, shame easily becomes a means of social control.49 However, if one’s allegiance to Christ is most important, then reproach from external others becomes insignificant, and one is psychologically distanced from their social control. In the end, the only judgement that matters is God’s, because he is the one who has ultimate control over the good and is the only one who can really bestow lasting honour.50 Thus, the shame language asks the believer to value objects within their world differently and reveals how their new worldview is restructuring their relationships.

Ethical If, by denying shame, the author is asking the audience to value objects in their world differently and to live by new norms and goals, then there will be ethical consequences. If the believers value the opinion of the external other and allow themselves to feel ashamed, then shame will shape their behaviour. This is because shame’s action tendency drives a person towards avoidance of dishonour.51 Elliott acknowledges this, commenting that public shaming was ‘designed to demean and discredit the believers in the court of public opinion 48 49 50 51

Horrell, ‘Χριστιανός’, 202. Elliott, ‘Disgraced’, 173. Cf. Elliott, 1 Peter, 782. Achtemeier sees desire for avoidance intimated in this passage, but links avoidance with the pain of suffering rather than the specific harm of dishonour; Achtemeier, 1 Peter, 314.

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with the ultimate aim of forcing their conformity to prevailing norms and values.’52 Such an emotional stance is likely to encourage cultural assimilation, even defection from the faith.53 However, by nullifying such shame, the author is also eliminating shame’s action tendency and associated behaviour. Through his emotional rhetoric he is able to guard against the disintegration of Christian ethical norms that external social pressure might bring. Addressing shame, an emotion that focuses on the believers’ behaviour, is particularly useful for achieving this ethical end.

Therapeutic For someone to feel ashamed they have to accept the critical observer’s judgement. Thus, to deny shame is to tell the audience not to accept this selfassessment. They are not to see themselves as disobedient and deviant, or as shameful and devalued.54 Horrell has argued, using Lipp’s work on stigmatization, that the bold wearing of the label ‘Christian’ could be a type of selfstigmatization that ‘stands as a challenge to the wider society to change its negative judgement towards the stigma’.55 This may be a secondary social outcome. However, the bold wearing of the label ‘Christian’ can only occur if the believers’ own assessment of their Christian identity is correctly formed. It is the emotional refusal of shame that establishes an inner challenge to the pressure of societal norms.56 Thus, the shame language focuses on the believers’ own assessment and seeks to effect within them a new self-perception that is based on God’s perspective on account of Christ, not the views of society. The believers are not to accept the miscreant label, but are to see themselves as obedient children (1.14) who are blessed (4.14). By refusing shame, the author exhorts his hearers to have a positive, godly self-assessment of their identity and behaviour. This is surely likely to have a secondary effect of raising selfesteem and giving the believers confidence that they are living correctly. 52 53

54 55 56

Elliott, ‘Disgraced’, 170. Cf. H. Windisch, Die katholischen Briefe, 2nd rev. edn, HNT 15 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1930), 78; K. H. Schelkle, Die Petrusbriefe: Der Judasbrief, 3rd edn, HTKNT 13 Fasz. 2 (Freiburg: Herder, 1970), 125; Schlosser, Pierre, 263. Cf. Elliott, 1 Peter, 795. Horrell, ‘Χριστιανός’, 206. Here, I am not claiming that all shame is removed from the Christian’s emotional repertoire, only shame in this context. The believers, like non-believers, still have the potential to be (a)shamed before God (2.6–8; 3.15).

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Conclusion Therefore, to interpret μὴ αἰσχυνέσθω in 4.16 as effectively an exhortation ‘to be honoured’ is to miss the depth of what is being communicated by the author. Shame, as an emotion of self-assessment that is keenly aware of the other, is uniquely placed to be of use in shaping the self-perception and social understanding of the letter’s audience. The result of the negation of shame is that the believers’ perspective is oriented towards what the author presents as God’s view of reality, and the norms, judgements and power of the hostile other is revalued. Instead, Christ is given worth, and allegiance to him is promoted as the path to flourishing. This influences the believers’ goals, which, in turn, impacts their behaviour. Consequently, their new Christian identity and ethic are affirmed, and defection from the faith or a tendency towards acculturation are resisted.57 By accessing his hearers’ emotions the author is working at a deep level. He does not ask his audience to accept a fact, but instead wants them to be internally shaped by a new reality. Emotionally aligning themselves with this new worldview should result in a new assessment of the situation and the self, so that shame is no longer fitting, but, instead, confidence in their Christian identity is fostered. Ultimately, this aims to strengthen the believers to face the opposition that their Christianity identity brings.

57

For those aware of the classic Balch-Elliott debate, it is clear that my reading of 1 Peter 4.16 supports Elliott over Balch. See D. L. Balch, ‘Hellenization / Acculturation in 1 Peter’, in Perspectives on First Peter, ed. Charles H. Talbert, NABPR Special Studies Series 9 (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1986), 79–101; J. H. Elliott, ‘1 Peter, Its Situation and Strategy: A Discussion with David Balch’, in Perspectives on First Peter, ed. Charles H.  Talbert, NABPR Special Studies Series 9 (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1986), 61–78.

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Building a Holy House Identity Formation in the Community Rule, 4QFlorilegium and 1 Peter 2.4–10* Katie Marcar

Speaking to believers, 1 Peter 2.5 declares that ‘like (ὡς) living stones, you are being built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ’. The word ὡς signals the presence of a metaphor.1 Metaphors are powerful tools for shaping group identity, especially when they employ provocative imagery like that of a temple. The Community Rule and 4QFlorilegium from the Dead Sea Scrolls also compare the yaḥad (Community) to a temple.2 In these texts, the language of sacrifice, atonement, purity and holiness shapes group self-perceptions, describes internal group-dynamics and colours perceptions of others. This

*

1

2

A version of this essay was presented at the Muted Voices Conference hosted by Durham University in April, 2015. I would like thank the organizers of the conference, and the subsequent editors of this volume, Katy Hockey, Madison Pierce and Francis Watson, for including this essay here and for their helpful feedback during the revision process. In 1 Peter, ὡς often signals a metaphor (1 Pet. 1.14, 19, 24 x2; 2.2, etc.), though not always (1 Pet. 2.12, 13, 14, 16 x3, etc.). It can be used in two contradictory ways, to indicate reality (‘as’) or comparison (‘as it were’); Achtemeier, 1 Peter: A Commentary on First Peter (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 129, cf. 56. On ὡς in 2.5 as signaling metaphor, see Ernest Best, ‘I Peter II 4–10  – A  Reconsideration’, NovT 11 (1969):  292; Troy W.  Martin, ‘Christians as Babes:  Metaphorical Reality in 1 Peter’, in Reading 1–2 Peter and Jude, ed. Eric F. Mason and Troy W. Martin, RBS 77 (Atlanta: SBL, 2014), 100. On the relationship of the yaḥad to the Qumran community, see John J.  Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community:  The Sectarian Movement of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010), 65–9. For more on the community as temple them in the Dead Sea Scrolls, see Beate Ego, Armin Lange and Peter Philhofer, Gemeinde ohne Tempel, Community without Temple, WUNT 118 (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 1999); Bertil Gä rtner, The Temple and the Community in Qumran and the New Testament: A Comprehensive Study in the Temple Symbolism of the Qumran Texts and the New Testament, SNTSMS 1 (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1965).

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essay will therefore examine some of the similarities, as well as some of the differences, between these texts from Qumran and 1 Peter in order to evaluate how this imagery is used in 1 Peter to shape Christian identity.

‘Like Living Stones’: Identity and Metaphors A metaphor is ‘understanding one kind of thing in terms of another’ (emp. original).3 Metaphors transfer meaning from source domains to target domains.4 Source domains are usually more concrete than target domains, which are generally more abstract.5 Mapping metaphors is the process of identifying which aspects of the sources are transferred to the targets. In 1 Peter, the source domains of family, temple and priesthood illuminate the more abstract target domain of Christian identity.6 However, the author is not bound by strict semantic domains and uses these sources with flexibility and fluidity. In 1 Peter 2.5, he describes believers with the domains of house, temple and priesthood.7 Metaphors can be powerful tools for shaping the receiver’s perceptions of reality.8 Carol Newsom writes, ‘Making a sectarian, is, above all, a matter of remaking the language he speaks’.9 As Newsom shows, this is especially the case when metaphors are harnessed in the service of group identity creation, formation or reconstruction. If a metaphor penetrates deeply into social consciousness, it can have a strong effect on a group’s 3

4

5 6

7

8

9

George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 5. Bonnie Howe, Because You Bear This Name: Conceptual Metaphor and the Moral Meaning of 1 Peter, BIS 81 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 64–9; Martin, ‘Christians as Babes’, 101. Howe, Because You Bear This Name, 61. For metaphor in 1 Peter, see Troy W. Martin, Metaphor and Composition in 1 Peter, SBLDS 131 (Atlanta: Scholars, 1992), esp. 141– 4; Martin, ‘Christians as Babes’, 99–106; Howe, Because You Bear this Name, 165–356; Christoph Gregor Mü ller, ‘Umg ürtet die Hü ften eurer Gesinnung!’ in Bedrängnis und Identität: Studien zu Situation, Kommunikation und Theologie des 1.Petrusbrief, ed. David S. du Toit, BZNW 200 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), 143–5. Elliott denies the presence of cultic imagery in this verse on the basis that the author could not have described believers as both a temple and priests in the temple. Th is criticism is misguided because it does not appreciate the fluidity of metaphor in 1 Peter. John H. Elliott, 1 Peter: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB 37B (New Haven:  Yale University Press, 2000), 414–18. See further discussion below. Erin Heim, ‘Light through a Prism: New Avenues of Inquiry for the Pauline Υἱοθεσία Metaphors’ (PhD diss., University of Otago, 2014);  see esp. chapter  3, ‘Metaphor:  Perception, Emotion, Intimacy, and Identity Formation’, 68–102. Carol A.  Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space:  Constructing Identity at Qumran, STDJ 52 (Leiden: Brill, 2004).

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attitudes, behaviour and perceptions of others.10 To this end, the author of 1 Peter constructed an extended, complex metaphor of believers’ divine regeneration, spanning their conception (1.3, 23), infancy (2.1–3) and childhood (1.14) in order to establish a new, Christian spiritual ethnic identity (2.9–10).11 Nestled inside this larger metaphor is the metaphor of the community as a temple. As a result of their divine regeneration, believers are now God’s holy people, embody his temple and serve as his priests. These metaphors are participatory. Believers are invited into the interpretive process because the source domains only partially map onto their targets. They require interpretation and participation because they are partial, selective and, potentially, expansive.12 For example, which features of a temple does the author want to compare with the community – its architecture, ideology, or sacrificial system? What is he trying to communicate by comparing these features with the community? 1 Peter, the Community Rule and 4QFlorilegium have many structural similarities because they share the basic metaphor of the community as temple; however, it is the differences, perhaps more than the similarities, that highlight the diversity in these texts. Metaphors are therefore always grounded in specific socio-linguistic contexts. This raises questions such as: how would this language have been perceived by group members? Because of this specificity, metaphors can create feelings of intimacy between group insiders as well as boundaries with outsiders.13 Language plays a key role in marking insiders and outsiders. Intimacy can in fact follow precisely from the shared contrast with the outsider. For example, telling a jazz musician to ‘spend more time in the woodshed’ communicates that the musician should practice but also creates feelings of ingroup belonging by using insider language.14 Only those who possess the knowledge that comes with group membership can identify with and participate in the metaphor. In 1 Peter, the Community Rule and 4QFlorilegium, group members are given metaphors that shape their own identity, even if 10 11

12

13 14

Heim, ‘Light through a Prism’, 68–102. Katherine A. Girsch, ‘Begotten Anew: Divine Regeneration and Identity Construction in 1 Peter’ (PhD diss., Durham University, 2015); David G. Horrell, ‘ “Race”, “Nation”, “People”: Ethnoracial Identity Construction in 1 Pet. 2:9’, in Becoming Christian: Essays on 1 Peter and the Making of Christian Identity, LNTS 394 (London: T&T Clark, 2013), 133– 63. Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 124; Paul S.  Minear, ‘The House of Living Stones: A Study of 1 Peter 2:4–12’, Ecumenical Review 34 (1982): 239. Heim, ‘Light through a Prism’, 88–102. Heim, ‘Light through a Prism’, 91.

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the content of these metaphors would have been unusual, or reprehensible, to outsiders. This is especially the case with the Qumran community, whose fundamental identity as a community that embodies temple would have been incomprehensible to their Jewish contemporaries.

The Community as Temple in the Community Rule and 4QFlorilegium In response to the perceived pollution and desecration of the Jerusalem cult, the Community understood itself as an interim, substitute temple (the Community Rule [1QS et. al.15]; 4QFlorilegium [4Q174]).16 This ideology shaped the members’ perceptions of reality, grounded their group identity and established clear social boundaries latent with theological significance.17 The Community was therefore obligated to live by strict social boundaries in order to maintain the moral and ritual purity necessary for sacred space. Undergirded by this central tenant, the following analysis focuses on how this ideology shaped the community’s structure, purpose and use of scripture to facilitate a fruitful comparison with 1 Peter.

The Community Rule The Community Rule describes the religious beliefs and practices of the yaḥad, the Community.18 Its ideology can rightly be called sectarian because it is defined by difference, antagonism and separation from mainstream 15

16

17

18

Different versions of the Rule circulated and were copied contemporaneously. For more on columns 8–9, see Sarianna Metso, The Textual Development of the Qumran Community Rule, STDJ 21 (Leiden:  Brill, 1997), 13– 67, 143– 4. Compare Alison Schofield, From Qumran to the Yaḥad: A New Paradigm of Textual Development for The Community Rule, STDJ 77 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 21–130. Lawrence H. Schiff man, ‘Community without Temple: The Qumran Community’s Withdrawal from the Jerusalem Temple’, in Gemeinde ohne Temple, Community without Temple, WUNT 118 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 267–84; Florentino García Mart ínez, ‘Priestly Functions in a Community without Temple’, in Gemeinde ohne Tempel, Community without Temple, WUNT 118 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 303–19. It is difficult to determine if this temple embodiment is metaphorical. The strength of the language, especially with regard to atonement, suggests some level of reality, however figurative or typological, is intended. Though this question remains open-ended, metaphor theory is a useful tool here because the text functions like a metaphor by transferring meaning from the source domain (the temple) to the target (the yaḥad ). Michael A.  Knibb, ‘Rule of the Community’, in Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 793–7.

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society.19 Fuelled by a desire for holiness, some members of the movement physically separated themselves from society to live in the wilderness at Qumran.20 This seclusion afforded them the opportunity to live as God’s interim temple away from the defi ling presence of the wicked and the profane. Any defi lement from the wicked could threaten their corporate temple embodiment, and therefore, their sacrificial offerings. The community-as-temple theme was developed through the use of scripture, particularly Isaiah 28.16 in 1QS 8.7b–8a, where the Rule states: This [the Community] is the tested rampart, the precious cornerstone that does not blank /whose foundations/ shake or tremble from their place. Blank [It will be] the most holy dwelling for Aaron with eternal knowledge of the covenant of justice in order to offer a pleasant /aroma/; and it will be a house of perfection and truth in Israel.

With wording inspired by Isaiah 28.16, the author of the Rule interpreted the Community itself as the sure foundation.21 The architectural and cultic source domains work together to transfer connotations of solidity, edification and sanctification to the community which is founded by God.22 As temple, the community is ‘to atone for the guilt of iniquity and for the unfaithfulness of sin’ (9.4).23 The community can ‘atone for sin by doing justice’ by preserving faithfulness and having a repentant spirit (1QS 8.3; 9.3–5).24 The community’s obedience will ‘atone for the land’ and ‘render the wicked their retribution’ (1QS 8.6b–7a). This atonement will be achieved ‘without the flesh of burnt offerings and without the fats of sacrifice’ (9.4). Instead of animals, the community will offer ‘the offerings of lips’, which will be ‘like a pleasant aroma of justice’ and the ‘the perfectness of behaviour will 19

20 21

22

23 24

Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community, 7.  See also Jutta Jokiranta, Social Identity and Sectarianism in the Qumran Movement, STDJ 105 (Leiden: Brill, 2013). See Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community, 65–9. Isaiah 28.16, ‘Behold, I am laying in Zion for a foundation, a stone, a tested stone, a precious cornerstone (‫)אבן בחן פנת יקרת‬, of a sure foundation (‫)מוסד מוסד‬: “He who believes will not be in haste.”’ For more, see Jaap Dekker, Zion’s Rock- Solid Foundations: An Exegetical Study of the Zion Text in Isaiah 28:16, OtSt 54 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 25–7; Devorah Dimant, ‘The Volunteers in the Rule of the Community: A Biblical Notion in Sectarian Garb’, RevQ 23 (2007): 233–45, 239. As Newsom observes, ‘Several of the metaphorical images invoked by the passage are architectural ones: “foundation”(‫סוד‬, ‫)יסודות‬, “wall” (‫)חומה‬, “corner” (‫)פנה‬, and, more generally, “house” (‫ )בית‬and “dwelling” (‫)מעון‬,’ Newsom, Self as Symbolic Space, 156. For atonement in 1QS, see 3.1–12; 5.5– 6; 8.1–10; 9.3–6. Also, 1QS 11.14–15. That the Community can offer an acceptable, alternative sacrifice is hinted by the allusions to Mic. 6.8 and Ps. 51.17(19) in 1QS 8.3. See also 1QS 3.1–12; 5.5– 6; 8.109.3–7.

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be acceptable like the freewill offering’ (9.5). The Community thus offered sacrifices to God through worship, prayer and obedience to the law as they understood it.25 The cultic language of holiness and purity creates strong boundaries that unify the community around the common goal of atonement.26 The language shapes members’ perceptions of reality, orients their behaviour and motivates their continued diligence because the efficacy of atonement rests on their temple embodiment. The community-as-temple theme also has implications for the Community’s structure. 1QS 8.1 states that within the Community council (‫ )עצת היחד‬there will be twelve men and three priests.27 The three priests form an elite group within the Community.28 The symbolism impressed upon the sectarians their identity as faithful Israel.29 It also reflected the group’s hierarchy by distinguishing two groups: the twelve representing the council, and the three priests representing the priesthood.30 This division was mapped onto the community’s temple embodiment. There is ‘a holy house for Israel and the foundation of the holy of holiness for Aaron’ (1QS 8.6 cf. 9.5–8). As Gärtner notes, ‘The two groups in the community, Aaron and Israel, here represent the two most important rooms in the Temple, the “Holy place” and the “Holy of holies” ’.31 The community’s priestly members are compared with the holiest, inner sanctum of the Temple, while the other members are compared to it more generally.32 To summarize, the Rule uses architectural and cultic source domains to describe the Community as a substitute temple. As such, the Community is called to offer acceptable sacrifices of obedience, perfection and worship in order to achieve atonement for sin and the land. The Rule also maps the physical temple’s graded levels of holiness onto the community. This language creates strong boundaries against ‘the wicked’, those outside the group. As a

25

26 27

28 29 30 31 32

See Joseph M. Baumgarten, Studies in Qumran Law, SJLA 24 (Leiden: Brill, 1977), 46–51; Dimant, ‘Volunteers’, 240–1; John J. Collins, ‘Prayer and the Meaning of Ritual in the Dead Sea Scrolls’, in Prayer and Poetry in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature, STDJ 98 (Leiden:  Brill, 2012), 75– 6. Newsom, Self as Symbolic Space, 154–7. Fifteen is a symbolic number that represents the twelve tribes and the three priestly families (cf. Num. 3.17). See Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community, 69–75. Also, Newsom, Self as Symbolic Space, 155– 6. Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community, 69–75. Newsom, Self as Symbolic Space, 155– 6. Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, ‘Cultic Language in Qumran and in the NT’, CBQ 38 (1976): 166–7. Gä rtner, Temple and the Community, 26–7. García Mart ínez, ‘Priestly Functions’, 303– 4; Knibb, The Qumran Community, 133.

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temple, they must maintain a high degree of purity, holiness and physical separation to achieve their goals of obedience and atonement.

4QFlorilegium 4QFlorilegium also reflects the temple embodiment of the Community. 4QFlorilegium is a fragmentary example of a thematic commentary on 2 Samuel 7.10–14.33 Taking advantage of its polyvalence, the author interprets the keyword ‫‘( בית‬house’) in 2 Samuel 7.10–14 as a ‫‘( מקדש‬sanctuary’), notably as a ‫‘( מקדש אדם‬sanctuary of man/men/Adam’).34 The best understanding of ‫ מקדש אדם‬is a ‘sanctuary (composed) of men’.35 Inherent in the phrase, however, is polyvalence with the name ‘Adam’.36 The sanctuary of men is in some way a sanctuary of Adam ‘where the intention of God in creating Eden would be restored’.37 As the ‘sanctuary of men’, the Community could see itself as living in anticipation of the future, eschatological reality. The purpose of this temple is ‘for there to be in it for him smoke offerings before him, works of thanksgiving’.38 The text interprets the smoke offerings as ‘works of thanksgiving’ (‫)מעשי תודה‬. Though textually difficult, it seems best to read it as ‘works of thanksgiving’.39 However, there still might be an intentional pun with ‘works of the law’, like the polyvalent reading of ‘sanctuary of man/men/Adam’.40 If so, the community in 4QFlor offers up smoke offerings of thanksgiving and maintain their status of holiness through obedience to the law. The sectarian interprets 2 Samuel 7.11b (‘and I will give you rest from all your enemies’) in I.7b–9, that means that he will give rest to them from all the sons of Belial who cause them to stumble in order to destroy them [through their errors], just 33

34

35 36

37 38 39

40

George J.  Brooke, ‘Florilegium (4Q174)’, in Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010), 646–7. George J. Brooke, Exegesis at Qumran, JSOTSup 29 (Sheffield: University of Sheffield, 1985), 103– 32; esp. 107–10, 29; M. O. Wise, ‘4QFlorilegium and the Temple of Adam’, RevQ 15 (1991): 103– 32, 107–10. Brooke, Exegesis at Qumran, 185. George J.  Brooke, ‘Miqdash Adam, Eden, and the Qumran Community’, in Gemeinde ohne Tempel, Community without Temple, WUNT 118 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 288. Brooke, ‘Miqdash Adam’, 289. Trans. Brooke, I.6b–7a. Devorah Dimant, ‘4QFlorilegium and the Idea of the Community as Temple’, in History, Ideology, and Bible Interpretation in the Dead Sea Scrolls, FAT 90 (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 271. Brooke, ‘Miqdash Adam’, 288.

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as they came with the plots of Belial to cause to stumble the sons of light, and in order to devise against them plots of wickedness so that they [might be caught] by Belial through their [wicked] error.

The community-as-temple motif is thus used in conjunction with a strong statement of antithesis against those who ‘through their [wicked] error’ oppose the community.41 The enemies are the sons of Belial who seek to cause the righteous to stumble through their devious plots. The terms Belial (‫)בליעל‬, stumble (‫ )מכשילים‬and plots (‫ )מחשבת‬are emphasized. None of these terms appears in 2 Samuel 7, but they are repeated here twice, and in the case of Belial, three times. The author weaves these words into his reading of 2 Samuel 7 to contemporize the text of 2 Samuel 7 with the community’s present struggle in strongly dualistic language. This dualistic language creates a binary distinction between group insiders and outsiders; there is no middle ground. In conclusion, 4QFlor is an example of biblical exegesis that provides a contemporary, and eschatological, interpretation of 2 Samuel 7.10–14 to reveal how it applies to the community. Though they look forward to the future, eschatological temple, the community currently functions as an interim, substitute ‘temple of men’ (‫)מקדש אדם‬. They thus offer up ‘smoke offerings’, understood as ‘works of thanksgiving’ (‫)מעשי תודה‬. This cultic language is then juxtaposed with the opposition given by Belial, who will try to make the sons of light stumble with his wicked plans. In different ways, the Community Rule and 4QFlorilegium described the Community as a temple. This ideology shaped their identity and created strict boundaries between insiders and outsiders. As such, it will be a useful foil for looking at these themes in 1 Peter.

A Priestly People: Christian Identity in 1 Peter Metaphors abound in 1 Peter, and many of these are employed to shape believers’ self-perception.42 In 1 Peter 2.4–8, the author weaves together domestic, cultic and architectural source domains to describe believers’ identity before God through Christ. This divinely bestowed identity of honour, grace and

41

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Also, 2 Cor. 6.14–7.1. Cf. Michael Goulder, ‘2 Cor. 6:14–7:1 as an Integral Part of 2 Corinthians’, NovT 36, no. 1 (1994): 47–57; Schüssler Fiorenza, ‘Cultic Language’, 171–2. Achtemeier draws attention to the letter’s appropriation of the language of Israel for Christian identity, see 1 Peter, 69–72. Also see Martin, Metaphor and Composition, 141– 4; Mü ller, ‘Umg ürtet die Huften’, 143– 4.

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election stands in sharp contrast with the shame and ostracism meted out to believers by their contemporaries.43 The recipients of 1 Peter were experiencing social ostracism due to their Christianity.44 This ostracism probably took various forms of prejudice, suspicion, discrimination and harassment.45 However, as the letter explains, this social estrangement is the result of divine election:  believers live as strangers in the world because of their divine election.46 The letter is therefore carefully targeted at reinterpreting believers’ social situation from the perspective of divine election (1.1–2): things are not what they seem. The letter is thus contrasting two opposing views of the world:  the dominant view of society and the hidden, but revealed, view of God. Despite their present circumstances, believers’ identity comes from, and is assured by, God. At the centre of believers’ new identity is Christ. Like him, they will be rejected and marginalized by the world, but elected and honoured (ἐκλεκτὸν ἔντιμον, 2.4) by God.47 In vv. 4–5, Christ is first identified as the living stone (λίθον ζῶντα) followed by parallel language for believers (‘like living stones’, ὡς λίθοι ζῶντες). The quotation from Isaiah 28.16 explains that the one who believes in him (Christ) will not be put to shame (οὐ μὴ καταισχυνθῇ, 2.6). Interpreting Isaiah 28.16, the next verse explains that honour belongs to those who believe (ὑμῖν οὖν ἡ τιμὴ τοῖς πιστεύουσιν, 2.7). In this way, the author recasts the social values of honour and shame to claim for believers the superior honour given by God.48 Significantly, Christ is also the defining centre of the community-astemple image in 1 Peter.49 To anticipate the messianic interpretation of Isaiah 28.16, Christ is the cornerstone (ἀκρογωνιαῖον ἐκλεκτὸν ἔντιμον) upon

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47 48 49

For more on honour and shame, see John H.  Elliott, ‘Disgraced yet Graced:  The Gospel according to 1 Peter in the Key of Honor and Shame’, BTB 25, no.  4 (1995):  166–78; Barth L. Campbell, Honor, Shame, and the Rhetoric of 1 Peter, SBLDS 160 (Atlanta; Scholars Press, 1998), 83–98. David G.  Horrell, ‘The Label Χριστιανός (1 Pet. 4.16):  Suffering, Confl ict, and the Making of Christian Identity’, in Becoming Christian:  Essays on 1 Peter and the Making of Christian Identity, LNTS 394 (London:  T&T Clark, 2013), 183–210; Elliott, ‘Disgraced yet Graced’, 169–71. 1 Pet. 2.12, 15, 20–25; 3.1–2, 13–17; 4.4–5, 12–16; 5.9. Cf. Achtemeier, 1 Peter, 22–36, esp. 34– 6; Reinhard Feldmeier, The First Letter of Peter:  A  Commentary on the Greek Text (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2008), 2–13. Reinhard Feldmeier, Die Christen als Fremde. Die Metapher der Fremde in der antiken Welt, im Urchristentum und im 1. Petrusbrief, WUNT 64 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), esp. 39–74. See also 1 Pet. 1.15–16, 2.21–25; 3.18; 4.1–2, 13. Elliott, ‘Disgraced yet Graced’, 171– 4; Campbell, Honor, 83–98. Schüssler Fiorenza, ‘Cultic Language’, 170–1.

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which the entire metaphor rests. At the heart of the yaḥad’s temple embodiment was a profound dissatisfaction with Jerusalem cult. In 1 Peter, Christ is at the centre of the community-as-temple language.50 The plural language in 2.4–10 clarifies that believers are defined corporately through their coming together (πρὸς ὃν προσερχόμενοι, 2.4) around Christ.51 They are corporately being built up into a spiritual house and holy priesthood (καὶ αὐτοὶ . . . οἰκοδομεῖσθε, 2.4–5).52 Just as a building cannot be built with one stone, so must believers come together in order to be a holy house and priesthood.53 Believers’ temple embodiment serves a different purpose than comparable language in the Dead Sea Scrolls. In contrast to the Rule, the communityas-temple language in 1 Peter does not involve atonement.54 Elsewhere in 1 Peter, Christ is ‘like (ὡς) a lamb without blemish or defect’ whose precious blood has ransomed (ἐλυτρώθητε) believers (1.18).55 No further atonement is needed, ‘For Christ died for sins once for all’ (3.18). In 1 Peter, believers’ temple embodiment does not achieve atonement, but it does shape their identity and behaviour in other ways. Though believers do not achieve atonement, they are all to offer up spiritual sacrifices in 1 Pet. 2.5. In v. 5, the stone language shifts into house language: οἰκοδομεῖσθε οἶκος πνευματικός. Like 4QFlor, the author of 1 Peter used the polyvalence of οἶκος to transition smoothly from house source domains into cultic ones: εἰς ἱεράτευμα ἅγιον ἀνενέγκαι πνευματικὰς θυσίας εὐπροσδέκτους θεῷ διὰ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ.56 The οἶκος πνευματικός parallels the πνευματικὰς θυσίας. Both are defined by the presence of the Spirit.57 Just as the Temple was the resting place of God’s spirit, so now the spirit of God rests upon believers (cf. 50 51

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54 55 56

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Elliott, 1 Peter, 421. Note the especially: ὑμῖν οὖν ἡ τιμὴ τοῖς πιστεύουσιν, 2.7; ὑμεις δὲ γένος ἐκλεκτόν . . . τὰς αρετὰς ἐξαγγείλητε τοῦ ἐκ σκότους ὑμᾶς καλέσαντος εἰς τὸ θαυμαστὸν αὐτοῦ φῶς, 2.9. Cf. Campbell, Honor, 83–7. Additionally, there is debate over whether προσερχόμενοι has imperative force. The main verb, οἰκοδομεῖσθε, is indicative, so it is best also to see προσερχόμενοι this way. See Achtemeier, 1 Peter, 153; Mark Dubis, I Peter: A Handbook on the Greek Text, BHGNT (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2010), 45–8. Though αὐτοί is a third-person pronoun, it can be used to intensify or modify any person, gender or number. Here it modifies the second-person plural οἰκοδομεῖσθε; Dubis, I Peter, 47. Feldmeier, First Peter, 135; Karen H. Jobes, 1 Peter, BECNT (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2005), 149. Best, ‘I Peter II 4–10’, 288; Schüssler Fiorenza, ‘Cultic Language’, 175. Achtemeier, 1 Peter, 126–30. Oἶκος commonly referred to the Temple in Jewish and Christian literature. Lutz Doering, ‘Gottes Volk: Die Adressaten als “Israel” im Ersten Pestrusbrief’, in Bedrängnis und Identität: Studien zu Situation, Kommunikation und Theologie des 1. Petrusbriefes, ed. David S. du Toit, BZNW 200 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2013), 95; Jobes, 1 Peter, 150. Jobes, 1 Peter, 149; Campbell, Honor, 89–90.

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1 Pet. 4.14). The author then piles up the source domains of priesthood, holiness and the offering up acceptable sacrifices. As this panoply of source domains shows, the use of cultic language in 1 Peter is more fluid and elastic than in the Community Rule. There, the communityas-temple language followed a strict internal coherence because the efficacy of atonement was at stake. The Petrine author, however, has no problem laying multiple images on top of one another:  for example, identifying believers as living stones, a temple and a priesthood. Indeed, Christ is described variously as a spotless lamb, a shepherd and the living stone.58 These metaphors function like object lessons, or lenses, through which believers can understand their true relationship with God and the world. As lenses, they provide an important alternative narrative for believers than the one provided by dominant society. Believers are not shamed before God; they are instead his holy priests. Believers’ priestly status dovetails with the letter’s exhortation to holiness in 1 Peter 1.15–16 (cf. Lev. 19.2).59 Just as Israel’s priesthood was called to stricter conduct and higher levels of holiness, so too are believers, as a priestly people, called to live holy lives within society the dominant Greco-Roman society.60 This holy, priestly identity contributes to the letter’s extended ethical exhortations that believers should live above reproach among their nonbelieving neighbours (1 Pet. 2.12).61 However, this holiness is expressed through a different kind of priestly identity than Jewish or Greco-Roman priesthoods. In the Rule, priestly members were distinguished from the rest of the Community and compared to the Holy of Holies. Indeed, nowhere do the Qumran texts apply the language of priesthood to all members of the Community.62 By contrast, 1 Peter does not map graded levels of cultic holiness onto the Christian community. Instead, all believers are addressed as a priesthood without regard for sex, age, or family ancestry.63 Gentile women and slaves, no less than men, are called by the letter to understand themselves as priests and to live accordingly. 58 59

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61 62 63

1 Peter 1.19; 2.4, 7–8, 25; 5.4. Additionally, the sprinkling in 1.2 may echo both the sprinkling of the people during the establishment of the covenant in Exod. 24.3–8, as well as the sprinkling of the priests in Exod. 29.20; Doering, ‘Gottes Volk’, 90–1. See Lev. 20.1–24. Cf. Hannah Harrington, Holiness: Rabbinic Judaism and the Graeco-Roman World (London: Routledge, 2001), 58–71. Elliott, ‘Disgraced yet Graced’, 171– 4. García Mart ínez, ‘Priestly Functions’, 303– 4; Schüssler Fiorenza, ‘Cultic Language’, 174. Feldmeier, First Peter, 136.

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As a priestly people, believers are to offer acceptable sacrifices to God through Jesus Christ (2.5). The precise content of these sacrifices is not specified. A close priestly parallel is perhaps found in ‘smoke offerings’ of 4QFlor that are interpreted as ‘works of thanksgiving’ (‫)מעשי תודה‬. In a similar way, the ‘spiritual sacrifices’ (πνευματικάς θυσίας) in 1 Peter should perhaps be interpreted as declarations of God’s wonderful deeds in 2.9 (ὅπως τὰς ἀρετὰς ἐξαγγείλητε).64 Appropriately, many commentators see a connection between v. 5 and v. 9.65 The terms ἅγιος and ἱεράτευμα appear in both verses. More importantly, v. 9 is the only place in 2.4–10, where believers are called to do something. Though there is probably some alignment of these declarations with the spiritual sacrifices, it is probably better to attend to the dynamics of the metaphor. As a metaphor, the πνευματικάς θυσίας are intentionally flexible, open-ended and participatory, which invites the recipient into the interpretive process where living a holy life also means living above reproach in wider society.66 The connection between the stone language and the temple imagery is strengthened with the reference to Zion in the quotation of Isaiah 28.16 in v. 6, διότι περιέχει ἐν γραφῇ· ἰδοὺ τίθημι ἐν Ζιὼν λίθον ἀκρογωνιαῖον ἐκλεκτὸν ἔντιμον, καὶ ὁ πιστεύων ἐπ’ αὐτῷ οὐ μὴ καταισχυνθῇ. The messianic interpretation of Isaiah 28.16 traces the relationships between Christ and those who believe him and between Christ and those who reject him. Just as believers are defined by the living stone, and are themselves becoming living stones, so too are those who reject Christ nevertheless defined by him.67 Socially, this verse creates a division between insiders and outsiders, and the basis of that boundary is the individual’s response to Christ. Verse 8 elaborates:  Christ will be for those who reject him a stumbling stone and a rock of offence (Isa. 8.14). Like the Rule and 4QFlor, the strongly dualistic language in 2.4–10 divides the world into two groups:  those who accept Christ and those who do not. Just as honour is due to believers, shame will come to those who reject God.68 Like 4QFlor, this section deploys the

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65 66 67

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John H.  Elliott, The Elect and the Holy:  An Exegetical Examination of 1 Peter 2:4–10 and the Phrase Βασίλειον ίεράτευμα , NovTSup 12 (Leiden:  Brill, 1966), 19–23; Elliott, 1 Peter, 295; Achtemeier, 1 Peter, 156–8. Against, see Best, ‘I Peter II 4–10’, 287, cf. 277. Achtemeier, 1 Peter, 156–8; Elliott, 1 Peter, 421. 1 Pet. 2.12, 15; 3.13–17. Leonhard A. Goppelt, Commentary on I Peter, trans. John E. Alsup (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1978), 144; Elliott, ‘Disgraced yet Graced’, 173. Elliott, ‘Disgraced yet Graced’, 172–3.

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similarly dualistic language of honour and shame, light and darkness, and belief and obedience compared to disobedience and stumbling. It reaches a climax by reminding believers that once they were no people and had not received mercy, but now they are God’s people’ (2.10). While the letter uses strongly dualistic language, these statements should be qualified by attending to the letter’s broader theological outlook where the ultimate fate of those who currently reject Christ is epistemically inaccessible to believers. Current believers were once ‘no people’ and had not received mercy (2.10). They were redeemed from their ‘former ignorance’ (1.14). Indeed, part of the motivation for believers to have good behaviour is the possibility that the quality of their life will serve as a witness to their unbelieving neighbours (1 Pet. 2.12; 3.1–2. cf. 3.9, 18.).69 Those who now believe once did not, and those who do not now believe may come to do so in the future. Though believers have a distinct corporate identity, they are nevertheless called to live within society as a blessing and witness to those around them (1 Pet. 3.9, 15–16).

Conclusion In sum, the author of 1 Peter applied the multiple source domains of stones, house, temple and priesthood to the target domain of Christian identity. Through these metaphors the author responded to believers’ current social ostracism to demonstrate the significance of their divine election and honoured status before God. Believers’ holy identity is founded on Christ, the living stone. Through him, they are likewise living stones who are being built into a holy house and priestly people who offer spiritual sacrifices. Believers’ temple embodiment is not constituted as an alternative to a physical temple. In contrast to the Community Rule, these sacrifices do not effect atonement. Instead, this metaphor functions to define the relationships between Christ, believers and those who reject him. With Isaiah 28.16, Christ is identified as the chosen cornerstone, who will preserve those who trust him, but will be a stumbling stone for those who do not (Isa. 8.14). In a similar way to the Rule and 4QFlor, the dualistic language of 1 Peter 2.4–10 divides 69

Elliott, ‘Disgraced yet Graced’, 171.

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the world into two groups. However, the community-as-temple language in 1 Peter does not serve as motivation for believers to separate, physically and socially, from unbelievers. Instead, they are called to holiness and distinction, but not separation, from the world in order that the quality of their lives might serve as a witness to the life of Christ.

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Identity, Eschatology and Ethics in 2 Peter 2.17–22 Scott Hafemann

Second Peter 2.17–22 is perhaps the most neglected paragraph of what may still be the most neglected letter in the New Testament. Despite its neglect, it provides a significant paradigm for understanding the struggle in the early church to create and preserve a Christian ‘identity’. Indeed, 2.17–22 plays a key rhetorical role in what is judged to be, together with Jude, one of the two ‘most densely packed polemical documents in the New Testament’.1 For far from being a digression in the midst of the passionate denunciations of 2 Pet. 2 and 3, 2.17–22 functions as an essential, bilateral hinge within the argument of 2 Pet. 2.1–3.7.2 On the one hand, its delineation of the identity of the false teachers grounds the argument from 2.1–16 regarding the surety of their judgement. On the other hand, it also supports the conclusions to be drawn beginning in 3.1–7 regarding their eschatological scepticism and resultant

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On this evaluation of 2 Peter and Jude, see Troy A.  Miller, ‘Dogs, Adulterers, and the Way of Balaam:  The Forms and Socio-Rhetorical Function of the Polemical Rhetoric in 2 Peter (Part i)’, IBS 22 (2000): 132. For as H. C. C. Cavallin, ‘The False Teachers of 2 Pt as Pseudo-Prophets’, NovT 21 (1979):  264, points out, at least two-thirds of 2 Peter is explicitly devoted to an open polemic against its opponents, while the rest of the letter is likely implicitly determined by the same polemic. So too James M.  Starr, Sharers in Divine Nature:  2 Peter 1:4 in Its Hellenistic Context (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 2000), 57, who concludes that Watson’s ‘appellation of 2.10b–22 as a digression causes him to undervalue the significance of 2.18–22 in the overall flow of the letter’s argumentation’; see Duane Frederick Watson, Invention, Arrangement, and Style: Rhetorical Criticism of Jude and 2 Peter, SBLDS 104 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988). While Watson (Invention, 122), sees 2.18–22 to be echoing 1.3– 4 as its apostate counter-presentation, Starr (Sharers, 57–8), argues that 2.18–20 echoes so many of the themes of 1.3–11 that it is intended to be a summary of Peter’s central argument, taking 3.1ff. as bolstering the conclusions of 2.18–22. Cf. too Anton Vögtle, Der Judasbrief / Der 2. Petrusbrief, EKK 22 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1994), 208, who concludes that although 2.12–22 is a digressio intended to stir up the readers’ negative emotions, it is not an insertion that disrupts the context between 1.16–21 and chapter 3.

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condemnation. Second Peter 2.17–22 thus fits into the larger discourse of 2.1– 3.7 as follows: 2.1–10a: The judgement of the false teachers is not idle, i.e., their destruction is not sleeping (v. 3bc). 2.10b–16: For the false teachers will be destroyed in their annihilation in that they will receive the wage of their wrong doing (vv. 12a, 13a). 2.17–22: For the false teachers are waterless-springs and mists being driven by a wind-storm, so that the gloom of darkness has been kept for them (v. 17). 3.1–7: Therefore, the readers are to be reminded of the reality of the coming eschatological judgement proclaimed by the prophets and apostles (vv. 1–2) in view of its denial by the scoffers (vv. 3–4), who will themselves be condemned in it (vv. 5–7). Hence, given its focus on the identity of the false teachers as the ground for the surety of their eschatological judgement, 2.17–22 provides an apt case study of the dynamics of community identity formation as a function of the creation and maintenance of an insider/outsider self-understanding. Such a dynamic can be analysed through the lens of ‘social identity theory’ (SIT) or the ‘sociology of deviance’. The former approach focuses on how, in the creation of ‘ingroup categories’, the formation of group identity leads to a process of ‘self-categorization’ within the group (cf. the categories of ‘brothers’ and ‘beloved’ for the recipients of 2 Peter; see below) and ‘depersonalization’ towards outsiders (cf. 2 Peter’s use of the inanimate metaphors to describe the false teachers; see below).3 In the latter approach, inasmuch as deviance is a relative ‘social product’, ‘social groups create deviance by making the rules whose infraction constitutes deviance and by applying those rules to particular people and labeling them as outsiders’ (cf. the ‘rules’ of 2 Pet. 1.3– 11 with 2.1–3 and 3.14–17).4 As a corollary to such an ‘external’, functional analysis of identity formation in 2 Peter, the present study seeks to examine 3

4

For SIT, see now J.  Brian Tucker and Coleman A.  Baker, eds, T&T Clark Handbook to Social Identity in the New Testament (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), esp. the presentation of the method by Philip F. Esler, ‘An Outline of Social Identity Theory’, 24. For this approach, see Troy A. Miller, ‘Dogs, Adulterers, and the Way of Balaam: The Forms and Socio-Rhetorical Function of the Polemical Rhetoric in 2 Peter (Part ii)’, IBS 22 (2000): 182–91; quotes from 183 and 184, with the citation from Howard S.  Becker, Outsiders:  Studies in the Sociology of Deviance [New  York:  The Free Press,  1963], 9.  The polemical rhetoric of 2 Peter is therefore not simply ‘heated language’ or ‘invective’; it serves a ‘socio-rhetorical function’ within a situation of internal social conflict (191).

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the significance of the false teachers’ ‘depersonalized’ identity in 2 Pet. 2.17– 22 from an ‘internal’ perspective. The question before us, therefore, is not how the identity of the false teachers as portrayed in 2 Peter functions sociologically in relationship to the self-understanding of the community of the ‘beloved brothers’. Rather, we want to examine how the identity of the false teachers functions theologically within 2 Peter itself as an essential, formative contrast to the theological identity of the ‘beloved’. For Esler understates the case when he observes that ‘beliefs are a somewhat neglected area of SIT’.5

Two Identities and the Role of Identity in 2 Peter In serving to map out further the Christian identity set forth within 2 Peter by establishing the contrasting nature of the false teachers’ identity, the rhetorical function of 2.17–22 is matched by the tone of its content. The strikingly negative portrayal of the false teachers in 2.17–22 provides the basis for the admonitions aimed at the believers with which the letter begins in 1.3–11 and ends in 3.8–18. These ethical exhortations, which are signalled and supported by the vocative of shared-identity ἀδελφοί (1.10) and by the fourfold use of the corresponding vocative ἀγαπητοί (3.1, 8, 14, 17), are derived directly from the danger posed by the ‘false teachers’ (2.1), who are likewise first defined vocatively in their counter-identity as ‘arrogantly bold ones’ (2.10:  τολμηταὶ αὐθάδεις), ‘spots and blemishes’ within the community (2.13:  σπίλοι καὶ μῶμοι) and ‘children of the curse’ (2.14:  κατάρας τέκνα). Against this backdrop, the reintroduction in 2.17 of the demonstrative pronoun from 2.12 (οὗτοί) indicates in a rhetorically dramatic way that these same false teachers are to be identified directly as ‘waterless-springs and mists being driven by a wind-storm’ who are, as part of that same identity, ‘slaves of corruption’ (cf. 2.17: πηγαὶ ἄνυδροι καὶ ὁμίχλαι ὑπὸ λαίλαπος ἐλαυνόμεναι with 2.19: δοῦλοι τῆς φθορᾶς). For as Wifstrand has pointed out, such a direct equation of the false teachers with the multiple metaphors used to describe them is a striking characteristic of early Christian writings over against the common use of the diatribe in both popular and scholastic polemics.6 As a continuation 5 6

Esler, ‘Outline’, 34, pointing to the work of Daniel Bar-Tal as the only exception. See Albert Wifstrand, ‘Stylistic Problems in the Epistles of James and Peter’, in his Epochs and Styles:  Selected Writings on the New Testament, Greek Language and Greek Culture in the

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of this ‘high degree of figurativeness’,7 it is therefore striking that 2 Peter ends in 3.16 with one final description of the identity of the false teachers as implied members of a larger class of those who are ‘the ignorant and unstable ones’ (οἱ ἀμαθεῖς καὶ ἀστήρικτοι). Here too this description of their identity is linked to their eschatological condemnation, thereby again serving the necessity for the recipients to heed the letter’s exhortations (cf. 3.14–15 and 17–18; cf. 3.8–12).8 Clearly, then, 2 Peter is driven rhetorically by the juxtaposition between the negatively described identity of the ‘false teachers’ and the positively designated identity of the ‘beloved brothers’, who are equated contextually with the ‘urighteous’ (ἄδικοι) and the ‘godly’ (εὐσεβεῖς), respectively (cf. 2.9). Scholars have consequently often pointed out that the corollary to these contrasting identities is the way in which eschatology drives ethics in 2 Peter, especially in view of the immoral consequences of the false teachers’ denial of ‘the promise of (the Christ’s) coming’ to consummate God’s judgement (2 Pet. 3.3–4a, 9; cf. 2.1–3, 10b–16, 18). Conversely, ‘holy conduct and godliness’ (3.11) are engendered by a confidence in God’s ‘precious and very great promises’, which culminate in a ‘new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells’ (1.4 and 3.11–13; cf. 1.10–11, 16, 19; 2.9–10a; 3.14, 18). Within this framework the contrasting identities within 2 Peter are regularly understood to be the result of the nexus between ethics and eschatology. Just as the false teachers’ ungodly passions and actions, brought about and supported by their eschatological scepticism, determine their identity as ‘arrogantly bold ones’ (2.10:  τολμηταὶ αὐθάδεις), so too the eschatologically confident ethics of the righteous determine their identity as the ‘beloved’. In short, one’s good or bad eschatology and the moral or immoral ethics it engenders are seen to create one’s corresponding identity, good or bad.9 In contrast, this essay argues that

7 8

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Post- Classical Era, ed. Lars Rydbeck and Stanley E. Porter, WUNT 179 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 48. As he observes, ‘the figures, moreover, [are] not in the form of similes but in the shape of direct metaphors; the thing used for comparison is taken directly instead of the conception it has to elucidate’. Wifstrand, ‘Stylistic Problems’, 48. See Karl Matthias Schmidt, Mahnung und Erinnerung im Maskenspiel: Epistolographie, Rhetorik und Narrativik der Pseudepigraphen Petrusbriefe, HBS 38 (Freiburg: Herder, 2003), 318–38, for a discussion of the character, theology, ethics and suggested backgrounds of the opponents in 2 Peter, arguing that one group in view throughout the letter is characterized by their disparagement of the person and power of Jesus due to his failure to return and by their corresponding lack of Christian ethics. For representative examples of this common perspective, though based on different methodological approaches to the letter itself, see Cavallin, ‘False Teachers’, 264, 266; Michel Desjardins, ‘The Portrayal of the Dissidents in 2 Peter and Jude:  Does It Tell Us More about the “Godly”

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in 2 Peter the false teachers’ ‘presentist’ eschatology and resultant immoral ethics do not create their identity. Rather, their counterfeit identity creates their eschatology and ethics. The move in 2 Peter is not from theology and ethics to identity, but from identity to theology and ethics.10

The Discourse Analysis of 2.17–22 To make this case, we will unpack the implications of the following discourse analysis of 2 Pet. 2.17–22 for the way in which ‘identity’ is seen to function in 2 Peter. The analysis shows that the arguments of vv. 18–22 all serve to support the assertion that the particular identity of the false teachers (v. 17a) entails their judgement by God (cf. v. 17b). As we have seen above, this move in 2.17– 22 from identity to condemnation supports the surety that these teachers will be judged by God, which is the main point of 2.1–16 and 3.1–7 (cf. 2.12a, 13a; 3.1–2). This surety of divine judgement in turn supports the conviction that God’s condemnation of the unrighteous, though not yet consummated, is not ‘idle’ or ‘sleeping’, which is the focal point of 2.1–10a (cf. 2.3bc; 3.4, 7, 8–10). Within this overall structure, the argument of 2.17–22 can be set forth according to its constituent propositions in the following manner, in which the logical relationships that exist between them explicitly and implicitly will be underlined: 17a: For they are waterless-springs and mists being driven by a wind-storm, 17b so that (rel. pronoun) the gloom of darkness has been kept for them (cf. 2.4, 9).

10

than the “Ungodly”?’ JSNT 30 (1987): 89–102, esp. 96–7, 99; Lauri Thurén, ‘Style Never Goes out of Fashion: 2 Peter Re-Evaluated’, in Rhetoric, Scripture and Theology: Essays from the 1994 Pretoria Conference, ed. Stanley E.  Porter and Thomas H.  Olbricht, JSNTSup 131 (Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 344–5; Miller, ‘Part i’, 123– 44 and Duane F. Watson, ‘The Oral-Scribal and Cultural Intertexture of Apocalyptic Discourse in Jude and 2 Peter’, in The Intertexture of Apocalyptic Discourse in the New Testament, SBLSymS 14 (Atlanta: SBL, 2002), 197, 210–11; Schmidt, Mahnung, 364; and Thomas Scott Caulley, ‘ “They Promise Them Freedom”:  Once Again, the ψευδοδιδάσκαλοι in 2 Peter’, ZNW 99 (2008): 131–2. Contra, e.g., Terrance Callan, ‘The Soteriology of the Second Letter of Peter’, Biblica 82 (2001): 549–59, esp. 553, who argues, based on the fact that in 2.18 the false teachers tempted others with futile speech and appealed to their desires, that desire plays the ‘causal role’ in 2 Peter. As a result, and confirmed by 1.4, 2 Peter presents ‘enslavement to corruption not as intrinsic to the human condition, but as due to error, futility and the desires of the flesh’, pointing to Richard Bauckham, 2 Peter and Jude, WBC 50 (Waco, TX:  Word Books, 1983), 183. This view is now repeated in Duane F. Watson and Terrance Callan, First and Second Peter, Paideia: Commentaries on the New Testament (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2012), 197–9 (Callan on 2 Peter).

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18a For (γάρ), by means of (adv. ptcp.) speaking bombastic things of futility, 18b in this way they are luring the ones who are barely escaping those who are living in error (cf. 2.14), 18c by means of (ἐν + dat.) the desires of the flesh (cf. 1.4; 2.10a, 14; 3.3), the sensualities (cf. 2.2, 7, 14), 19a in that (adv. ptcp.) they are promising freedom to them 19b even though (adv. ptcp.) they are slaves themselves of corruption (cf. 1.4; 2.12). 19c For (γάρ) by that which (rel. pronoun) someone has been conquered, 19d this is the means by which he has been enslaved. 20a For (γάρ), if (εἰ), after (adv. ptcp.) they have escaped the defiled things of the world (cf. 1.4) 20b by means of (ἐν + dat.) the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ (cf. 1.8), 20c at that time they are being conquered 20d as a result of the fact that (adv. ptcp.) they have been entangled in them again, 20e then the last things have become to them worse than the first (cf. Mt. 12.45; Lk. 11.24–26). 21a For (γάρ) it was better for them not to have known the way of righteousness than to turn back from the holy commandment that has been delivered to them (cf. 2.2, 15–16), 21b after (predicative ptcp.) they have known (it), 22 since the thing of the true proverb has happened to them: ‘A dog returns to his own vomit’ (Prov. 26.11) and ‘A sow washes in the wallowing of the mud’ (Ahiqar 8.15ff.).

The argument of our passage from vv. 18–22 thus functions to support the judgement destined for those now defined by the two, mutually reinforcing, direct identity statements of v. 17a.11 The stair-step series of γάρ-clauses in vv. 18a, 19c, 20a and 21a all relate back to the relative pronoun clause of v. 17b (cf. οἷς), which in turn defines those who are now identified to be 11

Since the two metaphors in 1.17 are combined in Jude 12 and the other three nature metaphors for the false teachers in Jude 12–13 are not found in 1.17, this passage becomes a central focus for determining the literary interrelationship between the two documents. For our purposes, however, the argument of 2 Peter is here considered on its own grounds.

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‘waterless-springs’ and ‘wind-storm driven mists’ by setting forth the inextricable consequence of who they are.12 That the imagery of this definition, ‘the gloom of darkness (ὁ ζόφος τοῦ σκότος) has been kept (τετήρηται) for them (by God)’, is a reference to an inevitable, eschatological judgement becomes clear in view of the earlier reference in 2.4, where we read that the angels who sinned were likewise handed over to judgement ‘in chains of gloom’ (σειραῖς ζόφου), having been confined to Tartarus. The fate thereby ‘kept’ (τετήρηται) for the false teachers in 2.17 thus embodies the principle exemplified by the fallen angels in 2.4 and stated in 2.9  – that ‘the Lord knows how to keep (τηρεῖν) the unrighteous, who are being punished, for the day of judgement’ (εἰς ἡμέραν κρίσεως). Clearly, then, the dependent relative pronoun clause of v. 17b affirms that the identity of the false teachers precedes and entails their present and future judgement, not the other way around. The difficulty comes in the next clause. The identity of the false teachers and their consequent judgement are supported in vv. 18a–19b by a reference to their behaviour (cf. the introductory γάρ of v. 18a): the false teachers are empty ‘springs’ and ‘mists’ who will consequently be judged because they are ‘(deceptively) luring (cf. δελεάζουσιν) those who are barely13 escaping the ones who are living in error’.14 To unpack this assertion, δελεάζουσιν is first modified by the instrumental construction, ἐν ἐπιθυμίαις σαρκὸς ἀσελγείαις (‘by [the false teachers’] desires of the flesh; i.e. [by their] sensualities’). That the complicated syntactical phrase, ἐν ἐπιθυμίαις σαρκὸς ἀσελγείαις, refers to the false 12

13

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So Thomas J. Kraus, Sprache, Stil und historischer Ort des zweiten Petrusbriefes, WUNT II 136 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 225– 6 and 226n. 804, who argues that since in 2.17 οἷς can be taken to match οὗτοί there is no need to posit a constructio ad sensum between the relative pronoun and πηγαί and ὁμίχλαι, which are identical in content to the pronoun but not in syntax. For the LXX and Jewish literary background to these images and the text critical issue regarding the secondary reading that includes εἰς αἰῶνα /ς (cf. Jude 13), see Kraus, Sprache, 334 and 101n. 246. Though NA28 reads the textual variant to be ὄντως (really, truly), and though the split external evidence might favour this reading, I judge the internal evidence to favour ὀλίγως as the rarer, and hence more difficult word. Nevertheless, this reading still fits the reference to αὐτοῖς in v. 19, which reflects a reference to a distinct third party, not a reference to those who have truly escaped, including the author (in this sense ὄντως is too difficult for the context). For this reading and the fact that ὀλίγως is best taken to refer to the degree of their escape (i.e. ‘barely’ or ‘to a small extent’), not to its length of time (i.e. ‘for a short while’/’recently’), see Kraus, Sprache, 344 and 344n. 122, who renders it, ‘kaum’, and Michael J. Gilmour, The Significance of Parallels between 2 Peter and Other Early Christian Literature, Academia Biblica 10 (Atlanta:  Scholars Press, 2002), 76n. 51. For the contrary view of its meaning, see Bauckham, 2 Peter, 275. On δελεάζω as a fishing metaphor (cf. δέλεαρ [bait] and Jas 1.14), see Gene L. Green, Jude and 2 Peter, BECNT (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2008), 282, and the literature cited there. In v. 18, the false teachers’ ‘licentious desires of the flesh’ are the bait to entice others (ibid., 282, 94–5). Here too the identity of the false teachers plays a key role: ‘What they are . . . is what they promise’ (ibid., 295).

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teachers and not to those being tempted by them is indicated by the parallel description of the false teachers in 2.10 as οἱ ὀπίσω σαρκὸς ἐν ἐπιθυμίᾳ μιασμοῦ πορευόμενοι.15 This reading is also confirmed by 2 Pet. 3.3, which makes it clear that the false teachers’ ‘desires of the flesh’ in v. 18 characterize the way of life κατὰ τὰς ἰδίας ἐπιθυμίας αὐτῶν that accords with their being ‘scoffers’ – another identity demarcation – regarding the promise of the Lord’s coming in judgement (cf. 2.10). In the same way, the reference to ‘sensualities’ (ἀσέλγειαι) in 2.18c recalls the description in 2.2 of the false teachers as those who will follow after their own ‘sensualities’ (ἀσέλγειαι). Evidently, the false teachers lure others by exemplifying in their own fleshly desires and indecent behaviour their boasts of spiritual superiority and promises of licentious freedom. And so, at first glance, the grounding of the false teachers’ counterfeit identity and resultant judgement in their actions of luring others to join them would seem to speak against the causal priority of identity. This impression is supported by the obvious emphasis in the text on the behaviour of the false teachers created by the fact that, to unpack further the nature of their luring others, δελεάζουσιν is also modified by three present-tense, adverbial participles. The first, φθεγγόμενοι, functions instrumentally to detail further the means by which the false teachers entice the barely repentant (v. 18a). The second, ἐπαγγελλόμενοι , functions modally to describe the manner of the enticement (v. 19a). And the third, ὑπάρχοντες, is best construed concessively as that which reveals their duplicity in doing so (v. 19b). However, the explicit qualification within the first participle-clause and the implicit inter-relationship between the second and third participles in fact provide a clue into how the grounding function of vv. 18–19b in relationship to v. 17 is actually to be construed. In its position preceding the finite verb, the first participial clause, ὑπέρογκα ματαιότητος φθεγγόμενοι, provides background for the action of the false teachers’ ‘luring’ by both indicating its instrumentality and condemning it at the same time: the ‘waterless-springs’ and ‘wind-storm driven mists’ lure the barely converted by speaking of the ‘bombastic things’ of their lives (ὑπέρογκα φθεγγόμενοι), even though such boasting is futile (ματαιότης). In critique of the opponents, the content of the

15

For this point, see Anders Gerdmar, Rethinking the Judaism-Hellenism Dichotomy: A Historiographical Case Study of Second Peter and Jude, CB 36 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 2001), 71, 71–2n. 39.

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descriptive genitive is counterintuitive given the fact that they are boasting. But ματαιότης, which functions adversatively in relationship to such inflated speaking, is warranted contextually by the fact that these boastful words are the expression of the identity that leads to the judgement declared in v. 17. This is why their declarations are ‘futile’ despite their appealingly strong and confident appearance. In their position after the verb, the second and third participles further define the content of the enticing: the false teachers lure the barely converted in that they are promising them a life of freedom (ἐλευθερίαν αὐτοῖς ἐπαγγελλόμενοι) and they lure them even though they themselves are slaves of corruption (αὐτοὶ δοῦλοι ὑπάρχοντες τῆς φθορᾶς).16 Here too the second participle only makes sense as an adversative statement over against the action of luring and, indirectly by virtue of its content, over against that of promising freedom as well, if contextually their identity as slaves of corruption is a given. It is who they are that makes the claims of the false teachers so ludicrous. Again, therefore, the identity statements of v. 17 are foundational for the argument of vv. 18–19b. The subsequent identification of the false teachers in v.  19b as ‘slaves of corruption’ (δοῦλοι τῆς φθορᾶς) simply recapitulates v. 17 as another statement of the eschatological consequence of their identity, pointing to the judgement that befalls the false teachers for who they are. That the genitive construction δοῦλοι τῆς φθορᾶς is best read as an objective genitive, ‘slaves for corruption’, is signalled by the parallel reference in 2.12b to the destiny of these arrogant opponents as one of ‘corruption’ (cf. εἰς ἅλωσιν καὶ φθορὰν . . . ἐν τῇ φθορᾷ . . . καὶ φθαρήσονται). It is likewise indicated by the use of the cognate verb, δουλόω, in the very next clause, which highlights the verbal nature of the noun δοῦλος in this context. The ‘corruption’ in view here is not a progressive physical or moral decay, but a metaphor for the divine judgement that brings about one’s destruction and, as such, can be used in 2 Peter as a synonym for κρίμα and ἀπώλεια (cf. 2.3; 3.7, 16).17 To summarize, the way in which the actions of the false teachers in luring others are already called into question by the content of the descriptions which surround them

16

17

For the rhetorical significance of the placement of adverbial participles before and after the main verb as background and elaboration respectively, see Steven E. Runge, Discourse Grammar of the Greek New Testament: A Practical Introduction for Teaching and Exegesis (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2010), 129. So too, e.g., Callan, ‘Soteriology’, 550–2.

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in 2.18–19a makes sense only if their identity and resultant judgement are the presuppositions of their actions and not the result. By definition – by virtue of their identity – their actions, as they perform them, are inherently dubious (note that the predications depicted in the participles of 2.18, being present tense, are all contemporaneous to that of the main verb, δελεάζουσιν). Their proud boast is said to be ‘futile’ and their promise of freedom is inherently suspicious in view of who they are as delineated in 2.17 and 19b. As a restatement of their identity and its consequence in 2.17, the identity of the opponents as ‘slaves of corruption’ is thus the source of what they do, not the other way around.

The Relationship between Identity and Action In light of the arguments within vv. 18–19b, we are now in a position to answer the question posed by the γάρ introducing vv. 18–19b: in what way do the false teachers’ actions of enticing others function to support the statement of their identity and resulting condemnation in v. 17? First, it is apparent that not only the reference to their being ‘slaves’ but also the delineation of the deceptive nature of the opponents’ actions in vv. 18–19a function to unpack the meaning of the metaphors themselves in v. 17. Like springs that have dried up and mists emptied of their water by the wind, the ‘freedom’ promised by the false teachers is a fraudulent illusion. As a matter of unfounded arrogance, they confidently promise what they cannot provide.18 Indeed, rather than being free, they themselves are ‘slaves of corruption’. Second, in expounding the meaning of the metaphors of v. 17, the actions of the false teachers recounted in vv. 18–19b, being explanatory, do not therefore support their identity causally; their behaviour does not create their identity and consequent judgement as its result, so that function determines identity. Rather, their luring others in the ways described in vv. 18–19b supports their identity modally; their behaviour is an expression of their identity and consequent judgement and as such 18

Following, e.g., Bauckham, 2 Peter, 274, that the critique expressed by the metaphors in 2.17 does not merely reflect a disillusionment over the false teachers’ failure to supply spiritual nourishment, but is a statement that they are being judged for promising what they cannot deliver (pointing to the parallel in Jer. 2.13). On the image of water for religious teaching, Bauckham points to passages such as Prov. 13.14; Sir. 24.25–26; 1QS 6.4; Apoc. Pet. 79.31.

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testifies to its reality. In this sense, identity determines function, since the latter is dependent on the former for its existence. For this reason, because the false teachers act as they do, one can be sure that they are who they are. This reading is further supported by the previous designation of the false teachers in 2.14 as ‘children of the curse’ (κατάρας τέκνα), which is modified by the adverbial participle clause, ‘luring unstable lives’ (δελεάζοντες ψυχὰς ἀστηρίκτους). In 2.14, as in 2.17–18, their identity as ‘cursed children’ is thus linked to the verb δελεάζω. But in 2.14 it is not the main verb of an independent clause as in v. 18, but a directly dependent, contemporaneous participle, which as such is most naturally read not causally, but modally. In 2.14 the false teachers are identified as ‘children of the curse’ in that ‘they are luring unsteady souls’; in 2.18 they have this identity as further defined in v. 17 because they are doing so. Hence, the content of 2.14 corresponds to that of 2.17–19b, though the logic of the latter is distinct, albeit still stating a dependent relationship in which actions derive from identity. The difference is due to the fact that the content of both the false teachers’ identity and the modality of δελεάζω that expresses it in 2.14 are now repeated in an expanded form in vv. 17–19b (cf. again the repetition of the οὗτοί from 2.12 in 2.17). As a result, the expanded interpretation of the modality of δελεάζω in v. 14 can now be adduced in v. 18 as evidence for the validity of the extended description of the false teachers’ identity in v.  17. In 2.17–19b the ‘children of the curse’ can be further identified as ‘waterless-springs and mists being driven by a wind-storm’ who are destined for destruction because (γάρ) of how they act in luring the recently converted. The rhetorical focus in vv. 18–19b on the action of δελεάζω is further reflected by the inverse relationship between 2.18–19b and the other modalities of 2.14. In 2.14 the identification of the opponents as ‘children of the curse’ supports two additional modal participles, each using the verb ἔχω, which in 2.18 are now reflected merely in the shortened, nominal references to the false teachers’ ‘desires of the flesh’ (cf. ὀφθαλμοὺς ἔχοντες μεστοὺς μοιχαλίδος καὶ ἀκαταπαύστους ἁμαρτίας) and ‘sensualities’ (cf. καρδίαν γεγυμνασμένην πλεονεξίας ἔχοντες). Read in this way, with ontology being expressed in function, recounting the latter can support the former as that which brings it about. In 2.17–19b, the false teachers’ behaviour can therefore ground the delineation of their identity, since in the flow of the argument the character and evaluation of their actions only

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make sense if they are attributed to such an identity. In this sense, the false teachers are who they are because they act in the way they do. This understanding of the causal priority of identity in determining one’s way of life is collaborated by the analogy put forth in 2.12b.19 There the false teachers, previously identified in 2.10b as ‘arrogantly bold ones’ (τολμηταὶ αὐθάδεις), are compared in their future destruction (ἐν τῇ φθορᾷ . . . καὶ φθαρήσονται) to ‘animals devoid of reason who have been born with regard to the character of their nature [γεγεννημένα φυσικά] for the purpose of capture and (the judgement of) corruption’ (εἰς ἅλωσιν καὶ φθοράν; cf. again φθορά in 2.12b with δοῦλοι τῆς φθορᾶς in 2.19b).20 The reference to the character of their nature (φυσικός), like the use of ‘nature’ (φύσις) in 1.4, does not denote an abstract, static ‘being’ or ‘essence’, but the dynamic character that determines and expresses itself in its corresponding actions and consequences. In short, in the ancient world people are understood to act in accordance with their ‘nature’.21 The action-producing character or ‘nature’ of irrational animals, which leads to their being captured and killed, is determined by their birth, not by their actions. The same is true of the identity and destiny of the false teachers, with whom they are being compared, since they too, by birth, are ‘children of the curse’ (2.14).22 19

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22

Vögtle, Der 2. Petrusbrief, 202, also observes the way in which the comparison of the false teachers to irrational animals functions to structure the argument, in that ‘jeder Abschnitt jeweils durch einen Vergleich der Gegner mit ‘vernunft losen Tieren’ (V. 12)  auf einen Höhepunkt gebracht wird (V. 16 und V. 22)’. Though Vögtle does not develop its significance for the argument, he concludes that vv. 17–18 denounce ‘das völlig enttäuschende und nichtige Wesen der libertinistischen Verf ü hrer’ (ibid., 208). So too Jörg Frey, Der Brief des Judas und der zweite Brief des Petrus, Th HNT 15/II (Leipzig:  Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2015), 303, who in commenting on the false teachers’ being ‘slaves of corruption’ stresses their corrupt nature in accordance with the comparison in 2.12: ‘In ihrer ‘animalischen Wesenart (s. V. 12), ihrem Verhaftetsein an die irdische Lust (V. 13), ihrer Blindheit f ür die göttlichen Dinge (V. 12.15) und in ihrem durch und durch sü ndhaften Wesen sind sie selbst an die Vergä nglichkeit gebunden und – was hier wie in 2.12 impliziert ist – dem eschatologischen Verderben verfallen’. See too Green, 2 Peter, 275– 6, who concludes that, in emphasizing their fi nal destruction, the point of 2.12 ‘is not about their instincts . . . but concerns their nature inherited from birth, which makes them objects for capture . . . The heretics will be destroyed in the fi nal assize as beasts who are captured and killed. Such is their nature, such is their fate’. For this defi nition and its implications for reading 1.4, see my article, ‘ “Divine Nature” in 2 Pet 1:4 within its Eschatological Context’, Biblica 94 (2013): 80–99. For this same view of the primacy of one’s nature or identity applied to people who are enslaved to their passions, see, to give just one example of many, Philo, Deus Imm. 111–12. Though the significance of the comparison in v. 12 regarding the role of nature or identity in determining destiny is often recognized, it is common not to follow through with its implications for the argument. See, e.g., Frey, der zweite Brief, 289, who observes regarding the parallel between 2 Pet. 2.12 and Jude 10 that 2 Peter shares with Jude the conviction concerning the false teachers, ‘dass sie in einem ihrem Wesen entsprechenden Geschick dem Verderben anheimfallen

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The Role of Identity in Eschatology In 2.19c the argument turns to support the identity-based and eschatologically informed exposition of the ‘waterless-springs’ and ‘wind driven mists’ that culminated in their designation as ‘slaves for corruption’ (δοῦλοι τῆς φθορᾶς). The argument proceeds in another stair-step fashion set forth by the threefold series of γάρ-conjunctions in vv. 19c, 20a and 21a. The first step in the argument is to remind the readers that the false teachers’ identity as ‘slaves’ (δοῦλοι) is indeed justified in view of the principle that a person is enslaved (δεδούλωται) by the very ‘thing’ (τούτῳ) by which (ᾧ) that person is conquered (ἥττηται). The force of the maxim is to underscore that the causative chain that exists from one’s identity to one’s behaviour to one’s eschatological destiny is inexorable. The identity-action nexus of the opponents necessarily leads to an enslavement of the slaves. Indeed, as time goes on, the two uses of γάρ in v. 20a and v. 21a indicate that the consequence of the false teachers’ identity-caused behaviour actually gets worse.23 Why such a relapse into ‘the defilements of the world’ is viewed to be worse than never having experienced any ‘escape’ at all is not explicated in our passage. Like the parallel passages of Mt. 12.43–45 and Lk. 11.24–26, the emphasis falls rather on its resultant inescapability (cf. too Heb. 6.4–8; 10.26–27). But to pursue this question within the broader argument of the letter and in regard to its theological implications is beyond the scope of this study. Suffice it to say that in view of the argument of 2.17–19b a return to licentious behaviour is ‘worse’, since it is unmistakably diagnostic of one’s destiny-determining

23

(Jud 10b)’ (emphasis added). Indeed, in comparison to Jude 10, Frey observes that ‘der Vergleich mit den unvernü nft igen Tieren (Jud 10b) intensiviert, ja in eine Aussage über die animalische Natur der Spötter transformiert ist’ (289). In 2 Peter ‘wird hier der Vergleich mit den Tieren auch auf deren Bestimmtsein zum Tode hin ausgeweitet’ (289). But Frey then mitigates the significance of this intensified parallel with the nature of animals based on the fact that in 1.4 believers participate in the divine nature as a result of escaping corruption and on the call for the necessary life of virtue in 1.5–8 (290). As a result, following K. M. Schmidt, Frey sees the comparison to the animals to be ‘etwas überladen’: ‘doch will der Autor zusätzlich festhalten, dass die Tiere gemäß ihrer Natur f ür dieses Schicksal der Gefangenschaft und des Getötetwerdens bestimmt sind, wohingegen die “Lästerer dieses Schicksal selbst zu verantworten” haben’ (ibid., 290, 290n. 917, emphasis mine); for Schmidt’s view, see Mahnung, 370, where he argues that the opponents’ following their own desires leads to their taking on an animalistic nature and hence ‘werden ihrem Dasein nicht gerecht’. On the logic of the text, see already W. M. L. de Wette, Kurze Erklärung der Brief des Petrus Judas und Jakobus (Leipzig: Weidmann’sche Buchhandlung, 1847), 94: ‘Das verbindende γάρ bezieht sich nicht sowohl auf die ihnen zugeschriebene Knechtschaft als auf das Ü berwundenwerden’. Then, v. 21 is an ‘Erklä rung oder Bestätigung des letzten Satzes . . .’ (ibid., 94).

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identity. The enslavement of the slaves depicted in 2.19c–21 is described as ‘worse’ when it resurfaces because, in revealing the false teachers’ true and destiny-determining identity, it leads to the sure judgement that was declared earlier in the letter to be reserved for the false prophets, the fallen angels, the generation of the flood, the flagrant sinners of Sodom and Gomorrah and the foolish Balaam. One’s true identity and its consequence always win out in the eschatological end. As the final step in the argument, the two vivid and well-known proverbs of v.  22 underscore this point.24 Accentuated by their very genre as axiomatic, they reinforce the conviction that, like the animals of 2.12, one’s behaviour- and destiny-determining identity will eventually surface. Dogs and pigs inevitably act as dogs and pigs in returning to the filth they have left behind. In this comparison, the emotive force of the argument reaches a new peak, even beyond the graphic images themselves.25 Dogs and pigs were two of the most emblematically unclean animals for first century Jews. So the false teachers are not merely like animals in general, but like these animals in particular, who continually act in accordance with their identity.26 By contrast, Peter’s point is that ‘the beloved’, as a result of God’s gracious, transforming power, will also inevitably act according to their identity, thereby being found ‘spotless and blameless’ on ‘the day of God’ (3.12, 14; cf. 1.2–3 with 3.17–18).

A Concluding Implication It is well known that in 2 Peter one’s confidence in the parousia, or lack thereof, is the motivating factor for one’s ethics (cf. 1.3–11; 3.3–4; 3.11–15a). Just as eschatology is expressed in the increasing virtues of 1.5–7, a ‘presentism’ 24

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That the two proverbs make the same point is indicated by the substantival construction, τὸ τῆς ἀληθοῦς παροιμίας (the thing of the true saying), which, though singular, is applied to both sayings. For the grammar of this phrase and the use of these images in the LXX and in Jewish and Greco-Roman literature, see Kraus, Sprache, 57n. 28, 104n. 258, 341–5. In their original context, the point of each proverb is to illustrate the character of the ‘fool’ (Prov. 26.11) and of Ahiqar’s adopted nephew, Nadin, who betrays the wise scribe Ahiqar despite the latter’s endeavours to install him as his successor in the Assyrian king’s court (Ahiqar 8.15[Aramaic]/18[Syriac]; cf. Ahiqar 8.14–31, 44– 45; see OTP 2, 487, 495– 6). In both cases, their actions inevitably reveal their identity. See Frey, der zweite Brief, 309: ‘Mit dieser letzten Beschimpfung hat der Autor die Abscheu erregende Animalität der Gegner in kaum mehr zu steigernder Weise zur Sprache gebracht’. In so doing, 2 Peter has discredited the opponents since ‘ihr Wesen und Wirken und seine verderblichen Folgen’ are clearly set forth (ibid., 309).

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leads to living according to one’s own licentious desires in 2.2, 13–14, 18. Yet we have seen that whether one scoffs or not at the promise of Christ’s coming to judge is not ultimately the result of an exegetical conviction regarding eschatology (cf. 3.1–13, 15–17), but the consequence of the character of one’s ‘identity’ (2.17–22). Although the emphasis in 2 Peter on the determining function of identity may not be unique within early Christianity, its decisive role within the polemic against ‘false teachers’ is striking. Whatever its function in identity formation when viewed externally, internally this causative understanding of identity was intended to provide the ‘beloved’ with an encouraging confirmation of the reality of the grace of God in their changed lives (1.2). At the same time, it led to a corresponding warning, in view of the certainty of the parousia, to persevere in that same grace (3.18). In the end, the contrasting identities constructed in 2 Peter, for all of their importance sociologically, were for the community itself inherently and self-consciously theological. Moreover, the polemic in 2 Peter indicates that the battle created by these conflicting identities, with their contrasting eschatology and ethics, continued on within the early church.

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‘From the Beginning’ The Formation of an Apostolic Christian Identity in 2 Peter and 1–3 John David R. Nienhuis*

For generations now, biblical scholarship has privileged the interpretive control of reconstructed origins. Under this regime, where recovery of the point of composition rules one’s reading, the later assembling of texts into a canonical whole has been considered a subject of little relevance. This has resulted in a fairly predictable approach that reorganizes the apostolic writings according to the conventions of modern scholarly reconstruction  – a rearranged ‘Scholar’s Canon’ designed to correct historical errors established in the publication of the Church’s Canon. This rearrangement is immediately recognizable to anyone in the guild: a study of the Fourfold Gospel begins with Mark, not Matthew; Acts is treated alongside Luke’s Gospel as part two of an authorial whole; the ‘authentic’ Pauline writings are typically separated out from the subcanonical ‘Deuteropaulines’; and so on. No section of the NT has suffered more under this approach than the Catholic Epistle (CE) collection, the seven letters of James through Jude. Here we have seven different letters from at least five different authors originating from different locales. So the collection is dismantled, labelled ‘other’,1 and * I must acknowledge how much my ongoing collaboration with Robert W. Wall has influenced this work. Th is current study expands upon research published in a book we wrote together, Reading the Letters of James, Peter, John and Jude as Scripture:  The Shaping and Shape of a Canonical Collection (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013). In particular, this essay explores the contrast between Pauline epistemology and that reflected in the Catholic Epistle collection – a topic initiated by Rob in that book (273– 6). 1 ‘Hebrews, the General Letters, and Revelation constitute their own category of writings in the NT, not because they have many features in common but because they do not fit neatly into the

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made to serve alternate ends. James and 1 Peter are often treated against a Pauline backdrop, 2 Peter is treated as 2 Jude, Hebrews is added in as a socalled ‘general’ letter and the Johannine letters are read alongside the Gospel as part of a collection of ‘Johannine Literature’. A canonical approach has no interest whatsoever in denying the valuable historical insights gained from research into textual origins; it simply seeks to champion the literary integrity and hermeneutical promise of the final form of the canonical text. Indeed, in the face of what often takes the form of a myopic focus on the point of composition, attention to the process of canonization makes it abundantly clear that the biblical texts were not preserved simply because of what ‘original’ readers of a particular socio-historical locale thought of them; they were preserved because, over a long progression of time, the larger church discerned that they were vehicles of the Spirit’s formation of readers regardless of their socio-historical locale. The ultimate test of canonicity, then, is whether or not a text is ‘useful for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness’ (2 Tim. 3.16). Thus, a canonical approach focuses its interest on that later process wherein individual texts were brought together with others into a singular whole to target the formation of God’s people. In this light, textual signals that might point to an originating diversity become far less interesting. Instead, one reads the text as a whole in order to discern the logic of its construction. One’s eyes become trained to look for linguistic and thematic connections that promote points of theological unity with an aim to uncover canonical meaning regardless of claims or counter-claims concerning intended authorial meaning. In canonical perspective, literary diversity becomes less indicative of original division than of a later, intentional editorial inclusion of tensions, counter-balances, amplifications, extensions or correctives with particular roles to play within the larger biblical matrix.

The Current Study The current study seeks to apply this approach to 2 Peter and the Johannine letters, letters that sit side-by-side in the NT canon but are generally seen

other categories.’ L. M. McDonald and S. Porter, eds, Early Christianity and Its Sacred Literature (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2000), 517.

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to have little to do with one another. By considering the verbal and topical linkages between them, we hope to show that reading the two witnesses sideby-side scores a key point about the maintenance of Christian identity in a post-apostolic world. Among the CE, the Johannine letters are most frequently identified as canonically misplaced. They are thus removed from the CE to be joined with the Gospel and Apocalypse, forming a new collection called ‘Johannine literature’. But if scholarship has considered the Johannines canonically misplaced, it has often regarded 2 Peter as entirely expendable. The long history of this denigration need not be recited here. More recently a number of studies have contributed to a retrieval of interest in 2 Peter by pointing us toward its distinctive canonical function as a text designed to establish intertextual linkages with existing canonical literature.2 One thing they assert in unison is the insistence that 2 Peter’s voice will always be muted if analysed outside of its canonical context – which is, of course, standard practice in biblical scholarship. Nonetheless, while these studies have explored 2 Peter’s relation to 1 Peter, Paul’s letters and Jude, none have helped to bridge the scholarly chasm created between 2 Peter and 1 John. Indeed, the appearance of Johannine incoherence among the CE has remained largely unaddressed.3

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D. Farkasfalvy, ‘The Ecclesial Setting of Pseudepigraphy in Second Peter and Its Role in the Formation of the Canon’, SecCent 5 (1985):  3–29, makes the case that ‘the pseudepigraphy of Second Peter stands under the control of a canonical concern’ (23). The author created a letter in Peter’s voice, incorporating elements of the Pauline collection, 1 Peter and Jude, in order to bridge the gap that had formerly existed between them. D. Trobisch’s fascinating book The First Edition of the New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) takes this thesis farther by arguing that 2 Peter incorporates material from elsewhere throughout the Christian scripture to function as an ‘editorial note’, providing redactional signals designed to enable the coherence of the canon, underscore the authority of the individual writings and press the harmonious agreement of their authors. Finally, Wall has demonstrated that ‘The Canonical Function of 2 Peter’ (BibInt 9, no. 1 (2001): 64–81) focuses directly on its role in relation to 1 Peter. 2 Peter reads as a complementary witness to 1 Peter insofar as it extends that letter’s theological reach. Green has nicely demonstrated the theological fruit of this reading; see Joel B. Green, 1 Peter, Two Horizons New Testament Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2007), 234– 44. J. Painter’s essay ‘The Johannine Epistles as Catholic Epistles’ describes the contribution of 1–3 John to the collection but does nothing to help us to connect the Petrine and Johannine witnesses (in The Catholic Epistles & Apostolic Tradition, ed. Karl-Wilhelm Niebuhr and Robert W. Wall (Waco, TX:  Baylor University Press, 2009), 239–305; cf. the discussion in his commentary:  1, 2 and 3 John, ed. Daniel J.  Harrington, Sacra Pagina 18 (Collegeville:  Liturgical Press, 2002), 33–7). It is noteworthy that this essay is the only one on the Johannines included in the collection. Similarly, the three essays included in Jacques Schlosser, ed., The Catholic Epistles and the Tradition (Leuven: Peeters, 2004) focus on 1–3 John’s content and make no attempt to argue that they contribute to the CE. Unsurprisingly, Darian Lockett has produced An Introduction to the Catholic Epistles (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2012), which excludes the Johannine letters entirely.

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The current study will therefore seek to demonstrate that 2 Peter does indeed link up with the Johannine letters in a way that renders the canonical sequence more meaningful. Indeed, when read side-by-side, the linkages appear designed to solidify the formation of Christian identity in the apostolic tradition handed down ‘from the beginning’ of the Christian movement. We will argue that this point requires reiteration at the end of the canon because of a Pauline epistemology of salvation that distorts Christian identity when it is received in isolation from the larger apostolic witness. We begin, then, with a brief description of the epistolary situations of 2 Peter and the Johannine letters. Though both address different situations in different contexts, the recipients of each face the same basic struggle  – the epistemic crisis created by competing articulations of the source and content of the gospel’s truth.

The Situation of 2 Peter and 1–3 John 2 Peter is written to readers who are reminded that they share the same faith as that of the apostles (1.1). The letter then presents an opening exordium4 urging readers to support the faith they hold with the sort of virtues (1.5–7) that will keep them from being ‘ineffective and unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ’ (1.8). It seems readers need to be reminded of this (1.12–15; 3.1–2) because ‘false teachers’ have arisen whose destructive opinions are leading some to deny their Master and Lord by practicing licentiousness and maligning ‘the way of truth’ (2.1–2, 21).5 Support for viewing the struggle as an epistemic crisis is found in the letter’s repeated references to knowledge and understanding, to what one knows and to what another does not know: Peter intends to remind the readers even though they already know the truth (1.12–14; 3.3), there are things they must understand about the nature of prophecy (1.20), for teachers are coming who do not understand the things they speak against (2.12); though they once had

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So D.  F. Watson, Invention, Arrangement, and Style:  Rhetorical Criticism of Jude and 2 Peter, SBLDS 104 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 87–94. The opponents are often identified as Epicurean. So J. H. Neyrey (‘The Form and Background of the Polemic in 2 Peter’, JBL 99 (1980): 407–31) followed by P. H. Davids (The Letters of 2 Peter and Jude, PNTC (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006), 133– 6).

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true knowledge of Christ (2.20), they now act like irrational animals (2.12). To defend themselves against this, believers must ‘grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ’ (3.18), which is the primary subject of the letter’s opening exordium (1.3–11). Picirilli has made a convincing case that the letter’s alternation here between the terms ἐπίγνωσις and γνῶσις is meant to draw a distinction between the incipient, ‘conversional’ knowledge (ἐπίγνωσις) believers receive by the Spirit’s power when responding in faith to the gospel, and the ‘developed’ knowledge (γνῶσις) that must be appropriated if they are to mature in faith and avoid being ‘carried away by the error of the lawless’ (3.17).6 In short, 2 Peter insists the conversional knowledge of divine power and promises is insufficient; one must make every effort to develop the virtues that result in a Christ-like identity, what 2 Peter refers to as the possibility of becoming ‘participants of the divine nature’ (1.3–4).7 The Johannine letters describe a rather similar situation, with opposing leaders preaching a different version of the faith and thus leading people astray. Where in 2 Peter the apostates are still in church promoting moral laxity, in 1 John the opponents have left the community, leaving the church struggling with the reality of schism. ‘They went out from us’, writes the Elder, ‘but they did not belong to us; for if they had belonged to us, they would have remained with us’ (1 Jn 2.19). The author worries that his readers will be deceived by these teachers (2.27–28), so he provides them with a series of tests to strengthen their confidence: ‘by this (ἐν τούτῳ) we will know that we are from the truth and will reassure our hearts before him’ (3.19).8 This is but one of fourteen occurrences of this ‘test phrase’ in the letter, where the author insists, ‘By this we may be sure that we know him’ (2.3) or ‘are in him’ (2.6) or that ‘he abides in us’ (3.24).9 The author thus establishes a set of epistemic criteria by which believers may distinguish among competing identity articulations of life with God. The schismatics, by contrast, repeatedly fail the epistemic tests: they say they 6 7

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R. E. Picirilli, ‘The Meaning of “Epignosis” ’, EvQ 47 (1975): 85–93. The precise meaning of this phrase, unparalleled as it is in the NT, is widely debated. For a full treatment of the text, see J. M. Starr, Sharers in the Divine Nature: 2 Peter 1:4 in its Hellenistic Context (Stockholm:  Almquiest & Wiksell, 2000). For a shorter, yet thorough overview, see R. Bauckham, Jude, 2 Peter, WBC 50 (Waco, TX: Word Books, 1983), 179–82. For a helpful analysis of the ‘test phrase’ in 1–3 John, see the discussion in J. Lieu, Theology of the Johannine Epistles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 49–71. 2.3, 5 (x2); 3.10, 16, 19, 24; 4.2, 9, 10, 13, 17 (x2); 5.2. Indeed, 1 John alone includes 40 occurrences of ‘know’ verbs across its 105 verses.

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know God (e.g. 2.4; 4.6–8), abide in God (e.g. 2.6; 3.6) and have fellowship with God (1.6–7), but their conduct makes it plain that they are liars (2.4, 22; 4.20), for no one who truly knows God can live the way they do. In sum, despite the significant differences between 2 Peter and the Johannine letters, the two are linked together by their mutual concern to establish a means of discernment by which conflicted believers might distinguish a faithful expression of Christian discipleship from its counterfeit.

Pauline Epistemology The only non-Pauline letter to mention Paul by name is 2 Peter. When the author warns his readers about a major problem in Paul’s letters (3.16), he invites readers of the Church’s Canon to reconsider Paul’s message in light of its potential distortions. In particular, attention is given to the fact that Paul writes ‘according to the wisdom given him’ (3.15). Δοθεῖσαν is a divine passive, with God as the implied agent; thus Paul’s ‘wisdom’ is his gift of knowledge received from God.10 Paul describes the Damascus Road experience as a ‘revelation’ (Gal. 1.12), insisting his apostolic charge came ‘neither by human commission nor from human authorities’ (Gal. 1.1). Paul thus claims to possess a revelatory epistemology.11 He typically refers to this knowledge as the ‘grace given’ him,12 but 2 Peter speaks of the ‘wisdom given him’: readers of a canonical collection will therefore search the Pauline corpus to find where Paul discusses this wisdom he received. Over two-thirds of Paul’s uses of wisdom terminology (34 of 50)  occur in 1 Corinthians. Though Paul spends most of his time here contrasting the 10

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On δοθεῖσαν and Pauline knowledge, see, e.g., Bauckham, Jude, 2 Peter, 329. Recent studies of Pauline epistemology have helped us to isolate the major strands of Paul’s conception of what it is to know God in Christ. See especially M. Healy, ‘Knowledge of the Mystery: A Study of Pauline Epistemology’, in The Bible and Epistemology: Biblical Soundings on the Knowledge of God, ed. M. Healy and R. Perry (Milton Keynes: Paternoster, 2007), 134–58. See also I. Scott, Paul’s Way of Knowing: Story, Experience, and the Spirit (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2009) and the discussions in D. Litfi n, Paul’s Theology of Preaching (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2015), 334–8; C. Tilling, Paul’s Divine Christology (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012); R. Wall (with R. Steele), 1 & 2 Timothy and Titus, Two Horizons New Testament Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012); and K. D. Welch, Women with the Good News: The Rhetorical Heritage of Pentecostal Women Preachers (Cleveland, TN: CPT Press, 2010), 60–77. E.g. Rom. 16.25–26; 1 Cor. 2.1; 4.1; Eph. 1.9; 3.1–13. Rom. 12.3, 6; 15.15; 1 Cor. 1.4; 3.10; 2 Cor. 9.14; Gal. 2.9; Eph. 3.2, 7, 8; 4.7; 2 Tim. 1.9.

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knowledge of God from human wisdom, he reverses course to embrace the term in 2.6–16. ‘Yet among the mature we do speak wisdom’, Paul asserts, ‘though it is not a wisdom of this age . . . we speak God’s wisdom, secret and hidden’ (1 Cor. 2.6–7). Those who are not provided with this dispensation simply cannot understand, because Paul speaks ‘in words not taught by human wisdom but taught by the Spirit, interpreting spiritual things to those who are spiritual’ (1 Cor. 2.13). This wisdom cannot be discerned historically or intellectually, but it is experienced personally. Paul says that God was pleased to reveal the Son in him, not to him (Gal. 1.16); thus, ‘It is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me’ (Gal. 2.19). For Paul, God-knowledge is an existential reality progressively realized in believers as they grow in empowering relationship. The recipients of 1 Corinthians, however, have received the revelation of God as evidenced by their proclamation of Jesus’ lordship and manifestation of spiritual gifts (1 Cor. 12), but they have not matured enough to see that wisdom realized in the knowledge that results in a character conformed to Christ: it is kerygmatic and charismatic, but not yet ethical. Without this depth of participation – akin to 2 Peter’s ‘participants in the divine nature’ – believers are subject to identity confusion: they will not be able to discern what constitutes sin (1 Cor. 5.1–2; 6.1–11), so will find themselves experiencing conflict (1 Cor. 1.10–17; 3.1–4) instead of unity in Christ. Hence Paul can say to the Corinthians, ‘Come to a sober and right mind, and sin no more; for some people have no knowledge of God’ (15.34). It is not information they lack, but the participatory knowledge of God they have failed to develop. But how are Pauline believers to know what true participation in Christ looks like? Paul did not follow Christ from the beginning, did not see his way of walking or witness the particular shape of his call to discipleship. Such a gap leaves believers open to conflict grounded in competing wisdoms and practices of holiness. Pauline epistemology alone is therefore insufficient for Christian communities struggling over conflicting depictions of faith identity.

Reading 2 Peter and 1–3 John Together We have asserted that separating 2 Peter from the Johannine letters leads us to miss the linkages between them that point toward a distinctive canonical function. We have also explored 2 Peter’s concern that Pauline thought

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alone cannot resolve conflicts over the proper form of Christian identity. We will now consider the linkages between 2 Peter and 1–3 John to discern a canonical solution to the distortions of identity that result from an exclusively Pauline epistemology.

The Problem: False Prophets 2 Peter and 1 John describe those who threaten the integrity of apostolic faith identity as false prophets.13 Strikingly, ψευδοπροφήτης occurs in the NT letters only at 2 Peter 2.1 and 1 John 4.1. Τhis verbal dovetailing enables a narrative progression at the conclusion of the canonical story: the NT begins with Jesus warning repeatedly of false prophets who will be known by their fruits but will nevertheless lead people astray.14 We then hear no explicit mention of false prophets throughout the Pauline witness. 2 Peter then announces its intention to ‘remind’ readers of apostolic teaching (1.12; 3.1), echoing the gospels by warning of false prophets who are coming (2.1). This is then advanced in 1 John’s announcement that the false prophets are now out in the world doing their work of deception. This reintroduction of the false prophet theme thus prepares the way for the Apocalypse, where a false prophet plays a starring role in deceiving the earth’s inhabitants.15 2 Peter’s initial reintroduction of the theme thus helps anchor 1 John within the CE; without it, readers would be more inclined to associate the false prophet reference in 1 John directly with its prominence in the Apocalypse. 2 Peter explicitly identifies these false prophets as false teachers (2.1). The Johannine letter collection likewise makes it plain that the community is facing a crisis over teachers. After 1 John confidently asserts, ‘You do not need anyone to teach you’ (2.27), 2 John insists, ‘Everyone who does not abide in the

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On the identity of the opponents in 2 Peter, see the classic treatments in Bauckham ( Jude, 2 Peter, 154–7) and Neyrey (‘Form and Background’). More recently, see P. H. Davids’s ‘Are the Others too Other? The Issue of “Others” in Jude and 2 Peter’, in Reading 1–2 Peter and Jude: A Resource for Students, ed. E. F. Mason and T. W. Martin (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014), 201–13. Debates over the identity of the opponents in 1–3 John continue:  R.  E. Brown’s extensive historical reconstruction of their identity (Epistles of John, AB 30 (New York: Doubleday, 1982), 47–71) stands in contrast to that of P. Perkins, who considered the polemic to be more rhetorical than historical (The Johannine Epistles, (Wilmington: Glazier, 1979), xxi–xxiii). For more recent updates, see the helpful discussions in Painter, 1, 2, and 3 John, 88–94, and especially J. Lieu, I, II, & III John, NTL (Louisville: WJK Press, 2008), 9–14. Mt. 7.15; 24.11, 24; Mk 13.22; Lk. 6.26. 13.11–18; 16.13; 19.20; 20.10.

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teaching of Christ, but goes beyond it, does not have God; whoever abides in the teaching has both the Father and the Son. Do not receive into the house or welcome anyone who comes to you and does not bring this teaching’ (9–10).16 These teachers are said to deny something about Jesus (2 Pet. 2.1; 1 Jn 2.22–23). Αρνέομαι occurs eighteen times in the Gospels and Acts, with the Synoptics including an additional eleven occurrences of ἀπαρνέομαι. Most are narrative scenes, but six are didactic sayings condemning the denial of Christ or another of God’s representatives.17 In Paul it is found frequently in the Pastorals.18 The verb also occurs once in Hebrews (a narrative scene, 11.24) and twice in Revelation (2.13; 3.8) where believers are praised for not denying their faith. In contrast to all of these, the occurrences in our letters are strikingly similar: 2 Pet. 2.1 καὶ τὸν ἀγοράσαντα αὐτοὺς δεσπότην ἀρνούμενοι 1 Jn 2.22 τίς ἐστιν ὁ ψεύστης εἰ μὴ ὁ ἀρνούμενος ὅτι Ἰησοῦς οὐκ ἔστιν ὁ χριστός;

Each describes (1) a deceiving opponent who (2) commits the action of denial (3)  in relation to a claim of Jesus’ authority. These letters thus combine to warn believers about false prophets who in their teaching deny an element of apostolic tradition about Jesus’ role in the life of the believer. The teachers are described as deceivers who have strayed from truth into error. Of the thirty occurrences of the πλανάω word group in the NT letters, one-third are clustered tightly together in the small canonical space occupied by 2 Peter and 1–2 John.19 Hearing this verb repeated here in association with ‘false prophets’ brings to mind Christ’s warning in Matthew’s gospel that ‘false prophets will arise and lead many astray (πλανήσουσιν)’ (Mt. 24.11, 24), which itself develops a point from earlier in Matthew: ‘Beware of false prophets . . . you will know them by their fruits’ (Mt. 7.15–16). The letters thus 16

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The fact that 2 John describes official visits by foreign teachers is assumed by commentators. So Lieu (I, II, & III John): ‘The elder is clearly not envisaging merely a casual visitor. It could be a member of a group with a different interpretation of the Christian message . . . whose mere presence in the enclosed circle of the elected spelled danger, but it is more likely that it is someone expressly seeking actively to share their teaching’ (260). Mt. 10.33; Lk. 9.23; 12.9; Acts 3.13–14, 7.35. 1 Tim. 5.8; 2 Tim. 2.12, 13; 3.5; Tit. 1.16; 2.12. 2 Pet. 2.15, 18; 3.17; 1 Jn 1.8; 2.26; 3.7; 4.6; 2 Jn 7. Note also the close synonym πλαστός in 2 Pet. 2.3.

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recall Jesus’ words that false prophet-teachers will present an ethically distorted gospel. According to 2 Peter, it is not Christ’s name but Christ’s lordship that is rejected (2.1); it is the ‘way of truth’ that is being denied (2.3); these false prophets ‘have left the straight road ’ (2.15), have turned back from the commandments and don’t walk in the ‘way of righteousness’ (2.21). This prepares the way for 1–3 John’s extended articulation of what it is to ‘walk’ in the way of Christ’s commandments as taught by one who witnessed his deeds and heard his words.20 In summary, 2 Peter and 1–3 John are linked by a series of verbal parallels that target the particular kind of crisis believers suffer when facing competing theological visions introduced by the presence of false teachers who deny that following Jesus involves adhering to a particular ethical path. But how are disciples to deal with these conflicting identity claims?

The Remedy: Appeal to Apostolic Authority A distinctive feature of the CE collection is its emphasis on the importance of Jesus’ life and teaching and not simply his death, resurrection and return as they are so strongly emphasized in the Pauline witness. Jesus is both object of faith and faithful subject, one who not only died and rose again but also taught the way of truth for all who would follow in his steps. Paul was not a witness to this faithful life, but the traditional authors of the CE were.21 Hence 1 Peter ends by predicating Peter’s authority in his being a ‘witness to the sufferings of Christ’ (5.1). 2 Peter follows immediately thereafter by making this the centrepiece of its authoritative claims: the apostles ‘did not follow cleverly devised myths’ when they declared the parousia of the Lord, ‘for we were eyewitnesses of his majesty’ (1.16) who ‘heard’ God’s voice on the holy mountain (1.18). Thus the only ones capable of reminding believers of the Lord’s commandments (3.1–2) are those who actually saw his actions and heard his teaching. 1 John also begins by grounding the authority of the author in his eyewitness status: 20 21

1 Jn 1.6, 7; 2.6, 11; 2 Jn 4, 6; 3 Jn 3, 4. The importance of eyewitness testimony in the ancient world – and in the Gospels in particular – has been explored by R. Bauckham’s Jesus and the Eyewitnesses: The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006).

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We declare to you what was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life – this life was revealed, and we have seen it . . . we declare to you what we have seen and heard. (1 Jn 1.1–3)22

Both letters thus begin on the same terms by firmly grounding their authoritative claims in their status as witnesses to the pre-Easter Jesus. Strikingly, the claim presented here is closely corroborated in the only place John gets a speaking role in Acts, when Peter and John respond to their persecutors in a unified voice, ‘We cannot keep from speaking about what we have seen and heard ’ (Acts 4.19). 2 Peter is explicitly described as having been written (3.1) to recipients of 1 Peter to warn against scoffers who will come saying ‘where is the promise (ἐπαγγελία) of his coming? For ever since our ancestors died, all things continue as they were from the beginning (ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς) of creation’ (3.3–4). Peter’s reply directs his readers to the ‘word of God’ through which all things were created and by which judgement will soon come (3.5–7). Soon after these closing words 1 John opens by insisting it was written (1.4) to declare (ἀπαγγέλλομεν) ‘that which was from the beginning ’ (ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς) ‘concerning the word of life’ (1.1). The construction ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς occurs twenty times in the New Testament: nine in the Gospels and Acts, ten times in 1–2 John and in 2 Peter 3.4. As with the term ψευδοπροφήτης, so also with ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς: the only occurrences in the NT letters are in 2 Peter and 1–2 John. 2 Peter ends with opponents challenging the ἐπαγγελία because of their limited understanding of what has been the case ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς. As the opponents are thinking only in terms of their own immediate experience, the author directs his readers to the Word of God. Immediately thereafter 1 John opens with an ἀπαγγελία of what was in fact ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς concerning the Word of God – a claim the author justifies on the basis of his eyewitness experience. The thematic and verbal dovetailing is hard to miss. Two important sets of intertexts from the gospels and Acts must be mentioned at this point. First, the opening dedication and statement of intent in 22

Despite the inclusive ‘we’ of this opening paragraph, the speaker/writer of the letter persistently describes himself as someone standing above the fray (‘I am writing’) trying to adjudicate between two opposing identity paths. See J. Lieu, ‘Us or You? Persuasion and Identity in 1 John’, JBL 127, no. 4 (2008): 805–19.

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Luke’s Gospel finds the author predicating his authority on the fact that he had received his information from ‘those who from the beginning (ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς) were eyewitnesses and servants of the word ’ (1.2).23 This Lukan concern for eyewitness testimony reappears at the beginning of Acts, when Peter describes the qualified replacement for Judas as ‘one of the men who have accompanied us during all the time that the Lord Jesus went in and out among us, beginning from the baptism of John until the day he was taken up from us’ (Acts 1.21– 22). Paul does not meet this criterion, which explains why Luke is reticent to name him an apostle and why Paul works so hard in his letters to establish his authority in distinction from competing evangelists. The second set of intertexts comes from the Gospel of John:24 Jn 1.1–2

In the beginning (Ἐν ἀρχῇ) was the Word . . . he was in the beginning (ἐν ἀρχῇ) with God.

Jn 15.27

You also are to testify because you have been with me from the beginning (ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς).

Jn 16.4–5 I have said these things to you so that when their hour comes you may remember that I  told you about them. I  did not say these things to you from the beginning (ἐξ ἀρχῆς)…

These texts from Luke, John and Acts form the foundation of the historic apostolic tradition. Later generations of Christians would know which expressions of the gospel were true by fact-checking them against the rule of faith as it had been passed down from the authoritative figures who were with Jesus ‘from the beginning’. Paul himself had to do this very thing (Gal. 2.2).25 Taken together, then, 2 Peter and 1 John insist that though opponents may make this or that assertion about what they believe is ‘from the beginning’, only the eyewitness apostles are authorized to make such declarations. 23

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A number of studies explore the identity and role of the ‘eyewitnesses’ in Luke’s prologue. In response to Bauckham’s study in Eyewitnesses, see J. N. Collins, ‘Rethinking “Eyewitnesses” in the Light of “Servants of the Word” (Luke 1:2)’, ExpTim 121, no. 9 (2010): 447–52; see also K. A. Kuhn, ‘Beginning the Witness: The αὐτόπται καὶ ὑπηρέται of Luke’s Infancy Narrative’, NTS 49 (2003): 237–55. See E.  L. Miller, ‘In the Beginning:  A  Christological Transparency’, NTS 45 (1999):  587–92, which describes ἀρχή as a Christologically charged Johannine word. He analyses its use in most every NT occurrence except for 2 Peter. On the view that Luke sees Paul himself as the apostolic representative par excellence, see D. P. Moessner, ‘Luke’s “Witness of Witnesses”:  Paul as Defi ner and Defender of the Tradition of the Apostles  – “From the Beginning” ’ in Paul and the Heritage of Israel:  Paul’s Claim Upon Israel’s Legacy in Luke and Acts in Light of the Pauline Letters, ed. D. P. Moessner et al., LNTS (New York: T&T Clark, 2012), 117– 47.

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Two of the previous intertexts come from the Farewell Discourse of John’s gospel.26 Students of Johannine texts will know how frequently one fi nds τηρέω there; over half of all the NT occurrences are in John (36 times), and a third of those are found in the Farewell Discourse (e.g. ‘If you love me, you will keep my commandments’, Jn 14.15). This theme is picked up in 1 John: Now by this we may be sure that we know him, if we keep his commandments. Whoever says, ‘I have come to know him’, but does not keep his commandments, is a liar, and in such a person the truth does not exist; but whoever keeps his word, truly in this person the love of God has reached perfection’. (1 Jn 2.3–5; cf. 3.22–24; 5.3, 18)

Before we read 1 John, however, we pass through 2 Peter. There we find the theme of keeping and being kept employed frequently. Only here it is a term of judgement and not of obedience or protection: angels are kept in chains (2.4), and the unrighteous are kept under punishment (2.9; cf. 2.17; 3.7). In this instance, a contrast is asserted, one that is extended through the similar material in Jude and the Apocalypse. 2 Peter insists that there are those who do not keep God’s commands and are kept by God for judgement and destruction. 1 John, in turn, reminds believers of the call to keep the commandments as proof that they abide with God. The series continues with Jude, who repeats 2 Peter’s images of those who oppose God being kept for judgement (Jude 6, 13), and is brought to completion in the Apocalypse by the Dragon who makes war on ‘those who keep the commandments of God and hold the testimony of Jesus’ (Rev.12.17). Τηρέω often functions synonymously with φυλάσσω, though the former is more common in the NT and the latter in the LXX, where it occurs frequently in admonitions that God’s people must obey the law and guard against the idolatries that will lead them astray. Strikingly, 2 Peter and 1 John both conclude their letters with final admonitions using this verb in the imperative:27 26

27

Others have already noted the verbal connections between the Letters of John and the Farewell Discourse of John 14–17. See especially D.  M. Reis, ‘Jesus’ Farewell Discourse, “Otherness”, and the Construction of a Johannine Identity’, Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses 32, no. 1 (2003): 239–58. Th is point of connection was first pointed out to me by Ms. Kelsie Job during a class project focused on a search for verbal linkages amongst the Catholic Epistles.

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2 Pet. 3.17 Beware (φυλάσσεσθε) that you are not carried away with the error of the lawless. 1 Jn 5.21

Little children, keep (φυλάξατε) yourselves from idols.

Jude of course also ends his letter with this verb in the famous benediction which reassures believers that God is the one who is able to keep us from stumbling as we walk the way of truth (Jude 24), just as 2 Peter recalls how God kept the righteous Noah safe during the judgement of the flood (2 Pet. 2.5). The presence of these two synonyms here might bring to mind yet another intertext from the Farewell Discourse, where the Son prays to the Father, ‘While I  was with them, I  protected (ἐτήρουν) them in your name that you have given me. I guarded (ἐφύλαξα) them, and not one of them was lost except the one destined to be lost, so that the scripture might be fulfi lled’ (Jn 17.12).

Conclusion In these points of verbal and thematic correspondence we see how 2 Peter creates bridges to the Johannine witness that help to anchor it within the larger CE collection. In this manner, 2 Peter and 1–3 John link together to form a hearty witness at the end of the epistolary canon that reminds readers of Jesus’ warning in the gospels that false prophets would come in his name and lead disciples astray. We have also seen that John’s gospel, and particularly the Farewell Discourse, has emerged as a key intertext. The association of the CE with this witness to Jesus’ words on the night of his betrayal is rich with canonical insight. According to Paul, the Lord handed down to us on the night of his betrayal the Eucharistic meal, that we might proclaim his death until he comes (1 Cor. 11.23–26). 2 Peter and the Johannines, by contrast, direct our thoughts to another moment from that night when the Lord offered up final instructions to those who were with him from the beginning (Jn 15.27). These were set apart as witnesses to Christ’s death as well as his teaching about Christian identity and the life of discipleship; on that last night, the Lord who said ‘take, eat, this is my body’ also insisted ‘If you love me, you will keep my commandments . . . those who love me will keep my word’ (Jn

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14.15, 23). Only those who witnessed Jesus’ life can report this to subsequent generations. In all of this we can see that 2 Peter shapes our reception of the Pauline material by linking up with the Johannines to solidify the CE’s larger testimony to the life and teaching of Jesus. Preserving the location of the Johannine witness within the CE collection strengthens its canonical function as identity-forming scripture; Paul is framed on one side by the Gospels and Acts and on the other by the CE collection, in order that the embrace of his apostolic colleagues might correct his message of its potentially distorting aspects. When the Johannines are removed to be read alongside the Gospel, this crucial framing function is sorely diminished, and 2 Peter is left in a quasi-canonical state as part of the literary post-history of Jude. 2 Peter and 1 John are meant to stand together here as Peter and John do in the Acts of the Apostles, testifying for all generations about what they have seen and heard in the person and work of Jesus Christ.

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Remember ‘Jesus Saved a People Out of Egypt’ Ruth Anne Reese

The book of Jude begins with three clear actors: the author (Jude, v. 1); those who are loved and kept (the Beloved, v. 1); and those who have ‘slipped in secretly’ and are ‘already written into this judgement’ (the Others, v. 4). The genre of the book  – epistle  – already creates a particular power dynamic among this group of actors. The author of the letter inscribes the identity of the other two groups using, among other techniques, shared collective memories. Jude does this by invoking, through the use of memory, a familiar set of narratives and applying them to a particular group. Because of the nature of the genre – letter rather than correspondence – we do not know how the hearers of the epistle received and responded to the letter and its depiction of the Others. However, the letter has been preserved and included in the canon, which gives some sense of its value in the early church. The Beloved are clearly addressed as the recipients who hear and receive the letter, but ‘those who slipped in secretly’ should also be understood as a group that is present in the church body and who would have been in attendance at the public assembly where the letter was presented and read.1 This essay explores the use of collective memory in Jude 5–8 in relationship to the identity of the Beloved and the Others in Jude. Jude shapes the collective memory of his audience by focusing their attention on Jesus and three Old Testament narratives (vv. 5–7) and then providing an interpretation (v. 8) in order to respond to a threat against the faith shared by both author and audience. In so doing, he shapes the identity of the audience as well as the identity of

1

Ruth Anne Reese, 2 Peter and Jude, Two Horizons New Testament Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2007), 41.

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the Others and warns of the dangers associated with unbelief and the abuse of grace.

Collective Memory, Narrative and Identity in Jude Collective memories are the memories that remain embedded in a group long after the eyewitnesses and even the grandchildren of those eyewitnesses have died. These memories become part of the shared group identity. They are stored in the narratives that the group recounts, and there is necessarily an element of selection and shaping involved in the retelling of collective memories.2 Thus, centuries after their deliverance from Egypt, the Jewish people still speak of themselves as a people who were rescued from the land of Egypt and recount to each other a set of shared memories of the event. Shared collective memories are significant identifying features of a group’s identity. But collective memory is not static. The metaphor of memory that is inscribed on a wax tablet (or, more recently, stored in a computer database) and able to be retrieved unchanged time after time has now been thoroughly discredited.3 Both within the humanities and within the sciences, there is recognition of a reciprocal relationship between memory and the environment.4 Changed culture, circumstances and environments shape both the shared memories themselves and their use. Collective memory is impacted by the present circumstances in which that memory is recalled. For example, different aspects of the exodus might be remembered when the group fi nds itself in different circumstances. When the people of Israel are in exile in Babylon, the prophets bring to mind the exodus as a reminder that God has delivered in the past and will deliver again (e.g. Isa. 43.19–20). The circumstance of exile draws out elements of the collective memory suited to the environment. Similarly, pieces of collective memory may be forgotten or become muted over time, while seemingly minor

2

3 4

For more on the theories and methods of collective memory, see Jens Brockmeier, ‘Remembering and Forgetting:  Narrative as Cultural Memory’, Cult. Psychol. 8 (2002):  15– 43; Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1989); Patrick Hutton, History as an Art of Memory (Hanover:  University Press of New England, 1993). Jens Brockmeier, ‘After the Archive: Remapping Memory’, Cult. Psychol. 16 (2010): 5–35. Allan Megill, ‘History, Memory, Identity’, History of the Human Sciences 11, no. 3 (1998): 51.

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aspects of collective memory can gain more emphasis than they may have fi rst had. In each of these instances, the context in which the collective memory is recalled shapes its current iteration. In addition to the interplay between past and present that is evident in the shaping of collective memory, such memories are also stored narratively. Rather than the wax tablet, memory is stored within narrative.5 However, here too we are aware of the necessity of selection. The whole of something cannot be recounted. The details that are told, the characters that are mentioned, the description that is given – all of these are selected and set into relationship by the narrator. And this introduces into both narrative and collective memory issues of power. Some group or some individual is retelling the narrative. Collective memory is not recalled without a voice. And when we notice the voice of the narrator, it is appropriate to ask questions such as: Who gets to tell the narrative? Who is invited to hear the narrative as one’s own (in other words, invited to participate in the group and its identity)? How is the collective memory changed in comparison to other iterations of the same collective memory? What do these changes tell us about the narrator and about the group and its identity? Is there a place to argue for or present a different shaping and appropriation of the collective memory that has been brought to mind? Collective memory and narration are not neutral tools for communication; they are embedded in constructs of power, and it is appropriate to ask both how collective memory is utilized and by whom. On the one hand, collective memory is an inherent part of group identity; on the other hand, that collective memory and group identity are shaped by how and who recounts the collective memory.

The Context for Collective Memory in Jude Since present circumstances are an important contributor to the way in which collective memory is recalled and utilized, it is important to consider the context in which collective memory in Jude is evoked. Unlike letters such as 1 Corinthians or Romans, which clearly designate a destination and audience, Jude’s audience is referred to obliquely, and its destination 5

Brockmeier, ‘After the Archive’, 27.

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is unknown. We have hints in the book about the circumstances that surround the invocation of these memories. But there is much that remains unclear. In the purpose statement of the book (vv. 3– 4), Jude urges his audience to ‘contend’ for the faith indicating that the faith is under some threat. He then goes on to describe people who deny Jesus and who change the grace of God into licentiousness. There is also a sense of tension between the Beloved and the Others throughout the book. The Beloved are described as those who are loved by God and kept by Jesus Christ (v. 2), whereas the Others are those engaged in a long list of bad behaviour that associates them with some of the most grievous sins and sinners of Israel (vv. 5–19). And there is some indication of failure on the part of the Others to be true shepherds who provide for those in their care (‘shepherding themselves’ and ‘twice dead autumnal trees’, v. 12) along with indications that they may be leading some astray (‘wandering stars’, v. 13). But many of these descriptions are midrashic or metaphorical, and it is difficult to move from them to certainty about the historical situation these figures of speech describe. Th is uncertainty along with other unknowns, such as the date, geographical destination of the letter and disputed authorship, allow for only a broad and generalized description of the problem confronted by the author of the epistle.6 The issue of identity in the book of Jude is both intriguing and difficult. For centuries, scholars have been asking: ‘who are the Beloved?’ and ‘what kind of an opponent were the Others?’7 One way to delve more deeply into these questions of identity is by examining the collective memories that are called to mind by the author. Such an examination must consider which collective memories are invoked and how they are shaped in their context. When an author alludes to a collective memory, a narrative memory that is shared among a group, s/he does so for a purpose. The appeal to collective memory is an appeal to group identity-shaping dynamics, and the author of Jude makes 6

7

For an extended treatment of these issues, see Richard Bauckham, Jude, 2 Peter, WBC 50 (Waco, TX: Word Books, 1983), 11–16. Writing in the 1600s, Thomas Manton, A Commentary on Jude, Geneva Series of Commentaries (Carlisle, PA: The Banner of Truth Trust, 1989), 122–5, describes the intruders as people who pretend faith in order to move into the church and who pretend ‘to be friends of truth and piety’ (123). More recently, Bauckham, Jude, 2 Peter, 11, identifies the opponents as antinomian ‘itinerant charismatics’. E. M. Sidebottom, James, Jude, and 2 Peter, New Century Bible (London: Thomas Nelson 1967), 70–1, sees a development from the types of opponents seen at Corinth and associates the opponents in Jude with early gnostics.

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this clear when he opens the section on memory with a reminder that those he is writing to already know the things that he is asking them to remember. This is not new material but rather material to be retold for a particular purpose in light of the current situation.

Narrative Shaping and Collective Memory in Jude Ὑπομνῆσαι (‘to remember’) is the first word in the main section of the letter (v. 5). The activity of remembering is emphasized by its position at the head of the sentence and at the opening of the section. The activity of remembering is further emphasized when it is repeated toward the end of the main body of the letter in v. 17. The author goes on in v. 5 to express his desire that the audience remember what it already knows, but he is not simply asking the audience to reminisce. The author goes on to direct his audience’s remembering in two very particular ways. First, from among the many collective memories that author and audience share, the author selects particular ones to highlight. Second, the author interprets these collective memories in ways that further delineate a particular group (the Others) introduced in the opening verses of the book. In this letter, collective memory is both invoked and applied in support of the author’s purpose, which was stated in v.4. Namely, the author wants to arouse his audience in such a way that they will contend for the faith presumably in contrast to being complacent about it.

The Selection of Memories In one long sentence, the author introduces three narratives:  a narrative about the destruction of the people rescued from Egypt when they failed to believe (v. 5); a narrative about angels who did not keep to their own place and experienced a great judgement; and a narrative about Sodom and Gomorrah going after ‘other flesh’ and becoming an example to others of punishment by eternal fi re. These are the events that Jude wants his audience to remember. He can allude to these narratives briefly because each of them belongs to a larger shared collective memory. Collective memories are accessed by recounting or alluding to the narrative in which the

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memory is embedded.8 An allusion to the people saved out of the land of Egypt brings to mind not only the story of the exodus as it is spelled out, for example, in Exodus 1–15, but also other retellings and allusions to the exodus passed from family to family and across generations. While the allusion to a collective memory brings to mind the greater story, the author also shapes that collective memory by selecting some parts of the narrative for emphasis and disregarding other parts that are less suited to his purpose. Here, the author alludes to the foundational collective memory of God’s deliverance of his people from oppression in Egypt and then follows up that allusion with a reference to a specific aspect of that story: ‘The second time Jesus destroyed those who did not believe’ (v. 5). The language is both vague and specific at the same time. On the one hand, God destroyed the whole wilderness generation apart from Joshua and Caleb; on the other hand, on a fi rst reading Jude does not allude to a specific incident of God’s destruction such as sickness or serpents. The allusion to this collective memory serves to remind the audience of deliverance, the demand for faithfulness from the covenant people and of the judgement that befalls those who fail to believe after experiencing the gift of deliverance. Here we begin to see Jude’s selection of particular aspects of collective memories. In v. 8, we will see Jude’s application of those collective memories to the contemporary situation.

The Shaping of Memories The very first thing the Beloved are invited to remember is a person – Jesus. In light of the three events that are alluded to (the exodus, the Watchers, and Sodom and Gomorrah; vv. 5–7) it seems surprising that Jesus would be the subject of this sentence that alludes to three events derived from Genesis and Exodus and remembered and reinterpreted over the intervening centuries. But the subject of the sentence is ‘Jesus’. Jude 5 does contain one of the more difficult sets of textual variants in the New Testament. While the author’s opening wish for his audience to remember and the closing description that ‘the second time those who did not believe were destroyed’ are both clear and lacking in variants, the middle of the verse presents a number of textual 8

Brockmeier, ‘Remembering and Forgetting’, 27.

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variants whose interpretation impinges on our understanding of the role of collective memory in the epistle. There are two textual variants that we need to consider.

Textual Variants and the Shaping of Collective Memory 9 First, one of the main issues is who should be understood as the subject of the sentence – ‘Jesus’ or ‘Lord?’10 While the textual decision between Jesus and Lord is challenging, as evidenced by the changes in the editions of the eclectic NT Greek texts over the last several decades, an examination of the use of these two words (κύριος and Ἰησοῦς) in Jude shows that they are closely associated. The immediately preceding use of κύριος occurs in v. 4 in the phrase τὸν μόνον δεσπότην καὶ κύριον ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦν Χριστὸν ἀρνούμενοι (‘denying the only master and our Lord Jesus Christ’). Here, κύριος is clearly linked to Jesus; thus even if one prefers the textual evidence for the reading κύριος, 9

10

Th is section of the essay briefly explores the textual variants in Jude 5 that are relevant to this essay. Another interesting piece of work that remains to be done would be an exploration of how collective memories might be understood when viewed through the lenses of the individual scribal traditions that lie behind the textual variants readily apparent in the critical apparatus of UBS5 and NA 28. In Metzger’s textual commentary the committee deems the reading ‘ Ἰησοῦς’ ‘difficult to the point of impossibility’, and both UBS 4 and NA 27 read κύριος (‘Lord’) as the subject of the sentence that runs from Jude 5–7 (Bruce M. Metzger, Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft and United Bible Societies, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament: A Companion Volume to the United Bible Societies’ Greek New Testament, 4th rev. edn (Stuttgart/ New York: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft /United Bible Societies, 1994), 657.) The committee did assign the reading a ‘D’ rating indicating ‘that the Committee had difficulty in deciding which variant to place in the text’ (ibid., 14). In the recently updated UBS5/ NA 28, the reading has returned to Ἰησοῦς, and the rating has been upgraded to a ‘C’, which still indicates a significant level of uncertainty in the reading. A quick glance at the 5 editions of the UBS text reveals movement between the readings. Thus, UBS1 and UBS2 both read Ἰησοῦς as the subject of Jude 5, and UBS3 and UBS 4 both read κύριος as the subject. UBS5 thus returns to the reading fi rst laid out in UBS1. There continues to be ongoing study and debate regarding the subject of the sentence as evidenced by both recent articles and essays (e.g. Philipp F. Bartholomä , ‘Did Jesus Save the People out of Egypt? A Re-examination of a Textual Problem in Jude 5’, NovT 50, no. 2 (2008): 143–58, and Tommy Wasserman, ‘Theological Creativity and Scribal Solutions in Jude’, in Textual Variation: Theological and Social Tendencies?: Papers from the Fifth Birmingham Colloquium on the Textual Criticism of the New Testament, ed. D.  C. Parker and H.  A. G.  Houghton (Piscataway: Gorgias Press, 2008), 75– 84). The issue of the subject of the sentence is only one of the textual issues in Jude 5.  Also at stake is the word order of the sentence, particularly the placement of ἅπαξ before or after the ὅτι clause. UBS 4 places it after ὅτι , which makes it more likely to correspond to a word like πρῶτον (Metzger, A Textual Commentary, 658). Scott Hafemann, however, argues that its placement after the ὅτι should be understood as ‘saved the people from Egypt definitively once for all ’ (Scott J.  Hafemann, ‘Salvation in Jude 5 and the Argument of 2 Peter 1:3–11’, in The Catholic Epistles and Apostolic Tradition: A New Perspective on James to Jude, ed. Karl-Wilhelm Niebuhr and Robert W. Wall (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009), 334) while UBS5 places it before the ὅτι , so that the audience are described as a group who ‘know everything once for all’.

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one can argue that κύριος in v. 5 should be understood to refer to Jesus. In my own work, I have argued that the reading ‘Jesus’ is to be preferred, and this is the reading of the current critical editions (NA 28 and UBS5).11 In either case, we can argue that, when Jude introduces this string of narrative memories, the first element that Jude asks his audience to remember is not an event but a person. In making Jesus the subject of a sentence about the exodus, Jude brings together two collective memories and melds them into one. Here, the memory of Jesus meets the memories of the exodus, the Watchers, and Sodom and Gomorrah. Pointing to Jesus at the beginning of Jude’s list of memories highlights the role of Jesus in the work of saving and destroying. In contrast, the Others are a group who deny the only master and our Lord Jesus Christ and presumably any power of the Lord Jesus to either save or destroy. The second variant that impacts our understanding of collective memory in Jude is the location of the word ἅπαξ. Here, the question is whether this should be understood to describe the type of knowledge the Beloved had – knowledge that is definitive – or to describe the kind of saving that Jesus does as definitive. If the ἅπαξ goes with εἰδότας (as NA28 takes it), then we can discuss the expectations that Jude had of the audience when he asked them to remember. In this version, the text can be loosely translated as ‘you knowing once for all’, and Jude would be indicating his understanding of the audience’s definitive knowledge. But if ἅπαξ goes with the ὅτι clause (as NA27 reads), then we can discuss the particular shaping of collective memory in Jude in light of this usage of ἅπαξ. In this version, the text can be loosely translated as ‘Jesus saved once for all’. In other words, Jude points to the definitive saving activity of Jesus. Like the variant discussed above, this one also exhibits a range of evidence, changes over time in the critical editions, and debates in various essays and articles. For instance, Scott Hafemann argues that the NA27 reading that locates ἅπαξ after the ὅτι in the clause with σώσας has slightly stronger external support.12 The majority of commentators have rejected this view. Most have seen it as an ‘easier’ reading to give ἅπαξ the meaning ‘first’ rather than ‘once’ and have opted for the seemingly more difficult reading achieved when ἅπαξ goes with

11 12

Ruth Anne Reese, 2 Peter and Jude, 42. Hafemann, ‘Salvation in Jude 5’, 332. Other contemporary scholars who also support this reading include Gene Green, Jude & 2 Peter, Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2008), 63– 4, and J. D. Charles, Literary Strategy in the Epistle of Jude (London: Associated University Presses, 1993), 105–7.

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the participle εἰδοτες.13 Many have taken the first event as a general referent to the exodus, but that approach is unsatisfactory as it fails to account explicitly for the first instance of a lack of belief on the part of the people of Israel. Hafemann, following Bauckham, argues convincingly that the second time (τὸ δεύτερον) in Jude 5 refers to Numbers 14 and the failure of the spies and the Israelites to trust God to bring them into the land to which he had brought them. From this point, Hafemann works backwards to the first example of unbelief that results in God’s desire to destroy his people – namely the narrative of the people of Israel worshipping the golden calf in Exodus 32–34.14 Here too God threatens to destroy the people of Israel after they exhibit unbelief by worshipping a golden calf. However, in the account in Exodus, God relents and, instead of utterly destroying the people, he reaffirms the covenant and the promise to lead them to the land and to be present with the people. Hafemann argues that this is the first instance of mercy for a people who were delivered from Egypt and then failed to believe. In the second instance, in Numbers 14, when the spies and the people of Israel fail to trust God, God does not relent, but instead swears that the whole generation will be destroyed in the wilderness apart from Joshua and Caleb. Hafemann’s work provides a solid explanation of a first experience of unbelief in which God’s people were shown mercy and thus negates the objection that ἅπαξ has no clear referent when the text is read with ἅπαξ after the ὅτι clause.15 This work combined with the slightly more favourable external evidence would imply, for our purposes, that the knowledge the Beloved had was sufficient (εἰδότας πάντα) but not definitive. Jude expects those to whom he is writing to share these collective memories but does not anticipate a ‘once for all’ or definitive quality to be associated with these memories.

Jesus Saves and Destroys Jude begins his call to remember by pointing the Beloved towards Jesus and the exodus narrative. In this opening scene, the Beloved are to remember Jesus and his deliverance of the people of Israel from the land of Egypt. Those 13

14 15

Bauckham, Jude, 2 Peter, 43; Michael Green, The Second Epistle General of Peter and the General Epistle of Jude: An Introduction and Commentary, rev. edn, TNTC 18 (Leicester: IVP, 1989), 177. Hafemann, ‘Salvation in Jude 5’, 335–7. Hafemann, ‘Salvation in Jude 5’, 335–7.

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who stop to meditate on Jesus as the one who saves may be reminded of the many activities of Jesus in the Gospels associated with σώζω. Jesus saves his disciples from a storm at sea, heals the sick and promises salvation to those who endure to the end (Lk. 8.22–25; 5.17; Mk 13.13). It would not have been surprising for the Beloved to be asked to remember the saving work of Jesus. But it is, perhaps, more surprising to be asked to remember Jesus delivering a people out of Egypt.16 Commentators who see Jesus as the main referent here often refer to Jude’s apparent high Christology that associates the activity of Jesus with actions typically undertaken by God. But one can also see this as the melding of memory about the saving character of Jesus with the memory of the saving activity of God directed towards the people of Israel in a particular time and place. While associating the memory of Jesus with saving is not difficult, it is perhaps more surprising to see Jesus represented as the one who destroys those who do not believe a second time. After all, in the memory of the Gospels, Jesus is often associated with saving but is seldom associated with destruction. We see at least one exception to this in Luke 13 where Jesus tells the crowd, ‘Unless you repent, you will all likewise perish (άπολεῖσθε)’. But, in general, Jesus is not heavily associated with ἀπόλλυμι in the Gospels. Nevertheless, in Jude 5 we find the Beloved being called to remember Jesus, the deliverance of a people from Egypt and the destruction of that people after they demonstrate their lack of faith a second time by failing to enter into the land of promise to which God has brought them. Here the melding of two collective memories – the memory of the exodus and the memory of Jesus – creates a new memory in which Jesus saves those who trust him and subsequently destroys those who do not. Jude has already described the Others as a group that denies the master and Lord Jesus Christ, and here he describes the fate of those who failed to believe. We can move more quickly through the second and third events that Jude narrates. In the second event to which Jude turns his attention, the Beloved are to remember that he [Jesus17] keeps in everlasting chains under deep gloom

16

17

We do see a similar type of association between Jesus and the exodus narrative in Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. In 1 Cor. 10.1– 4 Paul recounts the exodus narrative with such allusions as being ‘under the cloud’ and ‘passing through the sea’, and then adds that the rock from which they drank was Christ. The subject of the sentence that begins in v. 5 is also the subject of v. 6.

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for judgement the angels who did not keep their own rule but left behind their own habitation (v. 6). Once again we see that Jude has selected some aspects of this collective memory to highlight while others go unmentioned. Here, the focus is upon the failure of the angels to keep their proper place and the result, which is imprisonment in chains, gloom, and darkness. The third event in v. 7 highlights the activities of Sodom and Gomorrah and the cities around them as places that acted immorally and went after ‘other flesh’, which may be interpreted as the flesh of the visiting angels (v. 7). The sentence ends with the proclamation that these cities have become an example of eternal punishment by fire. Jude 8 begins with ὁμοίως ‘like’ and a switch from the aorist, which dominates vv. 5–7, to the present. This pattern of shifting between the tenses highlights differences between materials expressed in the aorist, such as the collective memories of vv. 5–7, which Jude intends to use as examples, and the interpretation or application of that material, which is expressed in the present. Using the present, Jude indicates the significance of these examples for the current situation.18 This is crucial to our understanding of how Jude uses collective memory to shape group identity. Jude appeals to collective memories that are well known to the audience, such as the exodus, the Watchers and Sodom and Gomorrah. He melds these memories with the audience’s knowledge of Jesus, and then he applies the newly shaped memory to the current situation. In v. 8 the Others are identified as dreamers who defile the flesh, reject authority and revile glorious ones. These activities are a direct outworking of the manner in which the Others have already been identified. They are those who change grace into licentiousness (i.e. ‘defile the flesh’) and who deny the master and Lord Jesus Christ (i.e. ‘reject authority’). And now this is extended to speaking against glorious ones (most likely angelic beings). These activities are like the collective memories the audience has been instructed to remember. J. D. Charles asks what these three examples from vv. 5–7 have in common and proposes that all of them are ‘ongoing examples (note the present tense of prokeimai) of divine judgement. The reason is that they all exhibit an unnatural rebellion’.19 The Others are now associated with the collective

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Jeff rey T.  Reed and Ruth A.  Reese, ‘Verbal Aspect, Discourse Prominence, and the Letter of Jude’, Filología Neotestamentaria 9, no. 18 (1996): 180–99. Charles, Literary Strategy, 118 (italics in the original).

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memory of judgement (Jesus destroys, v. 5; Jesus keeps in bonds, v. 6; Sodom and Gomorrah are an example of punishment by eternal fire, v. 7) and with the rebellion exhibited by each of the memories to which Jude has appealed.

Remember the Words Spoken to You These collective memories – the destruction of those who did not believe, the angels, Sodom and Gomorrah – are all used to define the Others. Those who hear the letter read are to understand that in a variety of ways the Others participate in the destructive activities brought to mind by these shared memories. If this were the sole content of remembering in Jude, we might wrap up our exploration of the use of collective memory with the simple observation: the author uses collective memory to identify a group of Others as people who participate in the very things that led to Israel’s destruction. However, there is a second instruction to remember. In v. 17, the Beloved are instructed to remember something different. This time, they are to remember not the shared collective memories that have been passed down over centuries, but rather the social memories of a relatively newly formed group that is perhaps one or two generations beyond its founding. They are to remember ‘the words spoken by the apostles of our Lord Jesus Christ’. While there is a significant debate around the dating of Jude, the author indicates that those being addressed will remember what the apostles of Jesus spoke: namely, a warning that there would be those in their midst who would mock the gospel and follow their own desires rather than the purposes of God. Once again, just as with the previous use of collective memory, the author selects the content of what is remembered and then interprets the meaning of the collective memory; the Beloved should not be surprised that these Others cause divisions, are worldly and do not have the Spirit. Between the use of collective memory and the shared social memories of this new group, there is an overwhelming description of the Others as a group of people characterized by tendencies that led to the judgement and destruction of the people of Israel, the Watchers and Sodom and Gomorrah. Who are the Others? They are a group who, like those who twice failed to believe after experiencing divine rescue, will experience the judgement of death. They are a group who, like the angels who abandoned their place of rulership, are being

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kept for destruction. They are a group that may become an example for others even as Sodom and Gomorrah became a sign of God’s punishment. This is the group who have chosen licentiousness and denial over obedience and devotion to the Lord Jesus Christ, and Jude brings the collective memories of his audience as well as the social memory of the apostles to bear as he describes this particular group. While collective memory is used to shape the identity of the Others in the book of Jude, there is an interesting phenomenon that is also at work in the epistle. The Beloved are not solely defined against the Others. The epistle is not strictly set up as an ‘us’ and ‘them’ work. What is interesting is that the identity of the Beloved is not simply shaped by their remembrance of Jesus and certain narratives that are now applied to the Others. Rather, as I have argued elsewhere, the identity of the Beloved is shaped by the actions they are instructed to undertake at the end of the letter.20 What is it that demonstrates whether the people who are hearing this book (remember, I’ve argued that both the Beloved and the Others are present when the epistle is read) are the Beloved or the Others? The answer to that question is predicated on action. The Beloved are those who are both kept by God and who keep (τηρήσατε) themselves in the love of God. This is the only main verb in Jude 20–21. The other verbs are participles, and I  understand those participles to be adverbial indications of how the Beloved are to go about keeping themselves in the love of God. They do this by engaging in the work of building each other up, praying in the Holy Spirit and waiting for the mercy of Jesus. Furthermore, their identity as the Beloved does not stop with this work of keeping themselves in the love of God. It also extends to the work of saving and showing mercy to some who are struggling in a variety of ways. There are some in the community who experience doubt, others who find themselves in the fire and still others who are described as having garments stained by sin (vv. 22–23). Yet the Beloved are those who reach out to such as these with salvation and mercy. On the one hand, the Beloved recognize that these folks are in need of deliverance and mercy. And perhaps it would be tempting here to highlight a ‘they are not us’ motif. But on the other hand, the Beloved also recognize that they themselves are the very people in need of mercy. After all, one of the 20

Reese, 2 Peter and Jude, 84– 6.

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ways that they keep themselves in the love of God is by waiting for the mercy of Jesus Christ (v. 21). If the Beloved did not need mercy for themselves, then they would not be instructed to wait for that mercy. Immediately following the instruction to wait for mercy, we find that the Beloved are also to extend mercy, the very thing that they themselves need. So while the Beloved might be tempted to identify themselves in such a way that they have no part with the Others, and they might thus enable themselves to stand above the Others with an attitude of superiority, such an attitude fails to take into account their own need for the love, mercy, and care of God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Indeed, any attempt to elevate themselves at the expense of the Others leads to the same type of activity (‘shepherding themselves’, v. 12) for which the Others were condemned.

Conclusion Collective memory theories pay attention to the way that memories are shaped and told in narrative form. In Jude, we see that the memory of the exodus, the Watchers and Sodom and Gomorrah has now been shaped for an audience of people who are loved by God and kept by Jesus – the same Jesus who engages in saving and destroying these examples from Israel’s bank of collective memory. Jude retells these collective memories in a particular way for the purpose of contending for the faith and highlighting the danger of people in their midst who practice licentiousness and deny Jesus Christ. In so doing, the author of the epistle lays claim to the power to inscribe identity through the use and dissemination of particular collective memories shaped for the purpose and occasion of the letter. However, in this epistle, the inscribing of such an identity leads not to condemnation but to the warning that the Beloved are to practice mercy and salvation while being fully aware of the danger they confront.

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Messianic Jewish Identity in James Richard Bauckham

Jewish, Christian, or Both? Probably the majority of recent scholars writing on James suppose that the letter addresses communities of Jewish Christians, meaning Jews who remained identifiably Jewish, in particular by continuing to observe the Torah as a whole. It is an open question what term we can most appropriately use for such people. The multivolume history of Jewish Christianity, edited by Skarsaune and Hvalvik, has opted for the term ‘Jewish believers in Jesus’.1 In my title for this essay I have implied the term ‘messianic Jews’, which has the advantage of indicating that they were no less Jewish for being believers in Jesus. That was undoubtedly how they thought of themselves. Whatever term we use, it is essential to avoid envisaging them in the way Jerome in the fourth century famously did when he complained that Jewish Christians wanted to be both Jews and Christians, and therefore they were truly neither. In the New Testament period neither Jewish nor Gentile Christians thought that Jews ceased to be Jewish or even became less Jewish by believing in Jesus the Messiah. However, not everyone agrees that the addressees are messianic Jews. There are two other views that seem exactly opposite to each other:  one that the document is a simply Jewish text that has been Christianized by the addition merely of two references to Jesus Christ, the other that it is not particularly 1

See Oskar Skarsaune and Reidar Hvalvik, eds, Jewish Believers in Jesus:  The Early Centuries (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2007).

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Jewish at all but addressed to Christians in general. Two observations about James have led to these views: (1) It is alleged that there is nothing specifically Christian in James apart from the identification of its author as ‘James, servant of God and of the Lord Jesus the Messiah’ in the prescript and the reference to ‘our glorious Lord Jesus the Messiah’ in 2.1. (2) On the other hand, it is claimed that there is nothing peculiarly Jewish about James – nothing that cannot be understood as un-problematically applicable to Gentile Christians. There are, for example, no references to circumcision or food laws or Sabbath, the aspects of Torah observance that are controversial in Paul’s letters. This observation, of course, accords with the fact that in the Christian tradition, from as early as we have evidence down to the present, Gentile Christians have read and applied James to themselves, usually without noticing any difficulties in doing so. Even James’s discussion of faith and works, with its apparent contradiction of Paul, raises the question of the soteriological significance of the kind of good works that Gentile Christians are un-controversially expected to perform, not of the aspects of Torah that feature in Paul’s polemics against Torah observance by Gentile Christians. The view that James is a barely Christianized version of an originally purely Jewish text is rarely defended today. The consideration that has probably weighed most against it is the close relationship between James and the traditions of the sayings of Jesus.2 It is partly for this reason that, for example, Scot McKnight in his recent commentary describes James as ‘comprehensively Christian’,3 while also claiming that the kind of community James addresses was ‘ethno-religiously inseparable from the Jewish community’.4 In other words, if the teaching of James is deeply and comprehensively indebted to the teaching of Jesus, then James must be addressing readers or hearers who identified as followers of Jesus. This would not make them any less Jewish than Jesus himself, but it may also explain the fact that, historically, James has been appropriated for Gentile Christian instruction, just as the teaching of Jesus in the Gospels was from an early stage of the early Christian movement. 2

3 4

On the nature of this relationship, see Richard Bauckham, James: Wisdom of James, Disciple of Jesus the Sage, New Testament Readings (London: Routledge, 1999), 74–93. Scot McKnight, The Letter of James, NICNT (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011), 26. McKnight, James, 67.

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However, one might still press the question of distinctively Christian features in this way. In the first place, why are even the clearest echoes of the sayings of Jesus not explicitly cited as sayings of Jesus and thereby given the weight of the authority of Jesus that early Christians attributed to his teaching? Secondly, does James allude to post-Easter belief in Jesus as risen and exalted Messiah and Lord (apart from the two explicit references to the Lord Jesus the Messiah in 1.1 and 2.1)? With this introduction, I will now turn to the most recent commentary on James, the new International Critical Commentary on James by Dale Allison, published in 2013.5 A good way to address the question of the identity of James and his readers at this point in the history of scholarship is to respond to the most original general aspect of Allison’s work on James. He wholeheartedly endorses the first of the two observations mentioned above: that there is nothing specifically Christian in James. But he offers a largely novel explanation of this.6 He sees the author as a Christian, writing in the early second century, who deliberately attributes his work to the famous Jewish Christian leader James of Jerusalem. But, says Allison, [a]lthough writing in the name of James of Jerusalem and so openly speaking for Christians, our author does not clearly identify his readers as such. Hence the pseudepigraphal address [to the twelve tribes in the dispersion (1.1)]:  he evidently still hopes for an audience with non-Christian Jews. James is thus a sort of apology.7

It addresses both non-Christian Jews and Christian Jews and is intended as ‘edification’ for the non-Christians and ‘clarification’ for the Christians.8 According to Allison, James ‘emerged from a Christ-oriented Judaism, from a group that still attended synagogue and wished to maintain irenic relations with’ those Jews who did not agree with them that Jesus was the Messiah.9 It ‘represents Christian Jews who did not define themselves over against Judaism’.10 The purpose of the letter was to maintain good relations

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Dale C.  Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle of James, ICC (London: Bloomsbury, 2013). For a partial precedent, see the quote from A. H. McNeile in Allison, James, 43. Allison, James, 48. Allison, James, 48. Allison, James, 43. Allison, James, 43.

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by persuading ‘sympathetic readers that the differences between James’s version of Judaism and other forms was not so great’.11 The teaching of James, therefore, is presented as something that requires no specifically Christian presuppositions for its readers to find it an acceptable and indeed an admirable collection of Jewish moral advice. This, argues Allison, is why James is so Janus-faced, why it seems so Christian yet is so resolutely mute on peculiarly Christian themes, and why it contains so many passages that could be taken one way by a Christian and another by a non-Christian. James reflects a Christian group still battling for its place within the Jewish community, a group that wishes . . . to be . . . both Jew and Christian.

It is ‘someone’s collection of what he wants Jews to know about Christians’.12 In the rest of this essay I argue, against Allison, that there are significant overtly Christian features in James and that its addressees are exclusively messianic Jews, not a community including both Christian and non-Christian Jews.13

The Prescript Since Allison’s interpretation of the prescript to James is important to his case, I begin with an examination of the description of the addressees as ‘the twelve tribes in the dispersion’ (1.1). The prescript describes an epistolary situation: James, presumed to be resident in Jerusalem where all early Christian literature puts him, writes to ‘the twelve tribes’ of Israel living outside the land of Israel, in the Diaspora, which must be presumed to include both the eastern and the western areas of the Diaspora. This epistolary situation is plausible in the sense that it places the letter of James in a known tradition of Jewish letters written from authorities in Jerusalem to the Diaspora. There are both genuine and fictional examples of such letters.14 Recent commentators on James have differed as to whether they think James is genuine or fictional, authentic or pseudepigraphal, but there is general agreement (which Allison 11 12 13

14

Allison, James, 44. Allison, James, 48. For some other criticisms of Allison’s proposal, see James Carleton Paget’s review in Early Christianity 5 (2014): 393– 416 (here 405–7). See Bauckham, James, 13–21.

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shares) that James is, like such letters, presented in its prescript as an encyclical from James of Jerusalem to the exiles of Israel throughout the Diaspora. The address to the twelve tribes is easily intelligible in the sense that this was the traditional way of designating all Israel, but has also been regarded as problematic because of the widespread view that the ten northern tribes (or nine and a half, as they were sometimes counted), deported by the Assyrians in the eighth century BCE, were by the first century CE ‘lost’. They are supposed to have been unknown to Jews of this period, and so the author of the letter of James cannot have seriously expected his letter to reach any members of those tribes. So James’ reference to the twelve tribes must be purely conventional or ideal. Whether authentic or not, the letter was not expected actually to reach members of the ten tribes, though the reference to all twelve tribes may well evoke the expectation of the coming restoration of all twelve tribes, returning from the Diaspora. This expectation was certainly still alive in this period and appears in the sayings of Jesus (Mt. 19.28; Lk. 22.29–30), so that there is no problem in supposing that an early Christian author such as James would have shared it. However, the eschatological hope for the tribes should not distract us from the fact that the prescript of James, even if it evokes this hope, informs us primarily that the letter is addressed to all twelve tribes. I have argued at length elsewhere that the northern tribes were not yet, in the first century CE, regarded as ‘lost’.15 On the contrary, they were still living in the lands to which they were originally exiled, that is, northern Mesopotamia (Adiabene) and Media. There were well-known Jewish Diaspora communities in these areas, and it is easier to suppose that they consisted predominantly of descendants of the northern tribes than that Jews from the Babylonian Diaspora of the southern tribes coincidentally settled there after the exiles of the northern tribes had lost any trace of their Israelite identity. In rabbinic literature a letter attributed to Gamaliel the Elder, a contemporary of James, is an encyclical addressed to ‘our brothers, belonging to the exile of Babylonia and belonging to the exile of Media and belonging to the exile of Greece, and the rest of all the exiles of Israel’ (y. Sanh. 1.2 [18d]; cf. t. Sanh. 2.6; b. Sanh. 11a). Here, Babylonia represents the exiles of the southern tribes; 15

Richard Bauckham, ‘Tobit as a Parable for the Exiles of Northern Israel’, in Studies in the Book of Tobit: A Multidisciplinary Approach, ed. Mark Bredin, LSTS 55 (London: T&T Clark, 2006), 140– 64; reprinted in The Jewish World around the New Testament, WUNT 233 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 433–59.

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Media, the exiles of the northern tribes; and Greece, the western Diaspora. James’s more economical address to ‘the twelve tribes’ indicates the same sort of encyclical addressed to the whole Diaspora. If the address is authentic, we need only suppose that a few copies were sent out from Jerusalem to some specific communities, with the hope that the letter would thereby reach other Diaspora communities, circulating in uncontrollable ways as ancient literature did. Whether it actually reached Adiabene or Media is impossible to know and beside the point. Scholars have taken three main views as to who ‘the twelve tribes in the Diaspora’ actually are: (1) A view that used to be more common than it is now is that they stand for all Christian believers, Gentile as well as Jewish. The Christian church is being portrayed as the new Israel. Th is view can appeal to the rather similar address of 1 Peter ‘to the exiles of the dispersion in Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia and Bithynia’ (1.1). Though some have argued that 1 Peter is addressed to Jewish Christians in these areas,16 it is clear from the letter that the addressees are at least predominantly Gentiles.17 Among the New Testament writings, 1 Peter is unusual in the way it takes over Old Testament terminology for Israel and appropriates it for Gentile Christians. The language of exile and Diaspora in the prescript is part of a wider, figurative use of such language throughout the letter,18 which includes the symbolic designation of the place of writing as Babylon (5.13). James, on the other hand, has no such further use of the image of Diaspora beyond its prescript. Another notable difference is that 1 Peter’s appropriation of Israel language does not include ‘the twelve tribes’. Th is is understandable because this designation seems inherently unsuitable for application to Gentile or predominantly Gentile churches. There is, however, one instance of such an application of twelve tribe language in early Christian literature – in a rather enigmatic passage in the Shepherd of Hermas, to which I shall shortly return. That James is addressed to Gentile as well as Jewish Christians has recently been argued in a completely fresh way by Joel Marcus, in an article 16

17 18

See, most recently, Ben Witherington, III, Letters and Homilies for Hellenized Christians, vol. 2: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary on 1–2 Peter (Nottingham: Apollos, 2007), 22–37. Cf. 1.14, 18; 2.9–10; 4.3– 4. Cf. 1.17; 2.11–12; 5.13.

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responding to Dale Allison’s view.19 Marcus argues that the author actually considered Gentile Christians to be descendants of the ‘lost’ ten tribes. The idea is that descendants of these tribes were thought to have lost their identity in the midst of the Gentile nations but were being revealed, as it were, to be Israelites by their conversion to Christianity, through which the prophetic promises of the restoration and reunification of all the tribes were being fulfilled. However, none of the first- and second-century texts in which Marcus claims to trace this notion actually state it. It has to be inferred. Moreover, the theory is in my view vitiated by the assumption embodied in Marcus’s frequent use of the term ‘lost tribes’. (2) Dale Allison in his commentary takes the view that ‘the twelve tribes’ refers to both Christian Jews and non-Christian Jews. He takes the prescript to be fictional, arguing that it was not really written from James in Jerusalem to Jews throughout the world. But this fictional address represents the author’s intention that his letter be read in mixed communities of Christian and non-Christian Jews. The most obvious objection to this view is the reference in 2.1 to the readers’ ‘faith in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ’ (τὴν πίστιν τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ τῆς δόξης, literally ‘faith in our Lord Jesus Christ of glory’). Allison argues that, since the phrase is grammatically awkward and ambiguous, the text must be corrupt. The original text ‘faith in the Lord of glory’ has been interpolated in order to turn it into a reference to Jesus Christ. But there is no manuscript support for such a correction of the text, and grammatical awkwardness is not a sufficient ground for correcting the text. This is not the only instance of grammatical awkwardness in James. In any case, as we shall see, there are other reasons for supposing that all of James’s addressees are Christians. (3) The view that I share with other recent commentators such as Johnson,20 Hartin21 and McKnight22 is that James addresses Jewish Christian communities. The fact that the phrase ‘the twelve tribes in the dispersion’ does not make this limitation to Christian Jews explicit I  explained in my book on James in this way:

19 20 21 22

Joel Marcus, ‘ “The Twelve Tribes in the Diaspora” (James 1.1)’, NTS 60 (2014): 433– 47. Luke Timothy Johnson, The Letter of James, AB 37A (New York: Doubleday, 1995), 169–72. Patrick J. Hartin, James, SP 14 (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2003), 50–1. McKnight, James, 65–8.

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The reason the addressees are not distinguished as Christians is that early Jewish Christians thought of themselves, not as a specific sect distinguished from other Jews but as the nucleus of the messianic renewal of the people of Israel which was underway and would come to include all Israel. In a sense they were the twelve tribes, not in an exclusive sense so as to deny other Jews this title, but with a kind of representative inclusiveness. What James addresses in practice to those Jews who already confess the Messiah Jesus, he addresses in principle to all Israel.23

The Twelve Tribes in Hermas As I have noted, there is just one occurrence of the phrase ‘twelve tribes’ in early Christian literature where the term is used to designate the whole Christian church. This is Hermas, Similitude 9.17.1, of which Allison says merely that it is ‘idiosyncratic’.24 Indeed it is, but explaining the idiosyncrasy will be profitable. The text is part of the interpretation of one of Hermas’ ‘similitudes’, which are long symbolic or allegorical visions. For our present purposes we need to know only that in the vision he saw twelve mountains, each described as having various different features. So he asks the angel who is interpreting the vision for him: ‘Now then, sir, explain to me about the mountains. Why is their appearance different from one another, and so diverse?’ ‘Listen’, he said, ‘These twelve mountains are twelve tribes (δώδεκα φυλαί) that inhabit the whole world. To them, therefore, the Son of God was proclaimed by the apostles’.2 ‘But explain to me, sir, why the mountains are so diverse, and different from one another in appearance’. ‘Listen’, he said. ‘These twelve tribes that inhabit the whole world are twelve nations (δώδεκα ἔθνη), and they are diverse in thought and mind. So just as you observed that the mountains are diverse, so also there are diversities of mind and thought among the nations.’ (Herm. Sim. 9.17.1–2a)25

The mountains in fact turn out to represent different sorts of Christian believers, rather like the various soils in the interpretation of the parable of 23 24 25

Bauckham, James, 16 Allison, James, 131. Translation from Michael Holmes, ed., The Apostolic Fathers, 3rd edn (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2008), 655.

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the sower in the Gospels (which may have inspired Hermas at this point). For example, the second mountain represents hypocrites and teachers of evil for whom it is not too late to repent, whereas the fi rst mountain represents apostates and blasphemers for whom repentance is not available. Other mountains represent believers with different sorts of failings or different sorts of virtues. The mountains, then, are not actually nations in any intelligible sense at all, but, as he says here, ‘diversities of mind and thought’. So why does Hermas not say directly that the twelve mountains represent people of diverse mind and thought? Why does he first identify them as twelve tribes that inhabit the whole world, then as twelve nations? This seems a quite unnecessarily tortuous way to get to what the mountains really represent. I  suggest it is because Hermas is interpreting the prescript of the letter of James, the address to the twelve tribes in the Diaspora. By taking the tribes to be nations dispersed over the whole world he understands James to be addressing all believers everywhere. But since there are not actually twelve nations in the world and no one supposed there were, he has to take a further step and suppose these nations to be, not ethnic groups, but categories of Christian believer. That Hermas is here interpreting James coheres with other striking examples of contact between Hermas and James, which have often been understood to mean that Hermas knew James, though the resemblances have not been adequate to convince everyone of this.26 Allison remains undecided on the issue, after, I  think correctly, explaining some of the points of contact by common dependence on the (no longer extant) book of Eldad and Modad.27 I propose that what Hermas says about the twelve tribes should tip the balance in favour of his knowledge of James. He seems to be the first, to our knowledge, who understood James to be a truly catholic letter, addressed to all Christians throughout the world. But it is notable how difficult he finds it to read the prescript of James in this way. The twelve tribes have to be twelve 26 27

Allison, James, 20–3. Allison, James, 617–22; Richard Bauckham, ‘ “The Spirit of God in Us Loathes Envy”: James 4.5’, in The Holy Spirit and Christian Origins:  Essays in Honor of James D.  G. Dunn, ed. Graham N.  Stanton, Bruce W.  Longenecker and Stephen C.  Barton (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2004), 270–81; Richard Bauckham, ‘Eldad and Modad’, in Old Testament Pseudepigrapha: More Noncanonical Scriptures, vol. 1, ed. Richard Bauckham, James R.  Davila and Alexander Panayotov (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013), 249–50.

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nations who are not actually nations at all. Hermas illustrates how unnatural, as an address to all believers, James’s address to the twelve tribes really is. I said that Hermas seems to be the first, to our knowledge, who understood James to be a truly catholic letter, addressed to all Christians. But I wonder if the author of 1 Peter actually preceded him in this, when he addressed his letter to ‘to the exiles of the dispersion in Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia and Bithynia’? This could be seen as an adaptation of James’s prescript for a Gentile Christian audience, in which the problem posed by ‘the twelve tribes’ in James is avoided by substituting ‘exiles’, a term that could be applied figuratively to Jewish and Gentile Christians alike. Perhaps 1 Peter and Hermas represent a Roman church tradition of reading James as a letter to all Christians. This would explain both the resemblance, with variation, of 1 Peter’s address and that of James, and also the strange (‘idiosyncratic’ as Allison says) occurrence and interpretation of the phrase ‘twelve tribes’ in Hermas.

Two Passages that Presuppose Christian Addressees I shall now focus on two passages in James that, in my view, make it clear that the communities addressed by the letter are Christian groups, not mixed communities of Christian and non-Christian Jews. (1) James 2.1–7. Our interest is primarily in last two verses of this passage, but we need to recall the context constructed by vv. 1–5. James postulates a situation in which the people he addresses as ‘beloved brothers and sisters’ treat a rich person who enters their synagogue with honour, while disrespecting a poor person. This is reprehensible because it is contrary to God’s choice of the poor. We should notice that there are three groups of people distinguished: (1) those James addresses, (2) the rich and (3) the poor. James assumes that, as was generally the case in ancient society, most of the people in this community are neither rich nor poor. The ‘poor’ (πτωχοί) are the destitute, those with no reliable means of support, and the rich are the very small elite of powerful people who control society. James addresses the majority, the ordinary people, for whom both the rich and the poor are other people. This does not mean that there are not poor people in the community, but James is here concerned with how the community as a whole treats the

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poor. (Whether there are rich members of the community is debated, but need not detain us now.) The key point is that the readers James addresses in the second person plural are not the poor or, certainly, not only the poor. So 2.6b–7 does not refer to the oppression of the poor by the rich, but to the oppression by the rich of the whole community James addresses. We should not, therefore, be envisaging the typical ways in which rich people oppressed poor people, such as James does mention later in 5.4– 6, but rather the persecution of the community by wealthy and powerful people. According to v.  7, they ‘blaspheme (βλασφημοῦσιν) the excellent name that was invoked over you’ (NRSV). The verb βλασφημέω invariably refers to speech. It means ‘to speak in a disrespectful way that demeans, denigrates, maligns’ (BDAG). Allison takes it to mean that rich Jews are bringing God’s name into disrepute by their actions against the poor.28 For this sense he mistakenly appeals to the quotation of Isaiah 52.5 (LXX) in Romans 2.23–24, where Paul says: You that boast in the law, do you dishonour God by breaking the law? For, as it is written, ‘The name of God is blasphemed among the Gentiles because of you’.29

Paul means that when Jews break the law they bring God’s name into disrepute among the Gentiles. But it is not the Jews who blaspheme the name. They dishonour (ἀτιμάζεις) God by their behaviour, but it is the Gentiles who blaspheme his name; that is, they speak disparagingly of the God of Israel. In James the rich are not causing the name to be blasphemed by outsiders; they themselves are blaspheming it. Evidently they are using it in a disparaging way. James says that they ‘blaspheme the good name (τὸ καλὸν ὄνομα) that was invoked over you (τὸ ἐπικληθὲν ἐφ’ ὑμᾶς)’. This idiom (the name is ‘called over’ someone or something) is unique in the New Testament apart from the quotation of Amos 9.12 in (as it happens) James’s speech in Acts 15.17. (Some have seen this as evidence that both the speech and the letter are authentic, but I  would not attach such significance to the coincidence.) However, the 28

29

Allison, James, 400–1. In n. 216 Allison states that, in Mt. 9.3 = Mk 2.7 = Lk. 5.17, ‘scribes accuse Jesus of blaspheming because of his action’. In fact, it is what Jesus says that they call blasphemy. There are allusions to Isa. 52.5 also in 1 Tim. 6.1; 2 Pet. 2.2; 2 Clem. 13.4.

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idiom is not uncommon in the Hebrew Bible and in later Jewish literature, denoting ownership, especially God’s ownership of the ark, the Temple, the city of Jerusalem and, most often, the people of Israel.30 In all such cases the name is the Hebrew divine name, the Tetragrammaton, but it does not necessarily follow, as Allison maintains, that the ‘good name’ of James 2.7 is also the Tetragrammaton, rather than, as most commentators have supposed, the name Jesus.31 In early Christianity, seemingly from an early stage, there was a remarkable fluidity between these two names. An example that is somewhat parallel to this case is the expression ‘to call on the name of the Lord’. This common biblical expression evidently came into regular Christian usage (Acts 9.14, 21; 22.16; Rom. 10.13; 1 Cor. 1.2; 2 Tim. 2.22), perhaps especially because of its use in Joel 2.32 (quoted in Acts 2.21; Rom. 10.13). The ‘Lord’ (κύριος), representing the name YHWH, was taken in this Christian usage to be Jesus, as in many other Christian citations of Old Testament texts and phrases.32 Does the New Testament usage mean that Christians called on Jesus using the term ‘Lord’ or that they used the name ‘Jesus’? In some instances, at least, the latter is certainly the case (Acts 9.14, 21; 22.16). So it is quite possible that in James 2.7 ‘the good name that is invoked over you’ echoes the usage of the Hebrew Bible but refers to the name Jesus. Since commentators have also frequently understood the expression in James to refer to baptism, it is relevant that ‘to call on the name of the Lord’ was used of baptism (Acts 22.16; cf. 2.21; Rom. 10.13), though not exclusively (Acts 9.14, 21; 1 Cor. 1.2).33 It has been argued that the aorist ἐπικληθὲν favours a reference to baptism, and while this is not in itself a conclusive argument, it is notable that in the Septuagint the perfect tense is almost always used in this phrase.34 So does James mean that a Jewish community, made up of both Christian Jews and others, is being persecuted by powerful people who were maligning 30

31 32

33

34

With reference to Israel, Deut. 28.10; 2 Chron. 7.14; Isa. 43.7; 63.19; Jer. 14.9; Dan. 9.19; Bar. 2.15; 2 Macc. 8.15; Pss. Sol. 9.9; Bib. Ant. 28.4; 49.7; 4 Ezra 4.25; 10.22; 11Q14 1 II.15; Lev. Rab. 2.8; cf. 2 Bar. 21.21. Allison, James, 400–1. See Richard Bauckham, Jesus and the God of Israel: God Crucified and Other Studies on the New Testament’s Christology of Divine Identity (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008), 186–91, 219–21. In Hermas, Sim. 8.6.2– 4, the phrase ‘the name of the Lord that was invoked over them’ (τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ κυρίου τὸ ἐπικληθὲν ἐπ᾽ αὐτοῖς) is associated with ‘the seal’ that believers have received from the Lord. Th is is probably a reference to baptism, and the passage, which refers also to profaning and blaspheming the name of the Lord, is probably another case of dependence on James by Hermas. Deut. 28.10; 2 Chron. 7.14; Isa. 43.7; Jer. 14.9; Dan. 9.10; Bar. 2.15; 2 Macc. 8.15. The aorist occurs in Isa. 63.19, where the reference is to a situation in the past that came to an end and in Bar. 2.15. In Dan. 9.19, LXX has the aorist, but Theodotion has the perfect tense.

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the name of the God of Israel? While this is not impossible, our evidence does not suggest that such a situation was a common occurrence.35 More plausibly, James refers to the persecution of messianic Jews on account of their confession of Jesus as Messiah and Lord. In other words, James’s addressees are exclusively messianic Jews. (2) James 5.14. In this verse James refers to ‘elders of the assembly (ἐκκλησἰας)’, undoubtedly referring to the leaders of a local community. But is this a Christian community, for which the word ἐκκλησἰα is used quite widely in the New Testament writings, or a Jewish community that might contain both messianic and other Jews? Allison argues that ἐκκλησἰα ‘need not signify a Christian congregation or assembly, but could refer to or include a Jewish congregation or assembly’.36 Similarly, David Nienhuis asserts that the word ‘is in no way uniquely Christian, for it is used throughout the LXX to refer to the congregation of Yahweh’.37 But neither scholar is being sufficiently precise about the usage of ἐκκλησἰα. It is true that the word is used very frequently in the Septuagint to translate ‫( קהל‬73 times). But in the many cases where it refers to an assembly of Israelites or Jews, the overwhelming majority refers either to the whole people of Israel assembled in the wilderness after the exodus or to a large gathering of people from across the nation assembled in Jerusalem for festivals or other special occasions. This is also the meaning in later Second Temple Jewish literature.38 In this sense there can be only one ἐκκλησἰα of Israel. Of the use of this word to refer to an assembly of a local Jewish community, I know of only six or seven examples.39 One is in LXX Proverbs (5.14); the other five or six

35

36 37

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39

In my view, James is portraying a typical situation, that might be true of many communities to which the letter would come, rather than one specific community in an atypical situation. Allison, James, 758. David R. Nienhuis, Not By Paul Alone: The Formation of the Catholic Epistle Collection and the Christian Canon (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2007), 155. Pss. Sol. 10.6 (note the singular, by contrast with the plural συναγωγαἰ in 10.7); Bib. Ant. 11.8 (where Latin ecclesia no doubt translates Greek ἐκκλησἰα); Philo (23 times, all with reference to Israel at the exodus or in the wilderness); Josephus. Paul Trebilco, Self-designations and Group Identity in the New Testament (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 168, says that on one occasion only (Virt. 108) Philo uses ἐκκλησἰα to refer to a local congregation, but Trebilco is mistaken on this point. Philo’s reference there, as usually elsewhere, is to the assembly of Israel as envisaged in the Torah (Deut. 23). Josephus, Life 268, uses ἐκκλησἰα to refer to an ad hoc assembly of armed men from throughout Galilee. In LXX Pss. 25.12 (26.12); 67.27 (68.26), ἐκκλησιαί is used to render the plural of ‫מקהל‬. Though the precise meaning of the Hebrew is obscure, the plural probably indicates not several assemblies, but the single large assembly of Israel in the temple (cf. NRSV: ‘the great congregation’). The plural in the Greek version merely reproduces the plural in Hebrew and is not indicative of any wider usage in Greek.

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are in the Greek version of Ben Sira.40 The latter would seem, in the light of all the other evidence, to be the idiosyncratic usage of one translator (probably based on general Greek, not Jewish usage).41 It does not provide a sound basis on which to infer a more general Jewish usage. Moreover, in nearly all these cases ἐκκλησἰα refers to the people as actually gathered together in an assembly, which is the most natural meaning of the word. It is not used for the community as such.42 In the few cases where a local community is in view (Prov. 5.14; Sirach), the reference is clearly to the actual gathering of people. By contrast, the word ἐκκλησἰα was used in early Christianity from an early stage.43 In Christian usage it commonly referred to a local community of Christians and could refer to the community as such  – the people who gathered rather than necessarily as gathered. In both these respects the use in James 5.14 corresponds to Christian usage and would surely have sounded to non-Christian Jews a strange and unfamiliar way of referring to their own community. Indeed, the later we date James (Allison and Nienhuis both favour a late date), the more likely it would be that they would recognize in ἐκκλησἰα , as used here, a distinctively Christian usage, distinguished from their own use of συναγωγή for a local Jewish community. James also uses the word συναγωγή in 2.2: ‘if a person with gold rings and in fine clothes comes into your assembly (εἰς συναγωγὴν ὑμῶν)’. The NRSV is right to translate συναγωγὴν as ‘assembly’ here because the reference is to the gathering of people, not to the building, even if they do meet in a building. It is possible that James, addressing messianic Jews, means by ‘your assembly’ the assembly in which they and other Jews all gather, but, since he assumes his readers have the authority to tell people where to sit, it is more likely that a purely messianic Jewish congregation is in view. If so, James 2.2 is the only use of συναγωγή for a Christian assembly in the New Testament,44 but it is so used by Ignatius (Pol. 4.2) and Hermas (Mand. 11.9, 13, 14), as well as in some 40

41 42

43 44

Sir. 15.5; 21.17; 23.24; 34.11 (31.11); 38.33; 39.10 (?). In Sir. 33.19 (30.27) the reference is probably to the assembly of all Israel, which is also the case in 44.15; 50.15, 20. Job 30.28 seems to refer to a local community, but not a Jewish one (cf. T. Job 32.8, probably based on Job 30.28). Allison, James, 758n. 90, also refers to 3 Bar. 13.4, but this is undoubtedly Christian redaction. See Trebilco, Self-designations, 168, for the influence of general Greek usage on Josephus. Th is latter meaning may be emerging in Deut. 23.1–8 and passages dependent on it (Neh. 13.2; Lam. 1.10; Philo). Trebilco, Self-designations, chapter 5. But cf. ἐπισυναγωγή in Heb. 10.25.

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later Christian writers.45 So it is not correct that James’s usage (as Patrick Hartin claims) ‘[w]ithout doubt . . . indicates James’s closeness to the earliest stages of Christianity, when a full separation from its Jewish roots had not occurred’.46 In view of the usage in Ignatius and Hermas, as well as in James, it would seem likely that, although συναγωγή was not the common designation for a Christian assembly, it did have a continuous history of such use from the beginning of the Christian movement and through to the second century. That this usage was only occasional, by comparison with the much more frequent use of ἐκκλησἰα , is understandable because it was much less distinctively Christian. It is not quite true to say that James uses συναγωγή and ἐκκλησἰα interchangeably.47 He uses συναγωγή to refer to the actual gathering of people (which is also how Ignatius and Hermas use it), but ἐκκλησἰα for the community as such, not necessarily as gathered, which is an attested usage in other New Testament writers.

Jesus as Lord in James Further evidence of the explicitly Christian character of James can be found in the references to Jesus as Lord. It has often been said that James speaks of Jesus the Messiah only twice, in the prescript and in 2.1. Undoubtedly, the words ‘Jesus’ and ‘Christ (Messiah)’ appear only in those two cases, but it is worth noting that the two references are strategically placed, the fi rst at the beginning of the letter, the second at the transition from the introduction to the main body of the letter.48 Th is latter position may well explain the unusually fulsome expression ‘our Lord Jesus Messiah of glory’ or ‘our glorious Lord Jesus Messiah’, which, if it echoes the divine title ‘Lord of glory’,49 alludes to Jesus’ exercise of sovereign authority from the divine throne. Allison, as we have noted, postulates a scribal interpolation in this verse. Th is suggestion is not only speculative; it will also, as we shall 45 46 47 48 49

Allison, James, 385n. 87. Hartin, James, 118 Trebilco, Self-designations, 203. For the structure of James, see Bauckham, James, 61–73. 1 Enoch 22;14; 25.3; 27.3, 5; 40.3; 63.2; cf. 1 Cor. 2.8. ‘King of glory’ describes God in Ps. 24.7–10; 1QM 12.8; 19.1; 4Q427 7.1.13; 4Q510 1.1.

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see, prove unnecessary in the light of other references to Jesus elsewhere in James. I have already argued that the phrase ‘the good name that was invoked over you’ (2.7) refers to the name Jesus. We now need to consider the use of the title ‘Lord’ in cases additional to 1.1 and 2.1 (1.7; 3.9; 4.10, 15; 5.4, 7, 8, 10, 11 [twice], 14, 15), since several of these have been often understood to refer to Jesus. Allison’s case is not that they do not, but that they are ambiguous, open to interpretation either as referring to God or as referring to Jesus. He argues that if the author were not, as he thinks, deliberately avoiding explicit reference to Jesus, he would have used an unambiguous expression such as ‘the Lord Jesus Christ’ (as in 1.1), or ‘our Lord Jesus Christ’.50 So we need to ask about these texts not only whether the reference is to Jesus but also whether it is unusual or surprising that the author uses merely the title ‘the Lord’ rather than a fuller and more explicitly Christological form. The word κύριος occurs fourteen times in James. Seven of these are unambiguously or nearly unambiguously references to God, not Jesus (1.7; 3.9; 4.10; 5.4, 10, 11 [twice]). Two, as we have seen, at least if we accept the extant text of 2.1, refer explicitly to Jesus (1.1; 2.1). Four more, I shall argue, a Christian reader would almost inevitably understand as referring to Jesus (5.7–8, 14, 15). In James 5.7–8, the phrase ‘the coming of the Lord’ (ἡ παρουσία τοῦ κυρίου) is used twice. The word παρουσία was, of course, in quite common early Christian usage with reference to the future coming of Jesus, evidenced in Matthew, Paul, 2 Peter and 1 John. The evidence indicates a broad spread of usage across different branches of the early Christian traditions. Conversely, it was not used of the coming of God, though 2 Peter 3.12 does use it to refer to the coming of the day of God. It is true, as Allison points out, that the Old Testament speaks of the future coming of God (using verbs, not the noun parousia),51 but in early Christianity these texts were regularly applied to the coming of the Lord Jesus.52 The κύριος of the Greek texts, representing the Tetragrammaton, was understood as the Lord Jesus. An early Christian 50 51

52

Allison, James, 763. Allison, James, 698, cites four texts from the Old Testament Pseudepigrapha as evidence that pre-Christian Jews may have used the word παρουσία for the eschatological coming of God, but they do not constitute good evidence. Thus: Isa. 40.10 in Rev. 22.12; 1 Clem. 34.3; Barn. 21.3; Isa. 59.20–21 in Rom. 11.26–27; Isa. 66.15– 18 in 2 Thess. 1.7–8, 12; 2 Clem. 17.4–5; Zech. 14.5b in 1 Thess. 3.13; 2 Thess. 1.7; 4.14; Did. 16.7; Asc. Isa. 4.14; 1 Enoch 1.9 in Jude 14–15.

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would have no reason to think of the coming of God in these verses of James and every reason to think of the coming of the Lord Jesus. This passage about the parousia continues into v.  9, where we find the image of the judge standing at the doors or gates (ὁ κριτὴς πρὸ τῶν θυρῶν ἕστηκεν). There is no non-Christian Jewish parallel to this image, but it occurs in Mark 13.29, with reference to the coming of Jesus: ‘he is near, at the gates (ἐπὶ θύραις)’. For early Christian readers or hearers, there would be no ambiguity in this passage as to the identity of the Lord and the Judge. Two further occurrences of κύριος that early Christian readers would surely take to refer to Jesus are in 5.14–15. This passage reflects the same kind of Christology as Acts 3–4, where Peter heals the lame man in the name of Jesus (3.6:  ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ τοῦ Ναζωραίου; cf. 3.16; 4.10) and takes this as evidence that Jesus, risen from the dead, is alive and powerful (Acts 3.6, 16; 4.9–12). There too it is Jesus who is invoked and who heals the man. Conversely, Allison can cite no evidence of Jewish healing ‘in the name of the Lord (God)’. However, Allison is not alone in supposing that in 5.10–11, in a passage intervening between these two passages where I have argued that the κύριος is Jesus, James uses the word κύριος of God and indeed the phrase ‘in the name of the Lord’ with reference to God. I agree with this understanding of κύριος in vv. 10–11. But would it not be very confusing if James were to be referring to God as κύριος three times in these verses (10–11), but to Jesus as κύριος in the adjacent verses before and after (7–8, 14–15)? Would it not be especially confusing if the same phrase, ‘in the name of the Lord’, were to refer to God in v. 10 and to Jesus in v. 14? In response to this, I suggest, first, that we must take full account of the genre of James as an anthology of wisdom on a variety of subjects. It consists of discrete sections on various topics and is designed to be read as discrete sections, not as though there were some kind of continuity of topic or argument linking every section to the next.53 While vv. 10–11 of James 5 should be read in continuity with the preceding vv. 7–9 (the whole passage relates to the parousia), there is a sharp break between 5.7–11 and 5.12, which constitutes a brief independent section on the topic of oaths.54 Then 5.13–19 forms a 53 54

Bauckham, James, 61–9. Th is is also Allison’s view: James, 727, 46.

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discrete section on the topic of prayer, including the discussion of healing in the name of the Lord. We should not expect the author to have written these passages as though what is said in v.  10 should affect the interpretation of v. 14. Each belongs in the context of its own discrete section. Second, it is important to note that the phrase ‘in the name of the Lord’ is actually not exactly the same in the Greek of vv. 10 and 14. In v. 14 the phrase has the article before κυρίου, whereas in v. 10 it does not. This variation is not an isolated phenomenon in James, but belongs to a pattern of usage, as we can see if we consider all eight instances in James of a noun followed by the genitive κυρίου, with or without the article: θεοῦ καὶ κυρίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ δοῦλος (1.1) τὴν πίστιν τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ τῆς δόξης (2.1) τὰ ὦτα Κυρίου Σαβαὼθ (5.4, from Isa. 5.9 LXX) τῆς παρουσίας τοῦ κυρίου (5.7) ἡ παρουσία τοῦ κυρίου (5.8) ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι κυρίου (5.10) τὸ τέλος κυρίου (5.11) ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι τοῦ κυρίου (5.14)

According to the so-called canon of Apollonius, in phrases that combine two nouns in a genitival relationship, either both nouns should have the article or both nouns should be anarthrous. This rule is obeyed by James in all of these cases where, I have argued, the κυρίου is Jesus (1.1; 2.1; 5.7; 5.8; 5.14). But in the three cases where the κυρίου is God (5.4; 5.10; 5.11), the rule is broken. Here the first noun in each case is arthrous, but κυρίου lacks the article. In these instances James is following the practice of the Septuagint, where, when the word κύριος is used as a substitute for the divine name, κύριος is treated as a name, to which the canon of Apollonius does not apply.55 Thus, in 5.10, the phrase ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι κυρίου follows the practice of the Septuagint, where κυρίου substitutes for the Tetragrammaton, but in 5.14, where the name is that of the Lord Jesus, ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι τοῦ κυρίου is what one would otherwise expect. In one case, speaking of the biblical prophets, James echoes the phrase

55

See Carl Judson Davis, The Name and the Way of the Lord: Old Testament Themes, New Testament Christology, JSNTSup 129 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 92– 4.

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as it is in the Septuagint, but in the other, speaking of the Christian practice of healing in the name of Jesus, he echoes specifically Christian language. We have established that six of the fourteen occurrences of κύριος in James refer to Jesus (1.1; 2.1; 5.7, 8, 14, 15), while seven clearly refer to God (1.7; 3.9; 4.10; 5.4, 10, 11[twice]). This leaves just one case where it is genuinely difficult to discern whether God or Jesus is intended: ‘if the Lord wishes’ (Ἐὰν ὁ κύριος θελήσῃ, 4.15). Paul uses exactly this phrase in 1 Corinthians 4.9 and a similar one in 1 Corinthians 16.7. Since elsewhere Paul never uses κύριος for God, except in biblical quotations, it is highly probable that in these verses he refers to the Lord Jesus. But the phrase was in widespread use. Most other parallels, in New Testament and pagan usage, have θεός rather than κύριος,56 but the Greek version of Sirach 39.6 has, ‘If the great Lord is willing’ (ἐὰν ὁ κύριος ὁ μέγας θελήσῃ). In this one instance we cannot claim that James’s usage is unambiguous. Christians would have taken the κύριος of 5.7, 8, 14, 15, as well as of 1.1; 2.1, to be Jesus. But would these references have been sufficiently ambiguous for non-Christian Jews, members of a Jewish community that also included messianic Jews, to have taken the κύριος of 5.7, 8, 14, 15 to be God, not Jesus, as Allison argues? In the case of 5.7–8, it seems unlikely that they would not have recognized the highly characteristic language with which messianic Jews spoke of the imminent coming of Jesus in glory. In the case of 5.14–15, the word ἐκκλησἰα in v. 14 would already, for non-Christian Jewish readers or hearers, have established a specifically Christian context, as we have argued above. If James had been concerned to avoid overtly Christian language in this section, he would surely have avoided this word.

Conclusion The letter of James is an encyclical addressed to messianic Jewish communities wherever they may be in the Diaspora. It identifies them as unquestionably Jewish (members of ‘the twelve tribes’) belonging to communities distinguished by their faith in ‘our Lord Jesus the Messiah’. The specifically Christian features of the letter have sometimes been underestimated, most 56

References in Allison, James, 659n. 111.

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recently by Dale Allison. Not only are there allusions to the sayings of Jesus, but Jesus is also clearly identified as the exalted Lord, presently active in healing the sick, and expected as the coming judge. The communities are envisaged as having their own leadership and assemblies. The letter is silent as to their relationships with other Jews, which doubtless varied from place to place. Gentile Christians are also beyond the horizon of this document’s concern.

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‘Every Perfect Gift’ James, Paul and the Created Order Francis Watson

The ‘muted voices’ metaphor seems to imply two different though related things. First, it suggests that, as a matter of fact, some scriptural texts have been privileged at the expense of others. Some voices have been permitted to speak so loudly and clearly that they cannot be ignored; other voices have not succeeded in catching our attention in the same way. Second, ‘muted voices’ suggests that our inattention to certain scriptural texts is unjustified. We should learn to listen to them more carefully; we should expect to be instructed by them. So I will begin by considering the case of a great theologian who considered that, far from being unmuted and listened to, one particular ‘muted voice’ within the New Testament ought to be silenced altogether. This problematic text was to play a remarkably negative role in Martin Luther’s attempt to renew and reshape Christian identity. For Luther, to be a person of faith is, among other things, to reject the false construal of Christian identity he associates with the Epistle of James.

On Straw In his 1522 German translation of the New Testament, Luther concludes his Preface with a three-paragraph section entitled ‘Which are the true and best books of the New Testament’.1 The books that must be read, even if one never 1

‘Wilchs die rechten und Edlisten bucher des newen testaments sind’ (WA DB 7.10). Here and elsewhere in this chapter, translations are my own. An English translation of the New Testament

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reads anything else, are the Gospel and First Epistle of John, the Letters of Paul (Romans, Galatians and Ephesians are singled out) and the First Epistle of Peter. There is, says Luther, far more genuine gospel in these texts than in the so-called Gospels of Matthew, Mark or Luke, where Christ’s actions are presented to us as an example to imitate but where his proclamation of the salvation he embodies is less than evident. This is the context in which Luther makes his famous or infamous remark about the Epistle of James as ‘an epistle of straw’ whose content is alien to the gospel message.2 Why ‘straw’? The metaphor derives from 1 Corinthians 3.11–12, where Christian teachers are said to build on the apostolic foundation – which is Jesus Christ – with gold, silver or precious stones, or with wood, hay or stubble. Those at least are the building materials that Luther lists in his translation of this passage. Alluding to the same passage in his Preface to the Letter to the Hebrews, Luther makes a slight adjustment to his own wording. He is clear that this is not an apostolic text but builds on an apostolic foundation already in place, and he considers that the building work has been carried out with mixed success. As the author develops his learned argument about Christ and the Old Testament priesthood, he indeed builds with gold, silver and precious stones – but with a significant amount of wood, straw [Stro] or hay mixed in as well.3 There is, then, some straw in the midst of all the valuable material in the Letter to the Hebrews, and that gives it a somewhat marginal status at the edge of Luther’s version of the New Testament canon. Still more marginal is the Letter of James. Here, there is no gold, silver or precious stones. It is nothing but straw: eyn rechte stroern Epistel, an utterly strawlike epistle. Luther’s strong preference for 1 John and 1 Peter over James causes him to break up the collection of seven ‘catholic epistles’, promoting the Petrine and Johannine texts so that they follow the Pauline collection and precede

2

3

Preface is available in Word and Sacrament I, LW 35 (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1960), 357– 62, 395– 8. On Luther’s New Testament, see Eric W. Gritsch, ‘Luther as Bible Translator’, in The Cambridge Companion to Martin Luther, ed. Donald K. McKim (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 62–72. Th is text is said to be ‘a truly straw-like epistle . . . for it has nothing evangelical about it’ (WA DB 7.10). ‘And if, as [the author] acknowledges (chap. 6), he does not lay the foundation of faith, which is the work of the apostles, all the same he builds well upon it with gold, silver, and precious stones, as Paul says in 1 Corinthians 3. So we should not be concerned if indeed wood, straw, or hay are mixed in, but regard such fi ne teaching with due honour. Yet one should by no means compare it to the apostolic letters’ (WA DB 7.345).

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Hebrews, James, Jude and Revelation.4 In the main body of Luther’s text, the twenty-three books from Matthew to 2 Peter are enumerated in sequence, but the last four books are left without enumeration as a kind of New Testament apocrypha. Of those four, it is James that is singled out in the general Preface. Although it is still included in Luther’s German New Testament, it goes out into the world with a health warning attached. In the revised 1546 edition of this New Testament, the indiscreet paragraphs about the best and worst books are omitted. Yet both editions are also equipped with individual prefaces that introduce each book from Acts through to Revelation, one of the fullest of which is a forthright critique of the Epistle of James. The 1522 version of the Preface to James is basically intact in the 1546 edition, although Luther does delete a few strongly worded statements from its final paragraph. The first reason Luther gives for his negative assessment of the letter is that James contradicts Paul and the rest of holy scripture in teaching that righteousness is by works.5 James even cites the Genesis text from which Paul derives his doctrine of righteousness by faith (‘Abraham believed God, and it was reckoned to him as righteousness’), claiming that this passage from Genesis 15 anticipates Abraham’s offering of Isaac, many years and some chapters later in Genesis 22, and demonstrates that Abraham was justified by works: Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered Isaac his son on the altar? You see that faith was active along with his works, and by works is faith perfected; and the scripture was fulfi lled which says, ‘And Abraham believed God and it was reckoned to him as righteousness’. You see that a person is justified by works and not by faith alone. (Jas 2.21–24)

In Luther’s rendering of Romans 3.28, Paul taught precisely ‘das der Mensch gerecht werde, on [=ohne] des Gesetzes werck, alleine durch den Glauben’, that one is justified by faith apart from works of law, by faith alone. James 4

5

Luther’s unconventional order was followed by William Tyndale in his English New Testament (1526), where the attribution of Hebrews to Paul makes the relocation of the Petrine and Johannine letters still more anomalous. The conventional order Hebrews–James–1,2 Peter–1,2,3 John–Jude is present in Erasmus’s Greek/Latin New Testament edition (15161, 15192), Luther’s source. ‘First, it is absolutely contrary to St Paul and all the rest of scripture in ascribing justification [1546 righteousness] to works’ (WA DB 7.384). The sub-apostolic author of James ‘tears scripture apart and contradicts thereby Paul and the whole of scripture’ (WA DB 7.386).

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contradicts this, teaching ‘das der Mensch durch die werck gerecht wird, nicht durch den glauben alleine’, that one is righteous by works, not by faith alone. The phraseology of James 2.14–26 shows that the author has the Paul of Romans 3–4 in his sights and that his intention is to refute him. A further reason why Luther rejects James is that it fails to mention the suffering and resurrection of Christ. Reference is made to Christ only in passing (Jas 1.1; 2.1), and the only faith that is referred to is a generic faith in God that is not specifically Christian. The author fails to fulfil the apostolic commission given by Christ himself, ‘You will bear witness to me’ (Jn 15.27). He is again out of step with Paul, who decided to know nothing apart from Jesus Christ and him crucified (1 Cor. 2.2). The one and only test for genuinely apostolic and canonical writings is whether or not they promote Christ (ob sie Christum treiben oder nicht). The issue of authorship matters not at all. If a text did not teach Christ, it would not be apostolic even if its author were Peter or Paul. If a text did proclaim Christ, it would be apostolic even if its author were Judas or Annas, Pilate or Herod.6 However, the actual author of the Epistle of James was a much less glamorous figure than any of these. He was, says Luther, ‘a good pious man who collected some utterances from followers of the apostles and committed them to paper’ but who lacked the intelligence and understanding to grasp that gospel and law are not the same.7 Luther’s New Testament bears witness to the gospel of Jesus Christ, but from his own perspective it is not identical with the gospel. If its readers are not guided to the best books and warned against the serious theological errors that others also contain, they may well go astray – siding with James against Paul, or reading Paul as though he were James. For other prominent reformers, Luther’s radicalism was too much to take. Five or six years after the reissue of Luther’s New Testament in 1546, John Calvin composed an Argumentum or Preface to his commentary on the Epistle of James that takes issue with Luther’s Preface at point after point, though without naming its author.8 According to Calvin, the apparent distortion of the doctrine 6 7 8

WA DB 7.384. WA DB 7.386. John Calvin, Commentarius in Iacobi Apostoli Epistulam, in CR 83, Ioannis Calvini Opera quae supersunt omnia, vol. 55, ed. G. Baum, E. Cunitz, E. Reuss (Brunswick: C. A. Schwetke, 1896), 384. English: Calvin’s New Testament Commentaries, vol. III, ed. D. W. and T. F. Torrance (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1989), 259. For bibliographical details about the fi rst French and Latin editions (1550 and 1551 respectively), see T. H. L. Parker, Calvin’s New Testament Commentaries (Edinburgh: T&T Clark), 19932, 211–12.

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of justification is, precisely, apparent; James was not really criticizing Paul. If James has less to say about the grace of Christ than we might expect, that need not be a problem. There is no reason why biblical writers should all go over exactly the same ground, again and again; there is scope for diversity, as is evident from the contrasting writings attributed to David and to Solomon, or to the synoptic evangelists and to John. ‘I am’, says Calvin, content to receive this epistle, because it contains nothing unworthy of an apostle of Christ. It is full of the most varied instruction, whose usefulness in all areas of the Christian life is abundantly clear. There are here important statements on patience, on calling on God, on the excellence and enjoyment of the heavenly teaching, on humility, on holy discipline, on restraint in speech, on promoting peace, on resisting desires, on contempt for the present life.9

Underlying Calvin’s positive assessment of James is a quite different perspective to Luther’s on the relationship of gospel to scripture. For Calvin, this relationship is unproblematic: scripture is simply the gospel in all its fullness. For Luther, the relationship is dialectical, tension-ridden: even the evangelists Matthew, Mark and Luke are not to be regarded as adequate proclaimers of the gospel. The gospel is the oral announcement of good news; fundamentally, it is not a written text at all. Scripture bears witness to the gospel, but it also contains the gospel’s negative counterpart, the law, from which the gospel frees us. Law is also present in the New Testament, just as gospel is also present in the Old. More than all other New Testament texts, the Letter of James demonstrates the need to come to scripture not in an attitude of passive receptivity, but armed with a critical hermeneutic alert to the distinction between law and gospel. How might the sixteenth-century discussion help to shape our own assessment of the Letter of James, in itself or in relation to Paul? I suggest we proceed as follows. First, we should agree with Calvin that this text is not a letter of straw. Whether or not its construction features gold, silver and precious stones, it has been built from durable materials and should not be regarded as uniquely problematic and consigned to the margins of the canon. Like other canonical 9

CR 83, 384.

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texts, it has the potential to make its own distinctive and positive contribution to the construction of Christian identity. Second, we should learn from Luther that the scriptural texts stand in dialectical relation both to one another and to Christian truth. In asserting a Christian truth-claim, it is not sufficient merely to repeat what an individual text says or even to appeal to a consensus of scripture as a whole. The individual canonical text is relativized by its relation to other canonical texts, and scriptural diversity makes consensus elusive. Truth may be as likely to arise from the dissonance between texts as from their harmony. Third, it is true that, as Luther claims and Calvin concedes, the Letter of James makes little reference to Christ as embodying God’s saving action in and for the world – in sharp contrast to Paul or John. If scriptural texts relativize each other, however, this must be a two-way process. If Paul suggests critical reservations about James, James may suggest critical reservations about Paul. In the Letter of James, the Christian reader is addressed as a creature embedded in the created order. This side of the eschaton, creation is the human being’s horizon and natural habitat, providing the space and time within which the way of life portrayed in the text is free to unfold. Reading the text along these lines will bring to light the lack of any such creational perspective in Paul.

World and Image James communicates his sense of human life as rooted in the natural order by way of the analogies he draws.10 Individually, some of these analogies reflect sharp observation of the human relation to the natural world; others may be relatively commonplace. Yet the cumulative effect of these analogies is to leave in the reader’s mind a set of vivid images of the natural world from which morals have been drawn and lessons learnt. 10

In referring to the author as ‘James’, I  assume that this is a late pseudonymous work claiming authorship by James the brother of the Lord; so David R. Nienhuis, Not by Paul Alone: The Formation of the Catholic Epistle Canon and the Christian Canon (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2007), 99–161, who emphasizes especially the lack of early attestation.

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In James 1.5–6a, readers are encouraged to pray for wisdom and to do so in faith and without doubting11 – and there follows a characterization of the doubter as ‘like a wave of the sea, driven and tossed by the wind’, and so as ‘unstable in all his ways’ (1.8). Is the doubters’ instability a problem for themselves alone, or do they pose a threat to the community, as wind and waves threaten the safety of a ship? Mortal danger to the community is certainly in view in a parallel passage in the Letter of Jude, where the author’s opponents are luridly characterized as ‘wild waves of the sea, foaming with their own shame’ (Jude 13). In the background of both passages is perhaps the unformed and chaotic world of Genesis 1.2, where the wind, breath or spirit of God stirs up the waters of the primeval ocean. The comparison of the doubter to a wave is developed no further, for the author likes to juxtapose images from quite different spheres within the created world. Taking his cue from an Isaiah citation in 1 Peter, James turns his attention from waves of the sea to flowers of the field.12 As formatted below, overlaps between 1 Peter and James are italicized while additional imagery supplied by James is underlined: You have been born again not of perishable seed but of imperishable, through the living and enduring word of God. For ‘all flesh is as grass, and all its glory like the flower of grass. The grass withers and the flower falls, but the word of the Lord endures for ever’. (1 Pet. 1.23–24) [L]et the rich person [boast] in his humiliation, because like the flower of grass he will pass away. For the sun rises with its heat and withers the grass and its flower falls, and the beauty of its appearance perishes. So will the rich person fade in his ways. (Jas 1.10–11)

The Petrine author uses the Isaiah passage to contrast the transience of human life with the gospel as the source of immortality. As the author explains, the word of the Lord that endures forever is ‘the message that was proclaimed to you’ (1 Pet. 1.25). James gives the imagery of transience a more explicitly political edge by directing it against the rich, and in doing 11

12

In James 1.6 διακρίνομαι means ‘doubt’ rather than ‘dispute’ (cf. Acts 11.2; Jude 9)  or ‘make distinctions’ (Jas 2.4), as the contrast with ‘faith’ indicates (cf. Mk.11.23  =  Mt. 21.21). On this see Dale C.  Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle of James, ICC (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 178–82, 393– 4. Links between James and 1 Peter are noted by David R. Nienhuis and Robert W. Wall, Reading the Epistles of James, Peter, John and Jude as Scripture: The Shaping and Shape of a Canonical Collection (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013), 250–2.

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so he develops it further. In what may be a faint echo of the Parable of the Sower, it is the heat of the sun that causes the grass to wither and the flower to fall (cf. Mt. 13.6). The flower is relevant not only for its short life span but also for its beauty:  like the flower, the rich are beautiful. The author will shortly present an imagined scene in which a wealthy individual arrives at church with gold rings on his fingers and dazzling clothing, and is received with a deference that contrasts with the contempt shown to a poor man in dirty clothing (Jas 2.1– 4).13 The author here summons up his considerable satirical powers against a value-system in which the rich are beautiful and the poor ugly. The wave driven by the wind is an image of instability, while the fading flower represents impermanence:  here the author juxtaposes similes drawn from the spheres of creation that God separated on the third day, the sea and the dry land (cf. Gen. 1.9–13). A similar juxtaposition is found later in the letter, where the author illustrates his complaint that ‘from the same mouth come blessing and cursing’ (Jas 3.10). The phenomena of the natural world show this behaviour to be thoroughly unnatural. The human mouth pours out speech as a spring pours out water, but there the resemblance ends: Does a spring from the same opening pour out both fresh and bitter water? My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree produce olives, or a vine figs? Neither can salt water produce fresh. (Jas 3.11–12)

Here too intertextual echoes are audible. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus asks whether one can gather grapes from thorns or figs from thistles (Mt. 7.16; cf. Lk. 6.44).14 In James’s version of these rhetorical questions, we are again brought back to the third day of creation, when the sea was separated from the land and when fruit-trees were created bearing fruit not at random or interchangeably, but ‘according to their kind’ (κατὰ γένος, Gen. 1.11–12). That is why fig trees do not produce olives or vines figs. Beyond the dry land,

13

14

In the reference to ἡ εὐπρέπεια τοῦ προσώπου (1.11), ‘James is anticipating the visual impact made by the rich person in 2:1– 4’ (Luke Timothy Johnson, The Letter of James, AB 37A (New York: Doubleday, 1995), 186; italics original). An additional Stoic background is noted by M. Dibelius, A Commentary on the Epistle of James, Hermeneia (Eng. trans. Philadelphia:  Fortress, 1976), 204–5. Thus, according to Seneca, ‘non nascitur itaque ex malo bonum non magis quam ficus ex olea’ (Ep. 87.25, trans. Good does not spring from evil any more than figs from an olive tree).

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where fruit-bearing trees are watered from freshwater springs, lies the sea, an inhospitable environment where winds and waves threaten and whose salt water cannot yield fresh. Although it is utterly unnatural for the same mouth to bless God and curse its neighbour, the fact that this does actually happen represents an inexplicable flaw in the human constitution. The general human inability to control the outpourings of the tongue contrasts painfully with the extraordinary human ingenuity that has tamed the forces of nature – winds, waves, wild horses – to make them serve our own ends. If we place bridles into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we guide their whole bodies. Look at the ships too: though they are so great and are driven by fierce winds, they are guided by a small rudder wherever the will of the pilot directs. (Jas 3.3–4)15

One would expect that a creature that achieved mastery over a horse’s mouth would also know how to control its own. Yet this is not the case. The human tongue is like another wild natural force. ‘Behold, how small a fi re can set alight so great a forest!’ (Jas 3.5b). The tongue is the fi re that ignites the τροχὸς τῆς γενέσεως, the ‘wheel of birth’, that produces one generation after another and so represents the whole course of human history, shaped from beginning to end by the destructive power of human speech (Jas 3.6).16 The strange mismatch between mastery of the environment and inability to control the tongue brings us back again to Genesis 1, where humans, created in the image of God, are called to exercise dominion over fish, birds, land animals and reptiles (vv. 26–27). As James notes, this dominion has come to pass. It is not only wild horses that have successfully been tamed: ‘Every kind of beast and bird, reptile and sea-creature, can be tamed and has been tamed by humans’ (Jas 3.7). Where humans have been spectacularly unsuccessful is

15

16

According to J. M. Mayor and others, ‘it is plain that εἰ δέ [at the start of v. 3] is not suited to the context’ (The Epistle of St. James: The Greek Text with Introduction, Notes, and Comments (London: Macmillan, 1910), 109). But εἰ δέ makes good sense (rather than [ε]ἰδε γάρ ‫ )*ﬡ‬if the aim is to contrast human success in controlling horses (and ships) with failure to control the tongue. I take τροχὸς τῆς γενέσεως to refer not to ‘becoming’ in general but to ‘birth’ (Mt. 1.18, Lk. 1.14; cf. Mt. 1.1, Jas 1.23). For the sense, cf. Eccl. 1.4, γενεὰ πορεύεται καὶ γενεὰ ἔρχεται, together with κυκλοῖ κυκλῶν in v. 6. See Dibelius, James, 196–8; Allison, James, 539.

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in speaking of and to fellow humans in a way that befits their status as created in the image and likeness of God: No-one is able to tame the tongue, a disorderly evil full of deadly poison. With it we bless the Lord and Father and with it we curse human beings made in the likeness of God. From the same tongue come blessing and cursing. (Jas 3.8–10a)

‘Cursing’ here represents all forms of speech that disrupt the relationship with the neighbour. These include the class-based distinctions that come to expression – as James notes – when a wealthy person arriving at church is guided to the best seat (‘Do please sit over here!’) whereas the impoverished brother or sister is treated with contempt (‘You’d better stand!’, or even, ‘Sit under my footrest!’ [Jas 2.3]). Or there is the pious expression of good wishes for a better future that leaves the deprived person just as needy as before: ‘Go in peace, be warmed, be filled!’ (Jas 2.16). Such modes of speech transgress what James calls the ‘royal law’, the commandment to love one’s neighbour as oneself (Jas 2.8–9). They fail to reflect the honour due to all human persons alike by virtue of their creation in the divine image and likeness. In the Letter of James, the natural world is a source of similes and contrasts that illustrate negative aspects of human conduct. The wave is an image of unstable faith, the flower of the transience of human glory, the forest fire of the destructive power of speech. Other images are used to highlight contrasts: the taming of horses and other animals in contrast to the failure to tame the tongue, the great ship guided through the waves by the rudder, the flow of fresh water from a spring, the trees that produce figs, olives or grapes. This is a world divided between sea and dry land, as on the third day of creation, and it is presided over by a creature uniquely created in God’s likeness, to whom dominion is given over other creatures – as on the sixth day. The human creature has been placed in this created environment by God. God cannot be held responsible for human evil – we are explicitly told that God tempts no one and that evil is a human invention (Jas 1.13–15) – but whatever is good about the world is the gift of God, including the human capacity to harness the threatening powers of nature and make the world into a home. In a classic statement about the divine giver, the author writes: ‘Every good act of giving [δόσις] and every perfect gift [δώρημα] is from above’ (Jas 1.17). Or, paraphrased so as to bring out the distinction between δόσις and δώρημα, the act of giving and its result: ‘Everything good in its giving and perfect in

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its givenness is from above’.17 Elsewhere in the letter, it is specifically wisdom that is said to come from above  – the true peaceable, reasonable, merciful wisdom as opposed to the false, self-aggrandizing wisdom of the world (cf. Jas 3.13–18; ἄνωθεν, vv. 15, 17). Putting the two passages together, we might say that the wisdom that comes from above is the perspective that views the world as itself given from above, a habitat that evokes thankfulness rather than competition and conflict. The giver from whom this givenness proceeds is identified as ‘the Father of lights’ (Jas 1.17), the one who on the fourth day of creation made or ‘fathered’ two great lights to rule the day and the night but also to mark out the months, seasons and years (Gen. 1.14–19). The heavenly lights – sun, moon and stars – not only provide illumination, but they also shape the human experience of time. With the Father of lights, we are told, ‘there is no variation or shadow of change’ (Jas 1.17),18 but the lights themselves are constantly in motion like the shadows they cast, and their motion actually creates the time it takes. The author does not reflect further on these temporal rhythms, but he does know and criticize a view of time as opportunity rather than gift: Come now, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we shall go to such-and-such a town and spend a year there and do business and make a profit’, although you know nothing about tomorrow or what your life will be. You are just a mist that appears for a time and then vanishes! Instead, you should say, ‘If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that’. At present, you are boasting in your arrogance. (Jas 4.13–16)

Time as opportunity must be subordinated to time as gift: a gift of limited duration but a gift nevertheless, marked out by the rhythm of the heavenly lights. The world as given to humans is organized temporally as well as spatially. James has a fondness for striking juxtapositions. The storm-tossed wave is followed by the fading flower (1.6–11); the horse and its bridle is paired with 17

18

For δόσις as the act of giving, cf. Phil. 4.15:  οὐδεμία μοι ἐκκλησία ἐκοινώνησεν εἰς λόγον δόσεως καὶ λήμψεως εἰ μὴ ὑμεῖς μόνοι. For δώρημα as gift, cf. Rom. 5.16:  καὶ οὐχ ὡς δι’ ἑνὸς ἁμαρτήσαντος τὸ δώρημα. To fi nd a distinction here is not to deny that ‘[t]he point of using both [terms] is the rhetorical force of repetition with variation’ (Johnson, James, 195). ‘Is from above, coming down’ is preferable to ‘is coming down from above’, as suggested by Dibelius, James, 100. For the textual variants see Johnson, James, 196–7. As Johnson notes, ‘the basic meaning remains clear . . . The text opposes the steadfastness of God to the changeableness of creation, exemplified by the heavenly bodies’ (197).

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the ship and its rudder (3.3–5a); the tongue is both raging fire and deadly poison (3.5b–8). The God who is said to have ‘fathered’ the heavenly lights is also said to have ‘birthed’ us, making us ‘a kind of firstfruits among his creatures’ (1.18). Should that be ‘among her creatures?’ The possessive pronoun (αὐτοῦ) is masculine, but the verb (ἀπεκύησεν) speaks of giving birth rather than begetting.19 It was used in that sense a few verses earlier, where it was said that ‘sin when fully formed gave birth to death’ (1.15). Here, the birth takes place ‘through the word of truth’ (1.18), and probably refers to the rebirth that 1 Peter ascribes to the ‘imperishable seed’ that is ‘the living and abiding word of God’, the gospel message (1 Pet. 1.23–25). Yet James immediately abandons the birth metaphor and shifts into the agricultural and cultic realms. Here the birth results not in newborn babies in need of pure spiritual milk (as in 1 Pet. 2.2), but in ‘a kind of firstfruits among his creatures’, ἀπαρχήν τινα τῶν αὐτοῦ κτισμάτων (Jas 1.18). What does that mean? In what sense are the reborn the firstfruits of all creation? In James the term ἀπαρχή lacks the eschatological orientation it can have in Paul.20 The ἀπαρχή is simply an offering of agricultural produce to God, a symbolic consecration of the entire harvest. At Mount Sinai the Israelites are warned not to delay offering ‘the firstfruits of your threshing-floor and wine-press’ (ἀπαρχὰς ἅλωνος καί ληνοῦ σου [Ex. 22.28]). In the Letter of James, the offering of ‘the firstfruits of his creatures’ consecrates the whole of creation. In human life as reconstituted by the word of truth, God the creator has brought into being a creature whose self-offering to God represents and consecrates the created world as a whole. Every good gift is from above, but gifts must be acknowledged as such by their beneficiaries if gift-giving is to be perfected. In an unidentifiable citation that James attributes to scripture, it is said that God ‘yearns jealously over the spirit he has caused to dwell in us’ (Jas 4.5).21 Where the human spirit is oriented towards God and not towards

19

20

21

Cf. Allison, James, 279: ‘As the verb means “give birth to”, the subject is usually female; but that is not the case here’. Yet the use of this verb may imply that the subject is not straightforwardly male either. Cf. 1 Cor. 15.20, where Christ is ἀπαρχὴ τῶν κεκοιμημένων (also v. 23); Rom. 8.23, αὐτοὶ τὴν ἀπαρχὴν τοῦ πνεύματος ἔχοντες ἡμεῖς; Rom. 11.16, εἰ δὲ ἡ ἀπαρχὴ ἁγὶα καὶ τὸ φύραμα. For interpretative options here, see Peter H.  Davids, The Epistle of James, NIGTC (Exeter: Paternoster, 1982), 162– 4. A reference to divine jealousy is appropriate in this context given the preceding accusation of adultery (Jas 4.4).

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the world, the world itself is recognized as the gift of the creator and thereby consecrated.

Dissonant Voices? Underlying the Letter of James is a view of human life as embedded in the created order. This is evident in the profusion of natural imagery, in the varied allusions to Genesis 1, and especially in comprehensive statements about God as giver and human beings as created in God’s likeness and as the firstfruits of God’s creatures. In all this there is, as Luther noted, little reference to Christ.22 In contrast, Paul’s letters are full of references to the grace of God as embodied in Christ, and it is here that Luther finds the criterion by which he finds James wanting. It is inconceivable to Luther that James might know something that Paul does not. But does Paul share James’s view of human life as embedded in creation? If he does not, might that be a deficiency or imbalance, with a possibly negative effect on later theologies that like to appeal to Paul? We turn to Paul’s use of natural imagery. In Romans 11.16–24 Paul speaks of a cultivated olive tree whose unfruitful branches have been cut out; their place has been taken by branches cut from a wild olive-tree so that they can enjoy the nourishment provided by the roots. In the long run there is also the possibility that the originally unfruitful branches may be grafted back into their original tree. Here the logic of Paul’s argument requires some unconventional farming practices at the level of the image.23 In Romans 9.20–21 there is the image of the potter who takes two lumps of clay from the same batch and makes one into a thing of beauty and the other into an object for menial use. In 1 Corinthians 3.2 reference is made to very young children who are not yet ready to be weaned from the breast, and a little later in the same chapter Paul casts himself and other Christian teachers in the role of gardeners who must both plant and water (vv. 5–8) and builders required to 22

23

As Allison notes, ‘James is theocentric, not christocentric . . . James fails to ground a single proposition in the person and work of Jesus’ ( James, 89–90). On the relation between Paul’s metaphor and ancient olive cultivation, see Philip Esler, Conflict and Identity in Romans:  The Social Setting of Paul’s Letter (Minneapolis:  Fortress, 2003), 298–305.

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build with expensive fire-proof materials (vv. 9–15). These and other occupations involve hard physical work, but they also have their rewards: Who plants a vineyard without eating any of its fruit? Who tends a flock without getting some of the milk? . . . For our sake it is written that ‘the ploughman should plough in hope and the thresher thresh in hope of sharing the crop’. (1 Cor. 9.7, 10)24

Indeed, Paul even appears to extend this principle of recompense to nonhuman labourers, citing the Law’s requirement that the ox should not be muzzled as it treads out the grain (1 Cor. 9.9). Yet, Paul hastens to add, God is not interested in animal welfare; the Law’s provision really applies to the material support of Christian missionaries (v. 10). Moving on to the topic of eschatology, the natural order confirms both the reality and the possibility of resurrection in the germination of the seed buried in the ground and in the abundant variety of earthly and heavenly bodies – humans, animals, birds and fish; sun, moon and stars (1 Cor. 15.37–41). In these fragments of a Pauline perspective on the natural world, the emphasis is on farming practices  – the care of olive trees, vines, crops or sheep; planting, sowing, watering, feeding. Among other specialized uses of natural resources, mention is made of the labour of the potter and of the builder. Paul can also celebrate the diversity of the created world as a whole. His natural imagery has a narrower range than James’s, and it is more thinly spread; James seems to gravitate towards the use of imagery as a matter of course, whereas Paul employs it on a more occasional basis. But where the two of them differ most profoundly is in the overarching theological context in which the natural imagery is set. For James as for Paul, God is a God whose nature is to give. Prayer may confidently be addressed to ‘the God who gives generously and ungrudgingly to all’ (Jas 1.5).25 This God is the source of giving and givenness, δόσις and δώρημα (Jas 1.17), and the gift consists both in the created spatio-temporal world itself and in the wisdom to perceive it as gift. For Paul, the gift consists

24 25

Harvest imagery also occurs in 2 Cor. 9.9–10; Gal. 6.7–8. James here speaks ‘as unreservedly as only Paul had ever done before of the “giving God”, from whom as from the Father of lights he [James] sees everything good and perfect coming down (v. 17)’. Karl Barth, Erklärung des Jakobusbriefes [1922–23] (Karl Barth Gesamtausgabe II.46, Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 2009), 262.

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exclusively in Jesus Christ. He is the χάρισμα and the δώρημα (Rom. 5.15, 16): ‘the grace of God’ is equivalent to ‘the gift [δωρεά] in grace of the one man Jesus Christ’ (Rom. 5.15). This grace or gift is characterized above all by its abundance (ἐπερίσσευσεν, Rom. 5.15; περισσεία, 5.17; ὐπερεπερίσσευσεν, 5.20). Jesus Christ is gift because he embodies the saving righteousness and life that is so desperately needed by those subject to sin and death. The human recipient of this grace is characterized not as a creature, but as a sinner. Thus Adam in Romans 5 is not the creature uniquely made in the image and likeness of God (Gen. 1), formed from the dust of the earth yet animated by the divine breath (Gen. 2). Rather, he is the one who transgressed the divine commandment and brought death into the world (Gen. 3), and he is no less identified with his transgression than Christ is with his gift. In consequence of the catastrophe narrated in Genesis 3, giving and givenness are no longer associated with the created order but are concentrated exclusively in the figure of Christ. There is superabundance of divine giving in him because there is no such giving anywhere else.26 According to James, it is outrageous that we should use the same bodily organ – the tongue – to bless God and to curse the fellow human, our neighbour, who is made in the likeness of God (Jas 3.9). This ought not to happen (3.10), for the divine likeness signifies the dignity of the human person and the honour due to it by virtue of its divine origin and calling. In 1 Corinthians 11.7 Paul assigns the image of God to the male only, laying the emphasis on ‘in the image of God he made him’ rather than ‘male and female he made them’ (Gen. 1.27). More characteristically, he identifies the image of God with Christ. Blinded by Satan, unbelievers fail to see ‘the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God’ (2 Cor. 4.4). The image of God has to do with soteriology and eschatology rather than creation per se: God’s ultimate purpose is that we should be ‘conformed to the image of his Son, so that he might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters’ (Rom. 8.29).27 James sees the human person as uniquely qualified to relate to God as the all-generous giver through prayer and thanksgiving. Thus, humans can be

26

27

On Paul’s christocentric view of God as giver, see John M. G. Barclay, Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015). On Paul’s appropriation of motifs from the Genesis creation narratives, see Jonathan Worthington, Creation in Paul and Philo:  The Beginning and Before, WUNT II 317 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011).

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described as ‘a kind of firstfruits of [God’s] creatures’ (Jas 1.18), an offering to God through which the whole creation is made holy. For Paul too there is a solidarity between human beings and creation, but it is yet to be unveiled: For the anticipation of the creation (ἡ γὰρ ἀποκαραδοκία τῆς κτίσεως) awaits the revelation of the sons of God . . . in the hope that the creation itself will be freed from its enslavement to corruption for the freedom of the glory of the children of God. (Rom. 8.19–21)28

Here the children of God are not themselves the firstfruits (ἀπαρχή), as in James, but they nevertheless possess the firstfruits: ‘We ourselves, having the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we await our adoption, the redemption of our bodies’ (Rom. 8.23). Through the indwelling Spirit, wordless prayer articulates a longing for redemption that extends beyond the human sphere to creation as a whole. James too knows of a longing for redemption, exhorting his readers to await patiently the Lord’s coming just as the farmer waits patiently for the early and late rain that will ripen the harvest (Jas 5.7). Yet this waiting lacks the intensity and focus of the Pauline hope. We ourselves are already the firstfruits, creation’s offering to God. As with the motifs of the gift and the image of God, James’s use of the firstfruits metaphor diverges from the Pauline vision of a christologically shaped eschaton. For James, the created order is the environment in which human beings presently find themselves, a gift entailing a responsibility. In this author’s use of imagery drawn from human interaction with the natural world, an underlying worldview comes to expression and a corresponding construal of human identity. Paul uses such imagery less frequently, and his occasional appeals to ordinary human life and experience are in some tension with his conviction that ‘the form of this world is passing away’ (1 Cor. 7.31).

Hermeneutical Postscript How can two such divergent world views coexist within the same collection of canonical writings? The question may seem obvious and unavoidable, even 28

I here follow the persuasive suggestion of John Duncan that τῇ γὰρ ματαιότητι . . . ὑποτάξαντα in Romans 8.20 is to be regarded as a parenthesis (‘The Hope of Creation: The Significance of ἐφ’ ἑλπίδι (Rom. 8.20c) in Context’, NTS 61 (2015): 411–27).

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if it is perhaps unanswerable. Yet this is the wrong question. It presupposes an idealized, ahistorical view of canonical scripture as a space in which different voices are united in a single polyphonic structure, each voice making its own distinctive contribution to the harmony of the whole. If that is what one expects scripture to be like, it seems impossible for the polyphony to accommodate unresolved dissonance. And so some way has to be found to compel Paul and James to sing from the same hymn-sheet. Alternatively, James’s voice may be muted or silenced altogether. Appealing though the musical metaphor may seem, it overlooks the fact that texts are canonical by virtue of roles assigned to them within a community. Without such a community, there is no canonicity. Within the community, the scriptural texts function as both source and resource. They constantly recall the community to its origin, an indispensable role when a communal identity, ethos and praxis are so closely bound up with that origin. But the canonical texts are resource as well as source. They are there to be used, and the manner of that use will be determined by its different contexts – which include preaching, teaching, singing, meditation, pastoral care, doctrinal or ethical debate, apologetics, scholarship and political engagement. On a pragmatic account of the role of scripture within the church, dissonance within the canonical writings becomes a potentially positive rather than negative factor. Different contexts may call for different canonical voices. If Paul says one thing and James another, that is simply to say that James has his own unique contribution to the New Testament witness. If in the past his voice has often been muted, and even in an extreme case regarded as a threat to authentic Christian identity, it is perhaps time to rehabilitate his distinctive vision of Christian existence in the world and under God.

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‘Handsome is . . .’ Profiling the Children of God in 1 John* Wendy E. S. North

In Charles Dickens’s novel, David Copperfield, the eponymous hero recalls from his childhood a certain Miss Betsey who, although a ‘formidable personage’, had in the past married a younger man ‘who was very handsome, except in the sense of the homely adage, “Handsome is that handsome does” – for he was strongly suspected of having beaten Miss Betsey’.1 Dickens, who was neither the only nor the earliest author to quote this proverbial saying,2 illustrates well its cautionary meaning that one should judge good character by deeds, not appearances. The author of 1 John may not have known the adage, but he certainly appreciated its meaning. Writing in the aftermath of a schism within the community, he is at pains to impress upon his readers the distinction between the authentic faith of ‘the children of God’ (3.1) and its counterfeit alternative. The ‘handsome is’ principle, although articulated less memorably, is an important criterion here (1.6; 2.4– 6, 9–11, 15–17, 29; 3.7, 10, 14; 4.8, 20). As he sums it up in 3.18, ‘Let us love genuinely, not in word or speech but in action.’3

* 1 2

3

In memory of Maarten J. J. Menken, a fi ne scholar and a generous friend. Charles Dickens, David Copperfield (London: Wordsworth Editions Limited, 2000), 6. See, e.g., John Ray, A Collection of English Proverbs (Cambridge:  John Hayes, printer to the University, 1670). I have paraphrased ‘in truth’ with ‘genuinely’, so J. L. Houlden, A Commentary on the Johannine Epistles, rev. edn, Black’s New Testament Commentaries (London: A & C Black, 1994), 85, 101.

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The aim of this study is to explore how the author of 1 John understood the identity of ‘the children of God’.4 In pursuit of this, we shall investigate the Epistle’s theme of love, noting in particular the author’s emphasis on the command to love one another and his awareness of its traditional link with the command to love God.5 Having completed the Johannine evidence by briefly comparing relevant passages in the Gospel and in 2 and 3 John, we shall then broaden the investigation to include the Great Commandment in the Synoptic tradition, with special reference to its rootedness in Jewish Scripture and its exegesis. Finally, having retraced our steps, we shall return to 1 John in a renewed attempt to understand the logic of his argument on love ‘in action’. Understanding the logic of 1 John’s argument, however, is rarely a straightforward matter, and here a few pointers will be helpful before we begin. The first is the fact that he can often assume that his readers are familiar with his subject matter and sees no reason to be precise. Thus, for example, in his argument on ‘testing the spirits’ in 4.1–3, it is noticeable that he goes into detail about the ‘right’ confession, which is that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh (v. 2). By contrast, the ‘wrong’ version is simply described as not confessing Jesus (v. 3), a lack of precision that is plainly intended to dismiss the false alternative without a hearing, and thus a clear indicator that he can choose to leave a great deal unsaid.6 Second, there is the endemic lack of clarity in the author’s formulation of the argument itself. Thus, as we shall discover, it is often difficult to determine whether ‘he’ in a sentence refers to Jesus or God, or whether the phrase ‘the love of God’ refers to God’s love or to love for God. Finally, there is the fact that 1 John is much given to digressing from his theme, often prompted by an additional thought that sends him off in a new direction, which makes it difficult to grasp the structure of his argument and, for that matter, of the Epistle as a whole.7 4

5

6

7

It will be assumed throughout that the author of the Epistle was not the evangelist, but a later member of the Johannine ‘school’, whose message does not relate directly to the Gospel; see further, Wendy E.  S. North, The Lazarus Story within the Johannine Tradition, JSNTSup 212 (Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 22–38; also Judith M.  Lieu, I, II, & III John: A Commentary, NTL (Louisville and London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 8 and passim. For reasons that will become apparent, I shall not plunge into the opacities of the Epistle’s ‘test’ of confession. On the difficulties involved in 4.2–3, including in v. 3 the terse dismissal of the failure to confess, see especially Lieu, I, II, & III John, 165–70. See further, Ruth B.  Edwards, The Johannine Epistles, NTG (Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 36–7. For the proposal that the overall structure of the Epistle is concentric, see

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A further difficulty that arises in view of this opacity is that we are unlikely to recover the circumstances that occasioned the letter with any precision. In fact, our only glimpse into the situation is afforded by the statement ‘They went out from us’ at the beginning of 2.19, and even then this is quickly obscured by the author’s mastery of the circular argument whereby he concludes that ‘they’ did not belong in the first place. Even so, however, this shutting off from ‘them’ is significant, for it strongly suggests that his real concern is less to counter the position of those who have left than it is to reassure those who have remained that theirs is a genuine faith.8 With this in mind, we shall join the author as he begins his message to his readers with a return to fundamental certainties.

The Commandment ‘From the Beginning’ 1 John’s first four verses immediately proclaim that the Epistle is a thoroughly Johannine piece. However, while his vocabulary here may be reminiscent of the Gospel Prologue, it soon becomes clear that he deploys it to a different end. His principal aim is not to expound Christology as such, but to establish his authority in the eyes of his readers to speak to the matter in hand. Accordingly, his references in 1.1 to ‘what was from the beginning’ (ὅ ἦν ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς) and to ‘the word of life’ (ὁ λόγος τῆς ζωῆς) function to direct them to the Johannine Christian tradition at its inception. Meanwhile, his self-identification with the language of original eyewitness and with the ‘we’ who proclaim to the ‘you’ (vv. 1–3) serves to declare his status as an authentic mediator of its life-giving message.9 Having established his credentials, however, 1 John adopts a more persuasive tone. From 1.6 onwards, the ‘we’ becomes inclusive of author and readers alike as he proceeds by reaffirming

8

9

Maarten J. J. Menken, ‘The Composition of John’s First Letter’, in Studies in John’s Gospel and Epistles: Collected Essays, CBET 77 (Leuven, Paris and Bristol, CT: Peeters, 2015), 209–18. It is therefore unsafe to assume that the confessions he dismisses or the conduct he deplores directly reflect the views of the secessionists; see further, Dietmar Neufeld, Reconceiving Texts as Speech Acts:  An Analysis of 1 John, Biblical Interpretation Series 7 (Leiden, New  York and Köln: Brill, 1994) and especially Lieu, I, II, & III John, 10–12. See also, more positively, Menken, ‘The Opponents in the Johannine Epistles:  Fact or Fiction?’, in Studies in John’s Gospel and Epistles, 219–36. In agreement with Lieu, I, II, & III John, 40–1.

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those truths known and accepted by all as fundamental to their faith and by drawing out their meaning to meet present needs. The theme of love in the Epistle is its claim to fame. The affirmation ‘God is love’ (4.8, 16)  is unique to the letter and is often seen as the core of the Christian message.10 It is no less central to the message of the Epistle writer himself. As Leslie Houlden points out, it welds into unity the doctrinal and ethical aspects of 1 John’s argument, since his moral concern is rooted in his belief about God and is inseparable from it.11 It is also important to recognize that fundamental to this belief is 1 John’s perception that God’s character is disclosed in what he did. Thus, he sees God’s act in sending his only Son into the world as the expression of his love ‘among us’ (4.9). In this lies the theological mainspring of 1 John’s insistence that conduct signifies character, for it follows that those who respond to God’s loving act towards them will be seen to demonstrate this in their behaviour towards others. More specifically, putting into practice the command to love one another is the living proof of the genuine believer’s experience of God. With this in mind, we shall now focus our attention on those passages where 1 John deals with this commandment. The love command is arguably in his sights as early as 2.3, where he first refers to keeping ‘his’ commandments, although whether ‘he’ is Jesus or God remains unclear, especially since both have just been mentioned (2.1–2).12 In vv. 4–5, he articulates for the second time the ‘handsome is’ principle that claim must be matched by conduct (cf. 1.6–7), but this time he relates it to keeping the commandments. As he did earlier, he states the negative example first (2.4; cf. 1.6). In the positive example that follows (2.5) he modifies his previous reference to keeping ‘commandments’ in favour of keeping his ‘word’ (λόγος), which is the term he will use of the love command in v. 7. In vv. 5– 6, he makes two points that are significant for his understanding of this commandment: first, he places the obligation to keep this ‘word’ in the context of ‘the love of God’ (ἡ ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ; v. 5);13 and second, he appeals to 10

11 12 13

See William Loader, The Johannine Epistles, Epworth Commentaries (London: Epworth Press, 1992) xvii, xix; Edwards, Johannine Epistles, 82, 7. Houlden, Johannine Epistles, 113. On this lack of clarity in 2.3– 6, see Lieu, I, II, & III John, 68–9. Whether this means love for God or love of G od is unclear, although Lieu eventually opts for the latter (I, II, & III John, 71); see further the full analysis in Raymond E. Brown, The Epistles of John, AB 30 (London:  Geoff rey Chapman, 1983), 254–7. I  shall follow Brown in using the non-committal ‘love of God’ which, as he puts it, ‘has the dubious advantage of ruling out nothing’ (257).

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Jesus’ earthly life (καθὼς ἐκεῖνος περιεπάτησεν) as the model for the believer (v. 6). In 2.7, 1 John comes to the love command itself. Appropriately, and to mark the occasion in their minds, he addresses his readers for the first time as ‘Beloved’ (Ἀγαπητοί ; also 3.2, 21; 4.1, 7, 11). The commandment, he insists, is not ‘new’ (καινός) but ‘old’ (παλαιός) in the sense that they have had it ‘from the beginning’ (ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς), and it is ‘the word’ (ὁ λόγος) that they have heard. Two points about this commandment immediately emerge from this verse. The first is the author’s assumption that his readers know its content – so much so, in fact, that he refers to it without specifying what it is. The second point is his concern here to stress its antiquity and therefore its proven reliability and dependability. His use of ‘from the beginning’ and ‘the word’ are deliberate reminders of his opening references to the original Johannine Christian tradition, which his readers have already received (1.1). Perhaps also, in the case of the commandment itself, there is a secondary reference to its scriptural ‘beginning’ in Leviticus 19.18, which would not be lost on his Jewish Christian readers and which probably lies behind his own easy transition to love or hatred of one’s ‘brother’ in 2.9–11 (cf. Lev. 19.17).14 At 2.8, in what can look like second thoughts,15 he insists the commandment is indeed ‘new’, but the point here is to draw out its meaning for the present. Accordingly, we find that the ‘newness’ is eschatological; the commandment is realized (‘true’) in Jesus (‘him’) as it is in them because it identifies them with the true light that is already shining while the darkness passes away.16 At this last mention, he immediately circles back to the topic of light and darkness begun at 1.5. He then spends the next three verses distinguishing those in the light from those in the darkness with reference to the love command (2.9–11). It is not until he mentions brotherly love in v. 10 that we get a hint of the wording of the commandment itself. At the beginning of chapter  3, 1 John returns to the theme of love and embarks on an extended, albeit digressive, discussion in which the love command figures prominently (3.11, 23; 4.7, 11, 12, 20, 21; cf. 5.1–2). In 3.1, building 14

15 16

So Lieu, I, II, & III John, 76; see further, Brown (Epistles of John, 272) on the change from ‘neighbour’ to ‘brother’ in the rendition of Lev. 19.18 at Qumran. Brown actually translates here, ‘On second thought’ (Epistles of John, 247). See Brown, Epistles of John, 286; Lieu, I, II, & III John, 78–9; Loader, Johannine Epistles, 19; C. H. Dodd, The Johannine Epistles, Moffatt New Testament Commentary (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1946), 34–5.

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on his previous comment that those who ‘do righteousness’ are ‘born of him’ (2.29), he declares that those who are called ‘children of God’ (τέκνα θεοῦ) are so constituted by the Father’s unmerited love (3.1). In vv. 2–3, his argument again develops along eschatological lines, this time looking to the parousia (cf. 2.28) when ‘he’ appears, and when those who place their hopes in Jesus (ἐκεῖνος; 3.3) will be like him and shall see him. In such a scenario, there is no place for compromise, which perhaps explains the absolute categories the author now uses as he points to conduct as proof of character. Thus, he claims, those who commit sin belong to the devil, the archetypal sinner, while those who are born of God do not sin and, indeed, for that very reason they cannot sin (vv. 8–9). He then concludes (v. 10) that the children of God and the children of the devil are identified by their behaviour; the latter do not ‘do righteousness’ (cf. 2.29), nor, he adds, do they practise brotherly love. Prompted by this final point, 1 John returns to the love command and to reiterate the points of his earlier argument (2.3–11). This time, however, he will be specific. In 3.11, he identifies the commandment which they have heard ‘from the beginning’ (2.7; cf. 1.1) as the obligation to love one another (ἵνα ἀγαπῶμεν ἀλλήλους). In 3.12, he states the negative example first, this time with the specific instance of Cain from Genesis 4. An important point here is that his description of Cain, which is his sole explicit reference to Scripture, contributes to our understanding of 1 John in two significant respects: first, in confirming the formative influence of Scripture on his thought, as his argument otherwise implies; and second, in pointing to his familiarity with contemporary Jewish exegesis of Scripture, in this case of the Genesis text.17 In 3.13–15, 1 John’s positive example, in which he distinguishes his readers from the Cain stereotype, relates once again to the love command (cf. 2.5, 7). Finally, as before, he appeals to Jesus’ conduct as the model for the believer (cf. 2.6), which he does with specific reference to his death as the supreme expression of love (cf. ἐκεῖνος; 3.16). Note again the careful placing of his argument in the context of ‘the love of God’ (v. 17; cf. 2.5).

17

As successfully argued in Judith M.  Lieu, ‘What Was from the Beginning:  Scripture and Tradition in the Johannine Epistles’, NTS 39 (1993): 467–72. This is taken up by Tom Thatcher in an analysis of the impact of the Cain episode on Johannine attitudes to opponents; see ‘Cain the Jew the Antichrist: Collective Memory and the Johannine Ethic of Loving and Hating’, in Rethinking the Ethics of John: ‘Implicit Ethics’ in the Johannine Writings, ed. Jan G. van der Watt and Ruben Zimmermann, WUNT 291 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 350–73.

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Our final 1 John passage is 4.19–21, which comes towards the close of his extended discussion of the theme of love. By this point, the love command has again come to the fore (4.7, 11, 12), this time explicitly attributed to Jesus (3.23). In the present passage he draws together aspects of his earlier argument. In 4.19, he reaffirms his readers’ status as those in receipt of God’s unmerited love (cf. 3.1; also 4.10, 11, 16) and, in v. 20, we find the now familiar ‘handsome is’ principle where, again, the love of God is the context: claims to love God whom one cannot see (cf. v.  12)  ring hollow without love for one’s brother whom one can see. Finally, at 4.21, he spells out the connection between the two that he has previously implied (2.5; 3.17):  the ‘commandment’ they have ‘from him’ is that whoever loves God should love his brother also (ἵνα ὁ ἀγαπῶν τὸν θεὸν ἀγαπᾷ καὶ τὸν ἀδελφὸν αὐτοῦ). While the identity of ‘he’ in this verse remains obscure, there can be little doubt that 1 John – self-styled transmitter of the Johannine Christian tradition – has recalled the Great Commandment, in which, according to the Synoptics, Jesus brought together the call to love God in Deuteronomy 6.4–5 (the Shema) and the call to love one’s neighbour in Leviticus 19.18 (Mk 12.29–31 and parallels).18

Johannine Parallels: The Gospel and 2 and 3 John Nothing identifies this author more readily with his Johannine colleagues than his exposition of the theme of love. In the Gospel, the injunction to love God is focused on Jesus as God’s agent and representative. Thus, it is through loving Jesus who is ‘the way’ to God (14.6), and through keeping his commands that are God’s ‘word’ (14.24), that the disciples will experience the Father’s love (cf. 14.15, 21, 23; 17.26). Indeed, it is precisely in this representative capacity that Jesus can accuse those who reject him of failing to love the one ‘who alone is God’ (5.44, cf. v. 42; 8.41–42; cf. 5.39; Deut. 6.4–5).19 John also records that Jesus commanded his disciples to love one another on two occasions in the final discourses:  first, described as a ‘new’ commandment 18

19

See Lieu, I, II, & III John, 199. As was the case with 2.7 (above), a secondary reference to the Scriptures themselves is also likely; see further Edwards, Johannine Epistles, 89. Note also how the somewhat clumsy application of this in 5.1–3 again affi rms the centrality of the love of God. See further Menken, ‘Jesus and the Scriptures According to John 5:37– 47’, in Studies in John’s Gospel and Epistles, 266–7, for a host of allusions to Deuteronomy in this passage, including two to Deut. 6.4–5 (5.42, 44).

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(13.34; cf. 1 Jn 2.8); and, second, with direct reference to his readiness to lay down his life for them, by which he demonstrates his love of God (14.31), as the model for their love of one other (15.12–14; cf. 1 Jn 3.11, 16). The second and third Johannine Epistles are much slighter than the first and difficult to fathom for that reason. Nevertheless, in different ways both confirm that the love command defines the true believer. In 2 John 4– 6, the ‘Elder’ (v. 1) refers to the commandment in terms recognizable from 1 John. Although in attributing the commandment to ‘the Father’ in v. 4, he is clearer than 1 John’s ambiguous ‘he’, his insistence that the commandment is not ‘new’ but ‘from the beginning’ (ἀπʼ ἀρχῆς; v. 5), and also his references to the confession and to ‘antichrist’ in v. 7 contribute nothing fresh (cf. 1 Jn 2.7, 18, 22; 4.2).20 Unlike 1 John, however, he uses the term ‘teaching’ or ‘doctrine’ (διδαχή; 2 Jn 9–10), which suggests that the command has come to epitomize Johannine faith.21 In 3 John, while the references to ‘love’ (vv. 1, 2, 6), true witness (v. 12; cf. Jn 21.24) and ‘friends’ (v. 15; cf. Jn 15.14–15) confirm that this is a Johannine piece, its author (the ‘Elder’; v. 1) does not quote the love command. Even so, his commendation of Gaius’s love in serving ‘the brothers’ suggests it (vv. 5– 6) as indeed does his disapproval in v.  9 of the ‘self-serving’ Diotrephes (ὁ φιλοπρωτεύων), held up as an example not to be imitated (v. 11).22

The Synoptic Tradition If the Johannine authors could variously reproduce and apply the tradition they knew, the degree of variation in the Synoptic record of the Great Commandment is also cause for comment. According to Mark, Jesus responds to a request from one of the scribes by quoting both texts in full (12.28–31). In the case of the Shema (Deut. 6.4–5), Mark has added ‘with all your mind’ (ἐξ ὅλης τῆς διανοίας σου) to Deuteronomy’s three faculties (‘heart’, ‘soul’, ‘might’), as a clarification of ‘with all your heart’ (ἐξ ὅλης τῆς καρδίας σου;

20

21 22

Lieu suggests here a conscious echo of 1 John’s more detailed argument (I, II, & III John, 251), also argued in The Second and Third Epistles of John: History and Background, Studies of the New Testament and Its World (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1986), 76. Brown (Epistles of John, 687) compares 1 Tim. 1.3; 6.3– 4 here. See Edwards, Johannine Epistles, 25.

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cf. Deut. 6.5; Mk 12.30).23 Jesus then adds the Leviticus text on love of neighbour (Lev. 19.18) before binding the two together in the concluding comment, ‘There is no other commandment greater than these’ (Mk 12.31). This double citation is not surprising and probably not new; the texts are a natural pair and the technique of linking Scriptures with common wording was a wellknown exegetical procedure.24 The overall point here, however, is to establish the principle that ‘the love of God is empty unless it issues in love of neighbour’25 – as the author of 1 John was well aware. In Matthew, the question comes from a lawyer and is designed to test Jesus (22.35). In this case, the Deuteronomy quotation is drastically shortened, leaving out both the first verse and also the third faculty (‘might’) from the second verse (v. 37). The Matthean point of the episode, however, lies in the concluding comment (v. 40), which is that ‘all the law and the prophets’ depend (κρέμαται) on these two commandments, that is, they are to be interpreted as ‘concrete expressions of the love demand – descendants, as it were – of the two love commandments’.26 By far the least formal reference is by Luke, who turns the conversation around so that the double commandment is actually given by the lawyer, to Jesus’ approving comment (10.25–28). Here there is no attempt to distinguish the two commandments as separate quotations, although Luke’s Deuteronomy reference does include Mark’s addition of ‘mind’ (v. 27). The reason for the change of speaker soon becomes apparent, however, when the conversation leads to the lawyer’s question, ‘And who is my neighbour?’ (v. 29), and the scene is set for Jesus to respond with the parable of the Good Samaritan (10.30–35). Interpreted in its immediate context, the parable clearly identifies the Samaritan as the one who proves to be neighbour to the man left destitute by thieves.27 Nevertheless, this is not ultimately Luke’s point. As he illustrates in the lawyer’s response and Jesus’ instruction, the parable is

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Note that in later references to the Shema in the LXX, καρδία is replaced by διάνοια (4 Kgdms 23.25; Josh. 22.5). Mark has also preferred ‘strength’ (ἰσχύς) to ‘might’ (LXX δύναμις); see Morna D.  Hooker, The Gospel According to St Mark, Black’s New Testament Commentaries (London: A & C Black, 1991), 287. See Birger Gerhardsson, The Shema in the New Testament: Deut 6:4–5 in Significant Passages (Lund: Novapress, 1996), 275– 6. So Hooker, Gospel According to St Mark, 288. So Gerhardsson, Shema in the New Testament, 277–8. It is possible that the injunction to love one’s enemy is in the background here (Luke 6.37).

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designed to answer the question initially posed by the lawyer, ‘What shall I do to inherit eternal life?’ (10.25; cf. vv. 28, 37).

Interpreting the Shema in Judaism Another form of interpretation of the Shema is exemplified in the Mishnah, published later than the New Testament (c. 200 CE) but containing earlier tradition. In this midrashic exegesis, the three faculties of ‘heart’, ‘soul’ and ‘might’ in Deut. 6.5 are subjected to individual interpretation (m. Ber. 9.5). Thus, having first quoted the text in full, the Mishnah interprets these three complementary ways of loving God as follows: ‘With all thy heart (lebab) – with both thine impulses, thy good impulse and thine evil impulse; and with all thy soul – even if he take away thy soul; and with all thy might – with all thy wealth’.28 First, the Mishnah stresses that one’s heart must be whole, that is, not divided, or hypocritical, before God;29 second, with reference to ‘soul’ or life, the Mishnah stresses the duty of martyrdom should God require it; and third, the Mishnah interprets ‘might’ as wealth, or worldly possessions.30 Of the three interpretations offered by the Mishnah, it is noticeable that the third, namely that ‘might’ means wealth, is simply stated as if taken as read. This is further assumed in the Talmuds, which enshrine and enlarge on the Mishnah text. The Jerusalem Talmud adds the story of the martyrdom of Rabbi Akiba (135 CE), in which he recites the Shema and smiles at the prospect of finally loving God with his life, having thus far loved God with all his heart and with all his wealth ( j. Ber. 9.7). Similarly, the Babylonian Talmud adds the teaching of Rabbi Eliezer on the Shema, in which he reasons that the words ‘with all thy might’ are intended for the man who values his money more than his life (b. Ber. 61b). Further evidence in the Targums and elsewhere underscores the point that early Jewish interpretation in general understood the reference to one’s ‘might’ in the Shema to mean one’s possessions.31 28

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Translation in Herbert Danby, The Mishnah: Translated from the Hebrew with Introduction and Brief Explanatory Notes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1933), 10. See Danby, Mishnah, 10n. 3 on the Hebrew spelling. See further the explanations in Gerhardsson, Shema in the New Testament, 279. Tg. Onq., Tg. Neof., Tg. Ps.-J. Deut. 6.5; Sifre Deut. 6.5; see further Maarten J.  J. Menken, ‘Deuteronomy in Matthew’s Gospel’, in Deuteronomy in the New Testament: The New Testament and the Scriptures of Israel, ed. Steve Moyise and Maarten J. J. Menken, LNTS 358 (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 60n. 5.

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As we have noted, even in the Mishnah, arguably the earliest of the examples cited above, the connection between ‘might’ in the Shema and ‘wealth’ seems to be assumed. In fact, there are at least two other instances of this in earlier Jewish literature. The first is from Qumran. According to Robert Hayward, the beginning of ‘The Community Rule’ (1QS) constitutes ‘a systematic exposition’ of the Shema. Th is includes references to seeking God ‘with a whole heart and a whole soul’, as well as the demand that those who join the Community bring to it ‘all their knowledge and their strength and their possessions’.32 Here, as Hayward observes, the command to love God with all one’s ‘strength’, or ‘might’, ‘is taken to mean with one’s “possessions” ’.33 The second example is from Sirach 7.27–31, a passage where all three aspects in the Shema are discussed, and where the instruction to love God ‘with all your might’ is also understood to refer to possessions (7.30–31).34

Synoptic Interpretations of the Love Command The range and variety of these examples strongly suggest that the interpretation of the Shema preserved in the Mishnah and in other early Jewish texts had been familiar in Judaism for some time. According to the Jewish Christian tradition, Jesus coupled the Shema with the Leviticus text on love of neighbour, so that the three complementary ways of loving God – heart, soul, might – in the former should translate into practice in fulfilling the latter. As we have noted, the Synoptic authors present this tradition in different ways, with Mark’s version as the most complete (Mk 12.29–31). Seen against this Jewish background, Matthew’s omission of ‘might’ from the Shema text in 22.37 is likely to be deliberate, possibly because he knew of its association with wealth, which was inconsistent with the framework he had in mind in

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C. T. R. Hayward, ‘ “The Lord Is One”: Reflections on the Theme of Unity in John’s Gospel from a Jewish Perspective’, in Early Jewish and Christian Monotheism, ed. Loren T. Stuckenbruck and Wendy E. S. North, JSNTSup 263 (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 145n. 23. Hayward, ‘The Lord Is One’, 146; see further Catherine M.  Murphy, Wealth in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the Qumran Community, Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 40 (Leiden, Boston and Köln: Brill, 2002), 120. So Nathan MacDonald, Deuteronomy and the Meaning of ‘Monotheism’ (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2003). MacDonald also cites a possible third example from Prov. 3.1–12 (99n. 13).

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v. 40.35 This brings us to the version in Luke, and so to the parable of the Good Samaritan in 10.30–35, which is the goal of the conversation between Jesus and the lawyer begun at v. 25. As noted earlier, the key to the meaning of the parable is not who the neighbour is, but what he does (v. 37). And what he does is use his goods and his money to the benefit of the destitute man (vv. 34–35). In other words, Luke’s Good Samaritan demonstrates his love of God by loving his neighbour with all his ‘might’.

The Love Command in Johannine Perspective Finally, we return to the Johannine writings and their own perspective on the double love command. In all four documents in our New Testament canon, it is clear that Johannine Christian identity is bound up with adherence to Jesus’ commandment to love one another, although this can be differently construed according to circumstance. In 2 John, for example, loving conduct is seen as loyalty to a fundamental truth or ‘doctrine’ that defines the believer over against the deceiver and the antichrist (vv. 7–10), while in 3 John the Elder’s charge against Diotrephes suggests that loving ‘the brothers’ is a benchmark against which unbecoming behaviour can be judged (vv. 5– 6, 9–10). I  shall now briefly consider the love command in the Gospel before returning to 1 John. In the Gospel, the evidence of explicit quotations and of multiple allusions in the text easily persuade us that its author was thoroughly conversant with the Scriptures and their interpretation. In particular, the author’s emphasis on ‘one-ness’ together with the priority of the love command suggest a Jewish understanding of the Shema.36 As noted earlier, the command to love God has been focused on Jesus as God’s representative on earth. Equally, however, Jesus’ earthly conduct, and specifically his readiness to lay down his life, is seen as the model for the disciples’ love for one another. Thus, Jesus, who loved God with all his ‘soul’ or life, and who demonstrated this in his supreme act of love for his disciples, becomes the example the disciples themselves are

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Cf. Mt. 19.19–22, where love of neighbour is associated with possessions. See further Menken, ‘Deuteronomy in Matthew’s Gospel’, 60, 2. So Hayward, ‘The Lord Is One’, 153– 4.

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to follow. It is worth adding here that nothing less than a literal interpretation of laying down one’s life is contemplated in this text.37 As we have observed, the author of 1 John was also conversant with the Scriptures.38 We have also observed that time and again he has laboured the ‘handsome is’ principle that claims to love God must be matched by empirical evidence of love for one’s fellow. At one point, however, that we briefly touched on earlier, he enters into detail on how the command to love one another is to be put into practice. In 3.11, he identifies this commandment as the tradition ‘from the beginning’ that his readers have heard. Thereafter, his argument follows a familiar pattern: he cites Cain’s brotherly hatred as a negative example, which is followed by a positive affirmation of his readers’ brotherly love (vv. 12–15), before finally he appeals to Jesus’ conduct as a model for those who believe (vv. 16–17). At this point, we need to follow his argument carefully. In 3.16, he reminds his readers that they know what love is in that ‘he’ (Jesus) laid down his life for them:  ὅτι ἐκεῖνος ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ ἔθηκεν, from which it follows that they must do the same in their conduct towards each another (‘the brothers’): καὶ ἡμεῖς ὀφείλομεν ὑπὲρ τῶν ἀδελφῶν τὰς ψυχὰς θεῖναι. Thus far, 1 John’s argument has kept pace with what we find in the Gospel: Jesus’ earthly life, and specifically his death as an act of love, is the model for his followers’ conduct in their love for one another. In 3.17, however, the Epistle writer pursues a different course. Although he expresses it negatively by way of someone who does not comply, his meaning is clear: whoever has the world’s goods (βίος; cf. 2.16) and sees his brother in need but wilfully ignores that need cannot have ‘the love of God’ (ἡ ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ) remaining in him.39 1 John’s interpretation in 3.17 of how Jesus’ self-sacrifice is to be imitated has on occasion been seen as a pedestrian contrast. Nevertheless, to suggest that this is a descent to banality or a softening of martyrdom’s stringent demand is to misconstrue the nature of this verse.40 While the conduct he specifies undoubtedly arises from the social realities the author knew,41 the 37 38 39

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See North, The Lazarus Story, 46–7. See above on 2.9–11 and 3.12. In this case, the point is that God’s love indwells the true believer who will be seen to act accordingly; see further, Udo Schnelle, ‘Ethical Theology in 1 John’, in Rethinking the Ethics of John, 336. See Dodd, Johannine Epistles, 86; Houlden, Johannine Epistles, 100. See Lieu I, II, & III John, 151, who compares Jas 2.1–7.

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fact remains that he has arrived at his point by a process of interpreting tradition to meet present needs. The immediate context here is the command to love one another, which 1 John has already identified as Johannine Christian tradition (3.11). As we established earlier, he is also aware from the tradition that this command belongs together with the Shema, so that love of one’s neighbour becomes the measure of one’s love of God (4.21; cf. Lev. 19.18; Deut. 6.5). Furthermore, as we noted from his description of Cain (3.12), 1 John is in touch with contemporary interpretation of the Scriptures. It is therefore entirely likely that he is also aware of the exegesis of the Shema, preserved in the Mishnah but traceable at earlier points, in which ‘might’ was taken to refer to wealth. In other words, the love of God he has in mind here, which best speaks to present needs, is the complementary aspect of loving God, and hence one’s neighbour, with all of one’s possessions.42 Thus, while at 3.16, he joins the evangelist in reproducing the Johannine understanding of Jesus’ self-sacrifice as an example to be imitated, he construes the demand differently  – not by contrast, but in an alternative and equally valid way. In v. 17, he responds to present needs, which he achieves by interpreting the word for ‘life’ in the tradition with another, and by placing the argument in the context of the love of God. To the point, then, is that just as Jesus loved God with his ‘life’ (ψυχή) and surrendered it for love of them, so they must love God with their ‘means of life’ (βίος) and surrender it for love of one another. In other words, what 1 John expresses in this verse, less eloquently than Luke but no less meaningfully, is the obligation to demonstrate one’s love of God by love of neighbour with all of one’s ‘might’, meaning wealth. In conclusion, for the author of 1 John, the identity of ‘the children of God’, who are so constituted by God’s act of love, is inextricably bound up with the concrete evidence of a way of life in which their love for one another issues in practice, which he specifies in 3.17 as expending one’s possessions in accordance with the Shema. This is what ‘handsome does’ to show that ‘handsome is’ or rather, as he sums it up in 3.18, how genuine love expresses itself ‘in action’.

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See North, The Lazarus Story, 47n. 10.

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Wilderness Identity and Pentateuchal Narrative Distinguishing between Jesus’ Inauguration and Maintenance of the New Covenant in Hebrews David M. Moffitt*

Motifs that recall Israel’s time in the wilderness after the exodus are found throughout the Epistle to the Hebrews.1 The writer’s use of these motifs to develop analogues to the situation of his readers inculcates a wilderness identity among them. The analogies encourage them to see themselves as currently in their own time of wilderness. But what drives this identification with Israel’s wilderness generation? Does Hebrews simply spiritualize Israel’s story in order to draw out the moral point that perseverance in trial is necessary if one is to reach the ultimate inheritance? While the author clearly educes moral lessons from Israel’s history (e.g. 4.1– 6), a more fundamental rationale for Hebrews’ wilderness identity can be detected. Throughout his epistle the writer draws upon a pentateuchally shaped narrative to help form the identity of his intended recipients. Significantly, the structure of this narrative correlates with a distinction between Jesus’ liberating and covenant-inaugurating death, on the one hand, and Jesus’ ongoing, high-priestly work of covenant maintenance in the heavens, on the other. *

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David M.  Moffitt is currently a research associate in the Mission and Ethics project of the Department of New Testament Studies at the University of Pretoria. E.g. Israel’s failure to obey God’s command to enter the promised land is referred to in chs. 3– 4; the author reflects extensively on the tabernacle in ch. 9; he speaks in 9.15 of the promised inheritance (cf. 11.9); the Sinai event is discussed in ch. 12.

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Closely associated with this distinction between the effects of Jesus’ death and those of his ascension is the fact that the epistle’s intended readers have not yet entered their promised inheritance. To put these points in pentateuchal terms, for the readers of Hebrews to be identified as God’s sons (e.g. 2.10; 12.5) and even members of the congregation of the firstborn (12.23), to be freed from the power that enslaved them (2.14–15), to have entered into covenant relationship with God (e.g. 8.6; 9.15), to have a high priest interceding for them (7.25; 8.1–2), to have come to Mt Zion (12.22), but at the same time to not yet to have taken full possession of their inheritance (4.1–2; 6.12) and to be waiting for their Ἰησοῦς to return to them (9.28) puts them into a state analogous to that of Israel in the wilderness.2 This underlying analogy between Jesus and his followers and the Pentateuch’s account of Israel’s exodus and journey into the wilderness under the leadership of Moses and then Joshua plays, I suggest, a determinative role in identity formation within Hebrews. To see this clearly, one must begin by addressing a misconception about Hebrews’ use of certain covenantal categories.

Hebrews and the Conflation of Covenant Inauguration with Covenant Maintenance Shortly before her untimely death Susan Haber published a fascinating article on the use of the categories of covenant and sacrificial cult in Hebrews.3 Haber suggests that the conception of the new covenant found in the epistle is rooted in an anti-Jewish perspective. She especially interrogates the way Hebrews relates Jesus’ atoning sacrifice to the inauguration of the new covenant.4 She concludes that the author conceives of atonement and covenant in 2

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I have argued elsewhere that this conception of time and place correlates well with author’s eschatological identification in Heb 1.2 of the current period as ‘these last days’. See ‘Perseverance, Purity, and Identity: Exploring Hebrews’ Eschatological Worldview, Ethics, and In-Group Bias’, in Sensitivity to Outsiders: Exploring the Dynamic Relationship between Mission and Ethics in the New Testament and Early Christianity, ed. J. Kok, et al., WUNT II 364 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 357–81. S. Haber, ‘From Priestly Torah to Christ Cultus: The Re-vision of Covenant and Cult in Hebrews’, JSNT 28 (2005): 105–24. I cannot here engage all Haber’s arguments. My focus is limited to her central discussion of the relationship between the ritual of covenant inauguration and the maintenance sacrifices as these pertain to Hebrews.

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ways that are inimical to the Mosaic covenant and the priestly and sacrificial system detailed in Torah. According to Haber, the writer of Hebrews depicts the Mosaic Law’s ‘mechanism of atonement through the sacrificial cult’ in ways that are ‘antithetical to the belief in salvation through Christ’.5 Because the author locates the Law’s essential flaw in its prescribed sacrifices and their limited atoning effects, his ‘negative portrayal of Judaism in Hebrews may be characterized as a polemic against a competing theology of atonement that threatens the Christological view of expiation from sin’.6 The basic problem concerns Hebrews’ conflation of the covenant ratification ceremony detailed in Exod. 24.1–8 with the account of the tabernacle’s inauguration in Num. 7.1–2 (cf. Exod. 40.9; Lev. 8.10).7 By blending these events the author is able to collapse the purification of the tabernacle and the atoning sacrifices offered within it into the ritual act of ratifying the covenant depicted in Exodus 24. According to Haber, the rationale for this linkage lies in the writer’s belief that Jesus’ death is both the event that inaugurates the new covenant and at the same time the fully atoning sacrifice of that covenant. The Pentateuch, that is, presents the Mosaic covenant as first requiring an act of ratification (Exod. 24.1–8) that was then followed by the inauguration of the tabernacle (Num. 7.1–2) and the ongoing priestly ministry and atoning sacrifices. The centrality of Jesus’ death in Hebrews, however, requires that the acts of covenant ratification and the sacrificial act that forever purifies and

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Haber, ‘Priestly Torah’, 107. Haber, ‘Priestly Torah’, 121. One of Haber’s arguments emphasizes the distinction between the sprinkling and function of blood in Exod. 24.1–8 and those of oil in Exod. 40.9 and Lev. 8.10, which specify that the tabernacle was consecrated with oil (‘Priestly Torah’, 110–11). The Pentateuch itself does not explicitly mix blood and consecrating oil in these texts, and Haber is right that Exod. 24.1–8 does not speak of purification or consecration. Her claim that Hebrews conflates Exod. 24.1–8 with Num. 7.1–2 because Numbers does not specify what substance was used to consecrate the tabernacle is, however, not persuasive. That Hebrews has conflated these texts is plausible (though the use of the verb ‘to sprinkle’ rather than ‘to anoint’ in Heb. 9.19 may suggest Lev. 8.10 LXX). That Hebrews only mentions blood and not oil is also clear. That a Second Temple reader might nevertheless infer that Exod. 24.1–8 depicts an act of purification seems a reasonable conclusion, particularly given the role of blood in sacrificial purification. Moreover, in Josephus there is a hint of a notion that the purification both of the tabernacle with all its vessels and of the priests and their vestments required not only oil, but also the sprinkled blood of bulls, rams and goats (Ant. 3.204– 6). While Exodus 24 is not in the mix here, Josephus’ comments about the sprinkling not only of the priests and their vestments but also of the tabernacle and its vessels with blood may be a conflation of Lev. 8.30 (cf. Exod. 29.21) and Lev. 8.10. At the very least, Josephus’ logic implies a close association of the sprinkling of blood for the consecration both of the tabernacle and of the priests.

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forgives those within that covenant be one and the same event. Jesus’ death therefore inaugurates the new covenant and its cult, and at the same time serves as the fully sufficient sacrifice that maintains this covenant. In short, covenant inauguration and covenant maintenance are collapsed in Hebrews into the death of Jesus.8 This conflation is then read back into Exodus 24. Hebrews therefore forces the logic of the Mosaic covenant to conform to that of the new covenant as this is revealed in the atoning death of Jesus.9 Haber’s focus on the relationship between covenant and cult/sacrifice is shrewd and important. She has identified a potential flaw in Hebrews’ logic that, if correct, has too often escaped the attention of modern commentators on Hebrews (to say nothing of larger biblical and systematic theological accounts of Jesus’ once-for-all sacrifice). If I might put this concern slightly differently, Haber helpfully gestures toward a significant problem in the sacrificial logic of certain expressions of Christian atonement theology that go largely unnoticed by most Christian exegetes and theologians. Specifically, her argument suggests that as early as the penning of Hebrews, some Christian accounts of Jesus’ sacrifice deliberately confused and conflated the bloody, ritual act of ratifying the Mosaic covenant with the later acts of purification that inaugurated the covenant’s tabernacle and priesthood, and with the bloody sacrificial acts of the Levitical cult that served to maintain the covenant relationship. Already in Hebrews, then, one can see that some forms of early Christian reflection on sacrifice and atonement were essentially antiJewish precisely to the extent that they wilfully misconstrued the interrelated roles and logic of covenant and sacrifice within the Mosaic economy. In sum, one of the key differences Haber identifies in Hebrews between the Mosaic covenant and the new covenant consists in the fact that the new covenant is not only inaugurated with Jesus’ death, but is also perfectly and perpetually maintained by that singular event. The audience can now, therefore, view themselves as members of the new covenant perfectly forgiven and 8

9

It should be noted that Haber does not use the language of covenant maintenance that I adopt here; however, insofar as she highlights Hebrews’ correlation of purification by way of sacrificial blood with the act of covenant ratification, she puts her fi nger on the potential problem in Hebrews of conflating the inauguration of the new covenant with the atoning sacrifice that keeps its members forgiven, pure and holy. To keep or restore members of the covenant relationship to these states is central to the logic of sacrifice. A major rationale for sacrifice, then, is the maintenance of the covenant relationship. Haber states, ‘In Hebrews the Mosaic covenant is a cultic order’ (‘Priestly Torah’, 109, emphasis in the original).

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forever purified – in need of no further covenant maintenance because of the once-for-all sacrifice of Jesus’ death. Thus, they need no longer look towards Jewish rituals of purification and sacrifices or to the Jewish communities with whom they share so much for their core identity. If the preceding analysis correctly identifies Haber’s central concern  – that Hebrews understands the role of Jesus’ death in terms of the singular sacrifice that both inaugurates and eternally maintains the new covenant – then her larger point further implies that the early Christian identity that the author of Hebrews constructs has a radically supersessionist hermeneutic at its centre. Hebrews does not abandon the Jewish scriptures as the later Marcion would, but the author has clearly muted and muffled the voice of those scriptures. His appeal to Jewish scripture is driven by a preformed Christology and soteriology that seeks to apply language and imagery from the Mosaic covenant and its sacrificial system to the event of Jesus’ death, but he cares little for the actual meaning or logic of that covenant and those sacrifices as presented in the very scriptures to which he appeals. Instead, he uses the Christ event to impose a new pattern on the biblical texts in order to compel them to witness, albeit in an imperfect way, to the new reality effected by Jesus’ death. This brings me to the first major question explored in the present essay: has Hebrews actually conflated covenant inauguration with covenant maintenance in the way just described? Does the author, in other words, really reduce Jesus’ sacrificial and atoning work to the singular event of the crucifi xion, while also imagining that the cross is the event that inaugurates the new covenant? Haber is, I think, correct when she notes that Hebrews presents the events of Exod. 24.1–8 as both inaugurating the Mosaic cult and providing some kind of ritual purification (Heb. 9.19–22).10 She is also right to point out that the author argues that the sacrifices performed according to the Law were only effective in obtaining a limited ritual purification (Heb. 9.13). It stands to reason that a great many Second Temple Jews would take extreme umbrage at the latter remark. Haber is right that Hebrews is polemical. Does this polemic mean, however, that the author’s conceptions of Jesus’ covenant, sacrifice and atonement are antithetical to the conceptions of 10

See my discussion in n. 7 above.

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these categories as they are found in the Pentateuch? Here I think Haber’s argument goes awry, but in a highly illuminating way. Her misstep is that of many modern interpreters of Hebrews – she assumes that the soteriology of this epistle pivots primarily around the death of Jesus. On this assumption, Haber’s case is likely to be right. If Jesus’ death works in Hebrews in the ways described above, then the author does appear to hold a reductive account of covenant and sacrifice that cares little for the actual interrelated logics of the Mosaic covenant and Levitical sacrifice as the Pentateuch presents these. Such an assumption, however, misses the important roles that Jesus’ bodily resurrection and ascension play in the author’s argument.11 If he does not reduce sacrifice to the event of slaughter/death but thinks instead in terms of a larger, hierarchically structured process consisting in several necessary elements that culminate in the conveyance of the sacrifice into God’s presence, then, particularly given his emphasis on Jesus’ ascension, a very different interpretation of Jesus’ sacrifice in his epistle becomes possible. By way of contrast to Haber’s claim that Hebrews reflects on the relationship between covenant and sacrifice in ways that are essentially antithetical to Jewish scripture, practice and belief, I suggest that the author conceives of the inauguration of the new covenant and Jesus’ atoning sacrifice in ways that are in fact analogous to the relationship of the Mosaic covenant and Levitical sacrifices as depicted in the Pentateuch. Hebrews both understands and works with a logic of covenant and sacrifice that distinguishes between the inaugurating covenantal event and the cultic sacrifice and priestly ministry that maintain that covenant relationship. The author, I  argue, links Jesus’ death with the former and his ascension with the latter. In this way, he respects the larger narrative pattern of the Pentateuch – the exodus, followed by covenant inauguration, followed by the establishment of the tabernacle, priesthood and sacrifices. His use of this narrative pattern, I argue further, is generative of the author’s wilderness identity. I lay out this argument in the three remaining sections of this essay, beginning with a discussion of sacrifice.

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I lay out a detailed case for the presence and importance of Jesus’ bodily resurrection and ascension in Hebrews in Atonement and the Logic of Resurrection in the Epistle to the Hebrews, NovTSup 141 (Leiden: Brill, 2011).

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Sacrifice and Hebrews I argue in this section that Hebrews’ logic of covenant and sacrifice works by way of analogy to the priestly ministry and sacrifices of the Mosaic covenant.12 Thus, the author does not think of Jesus’ sacrifice as a momentary event that is reducible merely to the crucifi xion, but as a multi-stepped process that culminates in his entry into God’s presence in the heavenly holy of holies where he presents himself to God and intercedes for his people. These last points are important, for they imply that Jesus’ self-presentation and ongoing intercession should be understood as a central aspect of his covenant maintenance work. While Leviticus both speaks at length about what to do for particular sacrifices and offers assurance that these sacrifices are effective, the text provides little explicit reflection on how these sacrifices work. Nevertheless, enough description is given to conclude that Levitical sacrifice consists of an irreducible, hierarchically structured process.13 In the Levitical system a sacrifice entails a sequence of events that culminate in a priest drawing near to God and conveying the offering into his presence.14 When a sacrifice aims to effect atonement, certain elements in this process are more closely linked in the biblical texts with the obtainment of this goal than are others. Sacrificial atonement – forgiveness of sins and/or effecting ritual purification, depending on the sacrifice – occurs with the acts of applying blood to holy places and appurtenances (especially the altars) and with the act of burning part or all of the body of the victim and especially its fat (if required).15 Thus, the culminating events in the larger process – the elements wherein the atoning goal of the process is achieved – consist in those activities performed by the priests as they draw near to the altars and bring the elements of the sacrifice into God’s presence.

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For a more detailed justification of this point, see D. M. Moffitt, ‘Serving in the Tabernacle in Heaven:  Sacred Space, Jesus’s High-Priestly Sacrifice, and Hebrews’ Analogical Theology’, in Hebrews in Contexts, ed. G. Gelardini and H. W. Attridge, AJEC 91 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 259–80. See R.  E. Gane’s excellent discussion and explanation of this larger point in Cult and Character: Purification Offerings, Day of Atonement, and Theodicy (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 3–24. Gane succinctly defi nes ‘sacrifice’ as ‘a religious ritual in which something of value is ritually transferred to the sacred realm for utilization by the deity’ (Cult and Character, 16). For more detailed discussion of this point, see, e.g., C.  A. Eberhart, The Sacrifice of Jesus: Understanding Atonement Biblically (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 2011), 85; Gane, Cult and Character, esp. 67.

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All of this implies that the priest’s conveyance of the elements of the sacrifice – parts of the body and blood of the victim – to the altars is the effective centre of blood sacrifice. The point of such sacrifice, in other words, is to bring the elements of the offering into God’s presence. This is how a sacrifice is offered to God. It follows, then, that a reduction of blood sacrifice to the act of slaughtering the victim misapprehends what stands at the core of the ritual – drawing near to God and offering him gifts. Offering sacrifice is a central aspect of how one ministers to God. Moreover, by performing sacrifice, benefits such as atonement are achieved both for the worshipers and the cultic spaces. Leviticus does not, therefore, support the inference that the act of slaughter alone, ‘bloodshed’ in the English sense of the term, either constituted a sacrifice or achieved by itself the atoning goals of atoning sacrifices – forgiveness of sins and/or purification. None of this implies that the slaughter is dispensable for blood sacrifice. Because the blood (i.e. the life) of the victim belongs to God, it is to be given back to God on the altar (cf. Lev. 17.11); none of it can be withheld. Leviticus indicates, therefore, that when a blood sacrifice is offered, the act of slaughter is a necessary step in the process of transferring the sacrifice to God, but it is neither the sum total of nor the central atoning act in the larger process. This observation likely explains (1) why the slaughter never occurred on any of the Israelite or Jewish altars; (2) why in Leviticus the slaughter was not always performed by a priest; and (3) why killing the victim was never by itself sufficient to procure the atoning benefits that the entire process aimed to obtain.16 In sum, the hierarchical structure of the sacrificial process indicates that the atoning benefits of sacrifice are connected with the priestly activities that occurred at the altars as the priests drew near to God and conveyed the material of the sacrifice into his presence.17 When so understood, one can see 16

17

The same logic holds for the other elements of the process as well. None of them can stand alone. To cite Gane again, ‘Like systems in general, rituals are structured hierarchically, with smaller systems constituting wholes embedded in larger systems. At each level, a “whole possesses distinctive emergent properties – properties not possessed by the parts comprising the whole”. In the Israelite system of rituals the whole is indeed greater than the sum of its parts. A ritual or ritual complex achieves its goal only if it is performed in its entirety, with its activities in the proper order’ (Cult and Character, 19–20). See, e.g., Ezekiel’s emphasis on the priests approaching God and offering him blood and fat (Ezek. 44.15–16).

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how a ritual death/slaughter can be rightly identified as sacrificial while not itself being equivalent to the sacrifice.18 If the author of Hebrews failed to grasp these points (as I suspect a great many of us moderns do) or if he intentionally misconstrued sacrifice so as to reduce the larger process merely to the act of slaughter, then, as noted above, an essential element of Haber’s argument outlined above is basically proven. Hebrews cares little for what Leviticus actually says and how the sacrifices prescribed there actually seem to work. The author simply raids Leviticus for useful or evocative images from which he crafts metaphors to make concrete his abstract conception of Jesus’ salvific work. The Jewish scriptures are, to put it bluntly, little more than proof-texts for his preformed Christology and soteriology. Once, however, the role of Jesus’ resurrection and ascension in Hebrews are properly noted, a striking shift of perspective occurs. The author’s discussion of Jesus’ sacrifice can be seen to emphasize the very acts of conveyance and presentation that Leviticus places at the centre of the ritual process of sacrifice. Just as the Levitical high priests did not offer the Yom Kippur sacrifices or obtain the atonement that those sacrifices had as their goal merely by slaughtering a bull and a goat, but rather by taking the sacrificial blood into the holy of holies and sprinkling the blood there before God (see esp. Lev. 16.15–16), so Hebrews links Jesus’ high-priestly offering with his passing through the heavens in order to enter into the heavenly holy of holies (e.g. Heb. 8.1–5) and to appear in the presence of God. This is how and where he offered God the sacrifice of himself (Heb. 9.24–26). Jesus is for the author at one and the same time both the human high priest of Melchizedek’s order and the ultimate Yom Kippur offering, but the performance of his highpriestly service and the presentation his sacrificial offering are not reduced in Hebrews to his death on the cross. In his humanity, the incarnate Son fulfils both the sacrificial and high-priestly Yom Kippur roles when he ascends into

18

One can speak, in other words, of a sacrificial death (a death that is part of a sacrifice) without confusing that death with the entirety of the sacrifice itself. One might even say that this logic implies that the key to identifying a given death as sacrificial/part of a sacrifice lies not in the slaughter per se, but in what follows – where the body and the blood go next (the altars) and who actually takes them there (the priests). If the elements are brought to an altar by a priest, the slaughter is part of a sacrifice. If they are not, the slaughter of an animal is just a slaughter – the kind of thing that happens periodically on the farm.

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the heavenly tabernacle. Jesus’ ascension is when and where the elements of his sacrifice – his resurrected body and blood – are presented to the Father.19 The author’s belief in Jesus’ bodily resurrection implies that his claims about Jesus offering the sacrifice of himself before God in the heavenly holy of holies are best understood by way of analogy to the entry of the Levitical high priest into the earthly holy of holies. When, in other words, the author says Jesus appeared before God in the heavenly holy of holies to offer his sacrifice, he means this literally. The proper analogy for understanding the process and meaning of this event is provided in the layout of and service performed in the earthly tabernacle. If all of this is correct, it lends further support to the assumption that Hebrews understands Jesus’ atoning sacrifice along the lines of the hierarchically structured process discussed above in Leviticus. From this perspective Jesus’ death can rightly be called sacrificial, but it is neither the effective centre nor the sum total of his sacrifice (any more than the slaughter of the victim is the effective centre or sum total of sacrifice in Leviticus). By analogy to the Levitical Yom Kippur sacrifices, the centre of his sacrifice consists in his bodily entry into the heavenly sanctuary as the high priest who conveys and presents the material of the atoning sacrifice  – namely himself – to God. I stress these points not only to restate and clarify my position on sacrifice in Leviticus and Hebrews but also to highlight the significance of Jesus’ heavenly sacrifice. Here I intend, however, to draw out some further conclusions that depend upon, but also move beyond, the points just made. The idea that Jesus offers himself to God as a sacrifice in heaven indicates that the author reflects on Jesus in ways that cohere with the logic of Levitical sacrifice. Together with these points, however, it should be noted that his comment in 7.25 that Jesus always intercedes for his people as their high priest implies that a concept of covenant maintenance by way of Jesus’ high-priestly intercession in the holy of holies is also in play. God’s people, as the writer says in 2.11, ‘are being sanctified’ (οἱ ἁγιαζόμενοι20) and as such remain in need of continual intercession even though they are members of the new covenant community. 19 20

My arguments for this claim are set out in Atonement and the Logic of Resurrection, esp. 220–85. The English translation tradition’s tendency to translate the present participle in terms of a completed state is odd (e.g. ESV, KJV, NIV, NRSV, RSV). One typically expects the present tense to depict an action as if it were on ongoing.

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Covenant maintenance is among the primary roles of the Levitical sacrificial system.21 When forgiveness and purification were needed to rectify everyday sins and impurities that could threaten the covenant relationship; that is to say, when atonement needed to be made, Levitical sacrifices were a central element in the attainment of that atonement. This was partly effected by way of offering sacrifice. Insofar as Yom Kippur served as the major day of forgiveness and purification for the tabernacle and all the people, these goals were partially achieved by way of presenting the blood of the sacrifices in the holy of holies and, at least in the late–Second Temple period, by way of the high priest’s intercession there on behalf of the people.22 In the case of Jesus, then, the fact that his intercession is ongoing, as he now serves as the great high priest, and sacrifice in the heavenly holy of holies strongly implies that it is precisely by way of his presence with the Father, where he always intercedes for his people, that he mediates and maintains the new covenant.23 One more angle of approach may help to clarify this larger relationship between covenant and sacrifice. In the context of the Pentateuch, the Levitical sacrifices would be meaningless, even impossible, outside of the covenant relationship within which they exist. That is to say, as Exodus and Leviticus present the situation, prior to offering the Yom Kippur sacrifice, or any of the other Levitical sacrifices for that matter, the covenant had to be inaugurated, the tabernacle had to be set up and the priests had to be consecrated. One 21

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E. P. Sanders makes this point when he writes, ‘The law provides for means of atonement, and atonement results in . . . maintenance or re-establishment of the covenant relationship’ (Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of Religion (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1977), 422). Sacrifice is one of the conditional elements of the covenant. It is given by God partly as a means to deal with sin and impurity, both of which threaten the well-being of the ongoing relationship between God and his people. Maintenance answers one of the central ‘whys’ of Jewish sacrifice. See also the brief discussion in n. 8 above. According to Philo (cf. Josephus, Ant. 3.189, 191), the offerings of sacrifice and prayers for the people are among the primary roles of the priests and the high priest in particular (see esp. the evidence and discussion in Jutta Leonhardt, Jewish Worship in Philo of Alexandria, TSAJ 84 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 228–33). These roles, it should be noted, cohere well with the concept of covenant maintenance. Josephus is particularly clear that before God’s presence would indwell the tabernacle, it was essential to have a high priest who could offer sacrifices and prayers on the peoples’ behalf (esp. Ant. 3.189). It is unsurprising, therefore, that the high priest is supposed by Philo to offer incense and prayers when he enters the holy of holies once a year on Yom Kippur (Legat. 306; see discussion in Leonhardt, Jewish Worship, 128–9). High-priestly intercession in the holy of holies is a given. It may be objected that one must distinguish between the offering of Jesus’ high-priestly sacrifice and his high-priestly intercession. Yet the only time the Jewish high priest could intercede for God’s people in the holy of holies would be on Yom Kippur when he is presenting the sacrificial blood of the bull and the goat. Simply put, there is no high-priestly intercession in the holy of holies apart from the presentation of the Yom Kippur sacrifice. See also the discussion above in n. 22.

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cannot, as it were, ‘Yom Kippur’ oneself into a covenant relationship with God. The inauguration of the covenant relationship comes first. Moreover, Leviticus 26 makes clear that if the covenant should be fractured by ongoing disobedience, merely offering Levitical sacrifice will not restore it.24 When the covenant is so broken, the people go into exile and God himself turns against them to discipline them. When the covenant is, as it were, healthy, the sacrifices contribute to the ongoing maintenance of the covenant relationship – God is present in the sanctuary, and the people can approach him in worship because ongoing forgiveness and purification are available; God and his people live in peace. Yom Kippur and the other feasts and sacrifices exist, in other words, within the context of the covenant. Their purpose is to maintain the covenant relationship, not to inaugurate it or even restore it. The implication of this logic is plain – one cannot simply offer sacrifice to inaugurate or reinaugurate a covenant relationship should it become fractured in the way Leviticus 26 describes. Exodus 24 describes the unique rituals that inaugurated the Mosaic covenant. In a similar way, Hebrews also knows of a unique event that inaugurated the new covenant – Jesus’ death.

Jesus’ Death in Hebrews: New Passover and New Covenant Inauguration What then of the death of Jesus in Hebrews? I argue extensively elsewhere that Jesus’ death is linked in Heb. 9.15–21 with the rituals that ratified or inaugurated the Mosaic covenant and the use of the tabernacle.25 Nevertheless, in Hebrews, as in the Pentateuch, inauguration and initial purification are prerequisite to the use of the tabernacle and so to the offering of the sacrifices that maintain the covenant. Hebrews interprets inauguration in terms of initial purification, as noted above by Haber, but the basic logic that things must first be consecrated and set in order, and then sacrifices may be offered is affirmed in Hebrews. As the author says in 9.6–7, everything must first be set up and prepared, then the priests can enter and minister.26 There is, however, 24

25 26

So Lev. 26.31 where God declares that when the covenant is broken, he will refuse to smell the aroma of the sacrifices. For my arguments on this point, see Atonement and the Logic of Resurrection, 289–96. In 9.1–5 Hebrews describes many of the preparations and accoutrement that constituted the sancta of the tabernacle. In 9.6–7 the writer affi rms that only after everything was prepared

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another way in which the role that Jesus’ death plays in Hebrews aligns with the larger narrative of the Pentateuch. In Heb. 2.14–15 Jesus’ death is identified as liberating God’s people from their bondage to the fear of death and from the one who wields the power of death – the Devil. This passage, I argue, contains an allusion to Passover. Hebrews’ relative silence regarding Passover is well known. The author explicitly mentions it only once in 11.28 where he states that Moses performed the Passover and the aspersion of blood by faith so that ‘the destroyer of the firstborn’ would not touch the people of Israel. This ‘destroyer’ (ὁ ὀλεθρεύων) clearly alludes to the strange statement in Exod. 12.23. Exodus 12.23 LXX states that, on account of the Passover blood on the doorposts, the lord would ‘not permit the destroyer’ (οὐκ ἀφήσει τὸν ὀλεθρεύοντα) to enter the houses of the Israelites and strike them. While throughout the Passover story the lord himself is the one who strikes the Egyptian firstborn (e.g. Exod. 12.13), here in Exod. 12.23 some other agent, the destroyer, is identified as the one who does the smiting. Hebrews’ identification of the audience as part of ‘the congregation of the firstborn’ enrolled in the heavens in Heb. 12.23, together with the author’s earlier comment in 2.14 that Jesus defeated the Devil, the one who holds the power of death, suggest the inference that ‘the destroyer of the firstborn’ in 11.28 who was kept away by the paschal blood that Moses sprinkled is this same malevolent angelic figure referred to in Heb. 2.14. That is to say, given that the destroyer targeted the ‘firstborn’, and given that the audience is among the ‘congregation of the firstborn’, it is hardly a stretch to conclude that the author assumes that the audience’s enemy – the Devil – is the very destroyer whom Moses in some sense defeated at the first Passover. If this connection is valid, then the author likely alludes to the exodus, if not Passover itself, when he speaks in 2.14–16 of Jesus’ death defeating the Devil and obtaining liberation from the fear of death. At least two additional arguments further support this conclusion. First, some Second Temple Jewish traditions clearly identify the destroying agent of Exod. 12.23 with the malevolent angelic being who wields the power of death

could the priests and high priests enter and perform the sacrifices. Interestingly, Josephus makes similar claims regarding Aaron’s high-priestly service in the tabernacle relative to God’s coming to dwell there in Ant. 3.188–92, 197–8, 201–3.

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and who stands in the heavenly court accusing God’s people. Jubilees 49.2, for example, states that ‘all the powers of Mastema were sent to kill all of the firstborn of the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh to the firstborn of the captive maidservant who was at the millstone and to the cattle’. Throughout Jubilees it is clear that Prince Mastema is the chief angelic opponent of God’s people. In fact, in Jubilees 48 he is identified as the evil spiritual force that motivates Pharaoh and the Egyptians to oppose Moses and the people. It is only when some of the good angels bind Mastema for a time that Pharaoh finally relents and allows the people to go. Once Mastema is again released, however, Pharaoh changes his mind and pursues the people. Thus, Jubilees allows the inference that at least some Second Temple Jews conceived of the first Passover not only as liberation from Pharaoh but also, if only in a limited way, as liberation from Mastema who was at work in Pharaoh. Moreover, in those passages where Jubilees envisions the eschatological future in which the land is ultimately purified and people’s sins and impurities are finally done away with, the text affirms that there will also be no more Satan or evil one who destroys (see Jub. 23.29; cf. 50.5). It appears that Mastema is the primary figure the text thinks of as a Satan and destroyer who will one day be no more. Evidence such as this strengthens the plausibility of the idea that Jesus’ defeat of the Devil in Heb. 2.14–16 is conceptually linked with the Passover, when Moses sprinkled blood in order to prevent the Destroyer from harming Israel. Indeed, the notion of the seed of Abraham being delivered from bondage (δουλεία) appears to echo the exodus event. (Every use of the term δουλεία in Septuagint Exodus and Deuteronomy refers to enslavement in Egypt.)27 A second piece of evidence, however, concerns the remarkable similarity between the narrative logic of the first Passover and the exodus in the Pentateuch and the actual development of Hebrews’ argument. The point can be illustrated as follows: the first Passover marked the liberation of God’s people from their enslavement to Pharaoh in Egypt. As such, Moses led the people out of Egypt and into the wilderness where they journeyed to Sinai, ratified the covenant, inaugurated the tabernacle and sacrifices, and moved towards the promised inheritance only for the people to fail to attain it at Kadesh.

27

Exod. 6.6; 13.3, 14; 20.2; Deut. 5.6; 6.12; 7.8; 8.14; 13.6, 11.

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Intriguingly, shortly after discussing Jesus’ liberation of his brothers and sisters from the Devil in Hebrews 2, the author draws an explicit analogy between the audience and Israel in the wilderness in Hebrews 3–4. This can hardly be an accident. From the perspective of the kind of pentateuchally shaped narrative laid out above, the author’s logic here makes perfect sense. If Jesus’ death is being conceived of along the lines of a new Passover, then Hebrews’ emphasis on the wilderness identity of the audience follows nicely. The audience can and must recognize their current position in space and time as analogous to that of the firstborn who have been freed from their slavery and, like Israel under Moses, are now journeying in the eschatological wilderness. If all this is more or less correct, Hebrews has made some conflations in the larger Pentateuchal story. Passover/exodus and covenant inauguration are all directly linked in Hebrews with Jesus’ death. Nothing about this conflation is, however, inherently anti-Jewish. This very linkage has biblical precedent. Jeremiah 31.32, for example, directly connects God’s act of taking Israel out of Egypt with his making a covenant with them. The new exodus motif of Jeremiah 31 with its emphasis on liberation from an enslaving power and the making of a new covenant with Israel and Judah are, by Jeremiah’s comparison to the Mosaic covenant, tightly bound together, even conflated.28 More significantly, though, Hebrews’ Yom Kippur analogy – the author’s discussion of Jesus’ presentation of his atoning sacrifice to the Father and his ongoing high-priestly ministry in the heavenly holy of holies – can be seen to stand at some remove from the event of Jesus’ death once the role of Jesus’ resurrection and bodily ascension in the homily’s logic are recognized. The sequence of Jesus’ death, resurrection and ascension suggests that, to return to Susan Haber’s argument discussed above, Hebrews has not in fact conflated covenant inauguration with covenant maintenance. Jesus’ death in Hebrews is not the sum total of his sacrifice. The author does not confuse the presentation of Jesus’ sacrifice or Jesus’ intercession for his people with the act that liberates his people and inaugurates the new covenant. On the contrary, if the presentation of Jesus’ sacrifice occurs after his resurrection, then Hebrews’ location of 28

Interestingly, Tg. Zech. 9.11 links Zech. 9.11’s language of the ‘blood of the covenant’ (cf. Heb. 13.20) with Israel’s deliverance from Egypt. See Joel Marcus’s discussion in The Way of the Lord: Christological Exegesis of the Old Testament in the Gospel of Mark (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 157.

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Jesus’ Yom Kippur sacrifice and high-priestly intercession on the other side of that event suggests that the author understands that Jesus’ sacrifice is meaningful and necessary within the bounds of an already inaugurated covenant relationship. Jesus’ offering of his sacrifice and his high-priestly intercession at God’s right hand can therefore be understood to be the means by which he maintains the new covenant relationship inaugurated at his death. In sum, two key ways that Hebrews conceives of Jesus’ death are as the event that liberated God’s people from slavery to their spiritual foe, the Devil (2.14–15) and as the act that inaugurated the new covenant between them and God (9.15–18). After this liberating and inaugurating work, however, Jesus rose from the dead and ascended into the highest heaven as the new covenant’s great high priest. There he performs his high-priestly service in God’s presence being in himself both high priest and sacrifice. This ministry consists, then, both of the presentation of his atoning sacrifice to the Father, something that is effectively a perpetual reality by virtue of his remaining in the Father’s presence, and of his perpetual intercession there for his people. If the preceding points are granted, it follows that the author thinks about the new covenant and its cult and sacrifice in ways that are strikingly analogous to both the Pentateuch’s logic of covenant and cult and its larger narrative arc. In Hebrews, as in the Pentateuch, God liberated his people and inaugurated a covenant with them. That covenant is then partly maintained by way of sacrifice and high-priestly intercession. But how might all of this relate to the question of identity in Hebrews? I  turn next to address this question.

Hebrews’ Wilderness Identity: Living between Jesus’ Ascension and Return The preceding argument suggests a plausible rationale for why the author of Hebrews compares his readers with the exodus generation who were led into the wilderness. As those whom Jesus has freed from slavery and brought into the new covenant that he inaugurated, they now await his return when he will bring them fully into their inheritance (cf. 9.28). This eschatological situation is likened by the author to Israel in the wilderness.

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The wilderness analogy developed by the author does not, then, merely draw upon Israel’s story as a moral example. Rather, he applies this element of the Pentateuch’s narrative to his readers because, in addition to the other elements of that larger narrative discussed above, they do not yet possess the fullness of the inheritance God has promised them. They are, like Israel, at the edge of their promised inheritance waiting to enter it.29 As Ernst Käsemann noticed, the motif of God’s people in the wilderness is not limited to Hebrews 3–4, but forms one of the central themes in the epistle.30 The author’s use of the motif of the new covenant, his references to the inauguration of that covenant and of the tabernacle, and the contrast between Sinai and Zion all make good sense on the proposal that the author of Hebrews intentionally works with a narrative about Jesus and his people that is structured by key portions of the Pentateuch, a narrative that implies that the new covenant people are now in the wilderness. As argued with respect to Passover and covenant inauguration above, Hebrews does make conflations of elements of the Pentateuch’s depiction of the wilderness experience. Not only does the author liken his readers to Israel about to go into the land, they are also compared to the congregation of Israel encamped at Sinai awaiting Moses’ return. Thus, in Hebrews 12 the audience is to envision themselves as part of the congregation of the firstborn encamped around Zion. They too have witnessed the signs and wonders of God’s liberation (cf. 2.4). They have the divine Spirit present among them. They can, because of the new covenant, rightly worship the Father through the ministry of their high priest precisely because everything has now been set in order and properly prepared for worship. 29

30

Curiously, this perspective allows another aspect of the analogy to emerge – Israel waiting to hear the report of the spies. According to Num. 13.2 LXX, each of those who was sent to spy out the promised land was an ἀρχηγός (πάντα ἀρχηγὸν ἐξ αὐτῶν). Moreover, one of those spies was Joshua ( Ἰησοῦς, ‘Jesus’). By locating his readers in the wilderness, the author of Hebrews encourages them to view themselves as poised at the edge of the promised inheritance waiting for their ἀρχηγός (see Heb. 2.10; 12.2), their Ἰησοῦς, to return (9.28) and lead them into their inheritance. The Wandering People of God:  An Investigation of the Letter to the Hebrews, trans. R.  A. Harrisville and I. L. Sandberg (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984). Notably, the argument advanced here puts stress on the people of God waiting in the wilderness, not wandering there. It seems that Hebrews does not precisely link the new covenant people with Israel’s time of wandering in the wilderness. Rather, the author locates them earlier in the story to a point before Israel disobeyed. On Hebrews’ own logic, to abandon the community leads to one’s loss of inheritance. Th is is what would put one into a position like those at Kadesh who disobeyed God’s command to go into the land.

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Now, however, they must wait patiently for their high priest to conclude his session in the heavenly holy of holies and return to bring salvation. Then they, together with all who have gone before them, will finally and fully enter their long awaited inheritance. All of this implies that the wilderness identity of God’s people in Hebrews is closely associated with the covenant inaugurating death of Jesus and the covenant maintaining high-priestly work made possible by the ascension of Jesus. Specifically, Hebrews’ wilderness identity is correlated with the liberation and inauguration of the new covenant made possible by Jesus’ death on the one hand, and with the time of waiting while Jesus performs his high-priestly ministry in the heavenly holy of holies – the time between his ascension and his return – on the other.

Conclusion The preceding arguments imply that the author of Hebrews developed a pervasive wilderness identity in conjunction with a conception of Jesus’ salvific work that recognizes a distinction between his Passover-like and covenantinaugurating death and his ongoing high-priestly work of covenant maintenance in the heavenly tabernacle. Indeed, this perpetual high-priestly work of covenant maintenance is likely to be among the generative impulses for the wilderness identity in Hebrews. This deduction follows from the author’s logic that so long as Jesus remains in the heavenly holy of holies interceding for his people before God, they must wait for him to return to them. Only when their high priest returns will they enter their long-awaited inheritance. Notably, then, the ultimate goal that both the Pentateuch and Hebrews point towards is the same  – the entry of God’s people into their promised inheritance. As in the Pentateuch, God’s new covenant people are in the position of having been decisively liberated from their former enslavement, but they nevertheless remain in some sense outside their inheritance. Thus, in pentateuchal terms, they are waiting in the wilderness. While they wait, however, they can be assured that their high priest is perpetually maintaining the covenant relationship. This last point is crucial for Hebrews’ understanding of how to live as wilderness people. Because Jesus currently maintains the covenant which he

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mediates, the people of this covenant can always go to him in times of need. While they wait in the wilderness, they are reminded that they have a high priest who makes atonement for them and who can help them in times of need (2.17–18). Thus, they are exhorted to approach God’s throne boldly in the midst of their times of testing (4.16). Jesus can always atone for his people. If, however, they turn away from Jesus, they risk losing the very inheritance they have been promised. In short, the author of Hebrews appeals to the larger narrative of the Pentateuch partly as a way of providing his readers with the categories and the identity that they need to faithfully persevere in their present situation. They have been liberated from their slavery, and they are members of the new covenant. They may now be in the eschatological wilderness. But the correlate of this state of affairs is that their high priest is presently with the Father interceding for them. Thus, if they patiently endure while they wait for him to return, they will ultimately enter fully into the inheritance God has promised them.

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Hebrews 3.7–4.11 and the Spirit’s Speech to the Community* Madison N. Pierce

In the Epistle to the Hebrews, the first action is speech: ‘God, who formerly spoke to our ancestors through the prophets, in these last days speaks to us through the Son’ (1.1–2). In fact, after the opening in 1.1–4, God’s only act in Hebrews 1 is speaking. The author, like many early Christian authors after him, utilizes the authority inherent in the words of God to demonstrate the Son’s superiority over the angels, while also developing his characterization of the Son (1.5–14).1 But the Father is not the only character who speaks in the epistle. As shown in Table 11.1, within a tripartite division of Hebrews, in the first two major sections of Hebrews, Father, Son and Spirit speak.2 In both speech cycles, the order of speech (Father, Son, Spirit) and the addressees for each speaker are largely consistent.3 The Father typically speaks to the Son, the Son to the Father and the Spirit to the community.4 *

1

2

3

4

Many thanks are due to those who offered feedback during my presentation of this paper at the Muted Voices conference (April 2015), as well as to Nicholas Moore and the men and women working in 37a N Bailey for their comments on an earlier draft of this essay. Irenaeus, among others, uses the fact that the Spirit of God spoke ex sua persona as evidence of this claim’s credibility (e.g. Haer. III.6.1). I am indebted to Clift Ward for this point. Though Spicq and Michel fi rst proposed the tripartite scheme, Nauck with his convincing discussion of the parallels between the two discourse turns (4.11–16; 10.19–25) is more often associated with this proposal. See Wolfgang Nauck, ‘Zum Aufbau des Hebräerbriefes’, in Judentum, Urchristentum, Kirche:  Festschrift für Joachim Jeremias, ed. Walther Eltester, BZNW 26 (Berlin: Töpelmann, 1960), 199–206. Other structural proposals do not contradict the speech cycles, but they do not map as well onto the cycles. For more on various structural proposals, see George H.  Guthrie, The Structure of Hebrews:  A  Text-Linguistic Analysis, NovTSup 73 (Leiden:  Brill, 1994). Matthew R.  Malcolm was the first to bring my attention to the patterns of speech within these two major sections. See ‘God Has Spoken:  The Renegotiation of Scripture in Hebrews’, in All That the Prophets Have Declared:  The Appropriation of Scripture in the Emergence of Christianity, ed. Matthew R. Malcolm (West Ryde, Australia: Paternoster, 2015), 174–81. Please see my forthcoming Durham University thesis, Divine Discourse in the Epistle to the Hebrews, for more on the presentation of Scripture as God’s speech.

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Table 11.1 Speech cycles n Hebrews Father

Son

Cycle 1: Catena (1.5–13) Ps. 22.22; Isa. Hebrews 1.1– 4.16 8.17–18 (2.12–13) Cycle 2: Pss. 2.7 & 110.1 Ps. 40.6–8 (10.5–7) Hebrews 4.11–10.25 (5.5– 6); Jer. 31.31–34 (8.8–12)

Spirit Ps. 95.7–11 (3.7– 4.11) Jer. 31.33–34 (10.15–17)

Though I have presented these speakers in relatively parallel roles, the Spirit’s voice has often been ‘muted’ in discussions of divine speech in Hebrews. To bring this voice to the fore, this essay will explore the characterisation of the Spirit in Hebrews achieved by the fact that he speaks Scripture to the community with a particular view to the effect that this has on the identity of the readers. With a focus on the speech by the Spirit in Hebrews 3.7–4.11, I will first outline a brief proposal for the Spirit being the primary divine agent throughout this section of text and then discuss the implications of the Spirit speaking this text to this community. In other words, I will ask: what are the implications of this community hearing the words of Psalm 95.7–11 spoken to them by the Spirit?5

Holy Spirit as Agent in Hebrews 3.7–4.11 In Hebrews 3.7–11, the first citation of Psalm 95.7–11 appears: Therefore, just as the Holy Spirit says, ‘Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts as in the rebellion, as on the day of testing in the wilderness, where your ancestors put [me] to the test, even though they had seen my works for forty years. For this reason I was angry with this generation, and I said, “They always go astray in their hearts, and they have not known my ways”. 5

Although the author uses a Greek version of Scripture, I will refer to texts using the Hebrew and English versification system.

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As in my anger I swore, “They will never enter my rest” ’.

Within this quotation, the Spirit is presumably the first-person antecedent – the ‘I’ – which means it is he whom the wilderness generation tests, who subsequently becomes angry and who forbids their entrance into his rest. Despite the introductory formula, and the pattern of divine speech in Hebrews, interpreters have overlooked or minimized the role of the Spirit in this text in a number of ways. For example, many interpreters describe the author’s portrayal of the Spirit here as an appeal to his role as the ‘source’ or ‘inspirer’ of Scripture.6 Some of these interpreters argue that the introductory formula ‘has mainly to do with the way the Spirit continues to speak through the text.’7 Those claims are not problematic in themselves; however, alongside them, interpreters also contend that the Spirit is not the speaker of this quotation (the Father is), and the Spirit is merely its medium.8 These proposals cannot be based on a plain reading of the introductory formula itself since this citation gives no indication that the re-contextualization of this speech is in any way different than others that surprisingly identify the Son as the addressee or speaker throughout Hebrews 1–2. In my evaluation of secondary literature, this interpretive decision is instead based on two underlying assumptions: (1) that the Spirit is insignificant in the Epistle to the Hebrews and (2) that the actions in this citation should be attributed to the Father, not the Spirit. Thankfully, the first assumption, often represented by Barnabas Lindars’s proclamation that ‘the Spirit plays no part in the argument of the letter’,9 has been challenged several times in recent years.10 This allows me the

6

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9

10

Harold W.  Attridge, Hebrews, Hermeneia (Philadelphia:  Fortress Press, 1989), 240; Paul Ellingworth, The Epistle to the Hebrews, NIGTC (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1993), 143; Gert J. Steyn, ‘The Reception of Psalm 95(94): 7–11 in Hebrews 3– 4’, in Psalms and Hebrews: Studies in Reception, ed. Dirk J. Human and Gert J. Steyn (New York: T&T Clark, 2010), 208. Craig Koester, Hebrews, ABC 36 (New York: Doubleday, 2001), 254. Koester interprets the ‘I’ in this speech as God. For example, Gareth Lee Cockerill, The Epistle to the Hebrews, NICNT (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012), 175; William L. Lane, Hebrews 1–8, WBC 47a (Dallas, TX: Word, 1991), 85; Koester, Hebrews, 254. Barnabas Lindars, The Theology of the Letter to the Hebrews (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 56. Martin Emmrich, Pneumatological Concepts in the Epistle to the Hebrews (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2003); David M. Allen, ‘ “The Forgotten Spirit”: A Pentecostal Reading of the Letter to the Hebrews?’, Journal of Pentecostal Theology 18, no. 1 (2009): 51– 66; Steve Motyer, ‘The Spirit in Hebrews:  No Longer Forgotten?’, in The Spirit and Christ in the

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opportunity to focus attention on the second: the perceived dissonance with the author’s portrayal of the Spirit as the primary divine agent within the citation of Psalm 95.7–11. Before returning to the text itself, let me offer the clarification that to attribute the agency of this text to the Spirit in Hebrews is not to say that the Father is not also a plausible, or even typical, agent for these actions elsewhere. After all, in the original Pentateuchal narrative YHWH acts mightily in the midst of his people.11 Instead, I contend that the author’s choice to present the Spirit as the speaker of this text warrants attention, precisely because it is surprising and distinct. In the same way, the author’s presentation of Melchizedek as one ‘without father, mother, or genealogy [ἀπάτωρ ἀμήτωρ ἀγενεαλόγητος]’ (7.3) is striking, but once Psalm 110 and Genesis 14 are examined with the author’s claim in mind, we see some of the threads that the author weaves together to construct his portrait of the elusive ‘king of Salem’ (7.2). This offers one example among many that the author rarely (if ever) reads an individual text of Scripture in isolation. Instead, he offers his readers chains (1.5–14) or pairs (2.12–13; 5.5– 6; 10.30; 10.37–38; 13.5– 6) of texts that are intended to be read in light of one another. For Hebrews 3.7–4.11, a number of intertextual references are recognized (e.g. Num. 14 and 20),12 suggesting that the author’s reading of Psalm 95.7–11 is not to be taken in isolation, but instead should be interpreted in light of other texts and traditions. Rather than limiting my analysis to the Pentateuch (and Psalm 95), here I suggest that additional underlying texts are operative in this section – those outside the Pentateuch that connect the Holy Spirit, or the Spirit of the Lord, with the Israelites’ journey through the wilderness after their departure from Egypt.

11

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New Testament and Christian Theology, ed. I. Howard Marshall, Volker Rabens and Cornelis Bennema (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012), 213–27; Jack Levison, ‘A Theology of the Spirit in the Letter to the Hebrews’, CBQ 78, no. 1 (2016): 90–110. The current proposal fi nds itself at odds with Levison, who simply refers to 3.7–11 as a text about the Spirit’s inspiration of Scripture, despite his attempts to increase awareness of the Spirit’s role in Hebrews. One issue that cannot be explored in detail in this context is the fluidity in the term YHWH. Rather than inserting the Spirit (or Jesus) into a text without warrant, Jewish and Christian authors offer readings of these and other texts that specify another divine agent than the ‘Father’. Some Jewish examples are offered below. For Christian examples, see David B.  Capes, Old Testament Yahweh Texts in Paul’s Christology, WUNT II 47 (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck 1992). Using ‘Father’ to refer to God in the Pentateuch is somewhat anachronistic, but due to the flexibility in ‘YHWH’ and ‘God’, this intends to offer clarity in contexts where ‘Father’ and ‘Spirit’ need to be distinguished from one another (at the very least on a literary level). For the influence of Deuteronomy on this text, see David M.  Allen, ‘More Than Just Numbers: Deuteronomic Influence in Hebrews 3:7– 4:11’, TynBul 58, no. 1 (2007): 129– 49.

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One text of interest is Wisdom of Solomon. Here, the author or ‘Sage’ more than once identifies Sophia as spirit (1.6; 7.7; 7.22),13 even once perhaps as the ‘Spirit of the Lord’ (1.7; 9.17–18).14 These sections that summarize the character of Sophia offer the background for the Sage’s later recitation of how Sophia interacted with the Israelites. For example, she protected and cared for Adam before Eve (10.1–4); she helped Joseph when his family betrayed him (10.13– 14); and notably she led the Israelites through the wilderness and is identified with the pillar (Wis. 10.17): she guided them along a marvellous way, and became a shelter to them by day, and a starry flame through the night.15

In the Pentateuch, the pillar of cloud and fire went ahead of the Israelites as they moved (Exod. 13.20–22); also when the cloud lifted from the tent, it was a sign that they ought to resume their journey (Num. 9.15–23) – a visual reminder that YHWH moved with them and determined their path. Not only was this entity associated with God, but it was also deemed his physical manifestation – a theophany (e.g. Exod. 13.21). Later texts also appear to designate this theophany as the Spirit.16 For instance, in the Greek version of Isaiah 63.11–14, ‘in the days of Moses’ the Spirit is ‘set among them’ (63.11) and is the means by which ‘[God] guided [ἄγω] [his] people’ (63.14).17 Unless the people had two guides, this text offers a strong link between the Spirit and

13

14

15

16

17

On the Spirit and Wisdom, see Burton L.  Mack, Logos und Sophia, SUNT 10 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1973), for a full discussion, or see Joseph R. Dodson, The ‘Powers’ of Personification, BZNW 161 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), for a summary. See Matthew Edwards, Pneuma and Realized Eschatology in the Book of Wisdom, FRLANT 242 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012), 102. Edwards argues that this emerges from the Hebrew Bible from the texts where the phrase ‘spirit of wisdom’ (‫ )רוח חכמה‬occurs (Exod. 28.3; Deut. 34.9; and Isa. 11.2), as well as other texts where Wisdom gives her spirit (Prov. 1.23) or wisdom is ‘within’ a person (e.g. 1 Kgs 3). Sophia, as the pillar, also punishes Israel’s enemies. Th is strengthens the Spirit’s role in response to disobedience, but Wisdom of Solomon does not envision the Spirit punishing within the community. It is the outsiders who are judged. Francis Watson contrasts Wisdom with Paul on this point. See Paul and the Hermeneutics of Faith, 2nd edn (London: T&T Clark, 2015), 376–8. Paul seems to be comfortable with YHWH being the Spirit in 2 Corinthians 3.7–18, where he talks about the ‘glory of the Lord’ (v. 18) and says, ‘the Lord is the Spirit’ (v. 17). Nehemiah 9.19–20 is another possible text that equates the guidance of the pillar with the instruction of the Spirit. Verse 19 presents the case through a negative statement (i.e. the pillar ‘did not leave them’); then verse 20 through a positive statement (i.e. the good Spirit instructed them). Another potentially helpful text is Haggai 2.5: ‘Th is is what I covenanted with you when you came out of Egypt. And my Spirit remains among you. Do not fear’. Th is text precedes the portion of Haggai that the author quotes in 12.26.

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the pillar. The presence of YHWH – his Spirit – led Israel through the wilderness. Exhorting the contemporary readers, when the author of Hebrews uses the words of Psalm 95 to keep his audience from falling away, the Spirit, as speaker, becomes a metaphorical guide that helps them to reach the place of rest (3.11) and to make it through the place of rebellion and testing (3.8–9). Returning to Wisdom of Solomon, if the author links the Spirit and Sophia, then perhaps her acts on behalf of God’s people are depicted with the Spirit in mind also. In addition to Sophia’s role in guiding the Israelites, she has another role of interest, giving rest: When I enter my house, I shall rest with her; for companionship with her has no bitterness, and life with her has no pain, but gladness and joy. (Wis. 8.16; cf. Prov. 1.33) For at last you will find the rest she gives, and she will be changed into joy for you. (Sir. 6.28)

Although the term ‘rest’ in these texts is not interchangeable with the term in Hebrews, these authors share the idea that to continue faithfully will result in rest, whether given by the Spirit or Sophia.18 In addition to these traditions that connect the Spirit (or Sophia) with rest and the wilderness, Isaiah 63.10–14 (MT) offers a number of further connections with the reading of Psalm 95.7–11 in Hebrews: 10

But they [the wilderness generation] rebelled and grieved his Holy Spirit.

Therefore, he became their enemy; he himself fought against them. 11

Then they remembered the days of old, of Moses his servant . . .

Where is the one who put within them

18

These texts all contain prefi xed forms from the root παύω (‘stop’) that are typically associated with rest or sleep. For a more thorough discussion of ‘rest’ in Hebrews and Jewish literature, see Jon Laansma, ‘I Will Give You Rest’, WUNT II 98 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997); Otfried Hofius, Katapausis, WUNT II 11 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1970).

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his Holy Spirit? . . . 14 Like cattle that go down into the valley, the Spirit of the Lord gave them rest [‫]נוח‬19. In this way, you led your people, to make for yourself a glorious name.

Just as in Psalm 95, and thus Hebrews 3–4, in Isaiah 63 the Spirit responds negatively to the wilderness generation’s rebellious disobedience (63.10:  ‫;הרמ‬ cf. Ps. 95.8). A negative response by the Spirit is also found later in Hebrews 10.29, when the author reports that the ‘Spirit of grace’ is ‘outraged’ by those who continue to sin deliberately.20 But this is only one possible response presented in Psalm 95 and Isaiah 63. If the people instead ‘hear [God’s] voice’ (Ps. 95.7) and/or remember what he did among them (Isa. 63.11; cf. Ps. 95.9), then the Spirit will give them rest (Isa. 63.14; Ps. 95.11). Therefore, Isaiah 63 in both major traditions (Greek and Hebrew) offers a comparison for the primary components of a pneumatological reading of Psalm 95.7–11 in Hebrews, suggesting that a plain reading of the introductory formula that presents the Spirit speaking is to be preferred. While the Father and Son communicate with one another, the Spirit communicates with the community. Since he is the one in conversation with the community in Hebrews, their obedience or disobedience serves as their nonverbal reaction to the Spirit’s testimony. This occurs both verbally through his re-contextualized citations, as well as nonverbally, though that conversation remains implicit throughout Hebrews (see 2.4; 6.4; 9.8). Interpreters generally suggest that Hebrews 3.7–4.11 is a cohesive unit with only a minor division between 3.19 and 4.1,21 and that the shorter repetitions of Psalm 95.7–8 or 95.11 throughout this section point back to the full citation

19

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21

The LXX of Isaiah 63 reads ‫( נחה‬ὡδήγησεν) for ‫נוח‬. This eliminates the Spirit’s rest- giving, but strengthens his role in leading the people. Even if the LXX reading is to be preferred, the MT still offers evidence of a tradition that associated the Spirit and rest. Ephesians uses a similar rhetorical device when encouraging its audience not to ‘grieve [λυπέω] the Holy Spirit of God’ (4.30), which assumes that when faced with the pain their sin will cause the Holy Spirit, the community will turn from it and instead ‘be imitators of God’ (5.1). Th is verse is also thought to be an allusion to Isaiah 63.10–14 (Gordon D.  Fee, God’s Empowering Presence: The Holy Spirit in the Letters of Paul (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2009), 713). Cockerill, Epistle to the Hebrews, 195; Koester, Hebrews, 262; Lane, Hebrews 1–8, 69.

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of the text in Hebrews 3.7–11.22 For this reason, the question about the Spirit’s agency in the quotation of Psalm 95.7–11 is important not only for this first citation in Hebrews 3.7–11 but also for the remainder of this section of text.23 When the author quotes portions of this text again, the introductory formulas refer only to what ‘he’ has said (4.3). In other words, the agent of the later verbs of speaking is not clarified, suggesting it remains the same throughout this passage. The assumption that another divine agent (namely, the Father) is necessary is likely based on the misconception that the author’s pneumatology is insignificant; however, the Spirit testifies to Christ’s message (2.4), is a sign of salvation (6.4), is a means of Christ’s sacrifice (9.14), reveals the reasons for the old covenant to the community (9.8) and discourages its disobedience (10.29). The Spirit also speaks the words of Scripture directly to the people (3.7–4.11; 10.15–17). The pattern that emerges is the author’s consistent connection between the Spirit and the contemporary community. With this in mind, the Spirit’s agency within this citation is not only plausible, but also preferable because it fits with the author’s characterization of the Spirit as the divine agent.

‘Today’ in the Wilderness Community Once the question of the Spirit’s agency is settled, or at least set aside, we can turn to the effect that the selected quotation and the chosen speaker have on the identity of the readers. Let us begin with the text of the citation itself. This Psalm depicts the events found in the Pentateuch in order to convince the audience not to emulate the wilderness generation. The author of Hebrews also retains this feature, but his utilisation of this text goes well beyond that of the Psalter. After the initial command ‘not to harden [their] hearts’, the Psalm simply recalls the negative example; in Hebrews, however, the author creates cohesion between the original wilderness generation and his readers by

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Explicitly, Ellingworth asserts this about 3.15 and 4.7 (Epistle to the Hebrews, 228–9). Koester proposes this about 3.15 and also presumably throughout this section as he simply refers readers back to the first citation when portions are repeated (Hebrews, 261 and e.g. 271). Hermut Löhr also offers this possibility, as well as a useful summary of the author’s argument in this section. See ‘Heute, wenn ihr seine Stimme hört . . .’, in Schriftauslegung im antiken Judentum und im Urchristentum, ed. Martin Hengel and Hermut Löhr, WUNT 73 (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 1994), 226– 48.

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placing them on their own journey through the wilderness, hoping to ‘enter that rest’ (4.3).24 This extension of the wilderness space is subtle, being built upon a number of interpretive moves throughout the section. For example, in 3.16–19, the author reminds them that even those who were led by Moses, who witnessed God’s great miracles, perished in the wilderness. Since they did not obtain the promised rest, the promise remains for ‘today’ (4.1–3), a point also grounded in Psalm 95. This rest, which the author demonstrates has been in place since creation (Gen. 2.2 in Heb. 4.4), is still available to those who believe. Like Isaiah 63 and parallels in the Pentateuch, Hebrews describes the community on a journey through the temptations of the wilderness. But even in Hebrews, their goal is still only a possibility. They must make every effort if they are going to enter the promised rest (4.11). Another way that the text ties the readers to the wilderness community is the reference to them as their ‘ancestors’ (3.9:  οἱ πατέρες ὑμῶν). But in what sense are they connected to the contemporary community? Although some argue that the addressees of this text are either Jewish25 or Gentile,26 most acknowledge the likelihood that, especially as a second-generation community (cf. 2.1–4), this audience was comprised of a mixed multitude.27 If this is the case, then many of the ‘descendants’ of the wilderness generation are descendants in a metaphorical sense, rather than a literal one. The author asks this community, regardless of its background, to identify as those in the heritage of the ones that God brought out of Egypt. He asks them to consider their shared position as the (potentially) faithful ones, rather than their diverse ethnic origins. This claim is bolstered by the author’s later reference to them as the ‘people of God’ (4.8: λαός τοῦ θεοῦ). While this is certainly so of those for whom the author composed this text, the author calls all of his readers, as long as it is ‘today’ (3.13), to identify with ‘their’ ancestors. 24

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Th is theme is first highlighted by Ernst Käsemann, Das Wandernde Gottesvolk (Göttingen:  Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1957). See also William G.  Johnsson, ‘The Pilgrimage Motif in the Book of Hebrews’, JBL 97, no.  2 (1978):  239–51, as well as Matthew Th iessen, ‘Hebrews and the End of the Exodus’, NovT 49, no. 4 (2007): 353– 69. F. F.  Bruce, The Epistle to the Hebrews, Revised edn, NICNT (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1997), 7; William L.  Lane, Hebrews 1–8, liii–lv; Ceslas Spicq, L’Épître aux Hébreux, 2  vols., Études bibliques (Paris: Gabalda, 1952), 1.228–9. Although several commentaries cite others as holding to a Gentile only or primarily Gentile audience, most of those cited (all I consulted) actually hold to a mixed group. Koester cautions interpreters: ‘A simple distinction between Jewish and Gentile Christians does not help the interpretation of Hebrews’, but then goes on to note, ‘by the mid-fi rst century these churches were almost certainly mixed’ (Hebrews, 48).

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Therefore, through the author’s selection of Psalm 95, he asks his readers to imagine the wilderness experience as a trial faced by their ancestors that they too now must endure. But the author’s own reading and commentary on the text of the Psalm is not the only way that he extends the wilderness experience to his readers. If the author is drawing upon Isaiah 63 and the other texts above, then the author of Hebrews plausibly envisioned the Spirit in the midst of the wilderness community. If so, then the author’s call for the current community to imagine themselves in the wilderness also extends this dimension to their experience. By describing their spiritual journey in terms of a physical one – their possibility of ‘entering’ rest – the author draws upon their memory of the exodus in order to remind them that the Spirit is still set among them, leading them toward their goal.28 Moreover, beyond his work as a guide or presence, he speaks. The Spirit is the one who maintains his presence among the people, both then and now. By portraying the Spirit as the speaker of Psalm 95, the author is able to draw upon the readers’ associations with the wilderness space. With the original community in mind, the readers see that the Spirit is present as one who guides and as one who offers rest to the faithful or retribution to the unfaithful. A potential difference between the past and present wilderness communities is the means by which the Spirit leads; while the past wilderness generation was led by YHWH in the pillar, the contemporary community is led by the Spirit’s speech as he urges them not to fall into disobedience, and instead to hear God’s voice. A related result of the introductory formula is its presentation of this text as the message of God to the community as a whole. By attributing this text to the Spirit, rather than using a more standard formula (e.g. ‘as it is written . . .’), the author asserts that it is relevant even if the addressees themselves cannot yet perceive it. Since the warning passages in Hebrews are typically not based on current behaviour, but instead on the potential for future disobedience, the hearers need the reminder that they too are at risk. Later the Spirit also speaks, not for a warning, but for a significant blessing. It is the Holy Spirit who testifies to readers, ‘Their sins and lawless acts I will remember no more’ (10.17 quoting Jer. 31.34). Thus perhaps the Spirit speaks to them what they could not believe from the mouth of anyone apart from God. These re-contextualized quotations spoken by the Spirit 28

See Ruth Anne Reese’s chapter in this volume for a discussion of collective memory.

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provide solidarity with the previous generations who heard them, yet  also provide the assurance that this word is all the more effective because the Spirit speaks it ‘today’.29 This section where the Spirit speaks ends just as the major hinge between the first and second major sections of Hebrews begins (4.11–16). Thus, if the speech of the Father, Son and especially Spirit is central to this section, then the author’s summary of the ‘word of God’ in Hebrews 4.12 is not solely about the speech in Hebrews 3.7–4.11, but about all of the divine discourse in Hebrews (especially in 1.5–4.11).30 Though it is the Spirit who speaks directly to the community, the Father, Son and Spirit all speak in an ‘alive and effective’ way (4.12), connecting the texts of their ancestors to the present time.

Conclusion Hebrews 3.7–4.11 depicts the wilderness generation as an example to avoid. Even though they were led by God and experienced his miraculous works, they doubted his provision and were forbidden from entering the promised rest. In later traditions, it is specifically the Holy Spirit who is depicted as interacting with the wilderness community and acting as their guide, a tradition of which the author of Hebrews seems to be aware. In addition to presenting the wilderness community as an example, Hebrews more integrally connects them to his readers by depicting the community on their own journey through the wilderness. By extending aspects of the wilderness space, the author communicates that the Holy Spirit is also present among the community. Like he was with their ancestors, the Spirit is their guide, and he continues to speak the word of God to them. Although the details of the original community addressed by the Epistle to the Hebrews are elusive, this section of text provides clues about how the author viewed this group, or perhaps how he wanted them to view themselves: they were called to identify themselves within the heritage of those that God mightily rescued from Egypt, and

29

30

So Koester: ‘The mention of the Spirit in 3:7, however, has mainly to do with the way the Spirit continues to speak through the text, making it a living word of God (4:12–13)’ (Hebrews, 254). The extension of θεός to Jesus occurs in Hebrews 1.8–9. Nowhere in Hebrews is the Spirit explicitly referred to in this way, but the fact that this text occurs just after speech attributed to the Spirit (as per my reading) implicitly extends this title.

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perhaps more importantly, they were to identify themselves as a community directly addressed by the Spirit of God. This depiction of the Spirit, as the one set among the community, and as one who speaks and who responds to their belief or disbelief, offers a rich picture of the author’s pneumatology in a passage that (if the Spirit’s agency is accepted) offers the most extended discussion in the New Testament of the Spirit’s interaction with believing communities.

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‘In’ or ‘Near’? Heavenly Access and Christian Identity in Hebrews Nicholas J. Moore

The Letter to the Hebrews addresses a community that, the author believes, faces both the external pressure of persecution and the internal danger of sluggishness. These factors, whether connected or not, threaten to weaken the audience’s adherence to the social identity common to this group of firstcentury Jesus believers; indeed, some have already stopped attending their communal meetings (Heb. 10.25). To combat this danger, the author seeks to present a compelling vision of the identity of God’s people, and on this basis to exhort his addressees to a renewed commitment to the group. One striking aspect of the picture he develops is the privileged heavenly access enjoyed by God’s people through Christ. Yet here we hit a problem:  this access is portrayed as rest, the future goal of a pilgrim people (Heb. 3– 4), but also as sanctuary, the present possession of a priestly people (Heb. 5– 10). Such a dual portrayal is at best confusing, and at worst contradictory; it threatens to undermine the coherence of the identity the author portrays, and thereby the effectiveness of his ‘word of exhortation’ (13.22). This essay argues that Hebrews paints a consistent picture of immediate heavenly aid for God’s people in the present, and full and final heavenly entry at the eschaton, thereby encouraging the audience to identify with the group now and into the future. This study focuses on the literary and theological construction of identity rather than the social instantiation of that identity in the historical community to which the letter was originally sent, although it sets out from the

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historical basis that the addressees’ community membership was (as the author perceived it) under threat.1 This in itself makes Hebrews ripe for a study of identity formation,2 because conflict threatens to damage or dissolve social identity and can simultaneously, as is widely noted, be a catalyst for strengthening or solidifying identity.3 In addition, Hebrews’ location in the second half of the first century CE places it broadly within the emerging early Christian movement;4 as a minority within society at large  – one that also potentially differed from other groups of Jesus believers  – for the original audience, questions of identity and adherence would have been all the more fluid and pressing.5 The tension between pilgrim and priestly identity in Hebrews is widely noted and has been linked to a division in scholarship as well, with Protestants evincing a preference for the wandering people and Roman Catholics preferring the sacrificial cult.6 This is indicative of the importance of both kinds of material in Hebrews for the formation of Christian identity, and at the same time underlines the need for a more holistic treatment of the letter. While it would be harder to point to any such divide today, the apparent dichotomy between a future-orientated, eschatological, horizontal journey towards rest and a present-orientated, mystical, vertical contact with the sanctuary 1

2

3

4 5 6

In the case of Hebrews, for which we have no firm temporal or geographical – let alone archaeological – context, any historical supposition as to the audience’s ethnic/religious identity can proceed only via a literary examination of the letter itself. In practice, then, text and history are not so sharply distinguishable. See Ole Jakob Filtvedt, The Identity of God’s People and the Paradox of Hebrews, WUNT II 400 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 36– 44. Hebrews has not been researched from a social identity perspective to the same extent as other parts of the NT, but note the significant studies by Filtvedt, Identity of God’s People, and Richard W. Johnson, Going Outside the Camp: The Sociological Function of the Levitical Critique in the Epistle to the Hebrews, JSNTSup 209 (London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001). Johnson applies Mary Douglas’s group/grid taxonomy, classifying Hebrews’ ‘ideal society’ as weak group/ weak grid. He rightly notes Hebrews’ emphasis on boundary crossing, but wrongly infers that these boundaries are permeable; rather, they are to be crossed but not re-crossed, suggesting a strong(er) group. David G.  Horrell, ‘ “Becoming Christian”:  Solidifying Christian Identity and Content’, in Handbook of Early Christianity:  Social Science Approaches, ed. Anthony J.  Blasi, Paul-André Turcotte and Jean Duhaime (Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press, 2002), 313–15. Horrell, ‘Becoming Christian’, 315–31; for Hebrews, see 325. Filtvedt, Identity of God’s People, 34– 6. William G.  Johnsson, ‘Cultus of Hebrews in Twentieth-Century Scholarship’, ExpTim 89 (1978): 104–8. See also Craig R. Koester, ‘ “In Many and Various Ways”: Theological Interpretation of Hebrews in the Modern Period’, in Hebrews in Contexts, ed. Gabriella Gelardini and Harold W. Attridge, AGJU 91 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 299–315. Koester explores the interaction of interpreters’ theological and contextual concerns with their understanding of Hebrews’ central message; in addition to journey (Lutheran) and cult (Roman Catholic) he explores a third category, the progressive Presbyterian emphasis on freedom of access and nearness to God exhibited by Alexander Bruce and James Moffatt.

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remains a sticking point in reading Hebrews.7 Furthermore, the question of access to the heavenly realm lies at the heart of the differences between these motifs in Hebrews: can heaven be accessed now, as the priestly imagery suggests, or does it remain inaccessible until finally entered definitively, as the pilgrimage motif seems to imply? Given the centrality of access in this problem, a study of approach and entrance terminology takes us to the nub of the issue. I will argue that Hebrews maintains a careful distinction whereby εἰσέρχομαι describes Jesus’ past and believers’ future entrance into heaven, while προσέρχομαι describes the way believers approach (but do not enter) heaven in the present.8 I will treat each of these three temporal categories in turn, broadly in order of their appearance in Hebrews. In each section we will pay attention to (1) who enters/approaches, (2)  what is entered/approached and (3) when.

When do the Saints Go Marching In? The verb εἰσέρχομαι appears eleven times in Hebrews 3–4,9 always relating to entrance into rest; a further six occurrences come in Hebrews 6 and 9–10,10 all relating to Jesus’ entry into the celestial sanctuary.11 Closer investigation will confirm that εἰσέρχομαι is used consistently in two distinct but related ways. The term first occurs in the citation of Ps. 95.11 (LXX 94.11) in Heb. 3.11, in the curse on the unfaithful wilderness generation. The phrase εἰ εἰσελεύσονται εἰς τὴν κατάπαυσίν μου literally reads ‘if they will enter into my rest’, but the underlying Hebrew leaves unspoken the apodosis of a traditional curse

7

8

9 10 11

One recent attempt to address the dichotomy is Jared C.  Calaway, The Sabbath and the Sanctuary: Access to God in the Letter to the Hebrews and Its Priestly Context, WUNT II 349 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013). The most thorough examination of these terms in Hebrews, arguing for a distinction along these lines, is John M. Scholer, Proleptic Priests: Priesthood in the Epistle to the Hebrews, JSNTSup 49 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 91–184. I think Hebrews shows greater terminological consistency than Scholer allows. I am grateful to Scott Mackie for sharing a pre-publication draft of his thorough critique of the view defended here, ‘ “Let Us Draw Near . . . but Not Too Near”:  A  Critique of the Attempted Distinction between “Drawing Near” and “Entering” in Hebrews’ Entry Exhortations’, in Listen, Understand, and Obey: Essays on Hebrews in Honor of Gareth Lee Cockerill, ed. C. Friedeman (Eugene: Pickwick, 2016). Heb. 3.11, 18, 19; 4.1, 3 (x2), 5, 6 (x2), 10, 11. Heb. 6.19, 20; 9.12, 24, 25; 10.5. With the exception of 10.5, addressed below, where he enters the κόσμος.

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form: ‘if they enter, I will do such and such’. The sense is thus ‘they will not enter my rest’.12 In a further five instances the verb denotes the wilderness generation’s failure to enter. Hebrews 3.18, 19 and the second occurrence of εἰσέρχομαι in 4.6 affirm that the wilderness generation did not enter because of unbelief/disobedience. The phrase from the Psalm is quoted again verbatim in 4.3 and 5, emphatically underlining the author’s argument that precisely because they did not enter, the rest must be open to others. That is to say, (1) wilderness and conquest generations did not enter (2) divine rest (3) in the time of Moses and Joshua. The other five instances of εἰσέρχομαι in Hebrews 3– 4 relate to the audience, either directly or indirectly. An explicit application to the audience is found in 4.3 and 11. The latter brings the section to a close with a climactic exhortation to strive to enter God’s rest (hortatory subjunctive of σπουδάζω with aorist infinitive εἰσελθεῖν), implying that the audience has not yet entered but may enter in the future. Hebrews 4.3 presents a more complex case:  there is temporal ambiguity in the statement ‘we who have believed enter (εἰσερχόμεθα) that rest’.13 The present tense-form could be taken as temporally present14  – ‘we enter now’  – or as futuristic  – ‘we will enter’. The context supports a future entry: rest is the subject of a ‘promise’ (4.1), it ‘remains’ (4.6, 9) and, far from already having ceased from works (4.10), the audience is exhorted to ‘strive to enter’ it (4.11).15 Those commentators who see εἰσερχόμεθα as temporally present in fact tend to emphasize the imperfective aspect of the present tense-form, regarding the action as unfinished;16 in practice, in this context, this amounts to an admission that rest remains 12

13

14

15

16

Harold W. Attridge, The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1989), 116 and n. 37. In referring to temporal ambiguity, the question of grammaticalization of time in verbal forms inevitably rears its head. While I incline towards the view that time reference is contained within the verbal form – at least in default indicative usage – and while attention will be given to both the usual temporal and aspectual associations of particular verbal forms in the discussion that follows, I recognize that contextual factors can and do override these. In practice, then, context is paramount and plays a major role in determining the temporal location of entrance and approach. So, for example, B.  F. Westcott, The Epistle to the Hebrews:  The Greek Text, 3rd edn (London: Macmillan, 1920), 96; Samuel Bénétreau, L’Épître aux Hébreux, 2 vols, Commentaire Évangélique de la Bible (Vaux-sur-Seine: ÉDIFAC, 1988), 1.172–3. So Paul Ellingworth, The Epistle to the Hebrews:  A  Commentary on the Greek Text, NIGTC (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1993), 246. Mackie overstates his case by describing 4.3 as ‘a singular, stunning declaration of eschatological fulfi lment’, and unjustifiably translates εἰσερχόμεθα with an English perfect: ‘we have entered that rest’. Scott D. Mackie, Eschatology and Exhortation in the Epistle to the Hebrews, WUNT II 223 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 49.

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to be entered in the future. So, for example, Attridge states that εἰσερχόμεθα ‘should not be taken simply as a futuristic present, referring only to the eschaton . . . but as a reference to the complex process on which “believers” . . . are even now engaged, although this process will certainly have an eschatological consummation’.17 Those who emphasize process also allow an element of contingency,18 which is in line with 3.6 and 14 (‘we are Christ’s house/ partners, if we hold fast’), and which suggests that if believers do not ‘go on entering’ the rest they will not ultimately be found to have entered it. That is, even the continuous reading of εἰσερχόμεθα stops short of saying that believers enter rest in the present. The three occurrences of εἰσέρχομαι that are applied indirectly to the audience come in 4.1, 6 and 10. Verse 1 combines the statement that a promise of entering rest remains open with a solemn warning to the audience:  ‘let us fear, lest any one of you be deemed to have fallen short’.19 Present fear will prevent them from falling short of future entrance. Verse 6 offers a similar, if more general, perspective on rest: ‘it remains open for some to enter it’; the warning note persists in the reminder that the wilderness generation failed to enter because they disobeyed. The meaning of Heb. 4.10 is more contested. In short, disagreement centres on the substantive aorist participle ὁ εἰσελθών, ‘the one who enters/entered’, which could denote believers20 or Jesus. I find the latter reading preferable,21 but either is consistent with the overall picture of the use of εἰσέρχομαι in Hebrews that is developing. If the statement is taken with reference to the believer, the main verb κατέπαυσεν functions as a gnomic or timeless aorist, expressing a general truth and not a particular temporally bound fact:  ‘all those who enter rest also rest from their works’ (cf. NRSV). Although this statement in itself says nothing about when rest is entered, since believers have not ceased from their works, we infer that they have not yet entered rest. If, by contrast, the verse is taken with reference to Jesus, κατέπαυσεν refers 17 18

19

20 21

Attridge, Hebrews, 126 (emphasis added). Most explicitly David A. deSilva, ‘Entering God’s Rest: Eschatology and the Socio-Rhetorical Strategy of Hebrews’, TrinJ 21 (2000): 29–32, who casts his view as a middle way between true and futuristic present. Translation from Attridge, Hebrews, 122, conveying the force of φοβέω, against the somewhat anaemic ‘let us take care’ (NRSV). Ellingworth, Hebrews, 255–7. Nicholas J. Moore, ‘Jesus as “The One Who Entered His Rest”: The Christological Reading of Hebrews 4.10’, JSNT 36 (2014): 383– 400.

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to a past event: Jesus has rested from his works (of salvation), an act or state which is logically preceded by his entrance into rest. In this case, ὁ εἰσελθών fits the pattern for εἰσέρχομαι which will be observed in Hebrews’ central section: it describes (1) Jesus’ entry (2) into a heavenly sphere (3) in the past. If the christological reading is adopted, this occurrence of εἰσέρχομαι is remarkable not for how it is used – which is consistent with one of the two uses of the verb in Hebrews – but for where it comes, and it could serve as one small indication that these apparently divergent motifs are more integrated than they first appear. To return to the broader question: in relation to the audience, εἰσέρχομαι in Hebrews 3–4 describes (1)  the addressees entering (2)  divine rest (3) in the future. The wilderness and conquest generations’ failure to enter undergirds this point, which in turn forms the basis for the exhortations to keep going towards rest which punctuate the whole discussion (3.12–13; 4.1, 11). To be sure, such rest is not far off or distant.22 Rather, it is imminent – like Israel at Kadesh Barnea (Num. 13–14), the audience stands on the threshold of the promise – yet for all that it remains emphatically future; indeed, its imminence and precariousness hinge on its very futurity.

Thou within the Veil Hast Entered Of the remaining six occurrences of εἰσέρχομαι, three straightforwardly indicate Jesus’ entrance into the heavenly sanctuary: Jesus entered inside the curtain (6.20);23 Jesus entered the most holy place once for all (9.12);24 Jesus did not enter a handmade sanctuary but heaven itself (9.24). In each case the form is a singular active aorist indicative, εἰσῆλθεν, ‘he entered’.25 Where the Septuagint uses three terms (εἰσέρχομαι, εἰσπορεύομαι and εἴσειμι) 22

23

24

25

So Albert Vanhoye, ‘Longue marche ou accès tout proche? Le contexte biblique de Hébreux 3,7– 4,11’, Bib 49 (1968): 9–26, correcting Käsemann’s less urgent conception of ‘wandering’ (Ernst Käsemann, Das wandernde Gottesvolk). Also deSilva, ‘Entering God’s Rest’, 32. Which tabernacle curtain is contested; the description of Jesus as high priest (ἀρχιερεύς) in 6.20 suggests it is the veil between holy and most holy place. So Ellingworth, Hebrews, 347. I take τὰ ἅγια (with the article) in Hebrews to indicate the inner as opposed to the outer compartment of the tabernacle, given that in every occurrence the high priest’s entry in the context of Yom Kippur is in view. So Bénétreau, Hébreux, 2.72; Kenneth L.  Schenck, Cosmology and Eschatology in Hebrews: The Settings of the Sacrifice, SNTSMS 143 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 145–7. Cf. the perfect of διέρχομαι describing Jesus passing through the heavens, 4.14.

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interchangeably to translate ‫ אוב‬in a cultic context,26 Hebrews restricts itself to only one of these, εἰσέρχομαι, to describe entering the most holy place. Two of the other instances are only slightly less straightforward. In 6.19 hope is likened to a sure and steadfast anchor, the present possession of the believer, which enters (εἰσερχομένην) inside the curtain, where, as v. 20 clarifies, Jesus has entered as our forerunner. The combination of imagery is certainly odd – an anchor entering a tabernacle curtain? – but the overall sense is clear and mirrors that of v. 20. The purpose of an anchor is to be lodged somewhere in a way that a ship cannot be, but in a way that secures the vessel so long as the two remain connected (neatly illustrated by contrasting Acts 27.29 with 40). The anchor of hope is inside the most holy place, and the believer’s call in this life is not to try to reach that anchor itself, but simply to cling on to the rope. The difference between the images of anchor and ‘forerunner’ (πρόδρομος) in the following verse is that the latter suggests the believer will ultimately follow Jesus inside the curtain. The use of the participle εἰσερχομένην with anchor is unusual, and could just about be stretched to mean ‘extending’ or ‘reaching’ within the curtain, but the incongruity is deliberate and draws attention to the active sense of the verb, which is reinforced by its recurrence in v. 20.27 The anchor of hope is in the most holy place because it, like Jesus, has already entered within the curtain. Not dissimilar to Heb. 6.19, the present indicative εἰσέρχεται in 9.25 is closely related to a description of Jesus’ entrance into the heavenly sanctuary. The argument of 9.24–28 proceeds through a series of negative clarifications in vv. 24–26a to a climactic statement of Jesus’ once-for-all eschatological sacrifice in v. 26b, which is then expanded by comparison with human death in vv. 27–28. The negative statements clarify the differences between Jesus’ sacrifice and the Yom Kippur rite: Christ did not enter a handmade sanctuary, but heaven itself; he offered himself not repeatedly, but once. The author adds a parenthetical remark to explain the mention of ‘offering repeatedly’: ‘like the high priest enters the most holy place every year’. This states a general, gnomic truth about the tabernacle system; it is incorrect to see it as temporally specific, and indeed most commentators recognize that we cannot infer from the present tense-form that the Jerusalem temple was still standing when the 26 27

Scholer, Proleptic Priests, 150. Attridge, Hebrews, 184.

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author wrote.28 The use of εἰσέρχομαι underlines the parallel with Jesus, even as the imperfective aspect of the present tense-form (reinforced by πολλάκις and in contrast to ἅπαξ) highlights a difference: just as the high priest enters the most holy place, so Jesus entered the heavenly most holy place; but unlike the high priest who enters annually, Jesus entered once. The significance of εἰσέρχομαι here is seen more fully if we consider 9.6–7, which contrasts the priestly with the high priestly service in the tabernacle:  ‘the priests go into the first tent regularly to perform divine worship, but only the high priest into the second once a year’. Strikingly, the verb used of regular priestly service is εἴσειμι and not εἰσέρχομαι, and it is omitted when describing the high priest.29 The ordinary Levitical priests ‘go in’ to the tabernacle’s outer compartment, but they do not ‘enter’ in the special sense Hebrews reserves for accessing the most holy place. The contrast between priests and the high priest forms part of an elaborate typology extending throughout 9.1–14 in which Christ, like the high priest, is said to have entered (εἰσῆλθεν) once for all (9.12, ἐφάπαξ, drawing out both the similarities and dissimilarities with ἅπαξ τοῦ ἐνιαυτοῦ, v. 7). The fi nal occurrence of εἰσέρχομαι comes in Heb. 10.5, which introduces a citation from Psalm 40. The present participle εἰσερχόμενος locates the speech concurrently with the action of entering (‘as Christ enters, he says’) – the aorist participle εἰσελθών would by contrast suggest antecedent action (‘after Christ has entered, he says’) – and does not reflect a present temporal setting. The difficulty for my case lies rather in what is entered, ‘the world’ (κόσμος). Th is is a clear reference to the incarnation, 30 and as such it cuts against the hitherto consistent use of εἰσέρχομαι to describe Jesus’ entrance into heaven on the model of high priestly entrance into the tabernacle. In fact, however, this final occurrence of εἰσέρχομαι in Hebrews is the exception that proves the rule. Both in Hebrews 3–4 and in the cultic section,

28

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On gnomic usage, see Stanley E. Porter, Verbal Aspect in the Greek of the New Testament, with Reference to Tense and Mood, SBG 1 (New York: Peter Lang, 1989), 217–25; B. M. Fanning, Verbal Aspect in New Testament Greek, OTM (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), 208–17. Cf. Exod. 28.29, 35 where εἴσειμι translates ‫בוא‬, describing Aaron’s entry into the sanctuary, without specifying inner or outer. In using εἴσειμι for priests and εἰσέρχομαι for the high priest Hebrews displays greater terminological specificity than the LXX. Unlike 1.6, where the sense of οἰκουμένη (meaning ‘inhabited world’ and thus normally synonymous with κόσμος) is contested (cf. 2.6 where it denotes the coming world).

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the verb has been used to describe the transition from one domain or sphere of existence into another. At a trivial level some such transition is true of every act of entering, but Hebrews uses εἰσέρχομαι only for major transitions: from wilderness into promised land; from a place and state of labour into a place and state of rest; from a profane into a sacred space; from ordinary into sacred time; from earth into heaven.31 In this light, Christ ‘entering the world’ at his incarnation does not represent a completely different and unprecedented use of the verb, but rather a simple ‘redirection’;32 he crosses the same border between earthly and heavenly realms, but in the opposite direction. And he does so in order to cross back, as stated just a few verses further on in 10.10 (where ἐφάπαξ recalls the explicit mention of entrance in 9.12). In summary, in the central section of Hebrews εἰσέρχομαι describes (1) Jesus’ entrance (2) into another ontological realm (3) in the past, and in all but one case his entrance into the heavenly most holy place is in view.

Nearer, My God, to Thee In contrast to Jesus’ past entrance into the sanctuary and the addressees’ anticipated future entrance into rest and concomitant call to keep going, in two major exhortations (4.14–16 and 10.19–25)33 we find a call to approach God in heaven in the present (προσερχώμεθα). The other occurrences of προσέρχομαι in Hebrews also describe present action. In the Septuagint προσέρχομαι can describe a cultic approach,34 both by the whole people of God and by the Levitical priests,35 but this sense is by no means universal, and the verb often describes approach generally, be that in a fight (Deut. 25.11), to speak with someone (Gen. 42.24), or for sexual relations (Exod. 19.15). It is nevertheless significant that over a quarter of the occurrences of προσέρχομαι in the LXX Pentateuch relate explicitly to the 31

32 33

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In this connection, note that εἰσάγω and ἄγω describe the same fundamental boundarycrossing action, but with God as the subject leading the Son (1.6) and the sons (2.10) into the heavenly realm. Attridge, Hebrews, 273. Structurally, these exhortations mirror one another and demarcate the central, cultic section of the letter. BDAG, ‘προσέρχομαι’, 878; Attridge, Hebrews, 141. A cultic sense is found in contemporaneous Jewish and Greco-Roman literature, cf. Philo, Deus Imm. 8; Plutarch, E Delph. 2. Cf., e.g., Lev. 9.5 with 7.

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tabernacle or tent of meeting,36 a proportion that rises to almost half if we include references to Sinai, the Passover, or the congregation of Israel,37 all of which have cultic connections. The term’s setting within Hebrews remains primary, but this biblical context is not unimportant.38 On close examination, all seven occurrences of προσέρχομαι in Hebrews have a cultic setting and therefore carry the sense of approaching God in worship.39 The one possible exception is in 11.6, which I will tackle first, together with the other substantival participles at 7.25 and 10.1. In 11.6 a more generic reference is made to the prerequisite condition of faith in God’s existence and goodness for ‘the one who approaches’ (τὸν προσερχόμενον); yet the fact that God is explicitly named as the object of the approach, and the mention of sacrifice in the near context by Abel (11.4) and Abraham (11.17), suggest a cultic nuance. In 10.1 τοὺς προσερχομένους denotes old covenant worshippers, who by inference draw near to God, or at least to the tabernacle. In 7.25 people approach God through Christ, the perpetually interceding high priest. The verb ἐγγίζω functions similarly a few verses earlier, describing the better hope ‘through which we approach God’ (7.19), as is made clear by comparing the two verses: 7.19: 

δι᾽ ἧς ἐγγίζομεν

7.25: 

τοὺς

προσερχομένους

τῷ θεῷ δι᾽ αὐτοῦ

τῷ θεῷ

Notably, believers approach in this way under both old (10.1) and new covenants (7.19, 25; 11.6). Thus (1) God’s people have always been able to approach him (2) in his sanctuary (3) in their present. 36

37

38

39

Twelve of forty- seven occurrences: Lev. 9.5, 7, 8; 21.17, 18, 21, 23; 22.3; Num. 17.5; 18.3, 4, 22. Thirty of the forty-seven instances translate ‫קרב‬, but it is hard to discern terminological consistency in Hebrew, as ‫ קרב‬is used in both cultic and non-cultic expressions and, vice versa, several of the cultic ‘approaches’ are described with other verbs such as ‫ נ גשׁ‬and ‫( בוא‬e.g. Lev. 21.21, 23). Twenty-two; the ten additional references are: Exod. 12.48; 16.9; 34.32; Lev. 10.4, 5; Num. 9.6; 27.2; Deut. 4.11; 5.23, 27. The LXX makes a more careful terminological distinction than does the MT, for example translating ‫ בוﬡ‬with προσέρχομαι in Lev. 21.23 and Num. 4.19 to avoid the suggestion that anyone other than the high priest enters the most holy place; Scholer, Proleptic Priests, 91– 4, 201. Far from imposing thi s LXX distinction onto Hebrews, as Mackie , ‘Critique’, suggests, I wou ld argue that in Hebrews we find a more consistent distinction between προσέρχομαι, εἴσειμι and εἰσέρχομαι – that is, Hebrews represents an extension of the trend found in the LXX. Note the presence of Jesus as high priest (4.14–16; 7.24–25; 10.21–22); sacrifices (10.1); the πανήγυρις (12.18, 22). Th is is not to claim their setting is exclusively cultic, merely that the cultic nuance has a prominent part to play.

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This impression is confirmed by 12.18 and 22. Here the perfect indicative προσεληλύθατε is used twice, first to describe Mt Sinai, which the addressees have not approached, and secondly to describe Mt Zion, which they have approached. The perfect tense-form generally has a stative function,40 and this holds here: the author pictures his audience as currently standing at the foot of a mountain. The contrast symbolizes the two covenants, one foreboding and the other festive. Yet, crucially, the audience is not said to have entered the heavenly Jerusalem: however appealing the party, there is no suggestion that the audience is already among the angels, the assembly of the firstborn, or the perfected, righteous spirits.41 That the audience has not approached Mt Sinai evokes the fact that the Israelites did approach it (Deut. 4.11); in both covenants God’s people approach a mountain, and in neither case do they go up onto it. The difference between the two lies not in the present but in the future when, after their death (Heb. 9.27) or Jesus’ return (9.28), the addressees will proceed into the heavenly Jerusalem – along with the faithful from the old covenant (11.10, 13–16, 39–40). The final two occurrences of προσέρχομαι are the hortatory subjunctives at 4.16 and 10.22. In both cases the context is clearly cultic and the appeal is for habitual, regular approach to God.42 I will focus on 10.19–25 because this passage also refers to the ‘entrance’ (εἴσοδος) believers have and the ‘way’ (ὁδός) Jesus has inaugurated for them. As with the English noun ‘entrance’, εἴσοδος can denote the act of entering or the means of entry.43 The preposition εἰς could suggest the verbal sense, ‘we have confidence to enter’ (so most translations), but it can equally mean ‘with regard to’, as for example in 7.14 (‘Moses said nothing concerning [εἰς] that tribe’; cf. 6.10; 9.9; 12.3). Hebrews 10.20 gives further information: ‘which [entrance] Jesus inaugurated for us as a new and living way’.44 It is hard to see how an act of entering could be inaugurated,

40

41 42

43 44

‘The action is conceived of . . . as reflecting a given (often complex) state of affairs’; Stanley E.  Porter, Idioms of the Greek New Testament, 2nd edn (Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 21–2. See also Fanning, Verbal Aspect, 153– 4, 291–7. Scholer, Proleptic Priests, 147. ‘Present aspect [in imperatival forms] should normally be understood as customary or multiple in sense, rather than progressive or descriptive in a narrow scope: it does not mean “keep on doing” . . . but “make it your habit to do” ’ (Fanning, Verbal Aspect, 332–3; emphasis original). Fanning proceeds to cite Heb. 4.16 as an example (334). For the former cf. Acts 13.24; 1 Thess. 1.9; 2.1; for the latter, 2 Pet. 1.11. The relative ἥν refers back to εἴσοδον, not παρρησία , given the parallel with ὁδός; Ellingworth, Hebrews, 518.

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and the clarification that the εἴσοδος is a ‘way’ (ὁδός) confirms the concrete sense of the noun.45 Hebrews 10.19–20 can, then, be paraphrased as follows: ‘Therefore, brothers and sisters, since we are confident that there is an entrance to the most holy place, by means of Jesus’ blood, an entrance that he inaugurated for us as a new and living way through the curtain.’ Verse 21 adds that believers have a great priest, a reminder of the need for and availability of effective mediation. It is striking, then, that vv. 19–21 should form the basis for an exhortation to draw near and not to enter in v. 22. If we have an entrance, surely we should avail ourselves of it and enter? Yet this would be to miss the careful use of cultic imagery: the way in to the sanctuary and the high priest serve to ground the worshippers’ confidence that the cult is effective, and so they draw near to worship, but they themselves do not go in, at least at this point.46 To claim otherwise is to sidestep Jesus’ role as mediator.47 Like the old covenant people the audience draw near to the heavenly tabernacle, or even perhaps like the old covenant priests they draw near within the outer sanctuary,48 but they do not now enter the most holy place. We draw near to God, and all the more as the Day draws near to us (10.25), but, until that Day, we do not enter. Examination of προσέρχομαι in Hebrews shows that (1)  believers draw near (2) to God in the heavenly sanctuary (3) in their present day-to-day lives. While the author makes the privilege of this access very clear, in part by contrast with the old covenant,49 he stops short of suggesting that believers enter heaven in the present, instead giving prominence to the priestly mediation of Jesus.

45

46

47

48

49

So Attridge, Hebrews, 284. Contra W. Michaelis, ‘εἴσοδος’, TDNT 5:103–9; BDAG ‘εἴσοδος’, 294. Contrast 9.8, where the ὁδός was not yet manifest, which highlights the more certain access available under the new covenant. By a similar token, approaching the throne of grace (4.16) is not said to entail entering or passing through the heavens (4.14); the notion of approaching the mercy seat is not found in the LXX, so provides little guidance either way. Mackie, ‘Critique’, overemphasizes the family affi nity between Jesus and believers, thereby underplaying Jesus’ mediating role (8.6). This latter suggestion would accord with a cosmological view of the tabernacle, with earth as the outer and heaven the inner sanctuary. So, e.g., Schenck, Cosmology and Eschatology, 151– 4. Well-demonstrated by Scott D. Mackie, ‘Ancient Jewish Mystical Motifs in Hebrews’ Theology of Access and Entry Exhortations’, NTS 58 (2012): 88–104.

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Conclusion The foregoing investigation shows that within Hebrews εἰσέρχομαι is used to describe Jesus and believers entering another ontological domain, whereas προσέρχομαι is used only of believers drawing near God in worship, and never of Jesus. Nowhere are the two verbs ‘synonymous cultic terms which are used interchangeably’;50 rather, they are carefully distinguished. When the place entered is taken into account, εἰσέρχομαι can further be divided between Jesus’ entrance into the most holy place (or in one case into the world, 10.5) and believers’ entrance into rest. And when time is considered, a tripartite temporal sequence emerges: in the past Jesus entered the heavenly most holy place; in the present believers are regularly to approach (but not enter) that sanctuary; in the future believers will enter heavenly rest. This scheme offers a coherent picture of Hebrews’ conception of access, yet without entirely flattening the tensions noted in the introduction. For all that we might infer that believers will enter the heavenly most holy place at the eschaton, this is never explicitly stated, and thus we should be cautious of supposing that rest and sanctuary ‘collapse into divine singularity’.51 Rather, approach to the sanctuary and entrance into rest present complementary images of the access to God enjoyed by his people: in both cases the people are near and not yet in, but the former characterizes the present and the latter the future. In the face of both internal and external threats to adherence to group identity, the author portrays a coherent and sweeping vision of heavenly access. This reality is based on the definitive past grounds of Jesus’ heavenly entry, and is the subject of both present exhortation and future promise. It therefore carries great privilege, which forms a strong motivation to continue to belong to this group. Yet at the same time, the believers’ proximity to heaven is precarious, a picture with which the audience would identify strongly given their present difficulties. Because they are near but not in, their location is liminal:  they are on the threshold but could fall short of entering the rest; they draw near to but have not entered the sanctuary; they have approached but have not yet gone up onto Mt Zion. As is clear from Hebrews’ 50 51

Scholer, Proleptic Priests, 182. Calaway, Sabbath and Sanctuary, 206.

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stark warnings, such precariousness is the other side of the coin to the privileged access afforded by Christ, and supplements the positive motivation this provides with a fearful alternative scenario. God’s people have a borderland identity: they live on earth and not yet in heaven, but heaven’s realities are near at hand, and heaven itself stands open for those who persevere to the end.

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Epilogue A Reflection Robert W. Wall

The academy’s long-standing ‘neglect’ of scripture’s non-Pauline epistles, and its trickle-down effect upon the church’s seminary-trained clergy, evinces a troubling effect of contemporary criticism’s reception of the church’s scripture. Its inattentiveness subverts the academy’s otherwise noble attempt to gain a responsible understanding of earliest Christianity, even when mostly for religiously benign reasons. The resultant muting of scripture’s ancient witnesses to the faith envisages a serious theological problem as well, since it subverts scripture’s proper roles within the church in forming Christian faith and a vital life with God. The following reflection trades on both these observations.1 The presumed triumph of Pauline Christianity, most evident today in the communions of the magisterial Reformation, has had the effect of either flattening the subject matter of certain non-Pauline letters for their uneasy compliance to a Pauline theological grammar (e.g. Hebrews, 1 Peter) or marginalizing others from serious attention for a fully NT theology (e.g. James, 2 Peter). The Johannine epistles are typically relocated to a subgroup of writings that includes the fourth Gospel and sometimes the Apocalypse; it is studied, therefore, outside the Catholic Epistles collection within which they are otherwise received and read within the NT canon.

1

I place ‘neglect’ in quotes, not because I  disagree with this collection’s orienting concern, but because I  suggest below a different typology for the intracanonical relationship between the Pauline and non-Pauline NT collections that may revise how we understand this long-standing practice.

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Anecdotal evidence suggests that this studied disregard of these ‘neglected’ texts in the clergy’s theological education has shaped a bias against their use in parish worship, catechesis and mission. Even when the Lectionary, for example, includes NT lessons from non- (and deutero-) Pauline books, they are rarely the focus of the church’s preaching or teaching ministry and are, in fact, typically ignored – at least in my experience – even when appointed for ecclesial use to thicken the canonical context for hearing God’s word in the gospel of Christ. One may assume that this disregard is typically justified for critical reasons.2 Different contributors to this collection alluded to the different reasons for this perceived imbalance between the canonical ‘core’, which includes the fourfold Gospel and the Pauline letters collection, and the particular NT writing under discussion. What also seems clear is that this imbalance is instantiated from the very beginning of the canonical process. It is, I would argue, a canonized imbalance and so is normative of their reading and use. Most recent historians who have attempted to reconstruct the formation of the NT canon – a project that began with the Reformation and always with sparse evidence in hand  – admit to its dynamic nature that unfolded over an extended period of time. On the one hand, there were always in play two relatively stable collections, Gospel and Pauline, in wide circulation early on. No conciliar confirmation was needed. It would seem the church’s steady and effective uses of this proto-canonical core through the second century, when it was perhaps more widely used than earliest Christianity’s LXX (the OT of the NT), forged an ecclesial intuition of their catholic authority. Certainly the collected nature of the fourfold Gospel tradition and the Pauline letters collection produced a sustained and substantial effect among congregations of mostly converted non-Jews already in the first half of the second century.3 2

3

My co-author, Anthony Robinson, and I were told by publishers that our proposed book on the Pastoral Epistles, despite its relevance for our intended audience, would have difficulty attracting readers (especially among Robinson’s mainline ministerial colleagues in America) whose seminary education has turned them against these biblical books. On the other hand, more conservative readers tend to look for agreement on a variety of critical issues (e.g. Pauline authorship), which are mostly indeterminate, as a criterion for the book’s usefulness. My principal conversation partner in this regard is David Trobisch, both his published/presented work and in private conversations, regarding the manuscript evidence that sustains his reconstruction of the four canonical volumes that came to make up the ‘fi nal edition of the New Testament’, the Gestalt of each volume in place early on but then achieving its canonical form over time.

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The failure of the church’s mission to Jews, both in Roman Palestine and the Diaspora, only exacerbated this effect  – an effect, I  believe, that implicitly slowed the reception of the writings of the Jewish apostolate (‘James, Cephas, and John’, so Gal. 2.7 – a rubric contextualized by the narrative of the church’s Jewish mission in Acts). In any case, this proto-canon of Gospel and Apostle, even if not in response to Marcion as Harnack imagined it, reified the overall aesthetic of the NT’s final redaction, which I contend is hermeneutically important (see below). What must be said, however, is that the church’s earliest canon lists, which began to appear once this proto-canonical core stabilized during the second century, envisage a considerably more fluid ‘second stage’ of the canonical process that extended at least into the fift h century when uncial manuscript collections envisage greater stability that roughly corresponds to our current twenty-seven-book NT. In light of this historical datum, it would seem a mistake for us to argue against the formation of a fi xed and closed biblical canon that, with the ecumenical creeds from this same period, helped to regulate the continuing growth of ‘one holy catholic and apostolic church’. Given the variety of studies in this collection that seek to reconstruct the ‘identities’ of the implied Christian congregations addressed by the NT’s non-Pauline books, I would suggest the global church’s self-confession of these four marks constitutes its essential identity going forward.4 I find Albert Sundberg’s (contested) distinction between ‘scripture’ and ‘canon’ useful in understanding the fluid nature of this second stage of the canonical process. The relevant phenomena of the third and fourth centuries evinced the church’s wide-ranging use of edifying texts useful in forming an apostolic faith, including non-canonical writings (Hermes, Letters of Clement, Didache, Apocalypse of Peter etc.), which Sundberg refers to as ‘scripture’. Among these texts the church found some had the unique or added capacity to function as a doctrinal and moral plumb-line in defining and defending the church’s apostolic faith; these texts, Sundberg suggests, were selected for inclusion in the emergent NT ‘canon’. The relevant issue in this selection process was more than the frequency of a text’s religious uses but the manner of

4

See R.  W. Wall, Why the Church?, RNTT (Nashville:  Abingdon, 2015); also Daniel Castelo and R.  W. Wall, ‘Scripture and the Church:  A  Précis for an Alternative Analogy’, JTI 5, no.  2 (2011): 197–210.

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its use, whether it is quoted or listed to distinguish its capacity for ‘canonical’ performances.5 Moreover, the spotty inclusion of Acts and the Catholic Epistles in canon lists into the third century along with no mention of a discrete volume of CE at least until Eusebius (320–30 CE), may reflect the church’s hesitancy to valorize any text outside of its proto-canonical core.6 I would suggest the early church engaged in this practice of privileging a proto-canon consisting of the four Gospels of the apostles and the Pauline letters collection, relegating those outside this core to a ‘second string’ status – a pattern of reading that has continued to this day.7 Indeed, the dialectic this collection envisages between scripture’s privileged core and all ‘others’ was present from the very beginning of scripture’s formation and may even be hermeneutical in relating the different collections of the whole canon. The special problem of the NT letter titled ‘To the Hebrews’ in this formulation of the canonical process is well known. It is axiomatic among scholars that the titles of New Testament books are not authorial properties, but rather post-biblical additions by later editors, cued by the literary conventions of antiquity,8 by secondary traditions or by a common-sense reading of the composition itself. As such, book titles rarely attract critical attention and are

5

6

7

8

Professor John Barton called my attention to the work of Franz Stuhlhofer who counted the number of quoted or alluded Christian texts found in extant second- and third-century works. Barton uses this numerical analysis to present a more functional defi nition of canon. That is, the more frequently a text is used, the greater its importance or authority. Stuhlhofer is also able to index the expansion of the NT canon by the statistical increase in the uses (as recorded in ancient Christian postbiblical texts) of specific biblical books during the fi rst several centuries of the CE; see Barton’s summary of this idea in Holy Writings, Sacred Text: The Canon in Early Christianity (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997), 14–24. A concern I share with Barton is the absence of agreed-upon criteria that would guide careful readers to distinguish between a writer’s appeal to a text in a way that performs a genuinely ‘canonical’ role (e.g. Irenaeus’s use of Acts in Book Th ree of Against Heresies) and other more mundane uses. Stuhlhofer’s counting is a necessary fi rst step but fi nally an insufficiently critical line of evidence in making this distinction. I am grateful for private conversations over many years with Lee McDonald who recently shared with me ‘Appendix C’ of a forthcoming work that presents the most recent fi ndings of earliest Christianity’s earliest canon lists, compiled by Edmon Gallagher and John Meade, in The Biblical Canon Lists from Early Christianity: Texts and Analysis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). Note that the final order of the Gospels collection remained somewhat fluid as was also true of the Pauline collection, which added the three Pastorals toward the end of the second century to complete its canonical edition; R. W. Wall, 1 and 2 Timothy & Titus, THNTC (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2012), 15–27. For example, H. Y. Gamble argues that titling the four canonical Gospels became necessary in response to the practical need of distinguishing between four different versions of a single Gospel so then to catalogue the four in congregational libraries and to order their use for liturgical readings; Books and Readers in the Early Church (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 153– 4.

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most often dismissed as the misunderstandings of the second-century church whose quest for a book’s original address was well intended but anachronistic.9 At the very least, however, the literary form of ‘To the Hebrews’ (pros hebraios) places it among the Pauline letters collection and implies that its readers should use it as such.10 Therefore, even though anonymous, the canonicity (or apostolicity) of Hebrews was rarely disputed, its voice rarely muted, especially on theological grounds even if on occasion over questions about its Pauline authorship.11 The earliest readers of Hebrews (Tertullian, Clement) were well aware of this problem and attempted to explain it away by claiming that Paul did not attach his name to an overtly Jewish letter either because his apostolic authority was over the Gentile mission or its lack of attribution did not mitigate against its providential appointment as scripture (Origen). Of course, if Hebrews is read with Acts, we would receive him as a teacher of the Jews as well as Gentiles (cf. Acts 9.15–16; but see 1 Tim. 2.7).12 The canonical intuition of some book titles, including ‘To the Hebrews’, may well envisage the prospective address (and so identity) of those who would receive and read it as scripture. Surely the intention of the canonizing community in giving this letter that title was not to identify its first readers as Christian Jews; rather, its purpose was to reimagine the identity of its current Christian readers as the current generation of ‘the Hebrews’, characters of a biblically shaped story of the Hebrews exodus out of Pharaoh’s Egypt to God’s promised land (see Moffitt’s contribution to this volume). The roles of Moses and Aaron are now performed by Messiah, the exalted pioneer of salvation, 9

10

11

12

See F. F. Bruce’s discussion of the title, ‘To the Hebrews’, as a viable if not vague entry point to his reconstruction of the letter’s original address; The Epistle to the Hebrews, NICNT (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1997), 3–9. Most commentators do not bother to discuss the title at all because it preempts a critical assessment of internal evidence that may lead to a plausible identity of the letter’s addressees. The indeterminate nature of this quest of the letter’s point of origin, which characterizes virtually every modern introduction to commentaries on Hebrews, may in fact commend a different approach that shifts readers away from speculations of a book’s composition to refocus on its subsequent reception as scripture; see R. W. Wall, ‘A Canonical Approach to the Unity of Acts and Luke’s Gospel’, in Rethinking the Reception and Unity of Luke and Acts, ed. A. Gregory and K. Rowe (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2010), 172–91. So B. S. Childs, The New Testament as Canon: An Introduction (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 404–27. Almost certainly the letter’s anonymity is the reason the so-called ‘Muratorian Fragment’ (which I date around 350 CE) omits Hebrews, given its specific reference to rejected forgeries. One must allow, however, its omission is exceptional; in fact, I would tend to place Hebrews in the church’s proto-canon among the Pauline letters. See especially J. Jervell, Die Apostelgeschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998) for this reading of the Paul of Acts, much of which I  follow in my Acts commentary, NIB (Nashville: Abingdon, 2002), 10:1–368.

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and their journey to promised land hopes for an unshakable kingdom instead (cf. Heb. 12.27–28). Even if the precise location of Hebrews within the final edition of the NT is between (and not within) the Pauline and Catholic collections, its theological potential is cued by the implications of its canonical title. This same ambivalence may also attend 1 Peter and 1 John. Both letters were widely used in the second century and never disputed. Codex Claromontanus’s (fourth century) rather curious inclusion of 1–2 Peter in the Pauline collection, perhaps reimagining it as Paul’s correspondence to Peter, may imply the early church’s precanonical reception of 1 Peter predicated a Pauline-like letter. 1 John, on the other hand, was given early life especially in the East by its inclusion in a Johannine corpus that included the Fourth Gospel. C. E. Hill contends, not without substantial evidence, that this corpus should be included in the proto-canonical core formed during the earliest stage of the canonical process.13 The academy’s practice of re-forming this second-century Johannine corpus for critical analysis may be an attempt to attract attention to the writings currently hidden from view at the end of the NT canon! Nonetheless, the collection of CE that came to form a substantial literary and theological volume in the fourth century was more effective in its capacity to perform its appointed role within the NT than any sum of its various more modest parts. But we must still consider that the formation of this collection was part of a ‘second stage’ of the canonical process when texts finally selected for inclusion in the NT were ancillary to and complement of its principal core. As a former athlete and now attentive fan, allow me this crude analogy from team sports. Every successful team is constituted by two groups of athletes. There is a core of star players who play the most minutes, who attract the most attention from the press and who are paid the highest salary because the effectiveness of the entire team is predicated on the consistency of their performance. These are the players who are most intensely recruited because the team’s owners and manager know that the success of their teams rises and falls on these players’ performance. Yet, no team can compete successfully over an entire season without a group of role players each of whom offer special talents that a manager can call upon at a moment’s notice to fi ll a needed 13

C. E. Hill, The Johannine Corpus in the Early Church (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004).

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gap – to substitute for an injured player at a moment’s notice, for example, or to come off the bench in the final minutes to apply a particular skill that defends against a competitor’s strength or exploits its weakness. Even though these role players do not receive the same attention or salary of the star players, they are essential to the team’s success. The two stages of the canonical process initially formed a proto-NT of star performers  – the fourfold Gospel and Pauline letters collections  – but then selected another collection of ‘role players’ to complement this core in a way that made the entire NT canon more effective in accomplishing what the church intends its scripture to do: to teach and train its membership in the Christian faith and to refute and correct error that would distort the community’s theological understanding or subvert its moral formation. This division of labour, so to speak, is characteristic of the canonical whole; it is what it is. Even though the Catholic Epistles collection, along with Hebrews whose orphaned status compromises its reception, do not receive the same press or ‘compensation’ in either the church or academy as scripture’s star performers, their complementary role is critical to the effective reception of the whole canon. To mute the voices of their collective chorus will surely have a deleterious effect on the canonical performances of the whole. The late John Webster describes canonization theologically as an act governed by the Holy Spirit who sanctified both the process and its product to enable its performances as an auxiliary of the Spirit’s continuing work in forming a people of the risen One.14 From this dogmatic angle, the two stages of the canonical process and the different values of its collections now present in the NT’s final form are ordered and consecrated by the Holy Spirit for holy ends (i.e. for its formative uses in worship, catechesis and mission). The variety of choices the church’s episcopacy made, whether to intuit the enduring usefulness of an authoritative proto-canon by the end of the second century or to select and collect a wide range of complement texts to complete the NT canon by the end of the fift h century, may be interpreted as a community’s faithful responses to the Spirit’s ‘communicative presence’ according to Christ’s promise to his apostles (cf. John 14.26). It was the Holy Spirit who enabled a responsive community to perceive the canonicity of the texts 14

J. Webster, Holy Scripture:  A  Dogmatic Sketch (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2003), 58– 67.

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it selected for the NT. Canonization viewed from this theological angle, then, might be interpreted as a Spirit-led process of discernment, which recognizes the apostolicity and inspiration (i.e. usefulness) of these texts at different moments and with different levels of intensity along the way. According to Webster, the other theological tract that helps interpret the church’s canonization (and composition) of holy scripture ‘could well be described in terms of the divine providential acts of preserving, accompanying and ruling creaturely activities, annexing them to God’s self-revelation’.15 The canonical process and its final product, then, may be received as a divinely ordered event that occurred in the ‘fullness of time’ for the gracious benefit of God’s people – at least until this scripture is rewritten on their hearts and is no longer needed to communicate God’s word (cf. Jer. 31:33). In any case, the failure to listen attentively to God’s word in any canonized text may be regarded as a disobedient response to the Spirit’s providential action and therefore subversive of the divine economy. The effects of such spiritual failure are to misshape scripture’s usefulness in creating faith and to misdirect scripture’s performances as the church’s moral compass. But any renewal of the academy/church’s study and proclamation of these nonPauline texts that lie outside the NT’s own ‘canon within the Canon’ should be of a particular kind. In the first place, we should not expect the academy to grant them the same level of importance and scrutiny that is accorded to the Pauline letters collection or fourfold Gospel. The effectiveness of the biblical canon to perform its appointed roles in worship or catechesis does not depend nearly as much upon the privileged use of the one when compared to the other. The very shape of the church’s Lectionary (no matter its edition, ancient and modern) testifies to this, since its lessons conclude with the appointed Gospel pericope and its second (NT) readings are from the Pauline letters much more often than not. The relevant question this collection raises, then, is what complementary role might the non-Pauline texts included in this collection perform with the effect that will enhance our reading and use of the fourfold Gospel and Pauline canon? Needless to say, I would reject any hint of the old Tübingen speculation of a conflict between rival apostolates that might incline us to relate Pauline and non-Pauline texts in adversarial ways. Nor would I  commend 15

Webster, Scripture, 10.

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the conservative response to this speculation that would seek to ameliorate this conflict by ridding non-Pauline texts of their distinctive theological outlook to become Pauline in tone and effect (or by more simply de-canonizing them).16 From the beginning of the canonical process, Irenaeus contended for a NT that reflected the diversity of apostolic witnesses and even located the source of heresy in a teacher’s privileging of one apostolic tradition over the others. I agree with F. Watson’s evocative ‘Hermeneutical Postscript’: the relationships between the NT’s core texts and even those with minor roles to perform are more complementary and constructive, whether adduced by the reader’s studied perception of their different canonical roles, contribution to a NT theology, or because of their different ecclesial settings within global Christianity. Let me conclude this brief reflection, then, by suggesting practical questions that may prompt interested readers of this volume to ask how the findings of these studies help to shape an approach to the NT’s non-Pauline epistolary texts that complement the NT’s canonical core, the fourfold Gospel and especially the Pauline letters collection? The following catalogue in the form of a few research questions is my modest attempt to begin a conversation in response to this constructive project.17 1. Hebrews. Any research question regarding the contribution of Hebrews to this project should reflect the ambivalence evinced by its canonization noted above, whether to count it among the Pauline core as its initial

16

17

E. Käsemann’s well-known disregard of 2 Peter is a case in point. In his case, criticism’s version of Protestantism’s tendency to privilege a Pauline canon within the Canon practically decanonized books that were hopelessly beyond the (Pauline) pale. For this reason, I especially welcomed Scott Hafemann’s study of 2 Peter’s polemic against false teaching in the present collection as consonant with and constructive of the NT’s larger interest in safeguarding the gospels of the apostles. The interpretive tendency of biblical criticism is to treat these diverse texts individually and thereby subvert the aesthetic and rhetorical gains of reading the CE collection in particular as a literary unit. My worry in asking the following ‘research questions’ is that they fall victim to criticism’s atomistic approach to scripture and by so doing the sort of complementarity advocated in this essay will be lost. For this reason, I would call the reader’s attention to ‘The Unifying Theology of the Catholic Epistle Collection’, in Nienhuis and Wall, Reading, 247–72, which updates my earlier essay, ‘The Unifying Theology of the Catholic Epistles: A Canonical Approach’, in The Catholic Epistles and the Tradition, ed. J. Schlosser, BETL 176 (Leuven: Leuven University Press; Peeters, 2004), 43–71. I have also added a more refi ned typology of the ‘internal grammar of the CE collection’ that commends the coherence of the collection’s fi nal literary form and the ‘canon logic’ by which the different CE are related to one another (see Reading, 248–57). The project, then, I would ask of myself is to take the various fi ndings about Christian identity collected in this volume, which skillfully sounds the various voices retrieved from Hebrews and the CE collection, and relate them all together into a discrete and effective literary whole.

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placement might commend or among the NT’s non-Pauline complement as its subsequent reception history might otherwise allow. Indeed, its final placement in the NT canon between the two letter collections, which I refer to as its ‘orphaned status’, might either suggest its role as an ‘appendix’ to scripture’s Pauline witness or a ‘bridge’ whose appointed role is to moderate the intracanonical conversations between the apostolic gospels received with the Pauline and Catholic collections.18 How does the ‘pentateuchally shaped’ ecclesiology of Hebrews (Moffitt, this volume), which locates a liberated people belonging to a priestly Christ in a ‘wilderness’ of temptation on the move towards promised land, extend and even reshape the Pauline idea of the church as the ‘body of Christ’? How is the charismatic community of Paul’s Corinthian correspondence, which Mitchell argues is hermeneutical of the Pauline corpus,19 given new language by the Spirit of Hebrews who speaks and interprets scripture as the present guide of this wilderness community (Pierce)? How does the Christology of Hebrews, which concentrates on the present pastoral ministry of the exalted high Priest that assures an embattled community of its access to the heavenly Divine (Moore), mediate between a Pauline reading of the past of the crucified Christ and the Pillars reading of his exemplary life (Nienhuis)? 2. James. What ecclesial settings, especially shaped by Pauline teaching about Christian existence shaped with and because of the risen One, might hear God’s word as prophetically sounded in James’s description of this same community’s creaturely existence, rooted in and responsible for cultivating its own good fruit (Watson, this volume)? How might the distinctively messianic Jewish features of James form a Christian identity (and confession) in continuity with its profoundly Jewish legacy (Bauckham, this volume), perhaps to clarify and correct Christianity’s latent supersessionism? Indeed, to become more Christian, the church must become more Jewish. 3. 1 Peter. How might 1 Peter’s innovative ‘scripturalizing’ hermeneutic (Horrell), which combines Pauline and non-Pauline elements, function as hermeneutical of how the church might receive its scripture as both source and resource of a fully biblical Christian identity? If the NT’s apocalyptic bent tends to forge a dualistic (us-them) conception of 18 19

Nienhuis and Wall, Reading, 58– 60. M. M.  Mitchell, Paul, the Corinthians, and the Birth of Christian Hermeneutics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012).

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Christian identity, how might we understand 1 Peter’s canonical role as supplying a necessary check-and-balance to this tendency by fostering a commitment to Christ-like holiness rather than world-denying sectarianism (Marcar, this volume) or a robust self-confidence in the gospel of the apostles, especially lacking among today’s millennials, which transcends social media’s routine belittling of Christian faith (Hockey, this volume)? 4. 2 Peter. If the false teachers implicated by this letter misread Paul, which may be suggested by 2 Pet. 3.15–16, how might the CE collection read as a substantive literary unity correct the ‘potentially distorting aspects’ of the Pauline gospel (Nienhuis, this volume)? In particular, how has the church’s reception of 2 Peter reminded faithful readers in a variety of ecclesial settings and time zones that scripture’s eschatology of the apostles and a Christian congregation’s moral practices form an integral whole (Hafemann, this volume)? 5. Johannine Epistles. North’s study of 1 John not only continues the ancient practice of reading the letter with the Gospel but as discrete voices within a common apostolic tradition. How might the reader apply her study of ‘God’s children’, thematic of this tradition, as methodologically suggestive of how we relate the non-Pauline collection to the fourfold Gospel canon? 6. Jude. The apostolic tradition is a deposit of memories about Jesus. Thematic of the non-Pauline collection is its apologia of this tradition and those memories, which then undergirds the NT’s canonical core against false teachers who would seek to deform or disempower it. Reese notes the maintenance of this ‘collective memory’ enables God’s ‘Beloved’ to be ‘kept safe’ by the living Jesus. How does the dynamic tension between this apostolic apologia and its polemic against false teachers (Paulinist?) ‘inscribe’ the non-Pauline collection’s shape of Christian identity?

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231

Subject Index access to God 187, 192, 196 –8 action tendency 28–9, 31, 38–9 ancestors 81, 173, 174, 181–2, 183 angel(s) 13, 61, 68, 83, 91, 97–8, 108, 165– 6, 175, 195 apostolic Christianity 3, 71– 85, 78, 201, appeal to foundation 122 tradition 74, 78–9, 82 witness 3– 4, 80, 82, 98–9, 108, 124 appraisal (evaluation) 28–9, 32, 36, 38 ascension 158, 161–2, 167, 168–70 atonement 41, 45 – 6, 50, 53, 154 – 6, 157, 159, 160 –1, 163 Beloved, the 56 –8, 68–9, 87, 90, 92, 94 – 6, 98–100, 110, 143, 209 blood 50, 156, 159– 62, 163, 165, 166, 196 Bultmann, Rudolf 3– 4, 15 Calvin, John 124 – 6 canon and dissonance 124, 125– 6, 136 –7 formation of 1–3, 71, 73– 4, 200 – 6 and muting of CE 200 –8 New Testament 3– 4, 72, 87, 122, 150, 199 canonical approach 5, 7, 71–85, 136 –7 children of curse 65, 66 of God 136, 139– 40, 144, 152, 209 Community Rule, the 41–7, 48, 50 –2, 53, 149 condemnation see judgement covenant 95, 154–9, 162–4, 166–71, 195, 196 creation 126 –36 analogies 126 –33 in Paul 133– 6 deception 61, 64, 78 destroy/destruction see judgement Devil 144, 165 –8

eiserchomai 187–93, 197 ekklēsia 113–15, 119 Elect, the/Election 18–21, 35, 49, 53 emotion 27– 40, 55 definition 28 process 28–9 Empire, Roman 21–5 epistemology (knowledge) 43, 53, 60, 71, 74 – 6, 94 –5, 97 Pauline 74, 76 –7, 78 ethic(s) 4, 5, 7, 30, 38–9, 51, 55– 69, 77, 80 eschatology 5, 12–14, 16, 25, 47–8, 55– 69, 105, 126, 132, 134 – 6, 143– 4, 154, 166 –8, 171, 185– 6, 189–90 Exodus, the 88, 92, 94 –7, 113, 154, 158, 165–7, 176, 181, 182, 183– 4, 203 fear 22, 30 –1, 35, 165, 177, 189 gift 130 –2, 134 –5, 136 gospel 74, 75, 80, 82, 98, 122, 124 –5, 127, 132, 135, 200, 209 high priest 153, 154, 161–3, 167–71, 191–2, 194, 196, 208 holiness 41, 45–7, 51, 54, 77, 209 honour 22– 4, 27–8, 31, 33, 35– 40, 48–9, 52–3, 110 –11, 122, 130 house, spiritual 41, 42, 46 –7, 50, 53, 189 identity formation 5, 20, 41– 4, 56 –9, 61–9, 154, 186 inheritance 35, 153– 4, 166, 168–71 Insider/Outsider 24, 35–7, 43– 4, 48, 52, 56, 111 intertextuality 10, 73, 81– 4, 128, 176 Israel 12, 18–21, 45– 6, 51, 88, 90, 95–100, 104 – 6, 108, 111–13, 153– 4, 165–9, 178, 190, 194 Israelites see wilderness generation

232

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Subject Index

James, Letter of and Diaspora 104 – 6, 109, 119 and Jesus 101–3, 112–13, 115–20 and Tongue 129–30, 132, 135 judgement, divine 55–6, 58–64, 68, 92, 94–8, 100 knowledge see epistemology licentious(ness) 31, 61–2, 67, 69, 74, 90, 97, 99–100 Love Command 141– 6, 147, 149–52 Luther, Martin 3, 4, 121– 6, 133 and Canon 121– 6 memory, collective 89–100, 144, 182 metaphor(s) 41–5, 48–53, 56, 58– 64, 88, 90, 121, 132–3, 136 –7, 161, 178, 181 Moses 154, 165 –7, 177–8, 181, 188, 203 Muratorian Fragment 1–2, 203 narrative(s) 51, 78–9, 87–100, 135, 153, 158–9, 165 –9, 171, 176, 201 Other, the 32–3, 36 –8, 40, 87–8, 90 –1, 94, 96 –100 Passover 164 –7, 169, 170, 194 persecution 35, 111, 113, 185 prefaces, New Testament 121– 4 priest 41, 42, 46, 50, 51–2, 53, 122, 155– 6, 158, 159– 63, 164, 185, 186, 193, 196 priesthood, Levitical see priest prophecy 12–14, 16 –17, 25, 73, 107 prophet(s) 12–14, 56, 88, 118, 173 False 68, 78–80, 84 proserchomai 187, 193–7 purification see purity purity 41, 44, 46, 47, 155, 156 –7, 159– 60, 163– 4, 166 Qumran, community at 13, 41–8, 149

resurrection 80, 124, 134, 158, 161, 162, 167 sacrifice 41, 43, 45– 6, 50 –1, 52, 53, 151–2, 154 – 64, 166, 167–8, 180, 191, 194 Satan see devil Scripture, use of 11–21, 44 –5, 126, 132, 136 –7, 140, 144, 147, 157, 161, 174, 176, 180, 201 Self, the 27, 32–3, 35, 40 perception 27, 35, 39– 40, 41, 48, 56 –7 shame 27– 40, 49, 51–3, 127 Shemapunitha, 145, 146, 148–9, 150, 152 Shepherd of Hermas 1–2, 108–10, 114 –15 slave(s)/slavery 14 –16, 51, 166 –8, 170 of/to corruption 57, 59– 60, 63– 4, 66 –8, 136 Sodom and Gomorrah 68, 91–2, 94, 97–100 stones, living 18, 41–2, 49–53 straw 121–2, 125 Suffering Servant 14 –18 tabernacle 155, 156, 158, 161–2, 163, 164, 166, 169, 170, 190 –2, 193– 4, 196 teachers, false 55– 69, 74, 78–80 temple 41–54, 112–13, 155, 191 time 131 Torah see law tradition(s) 2, 9–11, 14 –25, 74, 79–80, 82, 102, 104, 116, 140 –1, 143, 145, 146 –9, 151–2, 165, 176, 178–9, 183, 200, 207, 209 Watchers, the 92, 94, 97–8, 100 wilderness generation 92, 95, 113, 132, 153– 4, 158, 165, 166 –7, 168–71, 174 –5, 176 –7, 178–9, 180 –3, 187–8, 189, 190, 193, 195, 208 Yom Kippur 161, 162– 4, 167–8

233

Scripture Index Old Testament Genesis 1 1.2 1.9–13 1.11–12 1.14–19 1.26–27 1.27 2 2.2 3 14 15 22 42.24

135 127 128 128 131 129 135 135 181 135 176 123 123 193

Exodus 1–15 12.13 12.23 13.20 13.21 19.5 19.6 19.15 22.28 24 24.1–8 40.9

92 165 165 177 177 20 19 193 132 155, 164 155, 157 155

Leviticus 8.10 16.15–16 17.11 19.2 19.17 19.18 26

155 161 160 51 143 143, 145, 147, 152 164

Numbers 7.1–2 9.15–23

155 177

13–14 14

190 95

Deuteronomy 4.11 6.4–5 6.5 25.11

195 145, 146 147, 148, 152 193

2 Samuel 7.10–14 7.11b

47, 8 47

Psalms 2.7 22.22 40 40.6–8 94 (LXX) 95 95.7–11 95.7–8 95.7 95.8 95.9 95.11 110 110.1 118.22

174 174 192 174 6 182 174, 176, 178, 179, 180, 187 179 179 179 179 179 176 174 19

Proverbs 1.33 5.14 LXX 24.21 26.11

178 113, 14 22 60

Isaiah 5.9 LXX 8.14 8.17–18 28.16 43.19–20 43.20–21

118 19, 52 3 174 19, 34, 45, 49, 52 3 88 19

234

234

Scripture Index

52.5 LXX 52.13–53.12 53 53.3–12 53.5 53.6 63 63.10–14 MT 63.10 63.11–14 63.11 63.14 LXX 63.14 MT

111 15 15, 18, 25 15 16 16 181, 182 178 179 177 177, 179 177 179

Jeremiah 23 31 31.31–34 31.33 31.34 31.32

16 167 174 206 183 167

Ezekiel 34

16

Hosea 1–2

19

Joel 2.32

112

Zechariah 10.2 13.7

16 16

Amos 9.12

111

Apocrypha Wisdom of Solomon 1.6 1.7 7.7 7.22 8.16 9.17–18 10.1– 4 10.13–14 10.17

177 177 177 177 178 177 177 177 177

Sirach 6.28 7.27–31

178 149

7.30–31 28.17 39.6

149 16 119

New Testament Matthew 7.15–16 7.16 8.17 12.29–31 12.43–35 12.45 13.6 13.6 19.28 21.43 22.35 22.37 22.40 24.11 24.24

79 128 17 145 67 60 128 128 105 20 147 147, 149 147, 150 79 79

Mark 10.45 12 12.10–11 12.17 12.28–31 12.29–31 12.30 12.31 13.13 13.29 15.16–20 15.29–32

17 24 19 22 146 149 147 147 96 117 16 16

Luke 1.2 5.17 6.27–31 6.44 8.22–25 10.25–28 10.25 10.27 10.28 10.29 10.30–35 10.34–35 10.37 11.24–26

82 96 16 128 96 147 148, 150 147 147 147 147, 150 150 147, 150 60, 67

235

Scripture Index 13 22.29–30 22.37

96 105 17

John 1.1–2 12.38 5.39 5.42 5.44 8.41– 42 13.34 14.6 14.15 14.21 14.23 14.24 14.26 14.31 15.12–14 15.14–15 15.27 16.4–5 17.12 17.26 21.24

82 17 145 145 145 145 146 145 83, 84, 145 145 84, 125 145 205 146 146 146 82, 84, 124 82 84 145 146

Acts 1.21–22 2.21 3– 4 3.6 3.16 4.9–12 4.10 4.11 4.19 8.32–35 9.14 9.21 11.26 15.17 19.15–16 22.16 26.28 27.29 27.40

82 112 117 117 117 117 117 19 81 17 112 112 34 111 203 112 34 191 191

Romans 2.23–24 3– 4 3.28

111 124 123

235

4.25 5.15 5.16 5.17 5.20 8.19–21 8.23 9–11 9.20–21 9.32–33 10.13 11.16–24 13.1–7 13.1 13.7 15.4

17 134 134 134 134 136 136 20 133 19 112 133 21, 22 23 22 14

1 Corinthians 1.2 1.10–17 2.2 2.6–16 2.6–7 2.13 3.1– 4 3.2 3.5–8 3.9–15 3.11–12 4.9 5.1–2 6.1–11 7.31 8.29 9.7 9.9 9.10 10.6 10.11 11.7 11.23–26 12 13 15.34 15.37– 41 16.7

112 77 124 77 77 77 77 133 133 134 122 119 77 77 136 135 134 134 134 14 14 135 84 77 11 77 134 119

2 Corinthians 4.4

135

Galatians 1.1

76

236

236

Scripture Index

1.12 1.16 2.2 2.7 2.19 3.26–29 

76 77 82 201 77 11

Ephesians 5.21– 6.9

21

Philippians 2.6–11

11

Colossians 3.18– 4.1

21

1 Timothy 2 2.7

21 203

2 Timothy 2.22

112

Hebrews 1–2 1.1– 4.16 1.1– 4 1.1–2 1.5– 4.11 1.5–14 1.5–13 2 2.1– 4 2.4 2.10 2.11 2.12–13 2.14–16 2.14–15 2.14 2.17–18 3– 4 3.6 3.7– 4.11 3.7–11 3.8–9 3.9 3.11 3.12–13 3.13 3.14 3.16–19

175 174 173 173 183 173, 176 174 167 181 169, 179, 180 154 162 174, 176 165, 166 154, 165, 168 165 171 167, 169, 185, 187, 188, 190, 192 189 174, 179, 180, 183 180 178 181 178, 187 190 181 189 181

3.18 3.19– 4.1 3.19 4.1– 6 4.1–3 4.1–2 4.1 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6 4.8 4.9 4.10 4.11–10.25 4.11–16 4.11 4.12 4.14–16 4.16 5–10 5.5– 6 6 6.4–8 6.4 6.10 6.12 6.19 6.20 7.2 7.3 7.14 7.19 7.25 8.1–5 8.6 8.8–12 9–10 9.1–14 9.6–7 9.7 9.8 9.9 9.12–22 9.12 9.13 9.14 9.15–21 9.15–18 9.15

188 179 188 153 181 154 188, 189, 190 180, 181, 188 181 188 188, 189 181 188 188, 189, 190 174 183 181, 188, 190 183 193 171, 195 185 174, 176 187 67 179, 180 195 154 191 190, 191 176 176 195 194 162, 194 161 154 174 187 192 164, 192 192 179, 180 195 157 190, 192, 193 157 180 164 168 154

237

Scripture Index 9.24–28 9.24–26 9.24 9.25 9.26 9.27–28 9.27 9.28 10.1 10.5–7 10.5 10.10 10.15–17 10.17 10.19–25 10.19–21 10.19–20 10.20 10.21 10.22 10.25 10.26–27 10.29 10.30 10.37–38 11.4 11.6 11.10 11.13–16 11.39– 40 11.17 11.24 11.28 12 12.3 12.5 12.18 12.22 12.23 12.27–28 13.5– 6 13.22 James 1.1 1.5– 6 1.5 1.6–11 1.7 1.8

191 161, 191 190 191 191 191 195 17, 154, 168, 195 194 174 192, 197 193 174, 180 183 193, 195 196 196 195 196 195, 196 185, 196 67 179, 180 176 176 194 194 195 195 195 194 79 165 169 195 154 195 154, 195 154, 165 204 176 185 103, 104, 106, 116, 118, 119, 124 127 134 131 116, 119 127

1.10–11 1.13–15 1.15 1.17 1.18 2.1–7 2.1–5 2.1– 4 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.6–7 2.7 2.8–9 2.14–26 2.16 2.21–24 3.3–5 3.3– 4 3.5–8 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8–10 3.9 3.10 3.11–12 3.13–18 3.15 3.17 4.5 4.10 4.13–16 4.15 5.4– 6 5.4 5.7–11 5.7–9 5.7–8 5.7 5.8 5.9 5.10–11 5.10 5.11 5.12 5.13–19 5.13 5.14–15

237 127 130 132 130, 131, 134 132, 136 110 110 128 102, 103, 107, 115, 116, 118, 119, 124 114 130 111 111, 112, 116 130 124 130 123 132 129 132 129 129 129 130 116, 119, 135 128, 135 128 131 131 131 132 116, 119 131 116 111 116, 118, 119 117 117 116, 117, 119 111, 116, 118, 119, 136 116, 118, 119 117 117 116, 117, 118, 119 116, 118, 119 117 117 106 117, 118, 119

238

238 5.14

Scripture Index

5.15

113, 114, 116, 117, 118, 119 116, 119

1 Peter 1.1–2 1.1 1.3–9 1.3–5 1.3 1.5 1.7–9 1.10–12 1.11 1.12 1.14–21 1.14 1.15–16 1.18 1.23–25 1.23–24 1.23 2.1–3 2.2 2.4–10 2.4–8 2.4–7 2.4–5 2.4 2.5 2.6–8 2.6–7 2.6 2.7–8 2.7 2.8 2.9–10 2.9 2.10 2.12 2.13–17 2.13–14 2.18–3.7 2.17 2.21–25 2.22–25 2.22 2.23 2.24 2.25 3.1–2

49 110 12 35, 36 23 12, 13 35 11, 12 14, 25 12 13 36 39, 43, 53 51 50 132 127 43, 127 43 132 18, 41 54 48 35 18, 49 49, 50 41–2, 50, 52 18, 19 19 36, 49, 52 19, 36 49 52 18, 21, 25, 43 20, 52 37, 53 51, 53 21, 22 23 14, 21 20, 21 25 14, 19, 25 15 15, 16 15, 16 16 16 53

3.9 3.15–16 3.16 3.18 3.22 4.13 4.14–16 4.14 4.15 4.16 5.1– 4 5.1 5.9 2 Peter 1.1 1.2–3 1.2 1.3–11 1.3– 4 1.4 1.5–7 1.8 1.10–11 1.10 1.12–15 1.12 1.16 1.18 1.19 1.20 2.1–3.7 2.1–16 2.1–10 2.1–3 2.1–2 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.7 2.9–10 2.9 2.10–16 2.10 2.12 2.13–14 2.13 2.14

53 53 37 50, 53 15 35 33 34, 35, 39, 51 35 5, 25, 27, 40 16 80 20 74 68 69 56, 7, 68, 75 75 58, 60, 66 68, 74 74 58 57 74 78 58, 80 60, 80 58 74 55, 6 55, 59 56, 59 56, 58 74 57, 78 80 60, 62, 69 59, 63, 80 59, 61, 83 84 60 58 58, 9, 61, 83 56, 58 57, 8, 60, 62, 66 59, 60, 63, 65 6, 68, 74 5 69 57, 59 60, 65 6

239

Scripture Index 2.15–16 2.15 2.17–22 2.17–21 2.17 2.18 2.20 2.21 3.1–16 3.1–13 3.1–7 3.1–2 3.1 3.3– 4 3.3 3.4 3.7 3.8–18 3.8–12 3.8–10 3.8 3.9 3.11–15 3.11–13 3.12 3.14–17 3.14–15 3.14 3.15–17 3.15 3.16 3.17–18 3.17 3.18

60 80 55, 69 5 83 69 75 74, 80 209 69 55– 6, 59 59, 74, 80 57, 78, 81 58, 68, 81 60, 62, 74 59, 81 59, 63, 83 57 58 59 57 58 68 58 68, 116 56 58 57–8, 68 69 76 58, 63, 76 58, 68 57, 75, 84 58, 69, 75

1 John 1.1–3 1.1 1.5 1.6–7 1.6 2.1–2 2.3–11 2.3–5 2.3 2.4– 6 2.4–5 2.4 2.5– 6 2.5

81, 141 141, 143, 144 143 142 139, 141, 142 142 144 83 75, 142 139 142 76, 142 142 142, 144, 145

2.6 2.7 2.8 2.9–11 2.15–17 2.16 2.18 2.19 2.22–23 2.22 2.27–28 2.27 2.28 2.29 3.1 3.2–3 3.3 3.2 3.6 3.7 3.8–9 3.10 3.11 3.12–15 3.12 3.13–15 3.14 3.16–17 3.16 3.17 3.18 3.19 3.21 3.22–24 3.23 3.24 4.1–3 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.6–8 4.7 4.8 4.9–21 4.9 4.10 4.11 4.12 4.16 4.19

239 75– 6, 143, 144 142, 143, 144, 146 143, 146 139, 143 139 151 146 75, 141 79 76, 146 75 78 144 139, 144 139, 143, 144, 145 144 144 143 76 139 144 139, 144 143, 146, 151, 152 151 144, 152 144 139 151 144, 146, 151, 152 144, 145, 151, 152 139, 152 75 143 83 143, 145 75 140 78, 143 140, 146 140 76 143, 145 139, 142 145 142 145 143, 145 143, 145 142, 145 145

240

240

Scripture Index

4.20 4.21 5.1–2 5.3 5.18 5.21

76, 139, 143, 145 143, 145, 152 143 83 83 84

2 John 1 4– 6 4 5 7–10 7 9–10

146 146 146 146 150 146 78–9, 146

3 John 1 2 5– 6 6 9–10 9 11 12 15

146 146 146, 150 146 150 146 146 146 146

Jude 1 2 3– 4 4 5–19 5–8 5–7 5 6 7 8 12 13 17 21 20–21 22–23 24

127 87 90 90 87, 93 90 87 87, 92, 97 91, 92, 94, 95, 96, 98 83, 97, 98 97, 98 87, 92, 97 90, 100 83, 90 91, 98 100 99 99 84

Revelation 2.13

79

3.8 12.17

79 83

Old Testament Pseudepigrapha Jubilees 23.29 48 49.2 50.5

166 166 166 166

Ahiqar 8.15ff.

60

Rabbinic Literature Mishnah Berakhot 9.5

148

Tosefta Sanhedrin 2.6

105

Babylonian Talmud Ketubot 61b

148

Sanhedrin 11a

105

Jerusalem Talmud Berakhot 9.7

148

Sanhedrin 1.2

105

Qumran 1QS 8.1 8.3 8.6–7 8.6 8.7–8 9.3–5 9.4 9.5–8 9.5

41–54, 149 46 45 45 46 45 45 45 46 46

241

Scripture Index 4QFlor I.11b

41–54 47

4Q174

44

[Pass.] 1 3

241

31 30

Aristotle Early Christian Literature Hermas Mandate 11.9 11.13 11.14 Similitude 9.17.1–2

114 114 114 108

114

Classical Greek and Latin Authors Andronicus

33

Rhet. 2.6

31–3

Cicero Tusc. 4.7.14–15

31

Epictetus

Ignatius To Polycarp 4.2

Eth. eud. 3.7.3

Diatr. 3.9.7 Seneca Ep. 95.9

33

31

242